Second String Part 47

"Much armour?" asked Gilly, suddenly emerging from a deep attention to his plate. His hopes obviously running towards what may be styled a cla.s.sical entertainment, the question was received with merriment.

"Completely encased, Gilly. I shall look like a lobster. Still, Mr. Rock will come and see me, if the rest of you don't."

"There are possibilities about Joan of Arc," Gilly pursued. "Not at all bad to lead off with Joan of Arc. Andy, you might make a note of Joan."

"If a frontispiece is of any use to you, Gilly--?" the Nun suggested politely.

"What can have become of Harry?" Again it was Andy Hayes who asked.

The Nun turned to him and, under cover of Billy's imaginative description of the frontispiece, said softly, "Can't you be happy unless you know Harry Belfield's all right?"

"He's a very long time," said Andy. "And they're early at Nutley, you know. Perhaps he's decided to go straight home to bed."

She looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. The tide of merry empty talk--gone in the speaking, like the wine in the drinking, yet not less pleasant--flowed on; only now Miss Flower to some degree shared Andy's taciturnity. She was not apprehensive or gloomy; it seemed merely that some sense of the real, the ordinary, course of life had come back to her; the hour of careless gaiety was no longer, like Joan of Arc, "completely encased" in silver armour.

Jack Rock turned to her, bashful, humble, yet sure of her kindness. "I must be goin', miss; I've to be up and about by seven. But--would you sing to us, miss, same as you did at that meetin'?"

It was against etiquette to ask the Nun to sing on private occasions; if she chose, she volunteered. But Jack was, naturally, innocent of the etiquette.

"Of course I'll sing for you. Any favourite song, Jack?"

"What pleases you'll please me, miss," said old Jack.

"I'll sing you an old Scotch one I happen to know."

Silence obtained--from Billy Foot with some difficulty, since he had got into an argument with Sally Dutton--the Nun began to sing:--

"My Jeany and I have toiled The livelong Summer's Day: Till we were almost spoil'd At making of the Hay.

Her Kerchy was of holland clear, Tied to her bonny brow, I whispered something in her ear; But what is that to you?"

The Bird, who had been dispatched to get Gilly Foot a whisky-and-soda, came in, set it down, and moved towards Andy. "Be still with you, Tom!"

said Jack Rock imperiously.

"Her stockings were of Kersey green, And tight as ony silk; O, sic a leg was never seen!

Her skin was white as milk.

Her hair was black as ane could wish, And sweet, sweet was her mou'!

Ah! Jeany daintily can kiss; But what is that to you?"

"She has a way of giving those two wretched last lines which is simply an outrage," Billy Foot complained to the now silent Sally Dutton.

Again the Bird tried to edge towards Andy. Jack Rock forbade.

"But I've a message," the Bird whispered protestingly.

"d.a.m.n your message! She's singin' to us!"

"The Rose and Lily baith combine To make my Jeany fair; There is no Benison like mine, I have a'maist no care, But when another swain, my fair, Shall say 'You're fair to view,'

Let Jeany whisper in his ear, 'Pray, what is that to you?'"

There was loud applause.

"I only sang it for Mr. Rock," said the Nun, relapsing into a demureness which had not consistently marked her rendering of the song.

Released from Jack's imprisoning eye, the Bird darted to Andy and delivered his delayed message. "Mr. Harry--Andy, if you'd step into the street, sir--Andy, I mean--(the Bird was confused as to social distinctions)--he's waiting--and looking infernally put out!"

"He wants me--outside? Why doesn't he come in? Well, I'll go." Andy rose to his feet.

"You've fired his imagination!" remarked Gilly to the Nun. "He goes to seek adventures. Yet your song was that of a moralist."

"A moralist somewhat too curious about a stocking," Billy opined.

"Oh, well, I never think anything of a girl who lets her stockings get into wrinkles," the Nun observed, as she resumed her seat. "Do you, Jack?"

Her eyes had followed Andy as he went out. To tell the truth, they had chanced to fall on him once or twice as she sang her song. But Andy had looked a little preoccupied; that fact had not made her sing worse--and at last Andy had gently drummed three fingers on the table.

"You've a wonderful way of puttin' it, miss," said old Jack Rock.

She laid her hand on his arm, saucily affectionate. "Pray what is that to you?" she asked.

"I'm off, miss. Thank you kindly. It's been an evenin' for me!"

She let him go, with the kindest of farewells. A salvo of applause from the company honoured his exit. She rested her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. Jack Rock was to be heard saying his good-nights--merry chaff with old Dove, with the Bird, with Miss Miles.

Why had Andy gone out--and Harry Belfield not come in?

Billy Foot rose, moved round the table, and sat by her. "Where did you find it?"

"In an old book a friend gave me."

"I like it." Billy sounded quite convinced of the song's merit.

"It has got a little bit of--of the feeling, hasn't it?"

"The feeling which I've always understood you never felt?"

She was securely evasive. "It's supposed to be a man who sings it, Billy."

"That accounts for the foolishness of the sentiments?"

"Makes them sound familiar, anyhow," said the Nun, preferring experience to theory.

Andy came in. He went quickly to the Nun and bent down over her chair.

"Harry's outside--with Miss Vintry. He wants to know if he may bring her in," he said, speaking very low.

Surprise got the better of the Nun's discretion. Her voice was audible to them all, as she exclaimed:

"Miss Vintry with him! At this time of night!"

"I think perhaps--as we've finished supper--we'd better break up," said Andy, apologetically addressing the company.