"But this girl--this Maddy. There's no reason why she should decline,"
she said; and Guy replied: "Respect for her grandfather, in her case,
seems to be stronger than respect for a higher power in some other
cases."
"It's just as wicked to play for dancing as 'tis to dance," Maria
remarked impatiently, while Guy rejoined: "That is very possible; but I presume Maddy has never seen it in that
light, which makes a difference;" and the two retraced their steps to
the rooms where the gay revelers were still tripping to Maddy's
stirring music.
After several ineffectual efforts Agnes had succeeded in enticing the
doctor away from the piano, and thus there was no one near to see how
at last the bright color began to fade from her cheeks as the notes
before her ran together, and the keys assumed the form of one huge key
which Maddy could not manage. There was a blur before her eyes, a
buzzing in her ears, and just as the dancers were entering heart and
soul into the merits of a popular polka, there was a sudden pause in
the music, a crash among the keys, and a faint cry, which to those
nearest to her sounded very much like "Mr. Guy," as Maddy fell forward
with her face upon the piano. It was hard telling which carried her
from the room, the doctor or Guy, or which face of the three was the
whitest. Guy's was the most frightened, for the doctor knew she had
only fainted, while Guy, struck with the marble rigidity of the face
so recently flushed with excitement, said at first, "She's dead,"
while over him there flashed a feeling that life with Maddy dead would
be desolate indeed. But Maddy was not dead, and Guy, when he went back
to his guests carried the news that she had recovered from her faint,
which she kindly ascribed to the heat of the rooms, instead of fatigue
from playing so long. The doctor was with her and she was doing as
well as could be expected, he said, thinking within himself how he
wished they would go home, and wondering what attraction there was
there, now that Maddy's place was vacant. Guy was a vastly miserable
man by the time the last guest had bidden him good-night, and he had
heard for the hundred-and-fiftieth time what a delightful evening it
had been. Politeness required that he should look to the very last as
pleasant and unconcerned as if upstairs there were no little sick
girl, all alone undoubtedly with Dr. Holbrook, whom he mentally styled
a "lucky dog," in that he was not obliged to appear again in the
parlors unless he chose.