Laura was at the next class. I had almost forgotten her until I saw
her eyes. I felt quite wicked when I perceived how thin and
transparent the child had grown,--wicked to have thought so little of
her in suffering, while I had been enjoying myself. I cannot give the
least idea how large her eyes looked,--they quite frightened me. I was
not used to see persons just out of illness. Her hair, too, was cut
much shorter, and, altogether, I did not admire her so much. I felt
myself again wicked for this very reason, and was quite unhappy about
it. She gave me a nod. Her cheeks were quite pale, and usually they
were very pink: this also affected me deeply. Clara appeared to
counter-charm me, and I saw no other immediately.
"Ah, Laura, dear! you are looking quite nice again, so pretty," said
this sweet girl as she took her seat; and then she stooped down and
kissed the little dancer.
I found myself rather in the way; for to Clara it seemed quite natural
to scatter happiness with her very looks. She turned to me, after
whispering with Laura:
"She wants to thank you for the flowers, but she does not like to
speak to you."
I was positively ashamed, and, to hide my confusion, said to Laura,
"Do you like violets?"
"Yes, but I like large flowers better. I like red roses and blue
cornflowers."
I did not care for cornflowers myself, except among the corn; and I
thought it very likely Laura took the poppies for roses; still, I did
not set her right,--it was too much trouble. But if I had known I
should never see her again,--I mean, see her as she then was,--I
should have taken more care to do her kindness. Is it not ever so?
Clara entirely engaged me; in fact, I was getting quite used _not_ to
do without her. How well I remember that evening! We sang a service.
Davy had written several very simple ones, and I longed to perform
them in public,--that is to say, in the singing gallery of our church.
But I might as well have aspired to sing them up in heaven, so utterly
would they have been spurned as innovatory.
It was this evening I felt for the first time what I suppose all boys
feel at one time or another,--that they cannot remain always just as
they are. It was no satiety, it was no disappointed hope, nor any
vague desire. It was purely a conviction that some change was awaiting
me. I suppose, in fact, it was a presentiment. The voices of our choir
seemed thin and far away; the pale cheek of Lenhart Davy seemed
stamped with unearthly lustre; the room and roof were wider, higher;
the evening colors, clustered in the shape of windows, wooed to that
distant sky. I was agitated, ecstatic. I could not sing; and when I
listened, I was bewildered in more than usual excitement. Snatches of
hymns and ancient psalms, morsels of the Bible, lullabies and bells,
speeches of no significance, uttered years and, as it seemed,
centuries ago, floated into my brain and through it, despite the
present, and made there a murmurous clamor, like the din of a mighty
city wafted to the ear of one who stands on a commanding hill. I
mention this to prove that presentiment is not a fatuity, but
something mysterious in its actuality,--like love, like joy; perhaps a
passion of memory, that anticipates its treasures and delights _to
be_.
"What beautiful words!" said Clara, in a whisper that seemed to have
more sweetness than other whispers, just as some shadows have more
symmetry than other shadows. She meant, "Unto whom I sware in my
wrath," and the rest.
"Yes," I answered, "I like those words, all of them, and the way they
are put. I always liked them when I was a little boy."
It was very hard to Miss Benette not to reply here, I could tell, she
so entirely agreed with me; but Davy was recalling our attention. When
the class was over, she resumed,--
"I know exactly what you mean; for I used to feel it at the old church
in London, where I went with Mr. Davy's aunt, and could not see above
the pew, it was so high."
"Did you like her, Miss Benette? Is she like him?"
"No, not much. She is a good deal stricter, but she is exceedingly
good; taller than he is, with much darker eyes. She taught me so much,
and was so kind to me, that I only wonder I did not love her a great
deal more."
I felt rather aghast, for, to tell the truth, I only wonder when I
love,--never when I am indifferent, as to most persons. As we were
going out, I asked leave to come and practise on the morrow,--I felt I
_must_ come. I wonder what I should have done had she refused me!
"Certainly, Master Auchester." But she was looking after Laura. "Let
me pin up that shawl, dear, and tie my veil upon your bonnet,--mind
you wear it down in the street." The child certainly seemed to have
put on her clothes in a dream, for her great shawl trailed a yard
behind her on the floor, and did not cover her shoulders at all. Her
bonnet-strings, now very disorderly indeed, were entangled in a knot,
which Clara patiently endeavored to divide. I waited as long as I
dared, but Davy was staying for me I knew, and at last he waved his
hand. I could no longer avoid seeing him, and said to Clara,
"Good-night." She smiled, but did not rise; she was kneeling before
Laura. "Good-night, Miss Lemark."
She only looked up. The large eyes seemed like the drops of rain after
a drenching shower within the chalice of some wood anemone,--too heavy
for the fragile face in which they were set, and from which they gazed
as if unconscious of gazing. I thought to myself, as I went out, she
will die, I suppose; but I did not tell Davy so, because of his reply
when I had first spoken of Laura's illness. I felt very dispirited
though, and shrank from the notion, though it still obtruded itself.
Davy was very quiet. I recollect it to have been a white foggy night,
and more keen than cold: perhaps that was the reason, as he was never
strong in health. When I came to our door--how well I remember it!--I
pulled him in upon the mat before he well knew what I was about.
"Oh! Master Charles," exclaimed Margareth, who was exclusive porteress
in our select establishment, "your brother has brought you a
parcel,--a present, no doubt."
"Oh! my goodness; where is Fred?"
"They are all in the parlor. But, sir, won't you walk in?"
"I beg your pardon," said Davy, absently. "Oh! no; I am going back.
Good-night, Charles."
"Oh, dear, Mr. Davy, do stay and see my present, please!"
Davy did not answer here, for the parlor door opened, and my mother
appeared, benign and hospitable.
"Come in, come in!" she said, extending her hand, and I at least was
in before she was out of the parlor. Fred was there, and Fred's
wife--a pretty black-haired little matron, full of trivialities and
full of sympathy with Lydia--was sitting by that respected sister at a
little table. I ran to shake hands with Mrs. Fred, and knocked over
the table. Alas! they were making bead purses, and for a few moments
there was a restoration of chaos among their elements. Clo came from a
dark corner, where she was wide awake over Dean Prideaux, and my
mother had raised her hands in some dismay, when I was caught up by
Fred and lifted high into the air.
"Well, and what do I hear," etc.
"Oh! Fred, where is my present?"
"Present, indeed! Such as it is, it lies out there. _Nobody_ left it
at the office, so Vincent tells me; but I found it there among the
packages, and was strongly inclined to consider it a mistake
altogether. Certainly 'Charles Auchester, Esq.,' was not 'known
there;' but I smelt plum-cake, and that decided me to have it opened
here."
I rushed to the chair behind the sofa, while the rest--except
Millicent and Mr. Davy, who were addressing each other in the low
voice which is the test of all human proprieties--were scolding in
various styles. The fracas was no more to me than the jingling of the
maternal keys. I found a large oblong parcel rolled in the thickest of
brown papers, and tied with the thickest of strings round and round
again so firmly that it was, or appeared to be, hopeless to open it
unless I gnawed that cord.
"Oh! Lydia, lend me your scissors."
"For shame, Charles!" pronounced Clo. "How often have I bidden you
never to waste a piece of string!"
She absolutely began upon those knots with her fingers. My own
trembled so violently that they were useless. Meanwhile, for she was
about ten minutes engaged in the neat operation,--I scanned the
address. It was, as Fred had mentioned to me, as an adult and as an
esquire, and the writing was bold, black, and backward. It seemed to
have come a long way, and smelt of travelling; also, when the paper
was at length unfolded, it smelt of tow, and something oblong was
muffled in the tow.
"A box!" observed sapient Clotilda. I tore the tow out in handfuls.
"Don't strew it upon the carpet, oh, my dearest Charles!"
Clo, I defy you! It was a box truly, but what sort of a box? It had a
lid and a handle. It was also fastened with little hooks of brass. It
was open, I don't know how. There it lay,--there lay a real violin in
the velvet lining of its varnished case!
No, I could not bear it; it was of no use to try. I did not touch it,
nor examine it. I flew away upstairs. I shut myself into the first
room I came to, which happened to be Lydia's; but I did not care. I
rushed up to the window and pressed my face against the cold glass. I
sobbed; my head beat like a heart in my brain; I wept rivers. I don't
suppose the same thing ever happened to any one else, therefore none
can sympathize. It was mystery, it was passion, it was infinitude; it
was to a soul like mine a romance so deep that it has never needed
other. My violin was mine, and I was it, and the beauty of my romance
was, in truth, an ideal charmer; for be it remembered that I knew no
more how to handle it than I should have known how to conduct at the
festival.
The first restoring fact I experienced was the thin yet rich vibration
of that very violin. I heard its voice, somebody was trying it,--Davy,
no doubt; and that marvellous quality of tone which I name a double
oneness--resulting, no doubt, from the so often treated
harmonics--reached and pierced me up the staircase and through the
closed door. I could not endure to go down, and presently when I had
begun to feel rather ghostly--for it was dead dark--I heard somebody
come up and grope first here, then there, overhead and about, to find
me. But I would not be found until all the places had been searched
where I did not happen to be hidden. Then the person came to my door.
It was Millicent; she drew me into the passage.
"Oh! I can't go down."
"Darling do, for my sake. They are all so pleased. Mr. Davy has been
playing, and he says it is a real Amati."
"But don't let Fred touch it, please, Millicent!" For I had a vague
idea it would not like to be touched by Fred.
"Why, no one _can_ touch it but Mr. Davy,--not even _you_, Charles. Do
come downstairs now and look at it."
I went. Mr. Davy was holding it yet, but the instant I entered he
advanced and placed it between my arms. I embraced it, much as young
ladies embrace their first wax dolls, but with emotions as sweet, as
deep, as mystical as those of the youth who first presses to his soul
the breathing presence of his earliest love. I saw then that this
violin was a tiny thing,--a very fairy of a fiddle; it was certainly
not new, but I did not know how very old it was, and should not have
been the least aware how valuable it was, and of what a precious
costliness, but for Davy's observation, "Take care of it, Charles, and
it will make you all you wish to be. I rather suspect Santonio will
envy you its possession when he has tried it."
"But is he to try it, then, Mr. Davy?"
"Your mother has given me leave to ask him, if I see him; but I fear
he has already returned to London." Davy glanced here at my mother
with a peculiar expression, and resumed, "I am going to write to him,
at all events, about another subject, or rather upon the same
subject."
"Oh, Mr. Davy, I will talk to my little boy myself."
"Certainly, madam; I will not anticipate you."
"Charles dear," said Clo, "you must have your supper now."
It appeared to me that I had already had it; but I restored my doll to
its cradle in silence, and ate unconsciously. Fred's presence at the
board stimulated his lady and Lydia to extreme festivity, and they
laughed the whole time; but Millicent was pale and Davy quiet, and he
departed as soon as he possibly might. But a smile of sweetness all
his own, and of significance sweeter than sweetness, brightened his
frank adieu for me into the day-spring of my decided destiny.