The Tangled Threads. Eleanor H. Porter

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Mamie, you mean?"

      "Yes, dear."

      "But—she has to practice and—"

      "Of course," interrupted Hester eagerly. "That's the best part of it—the practice."

      "Mamie don't think so," observed Penelope dubiously.

      "Then Mamie can't know," rejoined Hester with decision, bravely combating the chill that was creeping over her. "Come, dear, help mother to clear a space, so we may be ready when the piano comes," she finished, crossing the room and moving a chair to one side.

      But when the piano finally arrived, Penelope was as enthusiastic as even her mother could wish her to be, and danced about it with proud joy. It was after the child had left the house, however, that Hester came with reverent step into the darkened room and feasted her eyes to her heart's content on the reality of her dreams.

      Half fearfully she extended her hand and softly pressed the tip of her fourth finger to one of the ivory keys; then with her thumb she touched another a little below. The resulting dissonance gave her a vague unrest, and she gently slipped her thumb along until the harmony of a major sixth filled her eyes with quick tears.

      "Oh, if I only could!" she whispered, and pressed the chord again, rapturously listening to the vibrations as they died away in the quiet room. Then she tiptoed out and closed the door behind her.

      During the entire hour of that first Saturday morning lesson Mrs. Martin hovered near the parlor door, her hands and feet refusing to perform their accustomed duties. The low murmur of the teacher's voice and an occasional series of notes were to Hester the mysterious rites before a sacred shrine, and she listened in reverent awe. When Miss Gale had left the house, Mrs. Martin hurried to Penelope's side.

      "How did it go? What did she say? Play me what she taught you," she urged excitedly.

      Penelope tossed a consequential head and gave her mother a scornful glance.

      "Pooh! mother, the first lesson ain't much. I've got to practice."

      "Of course," acknowledged Hester in conciliation; "but how?—what?"

      "That—and that—and from there to there," said Penelope, indicating with a pink forefinger certain portions of the page before her.

      "Oh!" breathed Hester, regarding the notes with eager eyes. Then timidly, "Play—that one."

      With all the importance of absolute certainty Penelope struck C.

      "And that one."

      Penelope's second finger hit F.

      "And that—and that—and that," swiftly demanded Hester.

      Penelope's cheeks grew pink, but her fingers did not falter. Hester drew a long breath.

      "Oh, how quick you've learned 'em!" she exclaimed.

      Her daughter hesitated a tempted moment.

      "Well—I—I learned the notes in school," she finally acknowledged, looking sidewise at her mother.

      But even this admission did not lessen for Hester the halo of glory about

       Penelope's head. She drew another long breath.

      "But what else did Miss Gale say? Tell me everything—every single thing," she reiterated hungrily.

      That was not only Penelope's first lesson, but Hester's. The child, flushed and important with her sudden promotion from pupil to teacher, scrupulously repeated each point in the lesson, and the woman, humble and earnestly attentive, listened with bated breath. Then, Penelope, still airily consequential, practiced for almost an hour.

      Monday, when the children were at school, Hester stole into the parlor and timidly seated herself at the piano.

      "I think—I am almost sure I could do it," she whispered, studying with eager eyes the open book on the music rack. "I—I'm going to try, anyhow!" she finished resolutely.

      And Hester did try, not only then, but on Tuesday, Wednesday, and thus until Saturday—that Saturday which brought with it a second lesson.

      The weeks passed swiftly after that. Hester's tasks seemed lighter and her burdens less grievous since there was now that ever-present refuge—the piano. It was marvelous what a multitude of headaches and heartaches five minutes of scales, even, could banish; and when actual presence at the piano was impossible, there were yet memory and anticipation left her.

      For two of these weeks Penelope practiced her allotted hour with a patience born of the novelty of the experience. The third week the "hour" dwindled perceptibly, and the fourth week it was scarcely thirty minutes long.

      "Come, dearie, don't forget your practice," Hester sometimes cautioned anxiously.

      "Oh, dear me suz!" Penelope would sigh, and Hester would watch her with puzzled eyes as she disconsolately pulled out the piano stool.

      "Penelope," she threatened one day, "I shall certainly stop your lessons—you don't half appreciate them." But she was shocked and frightened at the relief that so quickly showed in her young daughter's eyes. Hester never made that threat again, for if Penelope's lessons stopped—

      As the weeks lengthened into months, bits of harmony and snatches of melody became more and more frequent in Penelope's lessons, and the "exercises" were supplemented by occasional "pieces"—simple, yet boasting a name. But when Penelope played "Down by the Mill," one heard only the notes—accurate, rhythmic, an excellent imitation; when Hester played it, one might catch the whir of the wheel, the swish of the foaming brook, and almost the spicy smell of the sawdust, so vividly was the scene brought to mind.

      Many a time, now, the old childhood dreams came back to Hester, and her fingers would drift into tender melodies and minor chords not on the printed page, until all the stifled love and longing of those dreary, colorless years of the past found voice at her finger-tips.

      The stately marches and the rollicking dances of the cloud music came easily at her beck and call—now grave, now gay; now slow and measured, now tripping in weird harmonies and gay melodies.

      Hester's blood quickened and her cheeks grew pink. Her eyes lost their yearning look and her lips their wistful curves.

      Every week she faithfully took her lesson of Penelope, and she practiced only that when the children were about. It was when they were at school and she was alone that the great joy of this new-found treasure of improvising came to her, and she could set free her heart and soul on the ivory keys.

      She was playing thus one night—forgetting time, self, and that Penelope would soon be home from school—when the child entered the house and stopped, amazed, in the parlor doorway. As the last mellow note died into silence, Penelope dropped her books and burst into tears.

      "Why, darling, what is it?" cried Hester. "What can be the matter?"

      "I—I don't know," faltered Penelope, looking at her mother with startled eyes. "Why—why did n't you tell me?"

      "Tell you?"

      "That—that you could—p-play that way! I—I did n't know," she wailed with another storm of СКАЧАТЬ