"Well, you have been making a day of it."
"Oh, these are my old clothes--that is glue; don't look at me--I had an
accident with the glue-pot; and that's paint. Yes; I must get some new
shirts, these won't hold a button any longer."
The conversation paused a few seconds, then running her finger down the
keys, she said--
"But it goes admirably."
"Yes; I've finished it now; it is an exquisite instrument. I could not
leave it till it was finished."
"Then what are you complaining of, darling? Has Father Gordon been here?
Has he discovered any new Belgian composer, and does he want all his
music to be given at St. Joseph's?"
"No; Father Gordon hasn't been here, and as for the Belgian composers,
there are none left; he has discovered them all."
"Then you've been thinking about me, about my voice.
That's it," she said, catching sight of her own photograph. "You've
been frowning over that photograph, thinking"--her eyes went up to her
mother's portrait--"all sorts of nonsense, making yourself miserable,
reproaching yourself that you do not teach me to vocalise, a thing which
you know nothing about, or lamenting that you are not rich enough to
send me abroad, where I could be taught it." Then, with a pensive note
in her voice which did not escape him, she said--
"As if there was any need to worry. I'm not twenty yet."
"No, you're not twenty yet, but you will be very soon. Time is going
by."
"Well, let time go by, I don't care. I'm happy here with you, father. I
wouldn't go away, even if you had the money to send me. I intend to help
you make the concerts a success. Then, perhaps, I shall go abroad."
His heart went out to his daughter. He was proud of her, and her fine
nature was a compensation for many disappointments. He took her in his
arms and thankfully kissed her. She was touched by his emotion, and
conscious that her eyes were threatening tears, she said--
"I can't stand this gloom. I must have some light. I'll go and get a
lamp. Besides, it must be getting late. I wonder what kind of a dinner
Margaret has got for us. I left it to her. A good one, I hope. I'm
ravenous."
A few minutes after she appeared in the doorway, holding a lamp high,
the light showing over her white skin and pale gold hair. "Margaret has
excelled herself--boiled haddock, melted butter, a neck of mutton and a
rice pudding. And I have brought back a bag of oranges. Now come,
darling. You've done enough to that virginal. Run upstairs and wash your
hands, and remember that the fish is getting cold."
She was waiting for him in the little back room--the lamp was on the
table--and when they sat down to dinner she began the tale of her day's
doings. But she hadn't got farther than the fact that they had asked her
to stay to tea at Queen's Gate, when her tongue, which always went quite
as fast as her thoughts, betrayed her, and before she was aware, she had
said that her pupil's sister was in delicate health and that the family
was going abroad for the winter. This was equivalent to saying she had
lost a pupil. So she rattled on, hoping that her father would not
perceive the inference.
"There doesn't seem to be much luck about at present," he said. "That's
the third pupil you've lost this month."
"It is unfortunate ... and just as I was beginning to save a little
money." A moment after her voice had recovered its habitual note of
cheerfulness. "Then what do you think I did? An idea struck me; I took
the omnibus and went straight to St. James's Hall."
"To St. James's Hall!"
"Yes, you old darling; don't you know that M. Desjardin, the French
composer, has come over to give a series of concerts. I thought I should
like him to try my voice."
"You didn't see him?"
"Yes I did. When I asked for him, the clerk said, pointing to a
gentleman coming downstairs, that is Monsieur Desjardin. I went straight
up to him, and told him who I was, and asked him if he had ever heard of
mother. Just fancy, he never had; but he seemed interested when I told
him that everyone said my voice was as good as mother's. We went into
the hall, and I sang to him."
"What did you sing to him?"
"'Have you seen but a white lily grow?' and 'Que vous me coûtez cher,
mon coeur, pour vos plaisirs.'"
"Ah! that music must have surprised him. What did he say?"
"I don't think I sang very well, but he seemed pleased, and asked me if
I knew any modern music. I said 'Very little.' He was surprised at that.
But he said I had a very fine voice, and sang the old music beautifully,
but that it would be impossible for me to sing modern music without
ruining my voice, until I had been taught. I asked him if it would not
be well to try to earn a little money by concert singing, so that I
might go abroad later on. He said, 'I am glad that all my arrangements
are made, otherwise I might be tempted to offer you an engagement. One
engagement leads to another, and if you sing before your voice is
properly placed'--'posée' was the word he used--'you will ruin it.'"
"Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all." Then, noticing the pained look that had come into her
father's face, she added, "It was nice to hear that he thought well of
my voice."
But she could tell what he was thinking of, and regretting her tongue's
indiscretion, she tried to divert his thoughts from herself. His
brooding look continued, and to remove it she had to fetch his pipe and
tobacco. When he had filled it for the third time he said--
"There is the Bach and the Handel sonata waiting for us; we ought to be
getting to work."
"I'm quite ready, father. I suppose I must not eat any more oranges,"
and she surveyed her plate full of skins.
Mr. Innes took up the lamp, Evelyn called to the servant to get another,
and followed him into the music-room. The lamps were placed on the
harpsichord. She lighted some candles, and in the moods and aspirations
of great men they found a fairyland, and the lights disappeared from the
windows opposite, leaving them still there.
The wings of the hours were light--weariness could not reach them--and
at half-past eleven Mr. Innes was speaking of a beautiful motet, "O
Magnum Mysterium," by Vittoria. His fingers lingered in the wailing
chords, and he said--
"That is where Wagner went for his chorus of youths in the cupola. The
critics haven't discovered it yet; they are still talking of
Palestrina."