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 "Frühlingslied", 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 'Frühlingslied'—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 'Frühlingslied', and each Saturday afternoon you shall come to rehearse it with my students' orchestra at ze Philharmonic Hall. Yes, I have said it!"
