Far-away Stories. Locke William John

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СКАЧАТЬ with mutual apologies; but the spirit of rivalry was by no means quenched.

IV

      One afternoon Miss Janet had an inspiration.

      "If I played the piano in the drawing-room with the windows open you could hear it in the spare room quite plainly."

      "If you think it would disturb Mr. Andrea," said Miss Ursula, "you might shut the windows."

      "I was proposing to offer him a distraction, dear," said Miss Widdington. "These foreign gentlemen are generally fond of music."

      Miss Ursula could raise no objection, but her heart sank. She could not play the piano.

      She took her seat cheerfully, however, by the bed, which had been wheeled up to the window, so that the patient could look out on the glory of sky and sea, took her knitting from a drawer and began to turn the heel of one of the sacred socks. Andrea watched her lazily and contentedly. Perhaps he had never seen two such soft-treaded, soft-fingered ladies in lavender in his life. He often tried to give some expression to his gratitude, and the hand-kissing had become a thrice daily custom. For Miss Widdington he had written the word "Engel," which the vocabulary at the end of Otto's German grammar rendered as "Angel"; whereat she had blushed quite prettily. For Miss Ursula he had drawn, very badly, but still unmistakably, the picture of a winged denizen of Paradise, and she, too, had treasured the compliment; she also treasured the drawing. Now, Miss Ursula held up the knitting, which began distinctly to indicate the shape of a sock, and smiled. Andrea smiled, too, and blew her a kiss with his fingers. He had many graceful foreign gestures. The doctor, who was a plain, bullet-headed Briton, disapproved of Andrea and expressed to Dorcas his opinion that the next things to be washed ashore would be the young man's monkey and organ. This was sheer prejudice, for Andrea's manners were unexceptionable, and his smile, in the eyes of his hostesses, the most attractive thing in the world.

      "Heel," said Miss Ursula.

      "'Eel," repeated Andrea.

      "Wool," said Miss Ursula.

      "Vool," said Andrea.

      "No – wo-o," said Miss Ursula, puffing out her lips so as to accentuate the "w."

      "Wo-o," said Andrea, doing the same. And then they both burst out laughing. They were enjoying themselves mightily.

      Then, from the drawing-room below, came the tinkling sound of the old untuned piano which had remained unopened for many years. It was the "Spring Song" of Mendelssohn, played, schoolgirl fashion, with uncertain fingers that now and then struck false notes. The light died away from Andrea's face, and he looked inquiringly, if not wonderingly, at Miss Ursula. She smiled encouragement, pointed first at the floor, and then at him, thereby indicating that the music was for his benefit. For awhile he remained quite patient. At last he clapped his hands on his ears, and, his features distorted with pain, cried out:

      "Nein, nein, nein, das lieb' ich nicht! Es ist hässlich!"

      In eager pantomime he besought her to stop the entertainment. Miss Ursula went downstairs, hating to hurt her sister's feelings, yet unable to crush a wicked, unregenerate feeling of pleasure.

      "I am so sorry, dear Janet," she said, laying her hand on her sister's arm, "but he doesn't like music. It's astonishing, his dislike. It makes him quite violent."

      Miss Widdington ceased playing and accompanied her sister upstairs. Andrea, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders, reached out his two hands to the musician and, taking hers, kissed her finger-tips. Miss Widdington consulted Otto.

      "Lieben Sie nicht Musik?"

      "Ja wohl," he cried, and, laughing, played an imaginary fiddle.

      "He does like music," cried Miss Widdington. "How can you make such silly mistakes, Ursula? Only he prefers the violin."

      Miss Ursula grew downcast for a moment; then she brightened. A brilliant idea occurred to her.

      "Adam Penruddocke. He has a fiddle. We can ask him to come up after tea and play to us."

      She reassured Andrea in her queer sign-language, and later in the afternoon Adam Penruddocke, a sheepish giant of a fisherman, was shown into the room. He bowed to the ladies, shook the long white hand proffered him by the beautiful youth, tuned up, and played "The Carnival of Venice" from start to finish. Andrea regarded him with mischievous, laughing eyes, and at the end he applauded vigorously.

      Miss Widdington turned to her sister.

      "I knew he liked music," she said.

      "Shall I play something else, sir?" asked Penruddocke.

      Andrea, guessing his meaning, beckoned him to approach the bed, and took the violin and bow from his hands. He looked at the instrument critically, smiled to himself, tuned it afresh, and with an air of intense happiness drew the bow across the strings.

      "Why, he can play it!" cried Miss Ursula.

      Andrea laughed and nodded, and played a bit of "The Carnival of Venice" as it ought to be played, with gaiety and mischief. Then he broke off, and after two or three tearing chords that made his hearers start, plunged into a wild czardas. The ladies looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment as the mad music such as they had never heard in their lives before filled the little room with its riot and devilry. Penruddocke stood and panted, his eyes staring out of his head. When Andrea had finished there was a bewildered silence. He nodded pleasantly at his audience, delighted at the effect he had produced. Then, with an artist's malice, he went to the other extreme of emotion. He played a sobbing folk-song, rending the heart with cries of woe and desolation and broken hopes. It clutched at the heart-strings, turning them into vibrating chords; it pierced the soul with its poignant despair; it ended in a long-drawn-out note high up in the treble, whose pain became intolerable; and the end was greeted with a sharp gasp of relief. The white lips of the ruddy giant quivered. Tears streamed down the cheeks of Miss Widdington and Miss Ursula. Again there was silence, but this time it was broken by a clear, shrill voice outside.

      "Encore! Encore!"

      The sisters looked at one another. Who had dared intrude at such a moment? Miss Widdington went to the window to see.

      In the garden stood a young woman of independent bearing, with a pallette and brushes in her hand. An easel was pitched a few yards beyond the gate. Miss Widdington regarded this young woman with marked disfavour. The girl calmly raised her eyes.

      "I apologise for trespassing like this," she said, "but I simply couldn't resist coming nearer to this marvellous violin-playing – and my exclamation came out almost unconsciously."

      "You are quite welcome to listen," said Miss Widdington stiffly.

      "May I ask who is playing it?"

      Miss Widdington almost gasped at the girl's impertinence. The latter laughed frankly.

      "I ask because it seems as if it could only be one of the big, well-known people."

      "It's a young friend who is staying with us," said Miss Widdington.

      "I beg your pardon," said the girl. "But, you see my brother is Boris Danilof, the violinist, so I've that excuse for being interested."

      "I don't think Mr. Andrea can play any more to-day," said Miss Ursula from her seat by the bed. "He's tired."

      Miss Widdington repeated this information to Miss Danilof, who bade her good СКАЧАТЬ