“I can’t play—before them,” said Guinevere, nervously.
The captain laughed. “Yes, you can; they’ll like it. Mr. Mathews said something mighty pretty about you when you came on board.”
“He didn’t—honest?” said Guinevere, blushing. “Oh, truly, Captain, I can’t play!” But even as she spoke she unbuttoned her gloves. Her accomplishment was clamoring for an exhibition, and though her spirit failed her, she twirled the piano-stool and took her seat.
[p160]
The group of men at the table, heretofore indifferent to proceedings, looked up when a thundering chord broke the stillness. A demure young girl, with gentle, brown eyes, was making a furious and apparently unwarranted attack upon the piano. Her one desire evidently was to get inside of the instrument. With insinuating persistence she essayed an entrance through the treble, and, being unable to effect it, fell upon the bass, and exhausted a couple of rounds of ammunition there. The assault on both flanks being unsuccessful, she resorted to strategy, crossing her hands and assailing each wing of the enemy from an unexpected quarter. When this move failed, she evidently became incensed, and throwing aside diplomacy, rallied all her forces, charging her artillery up to the highest note, then thundering down to the lowest, beating down the keys as fast as they dared to rise. In the midst of the carnage, when the clamor was at its height and victory seemed imminent, she [p161] suddenly paused, with one hand in air and her head gently inclined, and, tapping out two silvery bugle-notes of truce, raised the siege.
The appalling silence that ensued might have hung above a battle-field of slain and wounded. The captain bit his mustache.
“That wasn’t exactly the one I meant,” he said. “I want that little dance-tune with the jingle to it.”
Miss Gusty, disappointed and surprised at the effect which her masterpiece had failed to produce, was insisting with flushed cheeks that she could play no more, when the gentleman who was called Mr. Mathews rose from the table and came toward her. His hair and pointed beard were white, but his eyes were still young, and he looked at her while he spoke to the captain.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” he was saying in smooth, even tones, “can’t you persuade the young lady to sing something for us?”
“I never took vocal,” said Guinevere, [p162] looking at him frankly. “I’m making a specialty of instrumental.”
The gentleman looked sidewise at his companions and stroked his beard gravely. “But you do sing?” he persisted.