CHAPTER XII.
I did not see him again until the next class-night. It was strange to find the same faces about me; and above all, my two heroines, dressed exactly as on the first occasion, except that the pink frock was rather less brilliant. I listened eagerly for those pure tones to swell, communing with my own, and I was not disappointed. We did not sing anything that I can specify at present; but it was more than pleasure—it was vitality—to me to fling out my own buoyant notes far and wide, supported, as it were, by an atmosphere of commingling sounds. I suppose, therefore, that I may have been singing very loud when the daring little head out of the muslin bonnet put itself into my face and chanted, in strict attention to Davy's rules all the time, "How beautifully you do sing!" I was hushed for the moment, and should have been vexed if I had not been frightened; for I was ridiculously timorous as a child.
She then brought from the crown of her bonnet a paper full of bonbons, which she opened and presented to me. I replied very sharply, in a low voice, "I don't eat while I am singing," and should have taken no more notice of her; but she now raised upon me her large eyes to the full, and still pushed the bonbon paper at me,—almost in my face too. I was too well bred to push it away, but too honest not to say, when she still persisted in offering the saccharine conglomeration, "I don't like curl papers." The child turned from me with a fierce gesture, but her eyes were now swimming in tears. I was astonished, angry, melted. I at length reproached myself; and though I could not bring myself to touch the colored chocolates, crumbled up as they had been in her hand, I did condescend to whisper, "Never mind!" and she took out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
Now, all this while my young lady took no heed, and I felt almost sure she must have noticed us; but she did not turn to the large-eyed maiden, and I occupied myself with both. That night again Davy joined me, and I only managed to catch a glimpse of the muslin bonneted, holding her bonbons still in one dirty glove, and with the other taking the hand of a huge, high-shouldered man, going out with the crowd.
Oh, Davy was too deep for me, and delicate as deep! The next night of our meeting my number was moved to the other side of my serene neighbor, who at present divided me from the hazel eyes and the ringlets. It never occurred to me that he had done it; I thought it to be a mistake, and fully intended, like a curious manikin, to go back another time to my old quarters. I could not help looking at the little one to see whether I was watched. But no; with a coquetry I was too young to appreciate, and she ought to have been too young to exercise, she sang with all her might, never once turning her eyes towards me. I found at length the fascinations of our choral force too strong not to submerge her slight individuality, and soon I forgot she was there,—though I never forgot that serene voice breathing by my side faint prophecies I could not render to myself in any form, except that they had to do with myself, and with music alike my very own. I do not think any musical taste was ever fed and fostered early in an atmosphere so pure as mine; for Lenhart Davy's class, when fully organized and entirely submitted to him, seemed invested with his own double peculiarity,—subdued, yet strong. We were initiated this evening into an ancient anthem, whose effect, when it was permitted to us to interpret, was such that I could not repress my satisfaction, and I said aloud, though I did not confront my companion, "That is something like!" My serene contralto answered, strangely to my anticipations, and with the superior womanliness I have ascribed to her, "Is it not glorious?"
It was an anthem in the severe style, that tells so powerfully in four-voiced harmony; and the parts were copied upon gigantic tablets in front, against the wall that was Davy's background.
"I cannot see," said the other little creature, pulling the contralto's black-silk gown.
"I am sorry for you," replied the other, "but I believe that you can see, Laura, as well as I can; you mean you will not trouble yourself, or that you are idle to-night."
"And what if I do? I hate those horrid hymn sort of tunes; they will not be of any use to me."
"Silence!" uttered the voice of Lenhart Davy. There was seldom occasion for him to say so, but just now there had been a pause before we repeated the first movement of the anthem.
He told me he had a little leisure that evening, and would take me home. I was enchanted, and fully meant to ask him to come in with me; but I actually forgot it until after he had turned away. Margareth reproved me very seriously; "Your sisters would have asked him in, Master Charles, to supper." But the fact was, I had been occupied with my own world too much. I had said to him directly we were in the street, "Dear Mr. Davy, who are those two girls whose seats are the nearest to mine?"
"They belong to the class like yourself, as you perceive, but they are not persons you would be likely to meet anywhere else."
"Why not, sir? I should like to be friends with all the singers."
Davy smiled. "So you may be, in singing, and, I hope, will be; but they are not all companions for you out of the class. You know that very well."
"I suppose, sir, you mean that some are poorer than we are, some not so well brought up, some too old, and all that?"
"I did, certainly; but not only so. You had better not make too many friends at your time of life,—rather too few than too many. Ask your mother if I am not correct. You see, she has a right to expect that you should love home best at present."
"I always should love home best," I answered quickly; and I remember well how Davy sighed.
"You mean what even every boy must feel, that you should like to make a home for yourself; but the reward is after the race,—the victory at the end of the struggle."
It appeared to me very readily that he here addressed something in his own soul; for his voice had fallen. I urged, "I know it, sir; but do tell me the names of those two girls,—I won't let them know you told me."
He laughed long and heartily. "Oh! yes, willingly; you would soon have heard their names, though. The little one is Laura Lemark, the child of a person who has a great deal to do with the theatres in this town, and she is training for a dancer, besides being already a singer in the chorus at a certain theatre. Your mother would not like you to visit her, you may be sure; and therefore you should not try to know her. I placed you near her because she is the most knowing of all my pupils, except Miss Benette,[7] the young person who sat next you this evening."
"With the lovely voice? Oh! I should never know her if I wished it."
"You need not wish it; but even if you did, she would never become troublesome in any respect. She is too calm, too modest."
"And pray, tell me, sir, is she to be a dancer too?"
"No, oh, no! She will decidedly become one of the finest singers in England, but I believe she will not go upon the stage."
"You call the theatre the stage, sir, don't you?"
"Yes, in this instance."
"But why won't she go upon the stage? Cannot she act?"
"She does not think she is called to it by any special gift."
"Did she say those words, sir?"
"Those very words."
"I thought she would just say them, sir. Does she know you very well?"
"She is my own pupil."
"Oh! out of the class, sir, I suppose?"
"Yes, I teach her in my house."
"Sir, I wish you taught me in your house."
"I should say, too, that I wished it," answered Davy, sweetly; "but you have a sister to teach you at home, and Clara Benette has no one."
"I should like to have no one—to teach me, I mean,—if you would teach me. If my mother said yes, would you, sir?"
"For a little while I would with pleasure."
"Why not long, sir? I mean, why only for a little while?"
"Because there are others of whom you ought to learn, and will learn, I am persuaded," he added, almost dreamingly, as he turned me to the moonlight, now overspread about us, and surveyed me seriously. "The little violin-face,—you know, Charles, I cannot be mistaken in those lines."
"I would rather sing, sir."
"Ah! that is because you have not tried anything else."
"But, sir, you sing."
"I suppose that I must say, as Miss Benette does, 'I have a special gift' that way," replied Davy, laughing.
"You have a special gift all the ways, I think, sir," I cried as I ran into our house. I told Millicent all he had said, except that Laura was to be a dancer; and yet I cannot tell why I left this out, for there was that about her fairly repelling me, and at the same time I felt as if exposed to some power through her, and could not restrain myself from a desire to see her again. Millicent told my mother all that I had said to her the next morning at breakfast. My mother, who had as much worldliness as any of us, and that was just none, was mightily amused at my new interests. She could not make up her mind about the private lessons yet; she thought me too young, and that I had plenty of time before me,—at present the class was sufficient excitement, and gave me enough to do. Clo quite coincided here; she, if anything, thought it rather too much already, though a very good thing indeed.