Now, however, he stood there affable and smiling, endeavouring to put a handful of awkward girls at their ease. But neither his nor Mrs. Strachey’s efforts availed. It was impossible for the pupils to throw off, at will, the crippling fear that governed their relations with the Principal. To them, his amiability resembled the antics of an uncertain-tempered elephant, with which you could never feel safe. Besides on this occasion it was a young batch, and of particularly mixed stations. And so a dozen girls, from twelve to fifteen years old, sat on the extreme edges of their chairs, and replied to what was said to them, with dry throats.
Though the youngest of the party, Laura was the least embarrassed: she had never known a nursery, but had mixed with her elders since her babyhood. And she was not of a shy disposition; indeed, she still had to be reminded daily that shyness was expected of her. So she sat and looked about her. It was an interesting room in which she found herself. Low bookshelves, three shelves high, ran round the walls, and on the top shelf were many outlandish objects. What an evening it would have been had Mr. Strachey invited them to examine these ornaments, or to handle the books, instead of having to pick up a title here and there by chance. From the shelves, her eyes strayed to the pictures on the walls; one, in particular struck her fancy. It hung over the mantelpiece, and was a man’s head seen in profile, with a long hooked nose, and wearing a kind of peaked cap. But that was not all: behind this head were other profiles of the same face, and seeming to come out of clouds. Laura stared hard, but could make nothing of it. And meanwhile her companions were rising with sickly smiles, to seat themselves, red as turkey-cocks’ combs, on the piano stool, where with cold, stiff fingers they stumbled through the movement of a sonata or sonatina.
It was Lilith Gordon who broke the chain by offering to sing. The diversion was welcomed by Mrs. Strachey, and Lilith went to the piano. But her nervousness was such that she broke down halfway in the little prelude to the ballad.
Mrs. Strachey came to the rescue. “It’s so difficult, is it not, to accompany oneself?” she said kindly. “Perhaps one of the others would play for you?”
No one moved.
“Do any of you know the song?”
Two or three ungraciously admitted the knowledge, but none volunteered.
It was here Laura chimed in. “I could play it,” she said; and coloured at the sound of her own voice.
Mrs. Strachey looked doubtfully at the thin little girl. “Do you know it, dear? You’re too young for singing, I think.”
“No, I don’t know it. But I could play it from sight. It’s quite easy.”
Everyone looked disbelieving, especially the unhappy singer.
“I’ve played much harder things than that,” continued Laura.
“Well, perhaps you might try,” said Mrs. Strachey, with the ingrained distrust of the unmusical.
Laura rose and went to the piano, where she conducted the song to a successful ending.
Mrs. Strachey looked relieved. “Very nice indeed.” And to Laura: “Did you say you didn’t know it, dear?”
“No, I never saw it before.”
Again the lady looked doubtful. “Well, perhaps you would play us something yourself now?”
Laura had no objection; she had played to people before her fingers were long enough to cover the octave. She took the volume of Thalberg she had brought with her, selected “Home, Sweet Home,” and pranced in.
Her audience kept utter silence; but, had she been a little sharper, she would have grasped that it was the silence of amazement. After the prim sonatinas that had gone before, Thalberg’s florid ornaments had a shameless sound. Her performance, moreover, was a startling one; the forte pedal was held down throughout; the big chords were crashed and banged with all the strength a pair of twelve-year-old arms could put into them; and wrong notes were freely scattered. Still, rhythm and melody were well marked, and there was no mistaking the agility of the small fingers.
Dead silence, too, greeted the conclusion of the piece. Several girls were very red, from trying not to laugh. The Principal tugged at his moustache, in abstracted fashion.
Laura had reached her seat again before Mrs. Strachey said undecidedly: “Thank you, dear. Did you … hm … learn that piece here?”
Laura saw nothing wrong. “Oh, no, at home,” she answered. “I wouldn’t care to play the things I learn here, to people. They’re so dull.”
A girl emitted a faint squeak. But a half turn of Mrs. Strachey’s head subdued her. “Oh, I hope you will soon get to like classical music also,” said the lady gravely, and in all good faith. “We prefer it, you know, to any other.”
“Do you mean things like the Air in G with Variations? I’m afraid I never shall. There’s no tune in them.”
Music was as fatal to Laura’s equilibrium as wine would have been. Finding herself next Mr. Strachey, she now turned to him and said, with what she believed to be ease of manner: “Mr. Strachey, will you please tell me what that picture is hanging over the mantelpiece? I’ve been looking at it ever since I came in, but I can’t make it out. Are those ghosts, those things behind the man, or what?”
It took Mr. Strachey a minute to recover from his astonishment. He stroked hard, and the look he bent on Laura was not encouraging.
“It seems to be all the same face,” continued the child, her eyes on the picture.
“That,” said Mr. Strachey, with extreme deliberation: “that is the portrait, by a great painter, of a great poet—Dante Alighieri.”
“Oh, Dante, is it?” said Laura showily—she had once heard the name. “Oh, yes, of course, I know now. He wrote a book, didn’t he, called Faust? I saw it over there by the door. What lovely books!”
But here Mr. Strachey abruptly changed his seat, and Laura’s
