Charles Auchester Volume I Part 14

"It would not be unkind if Laura were altogether like her father, as she is in some respects, because then she would have no feeling; but she has the feeling of which her mother died."

"That is a longer answer than I expected, but not half enough; I want to know so much more. How pretty your hands are,--so pink!" I remarked admiringly, as I watched the dimples in them, and the infantinely rounded fingers, as they spread so softly amidst the delicate cambric.

"So are yours very pretty hands, Master Auchester, and they are very white too. But never mind the hands now. I should like to tell you about Laura, because if you become a great musician you will perhaps be able to do her a kindness."

"What sort of kindness?"

"Oh, I cannot say, my thoughts do not tell me; but any kindness is great to her. She has a clever father, but he has no more heart than this needle, though he is as sharp and has as clear an eye. He made his poor little wife dance even when she was ill; but that was before I knew Laura. When I came here from London with Mr. Davy, I knew n.o.body; but one evening I was singing and working while Thone (that is my nurse) was gone out to buy me food, when I suddenly heard a great crying in the street. I went downstairs and opened the door, and there I found a little girl, with no bonnet upon her head, who wore a gay frock all covered with artificial flowers. My nurse was there too.

Thone can't talk much English, but she said to me, 'Make her speak. I found her sitting down in the gutter, all bathed in tears.'

"Then I said, in my English, 'Do tell me why you were in the streets, pretty one, and why you wear these fine clothes in the mud.'

"'Oh, I cannot dance,' she cried, and sobbed; 'my feet are stiff with standing all this morning, and if I try to begin before those lamps on that slippery floor, I shall tumble down.'

"'You have run away from the theatre,' I said; and then I took her upstairs in my arms (for she was very light and small), and gave her some warm milk. Then, when she was hushed, I said, 'Were you to dance, then? It is very pretty to dance: why were you frightened?'

"'I was so tired. Oh, I wish I could go to my mamma!'

"'I asked her where she was; and she began to shake her head and to tell me her mamma was dead. But in the midst there was a great knocking at the door downstairs. Laura was dreadfully alarmed, and screamed; and while she was screaming, in came a great man, his face all bedecked with paint. I could not speak to him, he would not hear me, nor could we save the child then; for he s.n.a.t.c.hed her up (all on the floor as she was), and carried her downstairs in his arms. He was very big, certainly, and had a fierce look, but did not hurt her; and as I ran after him, and Thone after me, we saw him put her into a close coach and get in after her, and then they drove away. I was very miserable that night, for I could not do anything for the poor child; but I went the first thing the next morning to the theatre that had been open the evening before. Thone was with me, and took care of me in that wild place. At last I made out who the little dancing-girl was and where she lived, and then I went to that house. Oh, Master Auchester! I thought my house so still, so happy after it. It was full of noise and smells, and had a look that makes me very low,--a look of discomfort all about. I said I wanted the manager, and half a dozen smart, dirty people would have shown me the way; but I said, 'Only one, if you please.'

"Then some young man conducted me upstairs into a greasy drawing-room.

Thone did not like my staying, but I would stay, although I did not once sit down. The carpet was gay, and there were muslin curtains; but you, Master Auchester, could not have breathed there. I felt ready to cry; but that would not have helped me, so I looked at the sky out of the window till I heard some one coming in. It was the great man. He was selfish-looking and vulgar, but very polite to me, and wanted me to sit upon his sofa. 'No,' I said, 'I am come to speak about the little girl who came to my house last night, and whom I was caring for when you fetched her away. And I want to know why she was so afraid to dance, and so afraid of you?'

"The man looked ready to eat me, but Thone (who is a sort of gypsy, Master Auchester) kept him down with her grand looks, and he turned off into a laugh,--'I suppose I may do as I please with my own child!'

"'No, sir!' I said, 'not if you are an unnatural father, for in this good land the law will protect her; and if you do not promise to treat her well, I am going to the magistrate about it. I suppose she has no mother; now, I have none myself, and I never see anybody ill-treated who has no mother without trying to get them righted.'

"'You are a fine young lady to talk to me so. Why, you are a child yourself! Who said I was unkind to my Laura? She must get her living, and she can't do better than dance, as her mother danced before her. I will send for her, and you shall hear what she will say for herself this morning.'

"He shouted out upon the landing, and presently the child came down. I was surprised to see that she looked happy, though very tired. I said, 'Are you better to-day?'

"'It was very nice,' she answered, 'and they gave me such pretty flowers!'

"Then we talked a long time. I shall tire you, Master Auchester, if I tell you all; but I found myself not knowing what to do, for though the child had been made to go through a great deal of suffering--almost all dancers must--yet she did so love the art that it was useless to try and coax her out of her services for it. All I could do, then, was to entreat her papa not to be severe with her, if even he was obliged to be strict; and then (for he had told me she danced the night before, the first time in public) I added to herself, 'You must try to deserve the flowers they give you, and dance your very best And if you practise well when you are learning in the mornings, it will become so easy that you will not find it any pain at all, and very little fatigue.'

"Her papa, I could see, was not ill-humored, but very selfish, and would make the most of his clever little daughter; so I would not stay any longer, lest he should forget what I had said. He was rather more polite again before I went away, and in a day or two I sent Thone with a note to Laura, in which I asked her to tea--and, for a wonder, she came. I am tiring you, Master Auchester?"

"Oh! do please, for pity's sake, go on, Miss Benette!"

"Well, when she came with Thone, she was dressed much as she dresses at the cla.s.s, and I have not been able yet to persuade her to leave off that ugly necklace. She talked to me a great deal. She was not made to suffer until after her mother's death, for her mother was so tender of her that she would allow no one to touch her but herself.

She taught her to dance, though; and little Laura told me so innocently how she used to practise by the side of her mother's sick bed, for she lay ill for many months. She had caught a cold--as Laura did the other night--after a great dance, in which she grew very warm; and at last she died of consumption. She had brought her husband a good deal of money, and he determined to make the most of it as soon as she was dead; for he brought Laura on very fast by teaching her all day, and torturing her too, though I really believe he thought it was necessary."

"Miss Benette!"

"Yes; for such persons as he have not sensations fine enough to let them understand how some can be made to suffer delicately."

"Oh, go on!"

"Well, she was just ready to be brought out in a kind of fairy ballet, in which children are required, the night the theatre opened this season."

"And it was then she ran away?"

"Yes; when she got into the theatre she took fright."

"Did she dance that night, after all?"

"Oh, yes! and she liked it very much, for she is very excitable and very fond of praise. Besides, she has a very bright soul, and she was pleased with the sparkling scenery. As she described it, 'It was all roses, and crystal, and beautiful music going round and round.' She is a sweet little child when you really know her, and as innocent as the two little daughters of the clergyman at St. Anthony's who go every day past hand in hand, with their white foreheads and blue eyes, and whose mamma sleeps by Laura's, in the same churchyard. Well, she came to me several times, and at last I persuaded her papa to let her drink tea with me, and it saves him trouble, so he is very glad she should.

It is the end of the season now, so I hope he will give her a real holiday, and she will get quite strong."

"He fetches her, then, to go to the theatre?"

"Yes; it is not any trouble to him, for he calls on another person in this lane, and they all go together."

"Do you know that person?"

"Oh, no! and Laura does not like her. But as Laura is obliged to see a good deal of low people, I like her sometimes to see high people, that her higher nature may not want food."

"I understand. Was that the reason she joined the cla.s.s?"

"I persuaded her papa to allow her, by a.s.suring him it would improve her voice for singing in the chorus; and now he comes himself, though I rather suspect it is because he likes to know all that is going on in the town."

"She goes home with him, then?"

"Yes. The reason you saw Laura in her dancing-dress was that you might like her. I bade her bring it, and put it on her myself. I did not tell her why, but I wished you to see her too."

"But why did you wish me to like her, Miss Benette?"

"As I told you before,--that you may be kind to her; and also that she might see some one very gentle, I wished her to be here with you."

"Am I gentle, do you consider?"

"I think you are a young gentleman," she answered, with her sweet gravity.

"But I do not see how it could do her good exactly to see gentle persons."

"Do not you? I do; I believe she will never become ungentle by living with ungentle persons, as she does and must, if she once knows what gentle persons are. I may be all wrong, but this is what I believe; and when Laura grows up, I shall find out whether I am right. Oh! it is good to love the beautiful; and if we once really love it, we can surely not do harm."

"Miss Benette!" I exclaimed suddenly,--I really could not help it,--"I think you are an angel."

She raised her blue eyes from the shadowy length of their lashes, and fixed them upon the dim gray autumn heaven, then without a smile; but her bright face s.h.i.+ning even with the light of which smiles are born, she replied in the words of Mignon, but with how apart a significance!

"I wish I were one!" then going on, "because then I shall be all beautiful without and within me. But yet, no! I would not be an angel, for I could not then sing in our cla.s.s!"

I laughed out, with the most perfect sympathy in her sentiment; and then she laughed, and looked at me exactly as an infant does in mirthful play.

"Now, Miss Benette, one more question. Mr. Davy told me the other night that you had done him good. What did he mean?"

"I do not think I can tell you what I believe he meant, because you might mention it to him; and if he did not mean that, he would think me silly, and I would not seem silly to him."

"Now, do pray tell me! Do you suppose I can go home unless you will?