Charles Auchester Volume I Part 8

"Talk to me," broke in Laura from beyond Miss Benette; but I would not,--I steadily looked in front, full of a new plan of mine. I must explain that we proceeded slowly, because Davy's instructions were complete,--perhaps too ideal for the majority; but for some and for me there was an ineffaceable conviction in every novel utterance.

Just before we separated, I ventured to make my request. "Miss Benette!" I said, and she almost stared, quite started to find I knew her name, "Mr. Davy told me who you were,--will you let me come and practise with you? He will tell you my name if you must know it, but I should so like to sing with you,--I do so admire your voice." I spoke with the most perfect innocence, at the same time quite madly wis.h.i.+ng to know her; I did not mean to be overheard, but on the instant Laura looked over.

"You don't ask _me_."

"Because I don't care about your voice," I answered, bluntly. She again gazed at me brightly, her eyes swimming.

"Oh, hus.h.!.+" whispered Miss Benette; "you have hurt her, poor little thing."

"How very good you are!" I returned, scarcely knowing what to say. "I always speak the truth."

"Yes, I should think so; but it is not good taste to dislike Laura's voice, for it is very pretty."

"Come, Miss Benette, do make haste and tell me whether you will let me sing with you to-morrow."

"I do not mind if your friends will not object."

"Tell me where you live, then."

"In St. Anthony's Lane, just by the new foundation. There is a tree in front, but no garden. You must not come, if you please, until after one o'clock, because I have to practise for my other lessons."

"Good-night."

She ran off, having bowed a little courtesy. Laura had left while we were talking.

"Now," thought I, "I shall have it all out, who she is and what she does, and I will make Millicent go to see her." Davy here joined me.

"So you have made friends with Miss Benette."

"Yes, sir;" but I did not tell him I was going to practise with her, for fear anything should prevent my going.

"She is an excellent young person, and will be a true artist.

Nevertheless, remember my injunction,--rather too few friends than too many."

"I mean to keep friends with her, and to make my sister friends with her."

"Your sister does not want friends, I should think."

"Oh, sir, did you ever find out who the conductor was?"

"n.o.body knows. It is very singular," and he raised his voice, "that he has never been heard of since, and had not been seen before by anybody present, though so many foreign professors were in the hall. In London they persist it was Milans-Andre, though Andre has himself contradicted the a.s.sertion."

"I should like to hear Milans-Andre."

"You will some day, no doubt."

"Do you think I shall?"

"I feel in myself quite sure. Now, good-night to you."

"Do come in, sir, and have some supper, please."

But Davy was off in the moonlight before the door could be opened into our house.

When I told Millicent I was going to practise with one of the cla.s.s, she thought fit to tell my mother. My mother made various inquiries; but I satisfied her by a.s.suring her it was one of Davy's own pupils, and his favorite, and I contrived not to be asked whether it was a young lady,--I let them think just at that time it was a young gentleman about my own standing. The only direct injunction laid upon me was that I should be home for tea at five o'clock,--and as I did not leave our house until after our one o'clock dinner, this did not give me very much time; but I ran the whole way.

I forgot to mention that Davy had lent each of us our parts beautifully copied,--at least he had lent them to all who engaged to practise, and I was one. I had rolled it up very neatly.

I soon found the house, but I was certainly astonished when I did find it. I could not believe such a creature as Miss Benette could remain, so bright, buried down there. It was the last house of a very dull row, all let out in lodgings,--the meanest in the town except the very poor.

It was no absurd notion of relative inferiority with which I surveyed it, I was pained at the positive fact that the person to whom I had taken such a fancy should be obliged to remain where I felt as if I should never be able to breathe. I lingered but a moment though, and then I touched a little heavy, distorted knocker that hung nearly at the bottom of the door,--how unlike, I thought, to Lenhart Davy's tiny castle under lock and key! Presently the door was opened by a person, the like of whom I had never seen in all my small experience,--a universal servant, required to be ubiquitous; let this description suffice. I asked for Miss Benette. "The first door to the right, upstairs," was the reply; and pa.s.sing along a dark entry, I began to ascend them, steep and carpetless. I seemed, however, to revive when I perceived how lately the wooden steps had been washed; there was not a foot-mark all the way up to the top, and they smelt of soap and water.

I found several doors to embarra.s.s me on the landing, all painted black; but I heard tones in one direction that decided me to knock. A voice as soft as Millicent's responded, "Come in."

Oh, how strange I felt when I entered! to the full as strange as when I first saw Davy's sanctum. No less a sanctum this, I remember thinking, to the eyes that behold the pure in heart. It was so exquisitely tidy, I felt at once that my selfish sensibilities had nothing to fear. The room was indeed small, but no book walls darkened gloriously the daylight; the fireplace was hideous, the carpet coa.r.s.e and glaring, the paper was crude green,--I hate crude greens more than yellow blues,--and the chairs were rush-bottomed, every one. But she for whom I came was seated at the window, singing; she held some piece of work in her hand, which she laid upon the table when I entered.

Pardon my reverting to the table; I could not keep my eyes from it. It was covered with specimens of work,--such work as I had never seen, as I shall never see again, though all my sisters could embroider, could st.i.tch, could sew with the very best. She did not like me to look at it though, I thought, for she drew me to the window by showing me a chair she had set for me close beside her own. The only luxury amidst the furniture was a mahogany music-stand, which was placed before our two seats. One part lay upon the stand, but it was not in Lenhart Davy's autography.

"Did you copy that part yourself, Miss Benette?" said I, unable to restrain the question.

"Yes; I thought it too much that Mr. Davy should copy all the parts himself for us."

"Does he?"

"Oh, yes; did you not know it? But we must not talk, we must work. Let us be very careful."

"You show me how; please to sing it once alone."

She struck the tuning-fork upon the desk, and without the slightest hesitation, flush, or effort, she began. One would not have deemed it an incomplete fragment of score; it resounded in my very brain like perfect harmony, so strangely did my own ear infer the intermediate sounds.

"Oh, how lovely! how exquisite it must be to feel you can do so much!"

I exclaimed, as her unfaltering accent thrilled the last amen.

"I seem never to have done anything, as I told you before; it is necessary to do _so_ much. Now sing it alone once all through, and I will correct you as Mr. Davy corrects me."

I complied instantly, feeling her very presence would be instruction, forgetting, or not conscious, how young she was. She corrected me a great deal, though with the utmost simplicity. I was astonished at the depth of her remarks, though too ignorant to conceive that they broke as mere ripples from the soundless deeps of genius. Then we sang together, and she wandered into the soprano part. I was transported; I was eager to retain her good opinion, and took immense pains. But it never struck me all the time that it was strange she should be alone,--apparently alone, I mean. I was too purely happy in her society. She sat as serenely as at the cla.s.s, and criticised as severely as our master.

"It is getting late," she said at last, "and I think you had better go. Besides, I must go on with my work. If you are so kind as to come and practise with me again, I must work while I sing, as I do when I am alone."

"Oh, why did you not to-day?"

"I thought it would not be polite the first time," answered she, as gravely as a judge; and I never felt so delighted with anything in all my life. I looked up at her eyes, but the lashes were so long I could not see them, for _she_ was looking down.

"Will you think me rude if I ask to look at your work?"

"You may look at what I am going to send to the shop."

"Oh, what shop?"

She got out of her chair and moved to the table. There was no smile upon her baby-mouth. She pointed to the articles I had noticed but had not dared to examine. They were, indeed, sights to see, one and all.