MARIE, WHO LONGS TO MAKE PUDDINGS
Wonderful days came then to Billy. Four songs, it seemed, had been
pronounced by competent critics decidedly “worth it”--unmistakably “good
enough”; and they were to be brought out as soon as possible.
“Of course you understand,” explained Cyril, “that there's no 'hit'
expected. Thank heaven they aren't that sort! And there's no great money
in it, either. You'd have to write a masterpiece like 'She's my Ju-Ju
Baby' or some such gem to get the 'hit' and the money. But the songs are
fine, and they'll take with cultured hearers. We'll get them introduced
by good singers, of course, and they'll be favorites soon for the
concert stage, and for parlors.”
Billy saw a good deal of Cyril now. Already she was at work rewriting
and polishing some of her half-completed melodies, and Cyril was helping
her, by his interest as well as by his criticism. He was, in fact,
at the house very frequently--too frequently, indeed, to suit either
Bertram or Calderwell. Even William frowned sometimes when his cozy
chats with Billy were interrupted by Cyril's appearing with a roll of
new music for her to “try”; though William told himself that he ought
to be thankful if there was anything that could make Cyril more
companionable, less reserved and morose. And Cyril WAS different--there
was no disputing that. Calderwell said that he had come “out of his
shell”; and Bertram told Billy that she must have “found his note and
struck it good and hard.”
Billy was very happy. To the little music teacher, Marie Hawthorn, she
talked more freely, perhaps, than she did to any one else.
“It's so wonderful, Marie--so wonderfully wonderful,” she said one
day, “to sit here in my own room and sing a little song that comes from
somewhere, anywhere, out of the sky itself. Then by and by, that little
song will fly away, away, over land and sea; and some day it will touch
somebody's heart just as it has touched mine. Oh, Marie, is it not
wonderful?”
“It is, dear--and it is not. Your songs could not help reaching
somebody's heart. There's nothing wonderful in that.”
“Sweet flatterer!”
“But I mean it. They are beautiful; and so is--Mr. Henshaw's music.”
“Yes, it is,” murmured Billy, abstractedly.
There was a long pause, then Marie asked with shy hesitation:
“Do you think, Miss Billy--that he would care? I listened yesterday when
he was playing to you. I was up here in your room, but when I heard the
music I--I went out, on the stairs and sat down. Was it very--bad of
me?”
Billy laughed happily.
“If it was, he can't say anything,” she reassured her. “He's done the
same thing himself--and so have I.”
“HE has done it!”
“Yes. It was at his home last Thanksgiving. It was then that he found
out--about my improvising.”
“Oh-h!” Marie's eyes were wistful. “And he cares so much now for your
music!”
“Does he? Do you think he does?” demanded Billy.
“I know he does--and for the one who makes it, too.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Billy, with pinker cheeks. “It's the music, not the
musician, that pleases him. Mr. Cyril doesn't like women.”
“He doesn't like women!”
“No. But don't look so shocked, my dear. Every one who knows Mr. Cyril
knows that.”
“But I don't think--I believe it,” demurred Marie, gazing straight into
Billy's eyes. “I'm sure I don't believe it.”
Under the little music teacher's steady gaze Billy flushed again. The
laugh she gave was an embarrassed one, but through it vibrated a pleased
ring.
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and moving restlessly
about the room. With the next breath she had changed the subject to one
far removed from Mr. Cyril and his likes and dislikes.
Some time later Billy played, and it was then that Marie drew a long
sigh.
“How beautiful it must be to play--like that,” she breathed.
“As if you, a music teacher, could not play!” laughed Billy.
“Not like that, dear. You know it is not like that.”
Billy frowned.
“But you are so accurate, Marie, and you can read at sight so rapidly!”
“Oh, yes, like a little machine, I know!” scorned the usually gentle
Marie, bitterly. “Don't they have a thing of metal that adds figures
like magic? Well, I'm like that. I see g and I play g; I see d and I
play d; I see f and I play f; and after I've seen enough g's and d's and
f's and played them all, the thing is done. I've played.”
“Why, Marie! Marie, my dear!” The second exclamation was very tender,
for Marie was crying.
“There! I knew I should some day have it out--all out,” sobbed Marie. “I
felt it coming.”
“Then perhaps you'll--you'll feel better now,” stammered Billy. She
tried to say more--other words that would have been a real comfort; but
her tongue refused to speak them. She knew so well, so woefully well,
how very wooden and mechanical the little music teacher's playing
always had been. But that Marie should realize it herself like this--the
tragedy of it made Billy's heart ache. At Marie's next words, however,
Billy caught her breath in surprise.
“But you see it wasn't music--it wasn't ever music that I wanted--to
do,” she confessed.
“It wasn't music! But what--I don't understand,” murmured Billy.
“No, I suppose not,” sighed the other. “You play so beautifully
yourself.”
“But I thought you loved music.”
“I do. I love it dearly--in others. But I can't--I don't want to make it
myself.”
“But what do you want to do?”
Marie laughed suddenly.
“Do you know, my dear, I have half a mind to tell you what I do like to
do--just to make you stare.”
“Well?” Billy's eyes were wide with interest.
“I like best of anything to--darn stockings and make puddings.”
“Marie!”
“Rank heresy, isn't it?” smiled Marie, tearfully. “But I do, truly. I
love to weave the threads evenly in and out, and see a big hole close.
As for the puddings I don't mean the common bread-and-butter kind, but
the ones that have whites of eggs and fruit, and pretty quivery jellies
all ruby and amber lights, you know.”
“You dear little piece of domesticity,” laughed Billy. “Then why in the
world don't you do these things?”
“I can't, in my own kitchen; I can't afford a kitchen to do them in. And
I just couldn't do them--right along--in other people's kitchens.”
“But why do you--play?”
“I was brought up to it. You know we had money once, lots of it,” sighed
Marie, as if she were deploring a misfortune. “And mother was determined
to have me musical. Even then, as a little tot, I liked pudding-making,
and after my mud-pie days I was always begging mother to let me go down
into the kitchen, to cook. But she wouldn't allow it, ever. She engaged
the most expensive masters and set me practising, always practising.
I simply had to learn music; and I learned it like the adding machine.
Then afterward, when father died, and then mother, and the money flew
away, why, of course I had to do something, so naturally I turned to
the music. It was all I could do. But--well, you know how it is, dear. I
teach, and teach well, perhaps, so far as the mechanical part goes; but
as for the rest--I am always longing for a cozy corner with a basket of
stockings to mend, or a kitchen where there is a pudding waiting to be
made.”
“You poor dear!” cried Billy. “I've a pair of stockings now that needs
attention, and I've been just longing for one of your 'quivery jellies
all ruby and amber lights' ever since you mentioned them. But--well, is
there anything I could do to help?”
“Nothing, thank you,” sighed Marie, rising wearily to her feet, and
covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. “My head aches shockingly,
but I've got to go this minute and instruct little Jennie Knowls how to
play the wonderful scale of G with a black key in it. Besides, you do
help me, you have helped me, you are always helping me, dear,” she added
remorsefully; “and it's wicked of me to make that shadow come to your
eyes. Please don't think of it, or of me, any more.” And with a
choking little sob she hurried from the room, followed by the amazed,
questioning, sorrowful eyes of Billy.