After he had dressed and dined, he soaked his hands in hot water to make them supple, and played Beethoven till far into the night.
Martha went boldly into the room to listen, and sat in a deep chair by the fire, as was her right. But Miss Joy listened without the door, and during the Adagio from the Pathetique her hands covered her bowed face and tears came through the fingers.
Then she crept off to bed, but Martha came before she was asleep to say good-night.
"Miss Joy," she said, "it's the first time since he came that he's played; other times he's only fooled and toyed."
"Martha," said Miss Joy, "I think it's the first time that anybody ever played."
"It's what the Poor Boy does best," said Martha, "and takes the least pride in. Listen now—he's making up as he goes—there's voices—only listen—there's one that insists and one that denies—but both their hearts are breakin'—breakin' in their breasts."
Miss Joy sat straight up in bed. "Listen, Martha—there's a third voice—things are going to come right for the other two—"
Thus the two women. As for the Poor Boy, he made music because he had been to a wedding that day and knew that if he got to thinking about it alone in the dark he might get so unhappy that he would remember where he had hidden his revolver and his rifles, and get up to look for them.
He played until he was exhausted in body and mind. Then he rose from the piano, closed it gently, and went to bed. He was very sad and unhappy, but quite sane again.