“It makes one feel so suburban,” mourned Quenrede.
“We shan’t be visible, at any rate, when we’re digging potatoes,” laughed Mrs. Saxon, “and that’s a great point to me, for I’m past the age that looks fascinating in an overall. If we’ve Suburbia on one side of us, we’ve the open moor on the other, which is something to be thankful for.”
“Yes, until it’s sold in building plots,” sighed Quenrede, who was in a fit of blues, and unwilling to count up her blessings.
IV
Intruder Bess
Ingred, after a blissful weekend, returned to Grovebury by the early train on Monday morning, and, wrenching her mind with difficulty from the interests of Wynch-on-the-Wold, focused it on school affairs instead. There was certainly need of mental concentration if she meant to make headway in the College. The standard of work required from Va was very stiff, and taxed the powers of even the brightest girls to the uttermost.
“Miss Strong reminds me of Rehoboam!” wailed Fil, fresh from the study of the Second Book of Chronicles. “Her little finger’s thicker than her whole body used to be, and, instead of whips, she chastises us with scorpions. I want to go and bow the knee to Baal.”
“Rather mixed up in your Scripture, child, but we understand your meaning,” laughed Verity. “The Bantam’s certainly piling it on nowadays in the way of prep.”
“Shows an absolutely brutal lack of consideration,” agreed Nora.
“So do all the mistresses,” groaned Ingred. “Each of them seems to think we’ve nothing to do but her own particular subject. Dr. Linton actually asked me if I could practise two hours a day. Why, he might as well have suggested four! I can only get the piano for an hour, even if I wanted it longer. It’s a frightful business at the hostel to cram in all our practicing, isn’t it? I nearly had a free fight with Janie Potter yesterday. She commandeered the piano, and though I showed her the music timetable, with my name down for ‘5 to 6’ she wouldn’t budge. I had to tilt her off the stool in the end. It was like a game of musical chairs. She wouldn’t look at me today, she’s so cross about it. Not that I care in the least!”
Music was a favorite subject with Ingred, and one in which she excelled. She would willingly have given more time to it, had the school curriculum allowed. She was a good reader, and had a sympathetic, if rather spidery touch. This term she had begun lessons with Dr. Linton, who was considered the best master in Grovebury. He was organist at the Abbey Church, and was not only a Doctor of Music, but a composer as well. His anthems and cantatas were widely known, he conducted the local choral society and trained the operatic society for the annual performance. His time was generally very full, so he did not profess to teach juniors; it was only after celebrating her fifteenth birthday that Ingred had been eligible as one of his pupils. He had the reputation of being peppery tempered, therefore she walked into the room to take her first lesson with her heart performing a sort of jazz dance under her jersey. Dr. Linton, like many musicians, was of an artistic and excitable temperament, and highly eccentric. Instead of sitting by the side of his new pupil, he paced the room, pursing his lips in and out, and drawing his fingers through his long lank dark hair.
“Have you brought a piece with you,” he inquired. “Then play to me. Oh, never mind if you make mistakes! That’s not the point. I want to know how you can talk on the piano. What have you got in that folio? Beethoven? Rachmaninoff? M’Dowell? We’ll try the Beethoven. Now don’t be nervous. Just fire away as if you were practising at home!”
It was all very well, Ingred thought, for Dr. Linton to tell her not to be nervous, but it was a considerable ordeal to have to perform a test piece before so keen a critic. In spite of her most valiant efforts her hands trembled, and wrong chords crept in. She kept bravely at it, however, and managed to reach the end of the first movement, where she called a halt.
“It’s not talking—it’s only stuttering and stammering on the piano,” she apologized.
Dr. Linton laughed. Her remark had evidently pleased him. He always liked a pupil who fell in with his humor.
“You’ve the elements of speech in you, though you’re still in the prattling-baby stage,” he conceded. “It’s something, at any rate, to find there’s material to work upon. Some people wouldn’t make musicians if they practised for a hundred years. We’ve got to alter your touch—your technique’s entirely wrong—but if you’re content to concentrate on that, we’ll soon show some progress. You’ll have to stick to simple studies this term: no blazing away into M’Dowell and Rachmaninoff yet awhile.”
“I’ll do anything you tell me,” agreed Ingred humbly.
Dr. Linton’s manner might be brusque, but he seemed prepared to take an interest in her work. He was known to give special pains to those whose artistic caliber appealed to him. In his opinion pupils fell under two headings: those who had music in them, and those who had not. The latter, though he might drill them in technique, would never make really satisfactory pianists; the former, by dint of scolding or cajoling, according to his mood at the moment, might derive real benefit from his tuition, and become a credit to him. It was a byword in the school that his favorites had the stormiest lessons.
“I’m thankful I’m not a pet pupil,” declared Fil, whose playing was hardly of a classical order. “I should have forty fits if he stalked about the room, and tore his hair, and shouted
