As he
danced, his eyes filled with a tender, luminous light. He came
closer to them all than he had been able to do before. Grant had
gone out into the kitchen.
After two or three sets had been danced, the company took seats
and could not be stirred again. So Laura and Rose disappeared for
a few moments, and returning, served strawberries and cream,
which she "just happened to have in the house."
And then William played again. His fingers, now grown more
supple, brought out clearer, firmer tones. As he played, silence fell
on these people. The magic of music sobered every face; the
women looked older and more careworn, the men slouched
sullenly in their chairs or leaned back against the wall.
It seemed to Howard as if the spirit of tragedy had entered this
house. Music had always been William's unconscious expression
of his unsatisfied desires. He was never melancholy except when
he played. Then his eyes grew somber, his drooping face full of
shadows.
He played on slowly, softly, wailing Scotch tunes and mournful
Irish songs. He seemed to find in the songs of these people, and
especially in a wild, sweet, low-keyed Negro song, some
expression for his indefinable inner melancholy.
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