Stories by English Authors: Germany. Коллектив авторов
has ever been to Chicago,” she said.
There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked much annoyed, and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant to say “Philadelphia,” but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake.
“What impertinence!” said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. “What can she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?”
“Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew’s piano!” suggested Miss Blake, in a loud whisper.
“You are right, madam,” said the little girl, quietly. “I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew’s piano.”
There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady, whom every one reverenced, came to the rescue.
“I think her playing is simply superb,” she said. “Nothing that I ever hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angel’s touch.”
“Listening to her,” said the major, who had now recovered from his annoyance at being interrupted, “one becomes unconscious of her presence, for she is the music itself. And that is rare. It is but seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her, it would not be easy to forget her. I should recognise her anywhere.”
As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others he followed her, and said stiffly:
“I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward position.”
“It is really of no consequence,” she said, brightly. “If you think I was impertinent, I ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be officious. The words were spoken before I was aware of them.”
She passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself, and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relieved the company of her presence her impertinence was commented on.
“I am sorry that she heard what I said,” remarked Miss Blake; “but she did not seem to mind. These young women who go out into the world lose the edge of their sensitiveness and femininity. I have always observed that.”
“How much they are spared then!” answered some one.
Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She had merry dreams, and finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then stood ready to go for a butterfly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy, and evidently had found, and was holding tightly, the key to life’s enjoyment.
Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony, and he reminded her that he intended to go with her.
“Come along then,” she answered; “we must not lose a moment.”
They caught butterflies; they picked flowers; they ran; they lingered by the wayside; they sang; they climbed, and he marvelled at her easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight her – the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance of the pine woods.
“Is it not good to live?” she cried. “Is it not splendid to take in the scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isn’t it good? Don’t you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do. What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best of her treasures!”
Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard’s soul, and he felt like a school-boy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty, with nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the freedom of the moment.
“Is it not good to live?” he cried. “Yes, indeed it is, if we know how to enjoy.”
They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to help them, laughing and talking to the women, and helping them to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed his burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard watched his companion for a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dignity as an amateur tenor singer, he too lent his aid, and did not leave off until his companion sank exhausted on the ground.
“Oh,” she laughed, “what delightful work for a very short time! Come along; let us go into that brown chatlet yonder and ask for some milk. I am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own flowers.”
“What an independent little lady you are!” he said.
“It is quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you,” she said, with a tone of mischief in her voice. “That reminds me that my profession is evidently not looked upon with any favour by the visitors at the hotel. I am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem of that lady in the billycock hat. What will she say to you for coming out with me? And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I wonder whether she will say, ‘How unfeminine!’ I wish I could hear her!”
“I don’t suppose you care,” he said. “You seem to be a wild little bird.”
“I don’t care what a person of that description says,” replied his companion.
“What on earth made you contradict the major at dinner last night?” he asked. “I was not at the table, but some one told me of the incident; and I felt very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew?”
“Well, considering that she is in my profession, of course I know something about her,” said the little girl.
“Confound it all!” he said, rather rudely. “Surely there is some difference between the bellows-blower and the organist.”
“Absolutely none,” she answered; “merely a variation of the original theme!”
As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old dame to give them some milk. They sat in the Stube, and the little girl looked about, and admired the spinning-wheel and the quaint chairs and the queer old jugs and the pictures on the walls.
“Ah, but you shall see the other room,” the old peasant woman said; and she led them into a small apartment which was evidently intended for a study. It bore evidences of unusual taste and care, and one could see that some loving hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum of refinement. There was even a small piano. A carved book-rack was fastened to the wall.
The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then she pointed proudly to the piano.
“I bought that for my daughters,” she said, with a strange mixture of sadness and triumph. “I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I saved and saved, and got enough money to buy the piano. They had always wanted to have one, and I thought they would then stay with me. They liked music and books, and I knew they would be glad to have a room of their own where they might read and play and study; and so I gave them this corner.”
“Well, mother,” asked the little girl, “and where are they this afternoon?”
“Ah,” she answered sadly, “they did not care to stay; but it was natural enough, and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me.”
“And then they play to you?” asked the little girl, gently.
“They say the piano is out of tune,” the old dame said. “I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell.”
The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords.
“Yes,” she said; “it is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer. I am sorry,” she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, “but I cannot neglect my duty. Don’t wait for me.”
“I will wait for you,” he said, sullenly; and he went into the balcony and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.
When she had faithfully done her work she played a few simple melodies, such as she knew the old woman would love and understand; and she turned away when she saw that the listener’s