Charles Auchester Volume I Part 23

"Because I told her so many things about the sort of people she will see, and how to know what is beautiful in people who are not wise. She promised to come and live with me when I have been to Italy, and become a singer; but till then, I shall, perhaps, never meet her, for our ways are not the same. She looked with her clear eyes right through me, to see if I was grave; and if she only finds her art is fair, I shall not be afraid for her."

"But is she not ill? I never saw anybody look so strange."

"That is because her hair is shorter. You do not like her, Master Auchester?"

I shook my shoulders. "No; not a great deal."

"You will try, please. She will be an artist."

"But don't you consider,--of course I don't know,--but don't you consider dancing the lowest art?"

"Oh, Master Auchester! all the arts help each other, and are all in themselves so pure that we cannot say one is purer than the other.

Besides, was it not in the dream of that Jew, in the Bible, that the angels descended as well as ascended?"

"You are like Martin Luther."

"Why so?"

"Clo--that is my clever sister--told me what he said about the arts and religion."

"Oh, Mr. Davy tells that story."

"Miss Benette, you are very naughty! You seem to know everything that everybody says."

"No; it is because I see so few people that I remember all they say."

"Are you not at _all_ fonder of music than of dancing? Oh, Miss Benette!"

She laughed heartily, showing one or two of her twinkling teeth.

"I am fonder of music than of anything that lives or is, or rather I am not fond of it at all; but it is my life, though I am only a young child in that life at present. But I am rather fond of dancing, I must confess."

"I think it is charming; and I can dance very well, particularly on the top of a wall. But I do not care about it, you know."

"You mean, it is not enough for you to make you either glad or sorry.

But be thankful that it is enough for some people."

"All things make me glad, and sorry too, I think, going away now. When I come back--"

"I shall be gone," said Clara.

"I shall be a man--"

"And I an old woman--"

"For shame, Miss Benette! you will never grow old, I believe."

"Oh, yes, I shall; but I do not mind, it will be like a summer to grow old."

"I am sure it will!" I cried, with an enthusiasm that seemed to surprise her, so unconscious was she ever of any effect she had.

"But I shall grow old too; and there is not so very much difference between us. So then I shall seem your age; and, Miss Benette, when I do grow up, will you be my friend?"

"Always, Master Auchester, if you still wish it. And in my heart I do believe that friends are friends forever."

The sweet smile she gave me, the sweeter words she spoke, were sufficient to a.s.sure me I should not be forgotten; and it was all I wished, for then my heart was fixed upon my future.

"But you will not be going to-morrow, I suppose?"

"No, I wish I were."

"So do I."

"Thank you," said I, rather disconcerted; "I shall go very soon, I suppose."

"It will not be long, I daresay," she answered, with another sweetest smile; and I felt it to be her kind wish for me, and was consoled. And when I left her she was standing quietly by her piano; nor did she raise her eyes to follow me to the door.

By one of those curious chances that befall some people more than others, I had a cold the next cla.s.s-night. I was in an extremity of pa.s.sion to be kept at home,--that is to say, I rolled in my stifling bed with the sulks pressing heavily on my heart, and the headache upon my forehead. Millicent sat by me, and laughingly a.s.sured me I should soon be quite well again; I solemnly averred I should never be well, should never get up, should never see Davy any more, never go to Germany. But I went to sleep after all; for Davy, with his usual philanthropy, came all the way up to the house to inquire for me after the cla.s.s, and his voice aroused and soothed me together. I may say that such a cold was a G.o.dsend just then, as it prevented my having to do any lessons. The next day, being idle, I heard nothing of Davy; neither the next. I thought it very odd; but on the third morning I was permitted to go out, as it was very clear and bright. The smoke looked beautiful, almost like another kind of flame, as it swelled skywards, and I met Davy quite glowing with exercise.

"What a day for December!" said he, and cheerily held up a letter.

"Oh, Mr. Davy!" I cried; but he would not suffer me even to read the superscription.

"First for your mother. Will you turn back and walk home with me?"

"I must not, sir; I am to walk to the turnpike and back."

"Away, then! and I am very glad to hear it."

To do myself justice, I did not even run. I could, indeed, for all my impatient hope, scarcely help feeling there is no such blessing as pure fresh air that fans a brow whose fever has lately faded. I came at length to the toll-gate, and returned, braced for any adventure, to the door of my own home. I flew into the parlor; my mother and Davy were alone. My mother was wiping off a tear or two, and he seemed smiling on purpose.

"Oh, mother!" I exclaimed, running up to her, "please don't cry."

"My dear Charles, you are a silly little boy. After all, what will you do in Germany?"

She lifted me upon her lap. Davy walked up to the book-case.

"I find, Charles, that you must go immediately,--and, indeed, it will be best if you travel with Mr. Santonio. And how could I send you alone, with such an opportunity to be taken care of! Mr. Davy, will you have the kindness to read that letter to my little boy?"

Davy, thus admonished, gathered up the letter now lying open upon the table, and began to read it quite in his cla.s.s voice, as if we two had been an imposing audience.

DEAR MADAM,--Although I have not had the pleasure of an introduction to you, I think the certificate of my cognizance by my friend Davy will be sufficient to induce you to allow me to take charge of your son at the end of this week, if he can then be ready, as I must leave England then, and return to Paris by the middle of February. Between this journey and that time I shall be in Germany to attend the examinations of the Cecilia School at Lorbeerstadt.[12] The Cecilia School now is exactly the place for your son, though he is six months too young to be admitted. At the same time, if he is to be admitted at all, he should at once be placed under direct training, and there are out-professors who undertake precisely this responsibility. My own experience proves that anything is better than beginning too late, or beginning too soon to work alone. I have made every inquiry which could be a proviso with you.

"Then here follows what would scarcely interest you," said Davy, breaking off.

"Your friend is quite right, Charles. Now can you say you are sure I may put faith in you?"

"What do you mean, mother? If you mean that I am to practise, _indeed_ I will; I never want to do anything else, and I won't have any money to spend."