Chapter XX: 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.