UP-STAIRS AND DOWN-STAIRS
POLLY, who demanded little of fate and who least of all the Scollard
family asserted herself, received some things unsought. For instance,
her tenth birthday came to her early in January, bringing a mild little
celebration of Polly's passing into double numbers.
In its honor all the girls came down to the tea room in the afternoon,
that Polly need not be separated from any of them, and they hoped it
might prove a day cloudy enough to allow for playtime.
Instead it was a bright, crisp, ozoneful day and people dropped in in
greater numbers than they had come since Christmas, so the girls were
as busy as bees. They had not seen much of their attractive landlady.
Her chaperonage was rather in moral effect, knowing that she was
above stairs ready in case of need, than in actual service. The tea
maidens caught glimpses of her, and exchanged a few words with her
occasionally, enough to make them, Margery especially, wish they might
know her better. She was busy with her classes and there was scant
opportunity.
To-day, however, Mrs. Stewart came in at one o'clock, and smiled her
readiness to wait till Margery should be at leisure to speak to her.
Mrs. Jones-Dexter had turned up again after an absence of ten days, and
Margery was patiently trying to fit her out; physically, with tea that
should be neither too strong nor too weak, too hot nor too cold, and
mentally with a novel equally perfect.
Margery had not yet acquired Happie's faculty of bearing up with
equanimity under this singular person's trying ways.
The moment Mrs. Jones-Dexter caught sight of Mrs. Stewart she deserted
Margery and the book shelves, and crossed over to the little dancing
teacher.
"What have you been doing to my little Serena Jones-Dexter?" she
demanded.
"Teaching her to dance?" said Mrs. Stewart with an interrogation point
in her voice, not knowing what the little Serena's grandmother might
mean.
"Teaching her to do nothing but dance!" retorted Mrs. Jones-Dexter.
"The mite puts chairs in a row, carefully spaced, and dances through
and around them all day long, if no one interferes. What are you trying
to make her do?"
Mrs. Stewart laughed. "Trying to make her do nothing of that sort,"
she said. "But I have suggested that practice for the older children,
to help them learn the reverse. I suppose your little Serena is
as imitative as are most tots. She has not reached the age when
difficulties are demanded of little women."
"I hope not!" said Mrs. Jones-Dexter, and Margery saw that her question
had not been put to Mrs. Stewart in a fault-finding way, but proudly,
and she remembered that Mrs. Charleford had said she was wrapped up
in her little grandchild. "Have you seen my little Serena?" Mrs.
Jones-Dexter asked turning to Margery.
"I'm afraid not. I have never been up-stairs during the classes,"
Margery replied.
"She's worth seeing," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter crisply. "It's not a
grandmother's doting that finds her a rare blossom of a child, is it?"
she demanded of Serena's teacher.
Mrs. Stewart shook her head. "I have never seen a child as lovely," she
said, and Margery saw that the praise was sincere.
"She is precisely like her name, sweet, exquisite, like a bit of
old-time porcelain. You would appreciate her. Mrs. Stewart, please
arrange for Miss Scollard and her sister to see my little girl," said
Mrs. Jones-Dexter. Margery was amazed to discover in this speech proof
that the difficult lady considered her and Happie fitted to appreciate
the fineness of this rare child.
"I came to ask Miss Margery Scollard to come up-stairs this afternoon.
I suppose both the elder girls cannot come together?" Mrs. Stewart
paused for the negative that Margery murmured. "Well, then will one of
you come and bring with you your two youngest sisters? And I will show
you Mrs. Jones-Dexter's grandchild; you will find her all we say," Mrs.
Stewart continued. "I wanted to ask a favor of you, if I may."
"I'll take myself out of earshot," said Mrs. Jones-Dexter promptly. "I
see your sister has my tea. I'll come in to-morrow to hear your candid
opinion of Serena. She is a shy child, not inclined to friendships, but
I think you will win her regard. I wish you would try to. She is not
strong, a sensitive creature, and I should like to have her play with
your pretty little Penelope, who is as vigorous and normal as Serena is
unearthly."
She walked across the room to the table at which Polly patiently waited
her coming. Margery turned to Mrs. Stewart. "I can hardly believe my
ears!" she cried. "I was thinking that I would never again try to
please her, that I must leave her to Happie forevermore, and suddenly
she turns brusquely cordial!"
"She's peculiar to herself," laughed Mrs. Stewart. "People say that
Mrs. Jones-Dexter has been a martinet in her family, that she and her
son, this little Serena's father, got on no better than she has got
on with her nieces, nephews, brothers and sisters. But towards Serena
she is pathetically tender and adoring. And it is all true about the
little girl. She is six years old, and the most flower-like, angelic
little being one could imagine. Now my favor: dear Miss Margery, I want
to take your Polly and Penny into my class, just for the pleasure of
having them,--that, and because I want to do something that would
give Miss Bradbury pleasure. As there is nothing I can do for her
directly, please let me teach the children. I know--better than you do,
possibly--how much she cares for you all, and I know that I can gratify
her in this way. She has done so much for me! Say yes, please, my dear!"
"I shouldn't know how to say no," said Margery. "It would be a great
advantage to the children, not to speak of the delight of it--Penny's
feet are set to dancing as naturally as other children are made to
walk. You are more than good, Mrs. Stewart, but it doesn't seem quite
fair."
"Don't you see that the class must be taught, and that two more little
persons in it do not affect my work? Then it is settled. I heard you
say the other day that your Polly would be ten years old to-day; will
you send her up this afternoon? I should like her first lesson to be a
birthday present--Penny too, of course." Mrs. Stewart looked as eagerly
glad as if she had been ten years old that day herself, and Margery
kissed her in spite of dignified tea drinkers who might wonder. "I'll
telephone up to Gretta to bring down their white frocks and slippers,"
she said. "I shall have to send mother down to thank you; I can't. What
time must the children come up?"
"At half past two, please. It's I who thank you for giving me such a
pleasure," said the little dancing teacher.
"Gretta and Laura will be down long before that," said Margery. And she
watched Mrs. Stewart away, thinking, "I never saw any one with quite
her combination of sadness and brightness of expression. She _is_ a
dear little woman, as Aunt Keren said."
Mrs. Stewart had hardly disappeared before a shadow fell over the
door-sill, a shadow that invariably struck the tea maidens as darker
and more sinister than ordinary shadows. It was cast by the man in
the cloak and sombrero, who instantly dispelled it by crossing the
threshold in his own person, and dropping into the corner which the
proprietors of the tea room reluctantly saw he was beginning to
consider his own.
So regularly he came to occupy the chair and tiny table, just big
enough for one, which stood here, that he had grown familiar to them
all, but not more attractive than he was at first.
Happie came to bring him his tea. It was understood that she was to
cope with the more difficult human problems, for she had a way with
her that melted crankiness and might, perhaps, disarm unkindness, or
convert wickedness--at least Margery believed so, though Happie, in
turn, believed all things possible to Margery's loveliness.
"Where is your musician?" asked the mysterious man.
"She has not come yet; she will be here later," Happie replied. Then
something in the man's face that she had not noticed in it before, nor
stopped now to analyze, wistfulness that was not merely sadness, but
emptiness, if one may so describe it, made her add the first voluntary
remark she had ever addressed to this customer. "You are fond of music,
aren't you?" she said.
"Fond of it? Are you fond of air, food, the earth, your life, child?
Music is my life," he exclaimed with a gaunt look of passionate
earnestness.
"Yet you are ready to listen to a little girl's playing! Of course we
think my sister plays wonderfully, for a girl of thirteen, but we are
partial," said Happie.
"You may be partial, but you are quite right," said the man as if his
dictum sufficed. "She has extraordinary talent. Her whole life ought to
be consecrated to music."
"Oh, I'm very glad she didn't hear you say that!" cried Happie. "Please
don't say it to her. She can't consecrate her life to music, and it's
bad enough as it is to have her so wrapped up in it." Happie stopped,
wondering to find herself half confiding in the person she feared.
The man shook his head impatiently, and made that unspellable sound of
protest, tongue against teeth: "T-t-t-t!" He looked at Happie, drawing
together his brows, but she did not mistake it for a scowl directed
at herself, but at annoying circumstances. "Ach!" he exclaimed with a
German accent that gave Happie the first clue to his nationality that
she had caught. "Talent should be first of all considerations. That
little sister of yours should be educated in music at any sacrifice."
"Oh, no, not that," said Happie, surprised at her own boldness in
differing from such a heavy frown. "There are other things more
important than talent--even if Laura were more than thirteen. But she
isn't, so there may be a chance for talents too. We think it is more
important that she should do her duty and be a splendid woman--like her
mother--and make people happy who love her, than that she should be the
greatest musician in the world."
"Yes, you're right," said the mysterious man heartily and unexpectedly.
"It's a black thing to feel that one's art broke a heart." He sighed,
and looked so gloomy that Happie characteristically felt instant
longing to comfort him. Before she had made up her mind how to meet
this revelation, the guest stirred his tea and asked: "Only thirteen,
you say? She looks more. She is really a wonderful child."
"Here she comes," said Happie as Gretta appeared in the doorway with
Laura, and with Penny in dancing school array. "Please, please, if ever
you talk to her don't let her know you think she is wonderful. Mother
tries so hard to keep her from thinking so herself."
"Well, Happie!" exclaimed Gretta as Happie came towards her.
"So say we all of us: 'Well, Happie!' How did you dare? And you looked
positively friendly; Gretta and I were watching you," said Margery.
"He's very unhappy, I believe," said Happie, thus fully explaining her
conversation with the Mystery. "I will get Polly ready if you will go
over there and smile at those two fluffy girls with hair and fox boas
just alike."
Usually Laura went to the piano when the Mystery was taking his tea. A
girl less sensitive to admiration than she was, would have discovered
that the man in the cloak was interested in her music, and Laura was
perfectly aware of the fact. But to-day her skies were leaden because
Polly and Penny had an opportunity to go to dancing school which was
denied her, and it was scant comfort that they got it because they
were so much younger than she. Laura's genius could not buoy her over
childish trials, though, for that matter, every one knows that genius
is childish.
The man in the cloak watched Laura as she gloomily served tea to two
women, one evidently giving economical entertainment to the other, her
country guest. When she had finished her task, as she passed his little
table in the corner, the mysterious man stopped her. "Won't you play
for me, little Clara Schumann?" he said.
Laura brightened visibly. "If you like," she answered, and played.
Her mood was not favorable to music that afternoon, and the man in the
cloak was quick to perceive it. He arose from the table and went over
to the piano.
"It goes badly to-day, little musician, does it not?" he said gently.
"This little instrument is out of tune. Something has made discords for
you, is it not so? Well, it will pass--and come again, till at last
you will reach the time of a horrible lasting discord, or a beautiful,
permanent harmony, according to what you make of your life. Shall I
play to you to-day? You have so often given me pleasure."
Laura stared at the mysterious man dumb-founded, but without waiting
for an answer he twirled the piano stool down to a suitable height and
began to play.
At the first touch of his hands on the keys Happie instantly became
reconciled to the fact that Margery and not she had taken the children
up to the dancing class, and the few people who were then in the tea
room forgot everything else to listen. For there was no mistaking the
fact that here was a wizard of music.
The mysterious man played for a long time. People went and came, but
still he played on, passing from Beethoven's sublime conceptions to
Hungarian dances that were half earthy, half witch music, into Chopin's
heart-breaking nocturnes, into Schumann's noble thoughts, Mendelssohn's
courageous hope, Grieg's innocent imaginings.
Laura listened enraptured, swept beyond remembrance of Laura Scollard,
her vanities, her little disappointments and desires.
She drew a long breath as the mysterious man ceased playing at last,
and turned on the stool to face her. "Oh!" she said with a long-drawn
sigh, forgetting to thank him.
"Good-bye," said this singular person abruptly, and hastened towards
the door.
Happie intercepted him. "You have been very kind to us," she said. "We
would like to thank you, but it seems rather silly to thank any one for
such music as that. I wish we might know what to call you."
The man looked down on her, stroking his drooping moustache with the
end of his thumb and the side of his forefinger, holding his hollowed
hand over his mouth.
"You can call me Lieder, Hans Lieder," he said, and was gone.
"Lieder! Songs!" murmured Happie gazing after him. "I'm perfectly sure
that isn't his name."
While this feast of music had been spread for the three lucky girls
down-stairs, Polly and Penny were rapturously being introduced to
another art up-stairs, and Margery was enjoying watching the children
with all her might.
Little Serena Jones-Dexter had arrived under the care of her nurse, and
when she came out of the dressing-room with every ribbon falling into
its proper fold of finest mull, Mrs. Stewart took her hand and led her
over to Margery.
"This is Margery Scollard, Serena," she said. "Here is our little girl,
Margery. No, don't make Margery a dancing-school curtsey, dear; you are
to be good friends, so you need not begin with a stiff curtsey."
Margery leaned forward, smiling, but did not speak. The soft color in
her cheeks, the warm light in her eyes, her youth and loveliness begged
little Serena not to be shy, but to trust her. The child looked up at
Margery with great gray eyes, and her pale face flushed. She was so
ethereal, so dainty, so altogether fine and frail that Margery felt as
though she were hardly a child of common clay.
"Grandma said we were to be friends; will you, Serena? Will you like me
a little bit?" said Margery softly.
Serena hesitated, and then smiled. "I'll be friends," she said, and
clambered up on the chair beside Margery to prove her sincerity.
When the time came for the child to dance she danced more beautifully
than any other child there. Penny lost her heart to her at once, and
went around after her like a happy, healthy little mortal following a
stray visitor from fairyland. Serena shrank from Penny at first, but
she had quite lost her heart to pretty Margery, and when she found the
two were sisters she vouchsafed to tolerate Penny, to that merry little
soul's humble delight.
A voice in Margery's ear said: "Well, isn't she all that I told you?"
She looked up to see Mrs. Jones-Dexter unexpectedly at her elbow.
"She is much more than any one could describe," said Margery, so
fervently that the doting grandmother was satisfied.
"Shall we give the butterfly dance for Miss Margery to see, Mrs.
Jones-Dexter?" asked Mrs. Stewart.
"Not to-night; it takes too long. Let Serena dance alone, her bird
dance, if you like, and then I must take her home," said Mrs.
Jones-Dexter, to whom no other child but her darling was worth
exhibiting.
So Serena danced a pretty little allegory of the bird new-come in the
spring, greeting the flowers, singing to its mate, sunning itself in
the warmth, flying from the shower, at last preening its soft feathers,
and cuddling down to sleep safely, wind-rocked in the tree.
Margery came away not less delighted with her afternoon than were Polly
and Penny, though these young ladies were more vociferous, and Polly
could not recover from the wonder that all this had happened on her
birthday, and that dancing lessons for the winter were her birthday
gift.
Ralph came to escort the girls up town, explaining that Bob had
telephoned a request to him to do so, as he was detained by Mr. Felton
beyond his usual hour. Polly took possession of Ralph's left hand
by the right of favoritism which was hers with this big boy. She
poured out the tale of her birthday gift, of the steps she had already
learned, and imparted to Ralph certain fundamental principles of
carriage and motion, proud to show her knowledge.
"And Serena!" she added. "You ought to see Serena!"
"Now what is Serena?" demanded Ralph. "Who is there with such
an old-time name? It was my great-grandmother's name, mother's
grandmother, but I never knew any one living that bore it."
"This little owner of it is living," said Margery taking up the theme,
and joining Ralph and Polly. "She is very much alive, but more with the
life of a fairy than a mortal. She is a little creature six years old,
the loveliest child imaginable. And the strange part of it is that she
is the grandchild of an elderly lady who uses the tea room, and whom we
have thought until to-day, was a dragon: Mrs. Jones-Dexter."
"Jones-Dexter!" cried Ralph, stopping so short that Happie and Gretta,
immediately behind, almost tumbled over him. "Why, she's mother's
aunt! The child is my cousin then. She must be named after that very
great-grandmother! Indeed Mrs. Jones-Dexter is a dragon!"