Chapter VII: A Pocket Madame Melba

'Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight.'

Larrie had not yet taken Dot in his arms as he had intended that afternoon, and he had not asked her to begin afresh, so the result was still 'dead level.'

But Dot was no longer unhappy. Every minute of her time was filled, and with a real object now in life, she felt she had been childish to waste so many hours in weeping and dwelling on imaginary differences in Larrie's manner.

She began to teach herself Italian with the aid of several grammars, text books, dictionaries, and Mr Wooster.

She practised the most uninteresting vocal exercises with unwearied patience, and her perpetual singing of scales made Peggie take to a permanently closed kitchen door and remark in confidence to baby that his crying was music to it.

All this because Mr Wooster, musical critic and composer, had told her that if her voice was carefully cultivated and lost none of its wonderful purity and freshness in the process, he did not know any singer in Australia she would not surpass, that her fame would be equal in time to Melba's or any of the first singers of the day.

She did not tell Larrie this new wonderful secret that made her heart sing even when her lips were silent. She wanted to keep it as a grand surprise to him, and in bursting out on an astonished world to amaze him also, and fill him with pride and gladness at her power. He was so used to her voice, had heard her chirping, and chirruping, and trilling ever since she was five, and though of course he loved it as he loved her, it had not occurred to him that she was extraordinarily gifted.

Naturally he had heard praise and admiration and considered them only her due, but she had lived so quietly in this lonely Red Road country, both before and after her marriage, that she had never had the opportunity of hearing really competent criticism before. Even she herself had not dreamed her gift was so rich.

Fond of singing she had always been, it came as naturally to her as speech; she knew she had the best voice in the district, but that was not saying much; and sometimes when she had been to concerts in Sydney it had struck her that she could render certain songs of the performers quite as well as they did, if not better.

Mr Wooster's words had been as a flash of lightning illuminating all her future life. What dreams she had over the piano as she climbed to clear B's and wonderful birdlike upper C's! How proud Larrie would be of her, what fame should be hers, how they would travel with the wealth to come, and oh, what a brilliant, beautiful future baby's should be!

She told Wooster that she wanted to keep the secret from her husband at present, and he smilingly acquiesced, so great was her happiness in it. In asking Larrie's permission to give a few lessons to his wife he only said, as twenty others had done before, that her voice was very good indeed and would be much improved by training.

Larrie gave his consent half unwillingly; Dot's singing he considered was quite good enough for anything, _he_ was quite satisfied; but he saw it would seem churlish to refuse, and Dot would take it as a fresh instance of his 'tyranny,' so he allowed the lessons to begin.

He was not half so happy as Dot in those days. Poor Larrie!

It was very slow, unexciting work sitting in a twelve-foot-square office all day, waiting for clients who never came.

He had the feelings of an exile, too, whenever he thought of the dear little cottage where the days had all been short and bright. It seemed as if Dot had banished him from the little kingdom because she was tired of him, and it was real torture to him to notice how light-hearted and happy she seemed without him, while he was more miserable than he had ever been in his life.

Dot could persuade herself both into and out of anything she wished with happy feminine ease. But with Larrie it was different. He was long-headed and his reasoning was nearly always excellent, but when he had once planted an idea in that head of his, it almost required an earthquake to uproot it. That was what Dot stigmatised his 'aggravating obstinacy.'

He had upbraided her more than once for having what he called 'moods,' not being always the same to him, having the odd little fits of coldness or petulance that most women have occasionally, and can never explain logically and satisfactorily. But Dot used to retort that if she was subject to moods, he had 'tenses' which were infinitely more objectionable.

A matter that she would shed a few tears over and then dismiss, he would brood over until he worked himself up into a state of positive wretchedness.

He really could not help himself, it was a certain kink in his nature that made him so, and the 'tenses' were times of misery both to himself and Dot.

Once in the early days of the baby, he had taken up the notion that Dot cared for it far more than she did for him, she was so wrapped up in it, and would spare him so little time from it.

He had grown absolutely jealous of the poor innocent little morsel, and so miserably unhappy, that it had needed a domestic cyclone and manifest neglect of the child before Dot could bring him to a healthy state of mind again.

He loved his little sweet wife with a passionate fervour and devotedness, that only one man in a thousand is capable of.

She was as necessary to him as the breath to his lungs, the blood to his heart. Had it been needful, he would have fought the whole world single-handed for her sake and never felt one of the scars.

But the very strength of his love made it a little cruel sometimes, he demanded almost too much of her and she could not always understand or be patient with it.

And now there was a cloud gathering on the domestic sky, and Dot with astonishing blindness thought it was a new, wonderful sun that was going to cast a warm, beautiful light over everything again.

'Oh, what _will_ Larrie say?' she exclaimed in a fit of eager, childlike pleasure one afternoon when she had sung the 'Jewel Song,' in a way that even Wooster, carping critic as he was, could pronounce none other than perfect.

He looked at her tenderly, he nearly always said '_dear_ little girl' to himself when she was like that.

'I think he will say he could not be prouder of his wife than he is,' he answered. 'When shall you tell him?'

'Oh, not yet,' Dot said. 'Not yet on any account, electric shocks are the salt of life. Imagine his face when I lay the programme before him, "The Jewel Song--Mrs--Lawrence--Armitage."' Her eyes sparkled, she gave one of her happy little laughs. '_How_ I wish the battery was ready!'

Wooster was standing in the window looking absently out.

He had a clear cut face, ascetic would describe it, only women novelists are credited with adoring that word. It was not the face of a musician at all, at least it had not the liquid dreaming eyes, and wide, massive, brow framed in wavy hair that we conjure up generally when we speak of a musician's face. It was monkish rather, the lips were clean shaved and somewhat severe, the hair very short and dark, and the eyes just now merely thoughtful. They were brown in colour, almost black on occasion, and had perhaps even more variety of expression than most people's eyes. In figure he was rather below the average height but he bore himself easily. 'I would rather you spoke to your husband, Mrs Armitage, before the programmes are printed,' he said, unconsciously making chords with his fingers on the window ledge. It had occurred to him that perhaps it was rather a bold step for his pupil to be contemplating a public appearance without her husband's knowledge.

'Not for _any_ consideration,' Dot said with great decision. 'All I am living for is the programme surprise. He shall know two days before the concert, not a second sooner.'

Wooster played a chromatic scale with his thumb and second finger till he found the dust on the ledge made them unclean. He pocketed them and turned round.

'He may consider I am abusing my privileges in preparing to bring you out like this,' he said.

But Dot cried, 'Nonsense,' with haste and impatience. 'It is the last thing he would think of,' she said; 'why, he will be delighted, of course. He does not dream he has a wife talented enough to sing in the Centennial Hall before a mighty audience of all musical Sydney.'

'Then you really will not tell him?'

'Is there a stronger word than "No?" One absolute and irrevocable? If there is, consider it said.'

He laughed.

'Suppose my nervous prudence makes me present him with the bagged cat.'

'In that case,' said Dot, 'I should take my revenge in flat A's. Have you no regard for me?'

He forgot the dust and played another slow scale.