The Black Opal, Katharine Susannah Prichard [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

the natives of these parts amuse theirselves,” Martha declared scornfully. “They’ll have on all the fine dresses and things they buy down in Sydney⁠ ⁠… and I was lookin’ to you, Sophie, to keep up our end. I’ve been thinkin’ to meself, ‘They think they’re the salt of the earth, don’t they? Think they’re that smart⁠ ⁠… we dress so funny⁠ ⁠… and dance so funny, over at Fallen Star. But Sophie’ll show them; Sophie’ll take the shine out of them when they see her in one of the dresses she’s brought from America.’ ”

As Martha talked, Sophie could see the ballroom at Warria as she had years before. She could see the people in it⁠—figures swaying down the long veranda, the Henty girls, Mrs. Henty, Phyllis Chelmsford⁠—their faces, the dresses they had worn; Arthur, John Armitage, James Henty, herself, as she had sat behind the piano, or turned the pages of her father’s music. She could hear the music he and Mrs. Henty played; the rhythm of a waltz swayed her. A twinge of the old wrath, hurt indignation, and disappointment, vibrated through her.⁠ ⁠… She smiled to think of it, and of all the long time which lay between that night and now.

“I’d give anything for you to be there⁠—looking your best,” Martha continued. “I can’t bear that lot to think you’ve come home because you weren’t a success, as they say over there, or because.⁠ ⁠…”

“Mr. Armitage wasn’t as fond of me⁠—as he used to be,” Sophie murmured.

Martha caught the mocking of a gleam in her eyes as she spoke. No one knew why Sophie had come home; but Mrs. Newton had given Martha an American newspaper with a paragraph in it about Sophie. Martha had read and reread it, and given it to several other people to read. She put her iron on the hearth and disappeared into the bedroom which opened off her kitchen.

“This is all I know about it, Sophie,” she said, returning with the paper.

She handed the paper to Sophie, and Sophie glanced at a marked paragraph on its page.

“Of a truth, dark are the ways of women, and mysterious beyond human understanding,” she read. “Probably no young artist for a long time has had as meteoric a career on Broadway as Sophie Rouminof. Leaping from comparative obscurity, she has scintillated before us in revue and musical comedy for the last three or four years, and now, at the zenith of her success, when popularity is hers to do what she likes with, she goes back to her native element, the obscurity from which she sprang. Some first-rate artists have got religion, philanthropy, or love, and have renounced the footlights for them; but Sophie is doing so for no better reason, it is said, than that she is écoeuré of us and our life⁠—the life of any and all great cities. A well-known impresario informs us that a week or two ago he asked her to name her own terms for a new contract; but she would have nothing to do with one on any terms. And now she has slipped back into the darkness of space and time, like one of her own magnificent opals, and the bill and boards of the little Opera House will know her name and fascinating personality no more.”

The faint smile deepened in Sophie’s eyes.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Sophie?” Martha asked, as Sophie did not speak when she had finished reading.

“I suppose it is,” Sophie said. “But your paper doesn’t say what made me écoeuré⁠—sick to the heart, that is⁠—of the life over there, Martha. And that’s the main thing.⁠ ⁠… It got me down so, I thought I’d never sing again. But there’s one thing I’d like you to tell people for me, Martha: Mr. Armitage was always goodness itself to me. He didn’t even ask me to go away with him. He did make love to me, and I was just a silly little girl. I didn’t know then men go on like that without meaning much.⁠ ⁠… I wanted to be a singer, and I made up my mind to go away when he did.⁠ ⁠… Afterwards I lost my voice. My heart wouldn’t sing any more. I wanted to come home.⁠ ⁠… That’s all I knew.⁠ ⁠… I wanted to come home.⁠ ⁠… And I came.”

Martha went to her. Her arms went round Sophie’s neck.

“My lamb,” she whispered.

Sophie rested against her for a moment. Then she kissed one of the bare arms she had watched working the iron so vigorously.

“We’d best not think of it, Mother M’Cready,” she said.

“All right, dearie!”

Martha withdrew her arms and went back to the hearth. She lifted another iron, held it to her face to judge its heat, and returned to the table. She rubbed the iron on a piece of hessian on a box there, dusted it with a soft rag, and went on with the ironing of her dress.

“I wish I was as young as you, Martha,” Sophie said.

“Lord, lovey, you will be when you’re my age,” Martha replied, with a swift, twinkling glance of her blue eyes. “But you’re coming⁠ ⁠… aren’t you? I won’t have the heart to wear my pink stockings if you don’t, Sophie. Mrs. Newton gave them to me for a Christmas-box⁠ ⁠… and I’m fair dying to wear them.”

Sophie smiled at the pair of bright pink stockings pinned on the line beside a newly-starched petticoat.

“You will, won’t you?”

Sophie shook her head.

“I don’t think so, Martha.”

Sophie went out of the doorway. She was going home, and stood again a moment, looking through scattered trees to the waning afternoon sky. A couple of birds dashed across her line of vision with shrill, low, giggling cries.

She heard people talking in the distance. Several men rode up to Newton’s. She saw them swing from their horses, put the reins over the pegs before the bar, and go into the hotel. Two or three children ran down the street chattering eagerly, excitedly. Roy O’Mara went across to the hall with some flags under his arm. From all the huts drifted ejaculations,