THE PEOPLE OF THE LITTLE GRAY HOUSE
Intent upon their music, neither the singer nor the two men were
immediately aware of the presence of another person in the room.
"Oh, that we two were lying
Under the churchyard sod,"
sang Constance, voicing the pent-up longing of Kingsley's tenderly
regretful words and Nevin's wistful setting, while the violin sang a
subdued, pensive obligato.
Marjorie stood very still, her gaze fastened upon Constance. The quaint
little boy stared at Marjorie with an equally intent interest. Thus, as
Constance began the last line the earnest, compelling regard of the
brown eyes caused her own to be turned toward Marjorie.
"Oh!" she ejaculated in faltering surprise. "Where--where did you come
from? What made you come here?"
There was mingled amazement, consternation and embarrassment in the
question. The white-haired pianist swung round on his stool, and the old
man with the violin raised his head and regarded the unexpected visitor
out of two mildly inquiring blue eyes.
"I'm sorry," began Marjorie, her cheeks hot with the shame of being
unwelcome. "I suppose I ought not to have come, but----"
Constance sprang to her side and catching her hands said contritely,
"Forgive me, dear, and please don't feel hurt. I--you see--I never
invite anyone here--because--well, just because we are so poor. I
thought you wouldn't care to come and so----"
"I've always wanted to come," interrupted Marjorie, eagerly. "I don't
think you are poor. I think you are rich to have this wonderful music. I
never dreamed you could sing, Constance. What made you keep it a
secret?"
"No one ever liked me well enough to care to know it until you came,"
returned Constance simply. "I meant to tell you, but I kept on putting
it off."
While the conversation went on between the two girls the one old man was
going over a pile of ragged-edged music on the piano, while the other
was industriously engaged with a troublesome E string.
"Father, Uncle John!" called Constance, gently, "come here. I want you
to meet my friend Marjorie Dean."
Both musicians left their self-appointed tasks and came forward.
Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed over
it with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance's
father. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the face
of a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes that
seemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. In
spite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or,
perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty at
least. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacant
expression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter words
Constance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to be
friends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folks
call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds."
"I came here to see if Constance could go to the theatre with us
to-night," explained Marjorie, rather shyly. "No, thank you, I won't sit
down. I promised mother I'd hurry home."
"It is very kind in you to ask my daughter to share your pleasure," said
Constance's father, his somber face lighting with a smile that reminded
Marjorie of the sun suddenly bursting from behind a cloud. "I should
like to have her go."
"Have her go," repeated the thin old man, bowing and beaming.
"Is there a band at the theatre?" piped a small, solemn voice.
Marjorie smiled down into the earnest, upraised face of the little boy.
"Oh, yes, there is a big, big band at the theatre."
"Then take me, too," returned the child calmly.
"No, no," reproved Constance gently, "Charlie can't go to-night."
A grieved look crept into the big black eyes. Without further words the
quaint little boy limped over to the old man, whom Constance had
addressed as Uncle John, and hid behind him.
Forgetting formality, tender-hearted Marjorie sprang after him. She
knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. He made no resistance,
merely regarded her with wistful curiosity.
"Listen, dear little man," she said, "you and Constance and I will go to
the place where the big band plays some Saturday afternoon, and we'll
sit on the front seat where you can see every single thing they do.
Won't that be nice?"
The boy nodded and slipped his tiny hand in hers. "I'm going to play in
the band when I grow up," he confided. "Connie can go to-night if she
promises to tell me all about it afterward."
"You dear little soul," bubbled Marjorie, stroking his thick hair that
fell carelessly over his forehead and almost into his bright eyes.
"I'll tell you all about everything, Charlie," promised Constance.
"That means you will go," cried Marjorie, joyfully, rising from the
floor, the child's hand still in hers.
"Yes, I will," returned Constance hesitatingly, "only--I--haven't
anything pretty to wear."
"Pretty to wear," repeated Uncle John faithfully.
"Never mind that," reassured Marjorie. "Just wear a fresh white blouse
with your blue suit. I'm sure that will look nice."
"Will look nice," agreed Uncle John so promptly, that Marjorie started
slightly, then, noting that Constance seemed embarrassed, she nodded
genially at the old man, who smiled back like a pleased child.
Remembering her mother's injunction, Marjorie took hasty leave of the
Stevens family and set off for home at a brisk pace. Her thoughts were
as active as her feet. She had seen enough in the last fifteen minutes
to furnish ample food for reflection, and she now believed she
understood her friend's strange reserve, which at times rose like a wall
between them. What strange and yet what utterly delightful people the
Stevens were! They really did remind one a little of gypsies. And what a
queer room she had been ushered into by the odd little boy named
Charlie! She smiled to herself as she contrasted her mother's homelike,
yet orderly living-room with the room she had just left, which evidently
did duty as a hall, living-room, music-room and also a playroom for
little Charlie. There were hats and coats and musical instruments, pile
upon pile of well-thumbed music, and numerous dilapidated playthings
that bore the marks of too ardent treasuring, all scattered about in
reckless confusion. No wonder Constance had fought shy of
acquaintanceships which were sure to ripen into schoolgirl visits. Poor
Constance! How dreadful it must be to have to keep house, cook the meals
and try to go to school! The Stevenses seemed to be very poor in
everything except music. She wondered how they lived. Perhaps the two
men played in orchestras. Still she had never heard anything about them
in school, where news circulated so quickly.
"I'm going to ask Constance to tell me all about it," she decided, as
she skipped up the front steps. "Perhaps I can help her in some way."
Constance rang the Deans' bell at exactly half past seven o'clock. Her
blue eyes were sparkling with joyous light, and her usually grave mouth
broke into little curves of happiness. It was to be a red-letter night
for her.
The play was a clean, wholesome drama of American home life in which the
leading part was taken by a young girl, who appeared to be scarcely
older than Marjorie and Constance. The latter sat like one entranced
during the first act, and Marjorie spoke to her twice before she heard.
"Constance," she breathed, "won't you please, please tell me all about
it?"
"About what?" counter-questioned the other girl, reddening.
"About your father and your wonderful voice, and, oh, all there is to
tell."
"Marjorie," the Mary girl's tones were strained and wistful, "do you
really think it is wonderful?"
"You will be a great singer some day," returned Marjorie, simply.
"Oh, do you believe that?" Constance clasped her hands in ecstasy. "I
wish to be--I hope to be. If I could only go away to New York city and
study! Before we came here we lived in Buffalo. Father played in an
orchestra there. He had a friend who taught singing and I studied with
him for a year. Then he died suddenly of pneumonia and right after that
father fell on an icy pavement and broke his leg. By the time it was
well again another man had his place in the orchestra. He had a few
pupils, and long before his leg was well he used to sit in a big chair
and teach them. The money that they paid him for lessons was all we had
to live on."
The rising of the curtain on the second act cut short the narrative.
With "I'll tell you the rest later," Constance turned eager eyes toward
the stage.
"Isn't it a beautiful play?" she sighed, when the act ended.
"Lovely," agreed Marjorie; "now tell me the rest."
"Oh, there isn't much more to tell. It was the last of March when father
got hurt, but it was the middle of May before he was quite well again.
Then summer came and most of his pupils went away and we grew poorer and
poorer. Just when we were the poorest the editor of a new musical
magazine wrote him and asked him to write some articles. A friend of
father's in New York told the editor about father and gave him our
address. We decided to move to a smaller city, where we could live more
cheaply, and some of the musicians that father knew gave him a benefit
concert. The money from that helped us to move to Sanford, and father
has been writing articles off and on for the magazine ever since then.
It's better for all of us to be here. Uncle John isn't quite like other
people. When he was a young man he studied to be a virtuoso on the
violin. He overworked and had brain fever just before he was to give his
first recital. After he got well he never played the same again. He had
spent all the money his father left him on his musical education, so he
had to find work wherever he could. He played the violin in different
orchestras, but he was so absent-minded that he couldn't be trusted.
Sometimes he would go on playing after all the rest of the orchestra had
finished, and then he began to repeat things after people.
"When father first met him they were playing in the same theatre
orchestra. One night a great tragedian was playing 'Hamlet,' and poor
Uncle John grew so interested that he said things after him as loud as
he could. The actor was dreadfully angry, and so was the leader of the
orchestra. He made the poor old man leave the theatre. After that he
played in other orchestras a little, but he couldn't be depended upon,
so no one wanted to hire him.
"Father did all he could to help him, but he grew queerer and queerer.
Then he disappeared, and father didn't see him for a long while. One
cold winter night he found him wandering about the streets, so he
brought him to his room and he has been with father ever since. That was
years ago, before father was married. He isn't really my uncle. I just
call him that. The musicians used to call him 'Crazy Johnny.' His name
is John Roland."
Although Constance had averred that there wasn't "much to tell," the
third act interrupted her recital, and it was during the interval before
the beginning of the last act that Marjorie heard the story of the
fourth member of the Stevenses' household, little lame Charlie.
"Charlie has been with us a little over four years," returned Constance,
in answer to Marjorie's interested questions. "He is seven years old,
but you would hardly believe it. His mother died when he was a tiny
baby, and his father was a dreadful drunkard. He was a musician, too, a
clarionet player. He let Charlie fall downstairs when he was only two
years old and hurt his hip. That's why he's lame. His father used to go
away and be gone for days and leave the poor baby with his neighbors.
Father found out about it and took Charlie away from him, and we've had
him with us ever since."
"It was splendid in your father to be so good to the poor old man and
Charlie," said Marjorie, warmly.
"Father is the best man in the world," returned Constance, with fond
pride. "He is such a wonderful musician, too. He can play on the violin
as well as the piano, and he teaches both. If only he could get plenty
of work here in Sanford. He has a few pupils, and with the articles he
writes we manage to live, but the magazine is a small one and does not
pay much for them. He has tried ever so many times to get into the
theatre orchestra, but there seems to be no chance for him. I think
we'll go somewhere else to live before long. Perhaps to a big city
again. I'd love to stay here and go through high school with you, but I
am afraid I can't. I'm almost eighteen and I ought to work."
"Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Sanford!" exclaimed Marjorie, in
sudden dismay. "What would I do without you? Perhaps things will be
brighter after a while. I am sure they will. Why couldn't your
father----"
But the last act was on, and she did not finish what had promised to be
a suggestion. Nevertheless, a plan had taken shape in her busy mind,
which she determined to discuss with her father and mother.
As if to further her design they found Mr. Stevens waiting outside the
theatre for his daughter and Marjorie lost no time in presenting him to
her father and mother. He greeted the Deans gravely, thanking them for
their kindness to his daughter, with a fine courtesy that made a marked
impression on them, and after he had gone his way, a happy, smiling
Constance beside him, Marjorie slipped her arms in those of her father
and mother, and walking between them told Constance's story all over
again.
"I think it is positively noble in Mr. Stevens to take care of that old
man and little Charlie, when they have no claim upon him," she finished.
"He has a remarkably fine, sensitive face," said Mrs. Dean. "I suppose
like nearly all persons of great musical gifts, he lacks the commercial
ability to manage his affairs successfully."
"Don't you believe that if the people of Sanford only knew how
beautifully Mr. Stevens and the other man played together they might
hire them for afternoon teas and little parties and such things?" asked
Marjorie, with an earnestness that made her father say teasingly, "Are
you going to enlist in his cause as his business manager?"
"You mustn't tease me, General," she reproved. "I'm in dead earnest. I
was just thinking to-night that Mr. Stevens ought to have an orchestra
of his own. You know mother promised me a party on my birthday, and
that's not until January tenth. Why can't I have it the night before
Thanksgiving? That will be next Wednesday. Mr. Stevens and Mr. Roland
can play for us to dance. A violin and piano will be plenty of music. If
everybody likes my orchestra, then someone will be sure to want to hire
it for some of the holiday parties. Don't you think that a nice plan?"
"Very," laughed her father. "I see you have an eye to business,
Lieutenant."
"You can have your party next week, if you like, dear," agreed Mrs.
Dean, who made it a point always to encourage her daughter's generous
impulses.
"Then I'll send my invitations to-morrow," exulted Marjorie. "Hurrah for
the Stevens orchestra! Long may it wave!" She gave a joyous skip that
caused her father to exclaim "Steady!" and her mother to protest against
further jolting.
"Beg your pardon, both of you," apologized the frisky lieutenant, giving
the arms to which she clung an affectionate squeeze, "but I simply had
to rejoice a little. Won't Constance be glad? I could never care quite
so much for Constance as I do for Mary, but I like her next best. She's
a dear and we're going to be friends as long as we live."
But clouds have an uncomfortable habit of darkening the clearest skies
and even sworn friendships are not always timeproof.