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Page 30
Returning with the wide sewing basket, she found her mother
looking over a pile of letters. "It is high time," said Mrs.
Grahame, "that you began to take some interest in business
matters." Hildegarde wondered what was coming; her mother looked
very grave; she held in her hand a square grey envelope. "I shall
be greatly obliged, therefore, my dear," her mother continued,
with the same portentous gravity, "if--you would--read that"; and
she gave the letter to Hildegarde.
"Oh, mamma! you wicked, wicked deceiver! You frightened me almost
to death; and it is from Jack, dear old Jack. Oh, how delightful!
You pleasant person, Mrs. Grahame; I forgive you, though my heart
still throbs with terror. Are you all comfortable, my own? Your
little feet all tucked up beneath your petticoat, so that they
cannot steal in and out? Don't you want a glass of milk, or a
cracker, or a saddle of mutton, or anything else? Then be silent!
and oh, how happy we shall be!" Hildegarde settled herself in her
chair, sighed with pleasure, and broke the seal of the fat letter.
"DEAR HILDA: It seems an age since I last wrote, but there is so
much going on I have hardly time to breathe. There have been some
awfully jolly concerts this spring, and I have been going to them,
and practising four hours a day, and having lessons and all that.
Herr J. played at the last two concerts, and I know what heaven is
like--my heaven, at least--since I heard him. He played--"
Here followed an accurate list of the great violinist's
performances, covering three sheets of note-paper.
"It isn't the technique and all that, though of course he is the
first in the world for that and everything else; it's the sense,
the heart that he puts into it. In that adagio--well, I played it
to you once, like the cheeky little duffer I was, and felt pleased
as Punch with myself, and no end cocked up because you liked it.
Hilda, I ought to have been taken out and shot for daring to touch
it! When the maestro (they call him maestro here, so you mustn't
think me Frenchified), when he played it, the world seemed just to
melt away, and nothing left but a voice, that sang, and sang, and
told you more than you ever dreamed of in all your life before. I
wish I could describe things, but you know I can't, so you won't
expect it. But one thing I will tell you, if you'll promise not to
tell any living soul--"
"Stop, my dear!" said Mrs. Grahame, quickly. "We must not touch
upon the boy's confidences. Head that part to yourself."
"Thank you, ma'am!" said Hilda. "This mark of trust is most
gratifying, I assure you. 'Not tell any living soul except your
mother, dear.' Now how do you feel, madam?"
"Dear Jack!" said Mrs. Grahame, softly. "Dear lad! of course I
shall like to hear it. Go on, Hilda, and I promise not to
interrupt again."
"The day after the last concert--it was only day before yesterday,
but it seems an age--I went to take my lesson, and my master was
not there. He is often late, so I just took out some music and
began to play over the things I had studied. There was a sonata of
Rubinstein's, very splendid, that has quite possessed me lately. I
played that, and I suppose I forgot where I was and all about it,
for I went on and on, never hearing a sound except just the music.
You must hear it when I come back, Hilda. It begins in the minor,
and then there is the most superb sweep up into the major; your
heart seems to sweep up with it, and you find yourself in another
world, where everything is divine harmony. I'm talking nonsense, I
know, but that piece just sends me off my head altogether. Well,
at last I finished it and came down from the clouds, and when I
turned around, Hilda, there was the maestro himself, standing and
listening. Well! you can't go through the floor and all that sort
of thing, as they do in the fairy-books, but I did wish I was a
mouse, or a flea, or anything smaller that there is. He stood
still a minute. Perhaps he was afraid I would behave like some
asses the other day--they weren't Americans, I am happy to say--
who met him, and went down on their knees in the hotel entry, and
took bits of mud from his shoes for a keepsake; they truly did,
the horrid pigs! And he just said 'Dummkopfer!' and went off and
left them kneeling there. Wasn't that jolly? Well, I say, he might
have thought I would act like that, and yet I don't believe he
did, for he had the kindest, friendliest look on his face. He came
forward and held out his hand, and said, 'So you play the great
sonata, my son; and love it, too, I perceive.'
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