Evelyn Innes | Page 4

only been getting on 'pretty well.' But I see your
necktie has come undone."
Then overlooking him from head to foot--

"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!