Chapter: <CHAPTER>
11. THE SINGING LESSON.

With despair--cold, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like a
wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton,
trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages,
rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that
comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped,
fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of
voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there
came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had
dropped her dumbbells.

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.

"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it
cold? It might be win-ter."

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science
Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not
have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow
hair.

"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a
mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the
Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed
on...

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise
was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss
Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the
music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh!
girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton
under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned
sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and
gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance swept
over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and
hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She
knew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well,
let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying
them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who
stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by
such a letter--

... "I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake.
Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for
me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion
that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me
with nothing but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and
"regret" written over the top.

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was
waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks
while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she motioned
towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow
chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through
for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the
lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up,
instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said,
"Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," what was
Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made
no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen,
please, and mark the accents well."

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but
Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through
the music hall.

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now,
girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together;
not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though,
quite simply, beating time with the left hand."

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary
on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air,
and in chimed those young, mournful voices:--

     "Fast!  Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;
        Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
      Fleetly!  Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure
        Passes away from the Listening Ear."

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was
a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her
arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. "... I feel
more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake... " she
beat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly." What could have
possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it!
It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak
bookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand"
he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding
three hat-brushes in its claws." How she had smiled at that! So like
a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! "From the Listening Ear,"
sang the voices.

"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "But this time in parts. Still without
expression." "Fast! Ah, too Fast." With the gloom of the contraltos
added, one could scarcely help shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure."
Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his
buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with
that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn't help knowing it.
First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he
smiled.

"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfect
nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place."

"But can't you refuse?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular."

"Music's Gay Measure," wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside
the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their
leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a
line. "... I am not a marrying man... " The voices were silent; the piano
waited.

"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone
that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. "But now
that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as
you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations.
'Fast! Ah, too Fast,'" cried Miss Meadows. "That ought to break out--a
loud, strong forte--a lament. And then in the second line, 'Winter
Drear,' make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were blowing through
it. 'Dre-ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music
stool, wriggled her spine. "The third line should be one crescendo.
'Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music's Gay Measure.' Breaking on the first word
of the last line, Passes.' And then on the word, 'Away,' you must begin
to die... to fade... until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than a
faint whisper... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last
line. Now, please."

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. 'Fast! Ah, too
Fast.' "... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but
disgust--" Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to
say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their
engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged.
The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been
as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been
a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from
church that very dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond
of you." And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa.
"Passes away from the Listening Ear."

"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More expression, girls! Once
more!"

"Fast! Ah, too Fast." The older girls were crimson; some of the younger
ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one
could hear the willows whispering, "... not that I do not love you... "

"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind
how much it is. Love me as little as you like." But she knew he didn't
love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word "disgust,"
so that she couldn't read it! "Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear."
She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the
Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to
disappear somewhere. "Passes away." The voices began to die, to fade, to
whisper... to vanish...

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the
aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle
on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss
Meadows.

"Well, Monica, what is it?"

"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows," said the little girl, gasping, "Miss
Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room."

"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shall
put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away." But they were
too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows' steps.
The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She
was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her
lace tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she
picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I sent for you just
now because this telegram has come for you."

"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"

Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew
out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not
bad news," she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand
to-day--Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram.

"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad
at all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from my
fiance saying that... saying that--" There was a pause. "I see," said
Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more of
your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door.

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I
don't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school
hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death," explained Miss
Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good
news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know."

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the
music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.

"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up
the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile.
Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two,
girls. Page thirty-two."

     "We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen,
      With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
      To-oo Congratulate...

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." And
she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls,
think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers
o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'"
Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound
warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.' Once more. Quickly. All together.
Now then!"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other
voices--full, deep, glowing with expression.




</CHAPTER>

 Miss Meadows, in utter despair, made her way to the music hall. She was dressed in her usual academic attire and was on her way to teach her first signing lesson of the day. Girls of all ages passed her in the hall, laughing, running, calling out to one another. Miss Meadows was immune to their happiness. Basil, her fiance, had called off the wedding. The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows in the hallway. They were fellow faculty members in the all girls' school in which Miss Meadow's taught singing lessons. She hated the Science Mistress for her cheerfulness, her beauty, and charm; today, she hated her especially for her sweetness, and would not have been surprised if bees sprang from her sun-kissed hair. Miss Meadows exchanged strained pleasantries with the Science Mistress and walked down the hall to her classroom where forms Four, Five, and Six were waiting. She marched onto the stage, looking down at the row of students before her and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. Mary Beazley, her favorite pupil, was at the piano and would play accompaniments. Miss Meadows sensed her student's irritation with her but she could not hide her anger for long. "What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to someone who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a letter - " "...I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake" began Basil's letter to Miss Meadows. He went on to say that he was not a "marrying man" and that although he loved her the thought of marrying her filled him with regret. Miss Meadows saw he had written "disgust" first and had crossed it out and wrote, "regret." She thought he could not love her at all if he had not the decency to make sure she would not have been able to read of his "disgust" toward her. Ignorant of the world around her, Miss Meadows walked to the piano where Mary tried to engage Miss Meadows in conversation as part of their usual morning routine but Miss Meadows only barked at her to start at page fourteen, "A Lament." She did not even take the beautiful yellow chrysanthemum that Mary had brought for her. Fighting back tears, Mary began to play. Addressing her class, Miss Meadows instructed them to sing without expression and the result was indeed tragic. "Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness" . Miss Meadows led her students through the dreadful dirge all the while thinking of Basil. How could he have written such a letter? What had prompted him to do so? In his last letter he had talked about buying a hat stand. How could he have changed his mind so quickly? The song ended and Miss Meadows said they would begin again this time with expression asking the girls to use their imagination and find meaning behind the words of the song. For example she instructed them to single "drear" as if a cold wind were blowing through. Miss Meadows spoke as if her voice was made of stone, and the youngest students began to feel frightened of her. Down came the baton and the lament began again as did Miss Meadow's inner turmoil. If their engagement were off, then she would have to leave her job. People had been surprised that she had finally got engaged at all especially to Basil who was in his twenties and five years younger than her. She knew could not face the Science Mistress or her students ever again. She was in disgrace. Beckoning the girls with her baton, the music sped up. The older girls were red in the face, the younger girls began to cry and Miss Meadows stood before them her mind miles away begging Basil to love her or to allow her to love him and perhaps her love would be enough for both of them but she knew her pleas were useless. She would have to disappear. On this thought the song ended and her students' voices faded. Just then the door opened and a student entered and told Miss Meadows that the headmistress, Miss Wyatt, wanted to see her. Instructing the girls to talk quietly while she was away, Miss Meadows walked to the headmistress' office. There Miss Wyatt handed her a telegram. "Pay no attention to letter must have been made bought hat-stand today, Basil" . Miss Wyatt asked if the telegram contained bad news. Miss Meadows, who had been transformed by the telegram's message, said it was good news. Miss Wyatt told her in future that good news should wait until after school hours. Miss Meadows, happy once more, returned to her class. "On the wings of hope, of love, of joy" , she led them in a different song, one of congratulations. Miss Meadow's voice sung the loudest of all the voices.

