CHAPTER XX.
We went, and really I found it not so dreadful; and so was I drawn to listen for her voice so dear to me even then, that I forgot all other circumstances except that she was standing by me there, singing. I sang very well,—to my shame if it be spoken, I always know when I do; and the light color so seldom seen on Davy's cheek attested his satisfaction. Davy himself sang alone next, and we were cleared off every one, while he sang so beautiful a bass solo, in its delicacy and simplicity, as I had ever heard. Clara and I mutually agreed to be very nervous for our master. I am sure he was so, but nobody could have told it of him who did not know him inside and out,—not even Santonio, who, standing on the rug again, and turning down his wristbands, which had disappeared altogether while he played, said to Mirandos, "He seems very comfortable," meaning Davy. Then came a quartet, and we figured again.
I was not glad to feel the intermitting tenor supplant that soprano. Truly, it seemed that the higher Clara sang, the nearer she got to heaven. The company applauded this quartet, mere thready tissue of sweet sounds as it was—Rossini's—more than even Santonio's violin; but twenty years ago there had been no universal deluge of education, as I have lived to see since, and, at least in England in the midland counties, people were few who could make out the signs of musical genius so as to read them as they ran. Perhaps it was better that the musician then only sought for sympathy among his own kind.
I knew Mirandos, and his fantasia came next, and hastily retreated, pulling Miss Benette by her dress to bring her away too; for I had a horror of his spreading hands. Santonio, impelled I daresay by the small curiosity which characterizes great minds in the majority of instances, came on the contrary forwards, and stood in the doorway to watch Mirandos take his seat. I could see the sneer settle upon his lips, subtle as that was; and I should have liked to stand and watch him, for I am fond of watching the countenances of artists in their medium moments, when I saw that Miss Benette had stolen to the fire, and was leaning against the mantelshelf her infantine forehead. Her attraction was strongest; I joined her.
"Now," said I, "if it were not for Santonio, would you not find this evening very dull?"
"It is not an evening at all, Master Auchester, it is a candle-light day; and so far from finding it dull, I find it a great deal too bright. I could listen forever to Mr. Davy's voice."
"What can it be that makes his voice so sweet, when it is such a deep voice?"
"I know it is because he has never sung in theatres. It does make a deep voice rough to sing in theatres, unless a man does not begin to sing so for a long, very long time."
"Miss Benette, is that the reason you do not mean to sing in theatres?"