Miss Billie's Decision [25]
``Fancy Cyril _liking_ any sort of a rug at any time,'' chuckled Bertram, his eyes on the rich, softly blended colors of the rug before him. ``Honestly, Miss Marie,'' he added, turning to the little bride elect, ``how did you ever manage to get him to buy _any_ rug? He won't have so much as a ravelling on the floor up here to walk on.''
A startled dismay came into Marie's blue eyes.
``Why, I thought he wanted rugs,'' she faltered. ``I'm sure he said--''
``Of course I want rugs,'' interrupted Cyril, irritably. ``I want them everywhere except in my own especial den. You don't suppose I want to hear other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?''
``Of course not!'' Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turned to the little music teacher. ``I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubber heels on your shoes,'' he observed solicitously.
Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was:
``Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug.''
Bertram, however, was not to be silenced.
``And another thing, Miss Marie,'' he resumed, with the air of a true and tried adviser. ``Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with your future husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about.''
``Bertram, be still,'' growled Cyril.
Bertram refused to be still.
``Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing. For instance: if, after dinner, you hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepy nocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there falls anything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, better look to your soup and see if it hasn't been scorched, or taste of your pudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar.''
``Bertram, will you be still?'' cut in Cyril, testily, again.
``After all, judging from what Billy tells me,'' resumed Bertram, cheerfully, ``what I've said won't be so important to you, for you aren't the kind that scorches soups or uses salt for sugar. So maybe I'd better put it to you this way: if you want a new sealskin coat or an extra diamond tiara, tackle him when he plays like this!'' And with a swift turn Bertram dropped himself to the piano stool and dashed into a rollicking melody that half the newsboys of Boston were whistling.
What happened next was a surprise to every one. Bertram, very much as if he were a naughty little boy, was jerked by a wrathful brother's hand off the piano stool. The next moment the wrathful brother himself sat at the piano, and there burst on five pairs of astonished ears a crashing dissonance which was but the prelude to music such as few of the party often heard.
Spellbound they listened while rippling runs and sonorous harmonies filled the room to overflowing, as if under the fingers of the player there were--not the keyboard of a piano--but the violins, flutes, cornets, trombones, bass viols and kettledrums of a full orchestra.
Billy, perhaps, of them all, best understood. She knew that in those tripping melodies and crashing chords were Cyril's joy at the presence of Marie, his wrath at the flippancy of Bertram, his ecstasy at that for which the rug and curtains stood--the little woman sewing in the radiant circle of a shaded lamp. Billy knew that all this and more were finding voice at Cyril's finger tips. The others, too, understood in a way; but they, unlike Billy, were not in the habit of finding on a few score bits of wood and ivory a vent for their moods and fancies.
The music was softer now. The resounding chords and purling runs had become a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze of exquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, like a mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadows of its forest home.
In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertram who broke the pause with a long-drawn:
``By George!'' Then, a little unsteadily: ``If it's I that set you going like that, old chap, I'll come up and play ragtime every day!''
Cyril shrugged