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Authors: Helen Nielsen
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Bancroft?”
There didn’t seem to be any way to avoid talking. The gravel drive was deserted now. Lisa had no choice but to wait.
“I suppose everybody’s been asking you the same questions,” the girl began, “about why you’ve come to live in Bellville and all that?”
“I’ve come for rest and relaxation,” Lisa answered absently.
Why did the professor have to run off so quickly? Why couldn’t the man ever finish what he started to say?
“And research, I suppose.”
Research? Lisa looked at the girl, really looked at her for the first time. She was awfully young, but she looked bright.
“For your book on Martin Cornish,” the girl added.
“Oh,” Lisa said. “You’ve heard about that.”
Agree with thine adversary quickly. Lisa was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. The story came in pieces—a piece from the professor, a piece from Tod’s wife. Why not a piece from the girl with the pony tail?
“As a matter of fact—” she smiled at the girl. She beamed at the girl—”perhaps you can help me.”
“Me?”
“Why not? I’ll bet you’re a native of Bellville. I’ll bet you’ve lived here all of your life.”
“Well, just about.” The girl was smiling back now, briefly. “But I really don’t see how I could help you, Miss Bancroft. I only graduated from high school last year. I just don’t remember things. I’m not old enough.”
“But that’s just what I mean,” Lisa persisted. “Don’t you see, dear? The real story of Martin Cornish is what he left to the world: his music, the heritage of this festival, and now even his own child carrying on with his work. I understand that Marta Cornish is entering a piano concerto in the competition this year. To me that’s very exciting.”
The girl had followed Lisa’s words carefully, but now that wan smile she’d mustered up acquired a cynical twist.
“I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” she said. “Nothing will come of it. Nothing ever does.”
Nothing.
“She just never finishes anything.”
There must be twenty years between this girl and Ruth Graham, but for a moment they’d spoken with the same voice. But it was difficult to accept the verdict that nothing would come of Marta Cornish. Lisa couldn’t forget that girl in the tearoom. She was too vital to be written off so abruptly.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. “Don’t you think she has talent?”
The girl with the pony tail shrugged.
“I suppose so. I’m no musician. I only know that every year we hear the same story. Marta Cornish has a big deal simmering that’s going to win the award, only when award time comes she hasn’t even submitted an entry. My father calls her ‘Nydia’s dark horse.’ But then, he says, she never even gets to the wire. But don’t ask me why, Miss Bancroft. I don’t know Marta Cornish. Hardly anybody does. In school we always thought she was a snob.”
Or very lonely, Lisa thought. Or am I already prejudiced? It doesn’t necessarily follow that a gifted father has a gifted child. Bellville may be right. She may be only a spoiled brat.
But conjecture didn’t answer questions. Irritating questions tossed out at random by an irritating man.
“Even so,” she said quickly, before the girl with the pony tail caught on to who was interviewing whom, “the festival must be a thrilling affair. You’re very fortunate to live in Bellville and see it happen every year.”
“I suppose so,” the girl admitted grudgingly.
“I should think you’d have a fount of material to write about.”
“Me?”
“Well, don’t you?”
Now she’d struck a responsive chord. The young face told her that.
“I do try sometimes.”
“Of course you do, and that’s why you can help me. You understand my problem. Now suppose I were planning a novel based on Martin Cornish’s life, but instead of starting with his birth I wanted to start with the festival itself. Some great, dramatic highlight. Something—” She
There didn’t seem to be any way to avoid talking. The gravel drive was deserted now. Lisa had no choice but to wait.
“I suppose everybody’s been asking you the same questions,” the girl began, “about why you’ve come to live in Bellville and all that?”
“I’ve come for rest and relaxation,” Lisa answered absently.
Why did the professor have to run off so quickly? Why couldn’t the man ever finish what he started to say?
“And research, I suppose.”
Research? Lisa looked at the girl, really looked at her for the first time. She was awfully young, but she looked bright.
“For your book on Martin Cornish,” the girl added.
“Oh,” Lisa said. “You’ve heard about that.”
Agree with thine adversary quickly. Lisa was beginning to get the hang of this thing now. The story came in pieces—a piece from the professor, a piece from Tod’s wife. Why not a piece from the girl with the pony tail?
“As a matter of fact—” she smiled at the girl. She beamed at the girl—”perhaps you can help me.”
“Me?”
“Why not? I’ll bet you’re a native of Bellville. I’ll bet you’ve lived here all of your life.”
“Well, just about.” The girl was smiling back now, briefly. “But I really don’t see how I could help you, Miss Bancroft. I only graduated from high school last year. I just don’t remember things. I’m not old enough.”
“But that’s just what I mean,” Lisa persisted. “Don’t you see, dear? The real story of Martin Cornish is what he left to the world: his music, the heritage of this festival, and now even his own child carrying on with his work. I understand that Marta Cornish is entering a piano concerto in the competition this year. To me that’s very exciting.”
The girl had followed Lisa’s words carefully, but now that wan smile she’d mustered up acquired a cynical twist.
“I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” she said. “Nothing will come of it. Nothing ever does.”
Nothing.
“She just never finishes anything.”
There must be twenty years between this girl and Ruth Graham, but for a moment they’d spoken with the same voice. But it was difficult to accept the verdict that nothing would come of Marta Cornish. Lisa couldn’t forget that girl in the tearoom. She was too vital to be written off so abruptly.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. “Don’t you think she has talent?”
The girl with the pony tail shrugged.
“I suppose so. I’m no musician. I only know that every year we hear the same story. Marta Cornish has a big deal simmering that’s going to win the award, only when award time comes she hasn’t even submitted an entry. My father calls her ‘Nydia’s dark horse.’ But then, he says, she never even gets to the wire. But don’t ask me why, Miss Bancroft. I don’t know Marta Cornish. Hardly anybody does. In school we always thought she was a snob.”
Or very lonely, Lisa thought. Or am I already prejudiced? It doesn’t necessarily follow that a gifted father has a gifted child. Bellville may be right. She may be only a spoiled brat.
But conjecture didn’t answer questions. Irritating questions tossed out at random by an irritating man.
“Even so,” she said quickly, before the girl with the pony tail caught on to who was interviewing whom, “the festival must be a thrilling affair. You’re very fortunate to live in Bellville and see it happen every year.”
“I suppose so,” the girl admitted grudgingly.
“I should think you’d have a fount of material to write about.”
“Me?”
“Well, don’t you?”
Now she’d struck a responsive chord. The young face told her that.
“I do try sometimes.”
“Of course you do, and that’s why you can help me. You understand my problem. Now suppose I were planning a novel based on Martin Cornish’s life, but instead of starting with his birth I wanted to start with the festival itself. Some great, dramatic highlight. Something—” She
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