“There is a woman here, sir, who insists on seeing you; she has been waiting through half the last piece. Shall I tell her you are coming out?”
“A woman!” exclaimed I, somewhat surprised, for my visitors are not apt to be of the gentler sex.
“Yes sir, an old one. She seems very anxious to speak to you. I could not get rid of her no how.”
I hurried forward to the muffled figure which he pointed out cowering against the wall by the door. “Well, my good woman, what do you want?” I asked, bending towards her in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the face she held partly concealed from me.
“Are you Mr. Mandeville?” she inquired in a tone shaken as much by agitation as age.
I bowed.
“The one who plays upon the piano?”
“The very same,” I declared.
“You are not deceiving me,” she went on, looking up with a marked anxiety plainly visible through her veil. “I haven’t seen you play and couldn’t contradict you, but—”
“Here!” said I calling to Briggs with a kindly look at the old woman, “help me on with my coat, will you?”
The “Certainly, Mr. Mandeville,” with which he complied seemed to reassure her, and as soon as the coat was on and he was gone, she grasped me by the arm and drew my ear down to her mouth.
“If you are Mr. Mandeville, I have a message for you. This letter,” slipping one into my hand, “is from a young lady, sir. She bade me give it to you myself. She is young and pretty,” she pursued as she saw me make a movement of distaste, “and a lady. We depend upon your honor, sir.”
I acknowledge that my first impulse was to fling her back the note and leave the building; I was in no mood for trifling, my next to burst into a laugh and politely hand her to the door, my last and best, to open the poor little note and see for myself whether the writer was a lady or not. Proceeding to the door, for it was already twilight in the dim passage way, I tore open the envelope which was dainty enough and took out a sheet of closely written paper. A certain qualm of conscience assailed me as I saw the delicate chirography it disclosed and I was tempted to thrust it back and return it unread to the old woman now trembling in the corner. But curiosity overcame my scruples, and hastily unfolding the sheet I read these lines:
“I do not know if what I do is right; I am sure aunty would not say it was; but aunty never thinks anything is right but going to church and reading the papers to papa. I am just a little girl who has heard you play, and who would think the world was too beautiful, if she could hear you say to her just once, some of the kind things you must speak every day to the persons who know you. I do not expect very much—you must have a great many friends, and you would not care for me—but the least little look, if it were all my own, would make me so happy and so proud I should not envy anybody in the world, unless it was some of those dear friends who see you always.
“I do not come and hear you play often, for aunty thinks music frivolous, but I am always hearing you no matter where I am, and it makes me feel as if I were far away from everybody, in a beautiful land all sunshine and flowers. But nurse says I must not write so much or you will not read it, so I will stop here. But if you would come it would make someone happier than even your beautiful music could do.”
That was all; there was neither name nor date. A child’s epistle, written with a woman’s circumspection. With mingled sensations of doubt and curiosity I turned back to the old woman who stood awaiting me with eager anxiety.
“Was this written by a child or woman?” I asked, meeting her eye with as much sternness as I could assume.
“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me anything. I have promised to bring you if I could, but I cannot answer any questions.”
I stepped back with an incredulous laugh. Here was evidently an adventure. “You will at least tell me where the young miss lives,” said I, “before I undertake to fulfil her request.”
She shook her head. “I have a carriage at the door, sir,” said she. “All you have got to do is to get into it with me and we shall soon be at the house.”
I looked from her face to the letter in my hand, and knew not what to think. The spirit of simplicity and ingenuousness that marked the latter was scarcely in keeping with this air of mystery. The woman observing my hesitation moved towards the door.
“Will you come, sir?” she inquired. “You will not regret it. Just a moment’s talk with a pretty young girl—surely—”
“Hush,” said I, hearing a hasty step behind me. And sure enough just then my intimate friend Selby came along and grasping me by the arm began dragging me towards the door. “You are my property,” said he. “I’ve promised, on my word of honor as a gentleman and a musician, to bring you to the Handel Club this afternoon. I was afraid you had escaped me, but—” Here he caught sight of the small black figure halting in the doorway, and paused.
“Who’s this?” said he.
I hesitated. For one instant the scale of my whole future destiny hung trembling in the balance, then the demon of curiosity got the better of my judgment, and with the rather unworthy consideration that I might as well enjoy my youth while I could, I released myself from my friend’s detaining hand and replied, “Someone with whom I have very particular business. I
