"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, Iliked 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.
