Miss Billy
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 26: “Music Hath Charms”
Two days after Thanksgiving Cyril called at Hillside.
“I’ve come to hear you play,” he announced abruptly.
Billy’s heart sung within her—but her temper rose. Did he think then that he had but to beckon and she would come—and at this late day, she asked herself. Aloud she said:
“Play? But this is ‘so sudden’! Besides, you have heard me.”
The man made a disdainful gesture.
“Not that. I mean play—really play. Billy, why haven’t you played to me before?”
Billy’s chin rose perceptibly.
“Why haven’t you asked me?” she parried.
To Billy’s surprise the man answered this with calm directness.
“Because Calderwell said that you were a dandy player, and I don’t care for dandy players.”
Billy laughed now.
“And how do you know I’m not a dandy player, Sir Impertinent?” she demanded.
“Because I’ve heard you—when you weren’t.”
“Thank you,” murmured Billy.
Cyril shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, you know very well what I mean,” he defended. “I’ve heard you; that’s all.”
“When?”
“That doesn’t signify.”
Billy was silent for a moment, her eyes gravely studying his face. Then she asked:
“Were you long—on that stairway?”
“Eh? What? Oh!” Cyril’s forehead grew suddenly pink. “Well?” he finished a little aggressively.
“Oh, nothing,” smiled the girl. “Of course people who live in glass houses must not throw stones.”
“Very well then, I did listen,” acknowledged the man, testily. “I liked what you were playing. I hoped, down-stairs later, that you’d play it again; but you didn’t. I came to-day to hear it.”
Again Billy’s heart sung within her—but again her temper rose, too.
“I don’t think I feel like it,” she said sweetly, with a shake of her head. “Not to-day.”
For a brief moment Cyril stared frowningly; then his face lighted with his rare smile.
“I’m fairly checkmated,” he said, rising to his feet and going straight to the piano.
For long minutes he played, modulating from one enchanting composition to another, and finishing with the one “all chords with big bass notes” that marched on and on—the one Billy had sat long ago on the stairs to hear.
“There! Now will you play for me?” he asked, rising to his feet, and turning reproachful eyes upon her.
Billy, too, rose to her feet. Her face was flushed and her eyes were shining. Her lips quivered with emotion. As was always the case, Cyril’s music had carried her quite out of herself.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she sighed. “You don’t know—you can’t know how beautiful it all is—to me!”
“Thank you. Then surely now you’ll play to me,” he returned.
A look of real distress came to Billy’s face.
“But I can’t—not what you heard the other day,” she cried remorsefully. “You see, I was—only improvising.”
Cyril turned quickly.
“Only improvising! Billy, did you ever write it down—any of your improvising?”
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