Mrs.Brindley did not answer--perhaps because she thought no answer was needed or expected.But to Mildred her silence somehow seemed a denial.
``If you can only keep what you've got--and go on,'' said Mrs.Brindley.
``Oh, I shall, never fear,'' retorted Mildred.
``But I do fear,'' said Mrs.Brindley.``I think it's always well to fear until success is actually won.And then there's the awful fear of not being able to hold it.''
After a moment's silence Mildred, who could not hide away resentment against one she liked, said: ``Why aren't YOU satisfied, Mrs.Brindley?''
``But I am satisfied,'' protested Cyrilla.``Only it makes me afraid to see YOU so well satisfied.I've seen that often in people first starting, and it's always dangerous.You see, my dear, you've got a straight-away hundred miles to walk.Can't you see that it would be possible for you to become too much elated by the way you walked the first part of the first mile?''
``Why do you try to discourage me?'' said Mildred.
Mrs.Brindley colored.``I do it because I want to save you from despair a little later,'' said she.``But that is foolish of me.I shall only irritate you against me.I'll not do it again.And please don't ask my opinion.If you do, I can't help showing exactly what I think.''
``Then you don't think I've done well?'' cried Mildred.
``Indeed you have,'' replied Cyrilla warmly.
``Then I don't understand.What DO you mean?''
``I'll tell you, and then I'll stop and you must not ask my opinion again.We live too close together to be able to afford to criticize each other.What I meant was this: You have done well the first part of the great task that's before you.If you had done it any less well, it would have been folly for you to go on.''
``That is, what I've done doesn't amount to anything? Mr.Jennings doesn't agree with you.''
``Doubtless he's right,'' said Mrs.Brindley.``At any rate, we all agree that you have shown that you have a voice.''
She said this so simply and heartily that Mildred could not but be mollified.Mrs.Brindley changed the subject to the song Mildred had sung, and Mildred stopped puzzling over the mystery of what she had meant by her apparently enthusiastic words, which had yet diffused a chill atmosphere of doubt.
She was doing her scales so well that she became impatient of such ``tiresome child's play.'' And presently Jennings gave her songs, and did not discourage her when she talked of roles, of getting seriously at what, after all, she intended to do.Then there came a week of vile weather, and Mildred caught a cold.She neglected it.Her voice left her.Her tonsils swelled.
She had a bad attack of ulcerated sore throat.For nearly three weeks she could not take a single one of the lessons, which were, nevertheless, paid for.Jennings rebuked her sharply.
``A singer has no right to be sick,'' said he.
``You have a cold yourself,'' retorted she.
``But I am not a singer.I've nothing that interferes with my work.''
``It's impossible not to take cold,'' said Mildred.
``You are unreasonable with me.''
He shrugged his shoulders.``Go get well,'' he said.
The sore throat finally yielded to the treatment of Dr.Hicks, the throat-specialist.His bill was seventy-five dollars.But while the swelling in the tonsils subsided it did not depart.She could take lessons again.
Some days she sang as well as ever, and on those days Jennings was charming.Other days she sang atrociously, and Jennings treated her as if she were doing it deliberately.A third and worse state was that of the days when she in the same half-hour alternately sang well and badly.On those days Jennings acted like a lunatic.He raved up and down the studio, all but swearing at her.At first she was afraid of him--withered under his scorn, feared he would throw open his door and order her out and forbid her ever to enter again.But gradually she came to understand him--not enough to lose her fear of him altogether, but enough to lose the fear of his giving up so profitable a pupil.
The truth was that Jennings, like every man who succeeds at anything in this world, operated upon a system to which he rigidly adhered.He was a man of small talent and knowledge, but of great, persistence and not a little common sense.He had tried to be a singer, had failed because his voice was small and unreliable.He had adopted teaching singing as a means of getting a living.He had learned just enough about it to enable him to teach the technical elements--what is set down in the books.By observing other and older teachers he had got together a teaching system that was as good--and as bad--as any, and this he dubbed the Jennings Method and proceeded to exploit as the only one worth while.When that method was worked out and perfected, he ceased learning, ceased to give a thought to the professional side of his profession, just as most professional men do.He would have resented a suggestion or a new idea as an attack upon the Jennings Method.The overwhelming majority of the human race--indeed, all but a small handful--have this passion for stagnation, this ferocity against change.
