The Story Book Girls Part 37

"I don't see why you should pay so much money to keep them out of their own home," said she.

By next post, she sent a hamper of cakes to the girls.

Then came a letter from Mr. Leighton, which Mabel locked in a little morocco case along with some other treasures, "to keep for ever."

"I am to stay, and I'm to have lessons from any Vollendollenvallejowski I like to name," she cried to Jean. The two rocked on a bamboo chair in happy abandonment till some explosive crackling sounds warned them that joy had its limits.

Every girl in the house was invited into the tea "with cakes from home."

"What a love of a father and a duck of a mother we've got," said the convalescent homesick Jean.

CHAPTER XX

The s.h.i.+lling Seats

Jean owed a great debt to Isobel for having told her of Slavska, and acknowledged it extravagantly in every letter. Now there was the difficulty of finding a piano teacher; but here Mabel explained to Jean as nearly as she could why she could not seek the advice of Isobel.

Isobel, if they knew, already lamented that she had given away Slavska, it was such an opening to the girls for being independent of her experience. Herr Slavska would recommend no one in London.

"They all play for the stupids," he declared. At last in a better mood, he remembered a certain "Monsieur, Monsieur--Green."

Mabel laughed at the drop to a plain English name.

"Ah no! Smile not," said Herr Slavska. "His mother, of the Latin race, and his father, mark you, a Kelt! What wonder of a result! I will introduce you to the Sir, Herr, Monsieur Green. He is young, but of Leschet.i.tzky. I recommend him."

There seemed nothing more to be said, except that two girls in the club knew Mr. Green's playing and said that no one else really existed in London. A great deal underlay Herr Slavska's "I recommend him."

Mabel met one of the keenest enthusiasts of her life when she met Mr.

Green.

"Isn't it queer," said Jean afterwards, who, in spite of egg flips and methods, was in a dejected mood that day, "isn't it queer that an old boy like Herr Slavska and a young one like Mr. Green should both have the same delusions. About music, I mean, being so keen on it."

"You can't call that voice of Herr Slavska's a delusion."

Mabel had been much impressed by what Mr. Green had said.

"Mark you, at such an age, there is no voice like Slavska's in existence. Your sister is fortunate in learning his method."

"That's what Mr. Slavska said," Jean had answered amiably, and it had started Mr. Green off on his lessons with Mabel in a cheerful mood.

"The Herr is not sparing of his compliments when it is himself that is concerned," he said, laughing loudly. "But he can afford to tell the truth."

It seemed lovely to Mabel, this tribute from one man to another.

"More than your old Slavska said of my man," she told Jean.

Mr. Green was a distracting teacher. He pulled Mabel's playing down to decimals. Where she had formerly found her effects by merely feeling them, he subtracted feeling until she imagined she could not play piano at all. Then he began to build up her technique like a builder adding bricks to a wall.

"You must imagine that you have eaten of the good things of life until you are a little ill, so that good or bad taste very much alike. Then you come to me for the cure. I diet you with uninteresting things, which you do not like, and you imagine I am hard because I do not allow you to eat. Then one day I give you a little tea and toast. Now, Miss Leighton, you have worked to curve the third finger a trifle more than you did. Will you play that study of Chopin which you once performed to me."

Mabel had practised dry technique and had kept cheerfully away from all "pieces" as directed. She played the study.

"Bravo," said Mr. Green. It was his first encouragement.

"Why," said Mabel, "how nice it is to be able to play it like that."

"It is your tea and toast," said Mr. Green.

Into their hard-working life came delightfully Adelaide Maud. Their enthusiasm carried her into scenes she had never visited. She attended concerts in the s.h.i.+lling seats, and took tea once at an A.B.C. The s.h.i.+lling seats fascinated Adelaide Maud. The composite crowd of girls, with excited interest; of budding men musicians, groomed and ungroomed, the latter disporting hair which fell on the forehead in Beethoven negligence, the dark, lowering musician's scowl beneath--what pets they all were! Pets in the zoological sense some of them, but yet what pets!

She caught the infection of their ardour when a great or a new performer appeared. Had any crowd ever paid such homage to one of her set, never!

Fancy inflaming hearts to that extent. Adelaide Maud could feel her pulses responding.

"Oh," she said after one of these experiences when they were in Fuller's and ate extravagantly of walnut cream cake, "it's as much fun to me to go to these concerts, as it would be for you to--to.----" It dawned on her that any comparison might not be polite.

"To go to court," said Mabel.

"Oh, _have_ you ever been presented?" asked Jean of Adelaide Maud.

Mabel stared at her. All their life they had followed Adelaide Maud's career, and Jean forgot that she had been presented. Adelaide Maud herself might have been a little hurt, but she was only amused.

"I was--in Queen Victoria's time. I'm an old stager, you know," she said.

"Wasn't it lovely," asked Jean, who had once called her past.

"I don't think so," said Adelaide Maud. "At least I happened to enjoy the wrong part, that was all. I loved going out with the suns.h.i.+ne pouring into the carriage and everybody staring at us. It was very hot and the windows had to be down, and I heard things. One girl said 'Oh, lollipops, look at 'er 'air. Dyed that is.' Another quite gratified me by e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. in an Irish voice, 'Oh, the darlint.' 'You mustn't,'

said her friend, 'she'll 'ear you.' 'I mean the horses, stupid,' said the girl. She had her eye on the Life Guards. Mamma was disgusted. But in the palace it was not nearly so distinguished. n.o.body admired one at all, just hustled one by. I think we were cross all the time."

"I think it would be lovely to be cross in Buckingham Palace," sighed Jean.

They all laughed. Adelaide Maud in particular seemed to be thinking about something which interested her.

"Would it be fun for you to see some of the people who are going to the great ball," she asked. "I don't mean to go to the ball, but Lady Emily is to be at home for the early part of that evening and some people are coming in on the way. I asked her if I might have you to dinner--and she's quite pleased about it."

Mabel and Jean sat in a blissful state of rapture. ("Lady Emily! The gorgeous and far-away Lady Emily!")

"Oh," said Jean, "Elma would say, 'I should be terrified.'"

"And I should say we'll be perfectly delighted," said Mabel.

It cost her no tremor at all to think of going. This reminded Adelaide Maud of Miss Grace's prophecy that there was no sphere in life which Mabel could not enter becomingly.

"Put on that pretty pink thing you wore in Ridgetown, lately," she said.

The name of Ridgetown brought them closer to realities. This was Miss Dudgeon of The Oaks with whom they ate cream cake. Jean said, "I'm sure to give the wrong t.i.tles. You don't mind I hope."

"No," said Adelaide Maud. At the same time she was dying with the desire that they should do her infinite credit. Carefully she thought over the matter and then spoke. "In any case it's so much a matter of one's manner in doing it. I remember when Lady Emily was ill once, she had a very domineering nurse, who tossed her head one time and said to me, 'I suppose she wants me to be humble and "my lady" her, but not a bit of me.' Then one of the most distinguished surgeons in England was called in, and his first words were, 'And how d'ye do, my lady.' He called her 'my lady' throughout, quite unusual you know, and yet in so dignified and kind a manner, as though he were saying, 'I know, but I prefer my own way in the matter.'"