The Shilling 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
Leschetitzky. 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 shilling seats, and took tea once at an A.B.C. The
shilling 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 sunshine
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 ejaculating 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. Nobody 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 titles. 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.'"
"What a drop to the nurse," said Mabel.
Jean looked reflective.
"Do you know, you've told me something I didn't know," she said. "I
never quite knew how one ought to address Lady Emily. It's so different
at Ridgetown," she exclaimed.
Adelaide Maud seemed a little confused, but answered heartily.
"Oh, none of it's a trouble when you really meet people. They are so
much simpler than one would think."
Mabel saw that Adelaide Maud had given them her first tip. It was
sweetly done, but then----! Anyhow, they had given Adelaide Maud plenty
of tips about getting in early to seats in the Queen's Hall and minor
affairs of that sort. Why shouldn't the benefits work both ways?
It was about the time of Elma's ball, when they sent the white roses,
and Adelaide Maud said she would help them to choose.
"I should like to send little Elma a crown of pearls, but I daren't,"
said she with a sigh. "She's such a pet, isn't she!"
"Timorous, but a pet," said Jean with a broad smile.
"She is holding the fort just now at any rate," responded Mabel.
They thought it would be all right to tell Adelaide Maud something of
what Elma had written.
"I trembled, of course," Elma had said; "but the thing had to be done.
I wouldn't for a moment let you think that you couldn't come home and
slip in to the places that belong to you. Isobel would have possessed
the whole house if I hadn't played up. I don't know why she wants to.
It must be so much nicer not to have to bother about servants and table
centres. But she has never squeaked since I spoke about it. In fact,
she won't even speak to me unless some one is about, passes me without a
word."
"Poor darling," said Adelaide Maud; "what a worm your cousin must be."
"No, I don't think she's that," said Mabel; "it's just that she simply
must rule, you know. She must have everything good that is going."
"H'm," answered Adelaide Maud. "Why doesn't that brother of yours go
slashing about a little, and keep her from bullying Elma."
"Oh, Elma would never tell Cuthbert. Don't you see it mightn't be fair
to prejudice him against Isobel. Isobel thinks such a lot of Cuthbert."
"Oh."
A long clinging silence depreciated the conversational prowess of
Adelaide Maud.
"Well," she said, in a conventional voice, "We've had a lovely day. Let
me know when you are going to another concert. And I shall send you
full particulars about Lady Emily."
They were walking along Regent Street to find their shop for the
flowers. It seemed that Adelaide Maud was about to desert them. She
beckoned for a hansom and got inside. Mabel and Jean felt that they
said good-bye to Miss Dudgeon of The Oaks. In another second they had
gone on and Adelaide Maud had had her hansom pulled up beside them
again.
"Jean, Jean," she called, quite radiant again. "I forgot the most
important thing. It's about lessons. Do you think that your
Splashkaspitskoff would condescend to give me some?"
It was rather mad of Adelaide Maud, but she got out and paid off the
hansom.
"It isn't so late as I thought it was," she said lamely. But Mabel knew
that she came to make up.
Jean only thought of the lessons.
"You will find him so splendid," she said, "and such a gentleman."
"I like that," said Mabel. "Why--he talks about the most revolting
things."
"It's his manners that are so wonderful," said Jean in a championing
manner. They had found their shop by this time and were looking at
white roses. When Mabel said, "Do you think these are nice?" Jean might
be heard explaining, "It's the method you know that is so wonderful."
And when at last they had decided about roses and arranged about the
lessons, Adelaide Maud thought she must immediately buy a hat.
"I quite forgot that I wanted a hat," she said gravely.
They went to one of the best shops, and sat in three chairs, with
Adelaide Maud surrounded by mirrors. Tall girls sailed up like swans and
laid a hat on her bright hair and walked away again. Adelaide Maud
turned and twisted and looked lovely in about a dozen different hats.
After looking specially superb in one, she would say. "Take that one
away, I don't like it at all."
Occasionally the swans would put on a hat and sail about in order to
show the effect. Then Adelaide Maud would look specially languid and
appear more dissatisfied than ever. At last she fixed on one which
contained what she called "a dead seagull."
"Why you spoil that pretty hat with a dead bird, I can't think," she
exclaimed to the attendant. "Look at its little feet turned up."
Then, "You must take this bird out, and give me flowers."
She began pinning on her own hat again. In a second the bird was gone,
and the swanlike personages sailing over the grey white carpet, brought
charming bunches of which they tried the effect "for modom."
"Oh, do get heliotrope," said Mabel. "It's so gorgeous with your hair."
Adelaide Maud swung round.
"And I've been making up my mind to white for the last half-hour. How
can you, Mabel!"
She chose a mass of white roses, "dreaming in velvet."
Adelaide Maud rose, gave directions about sending, and prepared to
leave.
"Don't you want to know the price?" asked Mabel in great amazement.
"Oh, of course."
Adelaide Maud asked the price.
The total took Mabel's breath away.
"You must never marry a poor man," said she as they passed out.
Adelaide Maud stopped humbly in a passage of grey velvet and silver
gilt.
"Well, I never," she said. Then walking on, she asked in a very humble,
mocking tone, "Will you teach me, Mabs, how to shop so that I may marry
a poor man."
Mabel laughed gaily.
"Thank you," said she. "That sounds as though you think that I ought to
know. Am I to marry a poor man?"
Adelaide Maud laughed outright, and took her briskly by the arm.
"I didn't mean that. I believe you will marry a duke. But you see--you
think me so extravagant, and I might have to be poor."
"That dead seagull going cost you a guinea alone," said Mabel
accusingly.
"And they kept the seagull," said Adelaide Maud. "How wanton of me!"
"I've had a very nice hat for a guinea," said Mabel, with a smirk of
suppressed laughter.
"And yet you won't marry a poor man," said Adelaide Maud. "How unjust
the world is."
They parted in better form than they had done an hour earlier.
"Wasn't she queer," said Jean, "to go off like that?"
"Queerer that she came back," said Mabel. "Do you know what I think? I
believe Adelaide Maud bought that hat simply--simply----"
"To kill time," said Jean.
"No. To stay with us a little longer," said Mabel.
"It's more than any of the Dudgeons ever thought of doing before--if
it's true!" said blunt, robust Jean.
"But I don't believe it is," said she. "Let's scoot for that bus or
we'll lose it."
So they scooted for the bus.