A wave of annoyance swept over Mary Amber’s face. It was plain she did not wish to sing that song. Nevertheless, she sang it, forgetting herself and throwing all the pathos and tenderness into her voice that belonged to the beautiful words. Then she turned from the piano decidedly, and rose. “I must go home at once,” was written in every line of her attitude. Miss Marilla rose nervously, and looked from one of her guests to the other.
“Dick, I wonder if you haven’t learned to sing.”
Her eyes were so pathetic that they stirred the young man to her service. Besides, there was something so contemptuous in the attitude of that human spirit flower standing on the wing as it were in that done-with-him-forever attitude that spurred him into a faint desire to show her what he could do.
“Why, sure!” he answered lazily, and with a stride transferred himself to the piano-stool and struck a deep, strong chord or two. Suddenly there poured forth a wondrous barytone such as was seldom heard in Purling Brook, and indeed is not common anywhere. He had a feeling that he was paying for his wonderful dinner, and must do his best. The first song that had come to his mind was a big, blustery French patriotic song; and the very spirit of the march was in its cadence. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mary Amber still poised, but waiting in her astonishment. He felt that he had already scored a point. When he came to the grand climax, she cried out with pleasure and clapped her hands. Miss Marilla had sunk into the mahogany rocker, but was sitting on the edge, alert to prolong this gala evening; and two bright spots of colorful delight shone on her faded cheeks.
He did not wait for them to ask him for another; he dashed into a minor key, and began to sing a wild, sweet, sobbing song of love and loss till Mary, entranced, softly slipped into a chair, and sat breathless with clasped hands and shining eyes. It was such an artistic, perfect thing, that song, that she forgot everything else while it was going on.
When the last sob died away, and the little parlor was silent with deep feeling, he whirled about on the piano-stool, and rose briskly.
“Now I’ve done my part, am I to be allowed to see the lady home?”
He looked at Miss Marilla instead of Mary for permission, and she smiled, half frightened.
“It isn’t necessary at all,” spoke Mary crisply, rising and going for a wrap. “It’s only a step.”
“Oh, I think so, surely!” answered Miss Marilla as if a great point of etiquette had been decided. She gave him a look of perfect trust.