``I'm a little nervous,'' said Mildred with a shy laugh.``If you don't mind, I'd like to wait till I've got used to my surroundings.''
Jennings looked at her.The long sharp nose seemed to be rapping her on the forehead like a wood-pecker's beak on the bark of the tree.``Begin,'' he said, pointing to the book.
Mildred flushed angrily.``I shall not begin until I CAN begin,'' said she.The time to show this man that he could not treat her brutally was at the outset.
Jennings opened the door into the hall.``Good day, Miss Stevens,'' he said with his abrupt bow.
Mildred looked at him; he looked at her.Her lip trembled, the hot tears flooded and blinded her eyes.
She went unsteadily to the music-stand and tried to see the notes of the exercises.Jennings closed the door and seated himself at the far end of the room.She began--a ridiculous attempt.She stopped, gritted her teeth, began again.Once more the result was absurd; but this time she was able to keep on, not improving, but maintaining her initial off-key quavering.
She stopped.
``You see,'' said she.``Shall I go on?''
``Don't stop again until I tell you to, please,'' said he.
She staggered and stumbled and somersaulted through two pages of DO-RE-ME-FA-SOL-LA-SI.Then he held up his finger.
``Enough,'' said he.
Silence, an awful silence.She recalled what Mrs.
Belloc had told her about him, what Mrs.Brindley had implied.But she got no consolation.She said timidly:
``Really, Mr.Jennings, I can do better than that.
Won't you let me try a song?''
``God forbid!'' said he.``You can't stand.You can't breathe.You can't open your mouth.Naturally, you can't sing.''
She dropped to a chair.
``Take the book, and go over the same thing, sitting,'' said he.
She began to remove her wraps.
``Just as you are,'' he commanded.``Try to forget yourself.Try to forget me.Try to forget what a brute I am, and what a wonderful singer you are.Just open your mouth and throw the notes out.''
She was rosy with rage.She was reckless.She sang.At the end of three pages he stopped her with an enthusiastic hand-clapping.``Good! Good!'' he cried.``I'll take you.I'll make a singer of you.
Yes, yes, there's something to work on.''
The door opened.A tall, thin woman with many jewels and a superb fur wrap came gliding in.Jennings looked at the clock.The hands pointed to eleven.
Said he to Mildred:
``Take that book with you.Practice what you've done to-day.Learn to keep your mouth open.We'll go into that further next time.'' He was holding the door open for her.As she passed out, she heard him say:
``Ah, Mrs.Roswell.We'll go at that third song first.''
The door closed.Reviewing all that had occurred, Mildred decided that she must revise her opinion of Jennings.A money-maker he no doubt was.And why not? Did he not have to live? But a teacher also, and a great teacher.Had he not destroyed her vanity at one blow, demolished it?--yet without discouraging her.And he went straight to the bottom of things--very different from any of the teachers she used to have when she was posing in drawing-rooms as a person with a voice equal to the most difficult opera, if only she weren't a lady and therefore not forced to be a professional singing person.Yes, a great teacher--and in deadly earnest.He would permit no trifling! How she would have to work!
And she went to work with an energy she would not have believed she possessed.He instructed her minutely in how to stand, in how to breathe, in how to open her mouth and keep it open, in how to relax her throat and leave it relaxed.He filled every second of her half-hour; she had never before realized how much time half an hour was, how use could be made of every one of its eighteen hundred seconds.She went to hear other teachers give lessons, and she understood why Jennings could get such prices, could treat his pupils as he saw fit.She became an extravagant admirer of him as a teacher, thought him a genius, felt confident that he would make a great singer of her.With the second lesson she began to progress rapidly.In a few weeks she amazed herself.At last she was really singing.
Not in a great way, but in the beginnings of a great way.Her voice had many times the power of her drawing-room days.Her notes were full and round, and came without an effort.Her former ideas of what constituted facial and vocal expression now seemed ridiculous to her.She was now singing without making those dreadful faces which she had once thought charming and necessary.Her lower register, always her best, was almost perfect.Her middle register--the test part of a voice--was showing signs of strength and steadiness and evenness.And she was fast getting a real upper register, as distinguished from the forced and shrieky high notes that pass as an upper register with most singers, even opera singers.After a month of this marvelous forward march, she sang for Mrs.Brindley--sang the same song she had essayed at their first meeting.When she finished, Mrs.Brindley said:
``Yes, you've done wonders.I've been noticing your improvement as you practiced.You certainly have a very different voice and method from those you had a month ago,'' and so on through about five minutes of critical and discriminating praise.
Mildred listened, wondering why her dissatisfaction, her irritation, increased as Mrs.Brindley praised on and on.Beyond question Cyrilla was sincere, and was saying even more than Mildred had hoped she would say.Yet-- Mildred sat moodily measuring off octaves on the keyboard of the piano.If she had been looking at her friend's face she would have flared out in anger; for Cyrilla Brindley was taking advantage of her abstraction to observe her with friendly sympathy and sadness.Presently she concealed this candid expression and said:
``You are satisfied with your progress, aren't you, Miss Stevens?''
Mildred flared up angrily.``Certainly!'' replied she.``How could I fail to be?''
