A Chance Meeting
When afternoon school was over, Mildred, carrying her violin in its neat
leather case, set off for No. 50 Basil Street. It was not very far away
from St. Cyprian's, so she arrived in good time--too early, in fact, for
the church clock opposite was only chiming a quarter-past four as she
pushed open the gate. There was no mistake about the house, for on the
door was a brass plate inscribed "Professor Franz Hoffmann, Teacher of
Music", and she could hear from within the halting performance of a
violoncellist.
She rang the bell, and after a servant had ushered her in, she was met
in the hall by Mrs. Hoffmann, who asked her to come and wait in the
dining-room until her teacher should be ready for her. Mrs. Hoffmann was
a thin, worried-looking little woman, most palpably English. She knew no
language but her own, and had no desire to acquire any other, regarding
German as the tongue into which her husband relapsed when more than
usually annoyed, and therefore better to be ignored than understood.
Perhaps she wished sometimes that such a thing as music did not exist,
since from morning till night the strains of violin or piano seemed to
echo through the house. The wearying monotony of scales played by
leaden-fingered learners, or the excruciating sounds produced by
beginners on the violin, were, as a rule, punctuated by shouts from the
exasperated master, who, being of a naturally excitable disposition, was
liable to let his impatience get the better of him, and would storm at
his pupils in a mixture of German and English calculated to reduce them
to utter subjection.
"Young Mr. Hardcastle is having his lesson," explained the Professor's
wife. "I'm afraid he hasn't come very well prepared," she added
nervously, as a specially badly-rendered shake provoked a perfect
explosion of wrath, quite audible through the thin wall. Mildred was
left alone to wait, so she sat down by the window, listening to the
performance of the pupil in the next room. She groaned as she marked his
wolf notes and his lagging time, fearing that his sins might afterwards
be visited on her head. She was doubtful about her own concerto, and
wished she had had more time to practise one particularly-difficult
phrase. She tried to amuse herself by turning over some piles of music
that lay on the table, or staring aimlessly out at the sparrows in the
front garden.
A smart motor-car stopping at the Professor's gate presently attracted
her notice, and she looked on with interest as a handsomely-dressed lady
got out, walked hastily up the path, and rang the bell with a lusty
peal. There seemed to be a short colloquy in the hall, then the
dining-room door was flung open, and the servant ushered in a stranger,
who, it appeared, must also wait until Herr Hoffmann should be at
leisure to attend to her. She seated herself in an arm-chair, and for
some minutes there was dead silence, broken only by the ticking of the
clock and the rasping notes of Mr. Hardcastle's violoncello.
Probably finding the situation rather oppressive, the lady, after
looking several times at Mildred, seemed anxious to open a conversation.
"I suppose you're one of Herr Hoffmann's pupils," she began, with a
glance at the violin-case which lay on the table. "May I ask if you've
learnt from him for some time?"
"About five years," replied Mildred, wishing the Professor would hurry,
for she always felt shy with strangers.
"Indeed! Then you must have begun young. How old were you when you took
your first lesson?"
"Not quite seven; but I learnt from a lady to begin with," said Mildred,
listening to Mrs. Hoffmann's step in the passage, and wondering if she
were coming to the rescue.
"My little girl's much older than that--she's nearly eleven. I'm sure
she ought to commence her lessons at once. I should have sent her to
Herr Hoffmann long ago, but she's such a nervous child, and I've always
heard he's so very severe. Now, as you've learnt from him for so many
years, you'll be able to tell me exactly what he's like. Do you find him
a kind teacher or not?"
Poor Mildred scarcely knew what to reply.
"He makes you work," she stammered, hoping, for the Professor's sake,
that the remainder of the unlucky Mr. Hardcastle's lesson might go with
sufficient smoothness not to give rise to any more expressions of noisy
indignation from the adjacent room, and looking anxiously at the clock.
"So I expect. And how long do you practise every day?"
"Two hours at my violin, and one at the piano."
"I should never persuade Dorothea to do that!" cried the lady. "But
perhaps just at first an hour would be sufficient for her. Is this some
of your music? May I look at it?"
Without waiting for permission, she took up the pieces which Mildred had
laid on the table by the side of her case, and was beginning to turn
them over when she stopped, evidently struck by the name "Mildred
Lorraine Lancaster" written on the covers.
"Excuse my asking," she said, looking up quickly, "but Lorraine is such
an unusual name that I wonder if you are any relation of the Lorraines
of Castleford Towers?"
"Sir Darcy Lorraine is my uncle," replied Mildred rather stiffly, for
she thought the question inquisitive.
"How very interesting! I frequently visit Lady Lorraine; my sister's
home is in that neighbourhood. Isn't the Towers a beautiful old place?"
"I believe so," said Mildred briefly.
"I suppose you often stay there, though I don't remember having seen you
before?"
"I've never been there at all," returned Mildred, wondering how she
could stop the conversation.
"Really! And yet you must be just about the same age as Violet, and Sir
Darcy is always regretting that she has no companions. Are you older or
younger than she is?"
"I'm not sure," murmured Mildred, much embarrassed.
"Now I look at you," continued the lady, "I notice a most distinct
likeness, though your eyes are brown, and Violet is so very fair, isn't
she?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Why, surely you've seen your own cousin?"
"No, I haven't," said Mildred, getting quite desperate, "I've never met
any of them in my life."
"How very strange!" exclaimed the lady. "Surely Sir Darcy and Lady
Lorraine----"
But here, to Mildred's intense relief, the door opened, and the
Professor entered, bland, smiling, and full of apologies. Patting his
pupil's shoulder with the fatherly air that generally impressed parents,
he asked her to wait for him in his study for a few minutes. She caught
up her violin, and retired thankfully, wondering whether she had said
too much. Until now it had not occurred to her to think at all about her
mother's relations; but she saw how curious it must appear to a stranger
that she should never have seen either them or their home, and for the
first time she experienced a feeling of something like anger at their
neglect. It had been humiliating to be obliged to confess that she knew
nothing of a cousin whose existence indeed she had scarcely been aware
of till to-day. Though her aunt had told her a few details about the
Lorraines, the subject had been so closely connected with her father's
sad story that she had not liked to reopen it by asking further
questions. She had been quite content to regard herself as the adopted
daughter of the Grahams, and had not identified herself in any way with
her more aristocratic connections in the north.
She considered that the lady had taken rather a liberty in asking her so
many questions, and heartily wished her full name had not been written
upon her music, thus giving an opening for the enquiries.
"Well, after all, it doesn't much matter. I don't suppose I shall ever
see her again," she mused.
It was, however, a strange coincidence which had brought about that
afternoon's meeting, and it was to be fraught with more consequences
than she suspected. It is seldom we realize the small beginnings that
often determine great changes; and as Mildred dismissed the matter from
her mind, she little foresaw that from a ten-minutes' conversation might
issue events that were to form a crisis in her life.
Meantime Herr Hoffmann, having escorted his visitor to the waiting
motor, entered his study once more, and the lesson began. The prospect
of a new pupil had perhaps soothed the Professor's mind, for he was in a
far better humour than Mildred had dared to expect. The eyes behind the
big spectacles beamed upon her quite amiably, and the large collar,
which he had a habit of crumpling up when annoyed, was stiff and
immaculate. Mildred generally regarded her master's collar as a
storm-signal, and could gauge his temper by its condition the moment she
caught sight of it. As she was sure it must have suffered very much
during Mr. Hardcastle's lesson, she could only conclude that he must
have donned a fresh one before interviewing his caller, and hoped
devoutly that her own playing would not cause him to disarrange its
spotless expanse.
She went through her exercises and study to-day without any mishaps, and
with a few misgivings began the concerto. But here she did not fare so
badly as she had feared. To her surprise the troublesome bars came quite
easily, and catching the spirit of the music, she played it with such
vigour and expression that the Professor nodded his head in stately
approval.
"So! You have worked!" he said. "It is not yet perfect, but it make
progress. You take more pains since these last weeks? Yes? Oh, I can
tell! I do know when a pupil does her sehr best. Sometimes you come to
me and do say you have practise two hours each day. But I find you not
improved. Why? Because it is practice without ze mind. Of what avail is
it, I ask, for ze fingers to play if ze attention is not there? If you
would a musician be, you must have both ze body and ze soul of your
piece. Ze right notes, ze true time, ze correct position of your bow,
they are ze flesh without which ze composition cannot at all exist, and
need your altogether utmost care. But there are many people who know
nothing beyond. Himmel! Any mechanical instrument can grind out a tune.
True music is to give ze world what it cannot make for itself. Ze great
composers leave to you indeed ze score of their works, but it is ze
beautiful body without life, and it is you who must put into it a soul!"
Herr Hoffmann so seldom gave any words of encouragement that Mildred
flushed with pleasure, and ventured to tell him that she had made an
effort to conquer the difficulties in the "Fruehlingslied", which she had
thought before it was quite impossible ever to accomplish.
"That is good! We will hear what you can do," declared the Professor,
opening out the music, and tuning his own violin, ready to accompany
her. "Begin gently. Wait! Imagine ze 'cello which is here introducing ze
motif. Now you come in and take up ze melody. Let it sing, for it is
like a joyous bird, carolling on ze topmost bough. It is a
'Fruehlingslied'--ze song of spring--and you must make your instrument to
tell of ze blossom time. Quick! That shake is too slow. Remember it is
ze bird that is trilling. Now softly! Softly! Let it die away, before
all ze orchestra burst into ze chorus. Das ist sehr gut, mein Kindlein!
We will rehearse it again, and if you can master ze staccato passage,
you shall perform it at my students' concert."
"Oh, I couldn't! I couldn't!" cried Mildred in alarm. "Please don't ask
me. I should break down. I know I should."
"Unsinn!" (which is German for "stuff and nonsense") cried the
Professor. "You will do what I say. Am I your teacher, and you refuse to
play when I tell you? Nein! You shall work at ze 'Fruehlingslied', and
each Saturday afternoon you shall come to rehearse it with my students'
orchestra at ze Philharmonic Hall. Yes, I have said it!"
[Illustration: HERR HOFFMANN TELLS MILDRED THAT SHE IS TO PLAY AT THE
PUBLIC RECITAL IN THE TOWN HALL]
Mildred went home completely overwhelmed by her master's suggestion. The
public recital given every year in the Town Hall by Herr Hoffmann's best
pupils was a great event, at which many of the most critical music
lovers in the city were generally present. It was well known that only
students of unusual talent were allowed to take solo parts. The
Professor was a very celebrated teacher, and had a reputation to keep
up. So far, though St. Cyprian's made a particular cult of music, and
Herr Hoffmann had taught there for many years, no girl had ever been
judged worthy to play at this special annual concert. It was an honour
to which even their wildest ambition had not aspired. To be thus chosen
out, over the heads of Ella Martin and Elizabeth Chalmers, who were
considered the "show" music pupils of the school, was a prospect
calculated to agitate the most sober brains. But there was another side
to it. To play such an important piece as the "Fruehlingslied", which
needed to be accompanied by a full orchestra, was indeed an ordeal for a
girl hardly sixteen years of age. A public audience in the Town Hall was
a different matter from the comparatively small gatherings of parents
and friends at St. Cyprian's. The mere thought of it filled Mildred with
nervous horror.
"I don't believe I could ever do it, Tantie," she shivered, as she
discussed the project with her aunt. "I should turn tail and run away
when I saw all the people. Need I? Can't I tell the Professor I won't?"
"It would be a sad pity to do that, and would be wasting a great
opportunity. When Herr Hoffmann has shown such a special interest in
you, it would be most ungrateful to refuse at least to try your hardest
to please him. He is the best judge of what you can do, and you may be
sure that he will not allow you to play at the concert unless you have
given satisfaction at the rehearsals. Both he and Miss Cartwright have
taken great pains with your music, and I think you owe it to St.
Cyprian's to show that their trouble has not been thrown away. You must
speak about it to Miss Cartwright to-morrow, and ask her opinion."
When Mildred broached the idea next morning, she found that the
Principal heartily sided with Herr Hoffmann, and even made arrangements
for her to have extra time at school for violin practice. She was to be
allowed to omit certain classes, and to be excused various weekly
essays, and her piano studies were for the next few weeks to yield place
to the instrument upon which she showed the greater talent.
"Remember you will be playing for the credit of St. Cyprian's," said
Miss Cartwright. "You must work both for yourself and for the sake of
the school."
When the news leaked out of the honour that was in store for Mildred,
the girls received it in various ways. Ella Martin and Elizabeth
Chalmers congratulated her, and urged her to do her best. Correct
players themselves, they were above any narrow feelings of jealousy, and
were glad to see Mildred, whom they had hitherto thought inclined to be
lazy, pushed forward and made to take pains. The general opinion of her
own Form was divided. Music was so decidedly of first importance at St.
Cyprian's that the matter naturally made a little stir. A number of the
girls did not appreciate Mildred's real talent, and gave all their
admiration to Lottie Lowman's more superficial performances.
"It's absurd," said Eve Mitchell. "Why should Mildred Lancaster be
chosen above everyone else? I can't see that she's so musical. She
missed three questions in the harmony yesterday. Her theory's dreadfully
shaky. Why isn't Lottie asked to play?"
"Well, you see, it's violin," ventured Nell Hayward.
"Then Ella Martin's our crack player. It's very unpleasant for Ella to
be passed over."
"I suppose that's Professor Hoffmann's affair," said Bess Harrison,
taking up the cudgels on Mildred's behalf. "He'd have asked Ella if he'd
wanted her."
"Think how tremendously it will make us score in the Alliance," urged
Maudie Stearne. "I don't for a moment suppose that even the High School
or the Anglo-German will have a girl playing at the Professor's concert.
We'll beat them there, even if they take it out of us at games."
"Lottie may be our delegate, but Mildred's our music champion just now,"
declared Clarice Mayfield.
"We've got to keep her at it, though," added Bess.
It was a new thing to Mildred to work diligently and painstakingly as
she had done for the last few weeks. It was quite against her natural
inclination, and I fear that if it had not been for the thought of what
St. Cyprian's expected from her, she would never have kept it up. As it
was, she felt almost astonished at her own perseverance. Time after time
she was tempted not to trouble about the "Fruehlingslied", but to play
instead the tunes that came into her mind, and enjoy herself.
"After all, why should one fag so terribly at a thing? I hate slogging,"
she confided to her chum, Kitty Fletcher.
"Why? Because you owe it to yourself and the school," exclaimed Kitty.
"If I'd your talent, I'd be slaving. Do you think I'd do anything in
games if I didn't train? Mildred Lancaster, you've just got to try. Some
day I'm going to see your name painted on the board in the lecture hall,
so please don't disappoint me."
There was a large board at St. Cyprian's on which were recorded the
successes of former pupils who had gained distinction either by taking
university or musical degrees. To find, some time, "Mildred Lancaster"
emblazoned thereon in gold letters was an attractive goal of ambition.
But between the present and that rosy prospect lay a long, dreary
expanse of continual effort--effort which Mildred's artistic temperament
hated and shrank from, the drudgery upon which every solid achievement
must be built, and without which even the cleverest of people can
accomplish little.