Evening came. Mr. Farrar drove Gertrude and Chee to the minister’s
home, and then hurried to the hotel. Everything looked favorable; the
city musicians had arrived, and the night promised to be perfect.
Gertrude was already dressed for the entertainment, but Chee still wore
her pink gingham. “Come, Chee, you won’t have any more than time,” she
urged, anxious to know the contents of a box Chee had brought. “Don’t
you want some help?”
“I’ve tried it on before,” answered the little girl, as she tugged
up-stairs with her package.
Eight o’clock drew near. The street in front of the hall was filled
with farmers’ vehicles and passing townsfolk. Inside was the important
bustle of ushers rushing to and fro, and the sound of instruments being
tuned.
As the moments passed, the throng grew dense. Fans seemed to sway the
audience back and forth. At last the curtains rose--the house was
packed.
The chorus of white-clad children lifted its voice. It was a good
chorus--the finest of which Chesterfield had ever boasted. Sadie’s
grandpa was satisfied. The village philosopher’s psychological chart
was being revealed to him. Even the doctor was elated. Beside him, sat
“Cit’zen P’liteness,” which coincidence might have been fortunate for
the boy, who more than once, in extreme excitement, choked and nearly
swallowed his gum.
The musicians did their best. The people demanded encore after encore.
It grew late. The enthusiasm lulled. Little children slept in their
parents’ arms; here and there a fretful one cried out.
A hush fell over the stage, and people waited uneasily; children became
still more impatient; the very air grew intense. A young lady near the
front was faint--it was the one with blue eyes and golden hair. Soon a
soft step was heard. All eyes were again fastened on the stage.
A small, brown-faced girl stood near the centre. She was dressed in
gay Indian clothes; her long black unbraided hair fell nearly to her
knees; bright beads were twined about her neck and arms; bare ankles
showed above wee moccasins. In one hand she carried a small red violin
and a long bow.
The people were too much interested to applaud. All strove for a better
view of the dark, flushed face before them.
Catching sight of the golden-haired young woman, the child’s lips
parted in a smile. Caressingly she put the violin under her arm, and
nodded encouragement. The white face of her friend banished, for a
moment, her own timidity.
The audience took this act of recognition to themselves, shouting and
clapping again and again. The small face grew frightened, but the sight
of a certain purple poppy, nervously bobbing among the sea of heads,
restored its bravery. The little maid tucked the instrument beneath her
chin. The confusion ceased.
[Illustration: “IT WAS AS THOUGH ALL THE PLAINTIVE STORY OF A DYING
RACE HAD BEEN STORED IN THAT LITTLE RED CASE”]
With her eyes uplifted, as though listening, she drew the bow
across the strings--first tremblingly, then lovingly, and, finally,
triumphantly. Once only her eyes lowered, sought the purple poppy,
and lifted again. With more and more feeling came the music. It was
as though all the plaintive story of a dying race had been stored in
that little red case. Their hardships and sorrows; their wild life
of the woods, the lakes, and the prairies; their weird chants and
incantations; their joys and pinings now sobbed, now sung at the touch
of small brown fingers.
Not a person stirred; even the children grew intent; for a moment the
fans were poised; breathlessly the people listened. The music ceased.
Tears were on cheeks fair and seamed.
A man appeared before the platform. It was Mr. Green, the minister.
“Our little townswoman has been requested to render, as a special
favor, that beloved melody, ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’” He spoke with
earnestness, and retired immediately.
A strange expression came over the small musician’s face, a look so
reverent, so pure, that the audience leaned forward in their seats.
With an upward, yearning glance the child began to play.
If before, the dazzling, fantastic garb of the player had blended with
the dreamy legends of her tender music, not so now; none looked at the
girl save unconsciously to watch her face. Each person felt alone in
holy communion with the music which descended as from heaven itself to
the depths of their souls.
These strains spoke not of the forest, nor of the sea. They rung out
in condemnation; they plead with tender reproachfulness; they swept
through each soul, causing it to vibrate the notes in very sympathy
with themselves, but it was always “Thou and me,” to each heart the
world was not.
The notes died away. A great sigh arose from the audience. The curtain
fell, and quietly the concourse of people dissolved. There was no
crowding, no laughter; there was little talk. As from a temple the
people passed slowly out.
“Was it the instrument? Who can tell?” The clergyman asked himself that
question. Cousin Herman asked it. Many others queried over it.
It may have been. Who can tell? Strangely enough, no one ventured to
ask the little half-breed. Had they done so, she doubtless would have
answered, in her reverent way, “It was not me. It was just Our Father,”
surely adding, “and Daddy Joe’s fiddle.”