Читать книгу The Lute Player - Harold Bindloss - Страница 10

Table of Contents

Newfoundland was not far off, and a keen north-wester sang in the Falernian’s shrouds. Her lights swung with a measured heave and green halos shone and melted in the foam that leaped about her starboard bow. When the long rollers broke one felt the shock, but the big engines throbbed steadily and the keen bows thrust ahead. Sometimes a broken sea rolled across the forward well, and the spray from the plunging forecastle beat the navigation officers keeping dreary watch on the inclined bridge.

The Falernian, however, was large, and in the third-class saloon near the water line one hardly felt the deck planks heave, and the turmoil of the flung-back seas was dull and soothing. Benches and chairs were occupied, and a big red ensign hung like a curtain by the piano. The blue and white crosses reflected the electric light, and when the flag wavered in the draught it looked as if the Beaver carried the maple leaf across the crimson field.

A thin young man at the piano sang a song from the music-halls. His accent was the Lancashire accent and he struck wrong notes, but his audience was not fastidious. The passengers wanted to be amused, for when one laughs one forgets. Kit, in the gloom behind the flag, fingered his violin. His turn was soon, and he thought a new string stretched.

By and by the music stopped, and a girl advanced. Kit had talked to Alison Forsyth and he gave her a smile. He thought her attractive, but he did not altogether know where was her charm. Although she was short, she carried herself well, and her neck and shoulders were strong; her hair and eyes were brown and her look was frank. Now she was obviously nervous, and when she put some music on the stand her colour came and went. Then she turned, and tilting her head a little, fronted the audience. Although Kit saw her hand shake, her pose was firm.

He could not fix the tinkling prelude, but he thought it was not strange, and the song was out-of-date. Then the girl began to sing, and he looked up sharply.

“Had I the wings of a dove ...”

Although her voice was not cultivated, it was musical. Her intonation was good and she sang with feeling; in fact, Kit began to see she sang with emotion. He thought her rash. She was young, and it looked as if the music might break her control.

“... I would flee,

Just for to-night to my own country.”

Kit frowned and studied the groups in front. With a song like that one could carry them away, and Alison was doing so; but it was not the song he would have sung. Besides, he doubted if she could keep it up. Her voice shook on a top note, her skin got very white, and although her eyes shone they shone as if they were wet. She began another verse falteringly, and he knew she was going to stop. One could not trust the fellow at the piano to support her, and Kit lifted his violin.

“Go on! I’ll carry you through,” he said.

He drew the bow across the strings, and the harmonious chords gave her confidence. For a few bars he followed the melody, and then he knew she had got back her control, and he signed the accompanist to stop.

Alison’s voice grew clear and firm, and Kit carried her triumphantly along. For an emigrants’ concert, she struck a risky note, but he had gone to her rescue and he must see her out. Besides, the verses moved him.

Alison stopped, and for a moment all was quiet. Men looked straight in front. Some were stern and some indulged a gentle melancholy. A woman frankly cried. Then heavy boots beat the deck and a storm of noise swept the saloon. The noise did not stop, and Alison, flushed and highly strung, looked at Kit.

“No!” he said. “You mustn’t risk it yet.”

“Miss Forsyth will sing by and by,” he said, and vanished behind the flag, put up his fiddle and started for the deck. At the rails by the ladder to the forward well he stopped. The spot was high, and across the well he saw the forecastle heave and plunge. Long, white-topped seas rolled up from the dark, broke against the bows, and melted in foam. Spray leaped up, blew like smoke, and beat the screens on the bridge. There was no moon, but the stars shone, and the combers’ broken tops cut the gloom. Kit felt the ship heave along, and to know he was going somewhere and went fast carried a thrill. The music had braced him and his heart beat with hope. In the West his luck would turn, and Evelyn was stanch. He began to think about her with romantic tenderness.

After a few minutes he saw he was not alone. Somebody leaned against the rails under a lifeboat, and he thought the figure was a girl’s. She turned her head, and Kit advanced.

“Miss Forsyth? I thought nobody was about. Why did you not speak?”

“In the dark I didn’t know you,” Alison Forsyth replied. “Then I rather wanted to be alone.”

Kit thought her voice trembled. Brisk steps beat the deck overhead and he heard a woman’s careless laugh. The first-class passengers walked about and joked, and, by contrast, the girl was forlorn.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I was going——”

“Now I do know you, you needn’t go,” Alison replied with some embarrassment.

Kit laughed. “An unconscious compliment carries weight, and I’d sooner stop. Then, if you’re downhearted, perhaps you oughtn’t to be alone.”

“I was rather downhearted,” Alison admitted. “You see, my nerve wasn’t all I thought. I knew I was going to be ridiculous. In a moment or two I must have stopped; and then you came to help——”

“If you were bothered because you hesitated, you were ridiculous. Your song was a triumph.”

“Ah,” said Alison, “in a way, my nearly stopping was not important, but I thought it ominous. It looked as if I’d started on an adventure I couldn’t carry out.”

“The adventure was your starting for Montreal?”

Alison hesitated, but her loneliness weighed, and somehow she trusted Kit.

“Yes,” she said. “You see, I wasn’t altogether forced to go. My father and mother are dead, but my relations in the North wanted me to join them. Until trade got slack I was at a manufacturer’s office, and then I couldn’t find another post. I wanted to go to Whinnyates, but I knew if I went and helped my aunt I might stop for good. Whinnyates is a small moorland farm.”

“But if you were not happy at Whinnyates, when business was better you might have gone back to the town.”

“I doubt——” said Alison thoughtfully. “One is soon forgotten and one forgets one’s job. Whinnyates, at the dalehead, is very quiet; all you see are the sheep on the fellside and the cattle by the beck. A rock shuts in the valley and old ash trees hide the house. At a spot like that you get slow and perhaps you get dull. You think about the dairy and the calves, and until dark comes work must go on. At a modern office they do not want a girl whose back is bent by turning the churn.”

“Have you turned a churn?”

Alison smiled. “My father was a small farmer in the bleak north. The soil is barren and one must fight floods and storms; but somehow when one knows the moors one does not go away. Well, I was afraid; I wanted to be where people traffic and life is thrilling.”

“All the same, to-night you felt Whinnyates called?”

“I expect I wasn’t logical, but in summer, when the wind drops and the fern is long, Whinnyates is a charming spot. While I sang I saw the hills get dark and my aunt by the fire; the rough-haired dogs, and my uncle on the oak bench. They’re kind, blunt folks. I knew they thought about me, and I wanted to be back.”

“In some respects you are luckier than I. I believe my relations are glad I went. But are you joining friends in Canada?”

“I have a friend at a Manitoba town, and she thinks I might get employment.”

“You are going to do so. So long as you’re not daunted, you’ll get all you’d like to get.”

Alison smiled, for Kit’s talk was bracing.

“Ah,” she said, “my hesitation’s gone! You gave me back the pluck I lost. But we have stopped for some time, and you engaged I would sing again.”