THE BILLABONG DANCE
The slope beyond is green and still,
And in my dreams I dream,
The hill is like an Irish hill
Beside an Irish stream.
KENDALL.
"Don't dress to-night, if you don't mind, Cecil," said Jim, putting his
head into his cousin's room.
"Not dress?" Evening clothes were part of Cecil's training, and he kept
to them rigidly, putting on each night for dinner what Murty O'Toole,
having seen in wonder, referred to as "a quare little
cobbed-shwaller-tail jacket." He regarded with fine scorn the cheerful
carelessness of the boys where clothes were concerned. To Jim and Wally
who were generally immensely occupied until dinner-time, and more often
than not had further plans for the time following, putting on
regulation evening dress seemed a proceeding little short of lunatic;
but since Cecil "liked that sort of thing," they let him alone.
To-night, however, was different, and when Cecil repeated his query
half impatiently, Jim nodded.
"No. Didn't we tell you? It's the dance in the loft."
"Oh--don't you people ever dress for dances then?"
"Not for these dances," Jim answered. "It's the men's spree--all the
hands and their friends; and you can be jolly well certain they won't
run to dress clothes. So we make a point of not putting 'em on. Father
did one year, and felt very sorry he had."
"I don't know that I'm keen on going, anyway," said Cecil.
"Oh, I think you'd better. Dad likes us to go, and it's really rather
fun," Jim responded, patiently. "Norah's quite excited about it."
"Norah's young and enthusiastic," said Cecil.
"Oh, well, you're hardly hoary-headed yourself yet!" Jim grinned.
"Might as well be cheerful while you're alive, Cecil, 'cause you'll be
a long time dead!" He withdrew his head, shut the door with an
unconcerned bang, and his whistle died away up the corridor.
"Hang it!" said Cecil, disgustedly, looking at his forbidden garments.
"Who wants to go to a beastly servants' ball, anyhow?" He donned a dark
suit reluctantly, a little consoled in that its very recent cut would
certainly be an eye-opener to Billabong, and went down to dinner,
meeting on the way Norah, in a muslin frock, with her hair flying and
her eyes sparkling.
"Oh! I'm so glad you haven't dressed up!" said she. "It's such fun,
Cecil!--we've been helping to decorate the loft, and really you'd hardly
know it was a loft, it looks so decent. And it's so funny to see the
men; they pretend they don't care a bit, but I do believe they're quite
excited. Murty came in with a trememdous lot of ferns, and he's been
nailing them all on the wall in streaks, and he and Mick Shanahan
nearly had a fight 'cause Mick leaned against one of them and the
erection came down, and the nail tore Mick's coat. Still, it was Murty
who seemed most aggrieved! And the musicians have come out from Cunjee,
and they've been practising--they can play, too!" She paused for lack of
breath.
"What sort of music does Cunjee supply?"
"Violin and flute and a funny little piano," said Norah. "They had
quite an exciting time getting the piano up into the loft with the
block and pulley. But the music sounds very well up there. The only
trouble is old Andy Ferguson, the fencer--he's always been accustomed to
fiddle for them, and he's very crushed because we've got out these men.
Dad says he'd never have got them if he'd dreamed how disappointed old
Andy would be."
Cecil had seen Andy, who struck him as a peculiarly uninteresting old
man. That such consideration should be shown to his wishes and feelings
was a thing beyond him, and he merely stared.
"However, he's going to play the supper dances and some others," said
Norah, not noticing his silence, "so he's a bit consoled." They entered
the drawing-room at the moment, finding Jim and Wally in armchairs,
tweed clad and unusually tidy, and chafing miserably against the
tyranny of white shirts after days of soft variety. "And a big buggy
load of girls has come out from Cunjee already; and Brownie says
there's a tremendous demand for hot water for shaving from the men's
quarters, and Dave Boone came in for some mutton fat for his hair, but
she wouldn't give it to him. Now she's half sorry she didn't, 'cause
she believes he'll use the black fat they keep in the harness room;
he's so dark no one would be able to tell--from the look! Who are you
going to dance with, Cecil?"
"You, if I may," drawled Cecil.
"Why, of course, if you want to," Norah said, laughing. "But we always
dance with every one on these occasions. It's one of the sights of
one's life to see Wally leading Brownie out!"
Cecil gasped.
"And am I expected to dance with Mrs. Brown?"
"Very possibly she won't have a dance to spare you," said Wally
serenely. "Brownie's no end popular, you see. Thank goodness. I've
booked mine with her already!"
Cecil's stare spoke volumes.
"And who are your partners, Norah?"
"Any one who asks me," said that maiden promptly.
"And your father allows it?"
"Certainly he does," said Jim. "Don't get tragic, Cecil. The men on the
place are an awfully decent lot, and most of them have been here ever
so long--besides, it's their one night in the year, and they never
overstep their limits. Dad always plans this spree himself specially.
Of course, if you don't like--"
Jim stopped short, and bit his tongue. It had suddenly occurred to him
that he was host--and he had nearly said something rude. So he whistled
vaguely, and asked Wally if he were going to dance with Lee Wing, who
was the Chinese gardener.
"Wish I could get the chance," said Wally, his eyes twinkling. "Think
of piloting fat old Lee Wing through a polka--he'd get so beautifully
puffed, and his pigtail would wave in the breeze, and he'd be such an
armful!"
"Do you mean to say that Chow comes, too?" queried Cecil.
"No; he's shy," Wally answered. "We've tried to get him, but in vain;
he prefers to go to bed and dream of China. And Billy hangs about like
a black ghost, but he won't come in. So we lose a lot of international
enjoyment; but, even so, what's left is pretty good, itsn't it, Norah?"
"I love it," said Norah.
"And you don't get any of your own friends to come? It seems to me the
queerest arrangement," said Cecil.
"It's the men's dance, don't you see? There wouldn't be much fun for
them if the place were filled up with our friends."
"Well, I should think a few of your own sort would be better. Aren't
there any girls or boys within reach that you know? I suppose you've a
juvenile sweetheart or two in the district?"
Norah looked at him blankly. Wally gave an expressive wriggle in his
chair, and Jim sat up suddenly, with a flush on his brown face.
"We never talk that sort of rot here," he said angrily. "Norah's not a
town girl, and her head isn't full of idiotic, silly bosh. I'll thank
you--"
Mr. Linton came in at the moment, and the point on which Jim intended
to express his gratitude remained unuttered. Cecil had reddened
wrathfully, and the general atmosphere was electric. Mr. Linton took,
apparently, no notice. He pulled Norah's hair gently as he passed her.
"You're all remarkably spruce," he commented. "Can any one tell me why
almost every maid I have met in my house this day turns and flees as
though I were the plague? Sarah is the only one who doesn't shun me,
and her mind appears to be taken up with affairs of State, for I asked
her twice if she had seen my tobacco pouch, and she brought me in
response a jug of shaving water, for which I have had no use for some
time!" He laughed, stroking his iron-grey beard. "Can you explain the
mystery, Norah?"
"It's easy," said his daughter. "Sarah's hair has a natural friz, so
she's the only girl in the house without curling pins concealed--more or
less--in her front hair. Brownie gave permission for the pins to-day; I
guess she thinks it would give Sarah an unfair start if she didn't!"
"But the shaving water?"
"Ah, well, I expect Fred Anderson wanted that. She's engaged to him,
you know," said Norah, simply.
"Well, I hardly see why she should give me his shaving water, either
from Anderson's point of view or mine; but I suppose it's all right,"
said Mr. Linton. "The whole place is upset. I really wanted some work
done, but the men who should have been sinking a well were tacking up
ferns, and those whose mission in life is--or ought to be--hoeing out
ragwort were putting French chalk on the floor of my loft! Judging from
my brief inspection, it seemed to me that the latter occupation was far
more strenuous than the ragwort job; but they seemed much happier than
usual, and were working overtime without a struggle!"
"To hear you talk so patiently," quoth Norah, "no one would imagine
that you'd bought the French chalk yourself!" She perched on the arm of
his chair, and looked at him severely, while the boys laughed.
"The men are like a lot of kids to-day," Jim said. "Did you hear about
old Lee Wing, Dad? He was standing under the block and pulley after
they'd hoisted up the piano, and I expect the sight of the hook on the
end of the dangling rope was too much for the men, for they slipped it
through Wing's leather belt and hauled him up too! You should have seen
him, with his pigtail dangling, kicking at the end of the rope like the
spider in 'Little Miss Muffet!' They landed him in the loft, and Fred
Anderson insisted on waltzing with him, while one of the musicians
hammered out The Merry Widow on the piano. Poor old Wing was very wild
at first, but they got him laughing finally."
"Why that long-suffering Chinaman stays here is always a mystery to
me," said his father, laughing. "He's the butt of the whole place; but
he fattens on it."
"There's the dinner gong!" said Norah, jumping up. "Come on, gentlemen,
we've to hurry to-night, so that the girls can get free early."
The loft over the stables, which had been built with a view to such
occasions, was quite transformed when the house party entered it a
couple of hours later. The electric light--Billabong had its own plant
for lighting--had been extended to the loft, and gleamed down on a
perfect bower of green--bracken and coral ferns, the tender foliage of
young sapling tops, Christmas bush, clematis and tall reeds from the
lagoon--the latter gathered by Jim and Wally during their morning bathe.
Rough steps had been improvised to lead from outside up to the main
door of the loft, over which still dangled from the block and pulley
the rope that had suspended the irate Lee Wing earlier in the day. It
was also possible to enter by the usual method--a trapdoor in the floor
over a ladder leading from the floor below; but this was considered by
the men scarcely suitable for their partners. All traces of its usual
contents had, of course, been removed from the big room, and the floor
gleamed in the light, mute evidence of the ardour with which Mr.
Linton's French chalk had been applied. At one end, near the railing
guarding the trapdoor, the Cunjee musicians were stationed, and close
to them a queer old figure hovered--old Andy Ferguson, gnarled and
knotted and withered; Irish, for all his Scotch name, and with his old
blue eyes full of Irish fire at the thought of "a spree." He held his
old fiddle tenderly as he might hold a child; it, too, was the worse
for wear, and showed in more than one place traces of repair; but when
Andy wielded the bow its tones were just as mellow to him as the finest
instrument on earth. He kept a jealous eye on the Cunjee men; they
might oust him for most of the night, but at least his was to be the
old privilege of opening the ball. "The Boss" had said so.
The homestead men had lined up near the door to receive their
guests--to-night they were hosts to Mr. Linton and his children, as to
every one else. They were a fine lot of fellows--Murty O'Toole, and Mick
Shanahan, the horse breaker, and Willis and Blake and Burton--all long
and lean and hard, with deep-set, keen eyes and brown, thin faces;
Evans, who was supposed to be over-seer, and important enough to arrive
late; younger fellows, like Fred Anderson and David Boone (the latter's
hair suspiciously smooth and shiny); Hogg, the dour old man who ruled
the flower garden and every one but Norah; and a sprinkling of odd
rouseabouts and boys, very sleek and well brushed, in garments of
varying make, low collars, and the tie the bushman loves "for
best"--pale blue satin, with what Wally termed "jiggly patterns" on it.
Of the same type were the guests--men from other stations, cocky farmers
and a very small sprinkling of township men.
The ladies kept rigidly on arrival to the other side of the loft. There
was Mrs. Brown, resplendent in a puce silk dress that Norah remembered
from her earliest childhood, with a lace cap of monumental structure
topped by a coquettish bow of pale pink ribbon. Her kind old face
beamed on every one. Close to her, very meek under her sheltering wing,
were Sarah and Mary, the housemaids--very gay in papery silks, pink and
green, with much adornment of wide yellow lace. Norah had helped to
dress them both, and she smiled delightedly at them as she came in.
There was Mrs. Willis, who ruled over the men's hut, and was reckoned,
as a cook, only inferior to Mrs. Brown; and Joe Burton's pretty wife,
in a simple white muslin--with no doubt in big Joe's heart, as he looked
at her, as to who was the belle of the ball. Then, girls and women from
that vague region the bush calls "about," in mixed attire--from flannel
blouses and serge skirts, to a lady who hurt the eye it looked at, and
made the lights seem pale, in her gorgeous gown of mustard-coloured
velveteen, trimmed with knots of cherry-coloured ribbon. They came
early, with every intention of staying late, and cheerfully certain of
a good time. The Billabong ball was an event for which an invitation
was much coveted.
Norah kept close to her father's wing, as they entered, shaking hands
gravely with the men by the door, and with Mrs. Brown--which latter
proceeding she privately considered a joke. The boys followed; Jim
quiet and pleasant; Wally favouring Murty O'Toole with a solemn wink,
and Cecil plainly bored by the little ceremony. He let his fingers lie
in each man's hand languidly--and would probably have been injured had
he seen Murty wipe his hand carefully on the side of his trousers after
he had passed on. The men had no love for the city boy.
"S'lect y'r partners!" It was Dave Boone, most noted "M.C."--in demand
at every ball in the district. Dave knew what he was about, and saw
that other people understood the fact; no shirking when he was in
command, no infringement of rules, no slip-shod dancing. Even as he
kept his eagle eye on the throng, he "selected" one of the prettiest
girls himself, and bore her to the head of the room. There was never
any doubt of Dave's generalship.
Cecil turned to Norah.
"May I have this?"
"Sorry," Norah said, "I always dance with Jim first."
"P'f!" said Cecil, lightly. "That old brother-and-sister idea is
exploded."
"Not with Jimmy and me," Norah answered. "Why don't you ask Mary? She
can dance awfully well."
"No, thank you," said Cecil, with elevated nose. "I'll watch."
Wally had approached Mrs. Brown, and bowed low.
"Ours, I think?"
"Now, Master Wally, me dancin' days are over," said Brownie. "Go an'
get one of the girls, now, dearie, do!"
"A girl!--when I can get you?" Wally ejaculated. "Not much!" He tucked
her hand into his arm and led her off in triumph.
"Promen-ayde y'r partners!"
Dave turned and nodded to Andy Ferguson, who, with fiddle tucked
lovingly under his chin, was waiting for his signal. He broke into a
march--the time a little shaky, the tune a little old, for the hand that
held the bow was old and shaky, too; but still a march, with a swing to
it that set the feet going at once. The dancers promenaded round the
room in a long procession, led proudly by Wally and Mrs. Brown. At one
end a few men, disappointed in obtaining partners, clustered by the
wall; near them stood Mr. Linton, watching in his grave, pleasant way
that was so like Jim's, with Cecil at his elbow, his delicate face dull
and expressionless. Round and round marched the couples.
"Circular waltz, please!"
The music swung into a waltz without a break, and simultaneously the
march broke into the dance as every man seized his partner by the waist
and began to revolve solemnly and silently. Cecil gaped.
"What on earth is a circular waltz?"
"Blest if I know for certain," replied his uncle, laughing. "Much like
any other waltz--but you mustn't use the middle of the floor. Watch
young Boone."
Dave was keeping an eagle eye on the dancers. For the most part they
were content to gyrate near the wall; but should any more daring couple
approach the unoccupied space in the middle of the room, they were
instantly detected and commanded to return. As Cecil looked, Wally, who
was dancing with a broad grin of sheer happiness on his face, swung his
ponderous partner right across the centre--and was greeted by the
vigilant M.C. with the stern injunction--"Keep circle!" Quite oblivious
that this outbreak had anything to do with him, while Mrs. Brown,
feeling the most miserable of sinners, was far too breathless to
explain, Wally presently repeated his offence, whereupon Boone pulled
him up gravely, and pointed out his enormity to him. The culprit
grinned the more widely, promised amendment, nodded vigorously, and
danced off, Mrs. Brown remaining speechless throughout. Mr. Linton
smothered a laugh in his beard.
Presently the music came to an end. Old Andy put his fiddle down and
looked along the loft with a happy little smile. The dancers stopped,
and Mr. Boone's voice rose sonorously.
"Seats, please!"
At this, each man rushed with his partner to the side of the loft
previously tenanted by the ladies, and deposited her on the long forms
ranged there. Then the men retreated hastily to the other side.
There was no conversation, nor had there been any through the dance. It
seemed that the poetry of motion must suffice for enjoyment.
Norah and Jim, who had been dancing vigorously, pulled up near the
others.
"Did you see me get hauled over the coals?" asked Wally gleefully. He
had placed Mrs. Brown on a seat, and followed the example of his sex in
retreating.
"Rather--we were in fits, behind you!" said Jim. "Was Dave cross?"
"Oh, quite mild; took my assurance that I didn't know I was sinning,
and forgave me like a man and a brother. And why shouldn't a fellow
cross that floor?"
"Goodness knows; but it's a rule. They dance very strictly, and in many
ways more correctly than we do."
"There are two lovely couples," said Wally, gleefully. "They hold each
other firmly round the neck, and they revolve on the space of a
threepenny bit. It's beautiful. May I try that way with you, Norah?"
"No, you mayn't," laughed Norah; "at least, not here. They might think
we were imitating them."
"Curious penetration on their parts!" rejoined Wally. "Well, can you
tell me why lots of the men hold one arm behind their backs?"
"In my young days that was quite ordinary," Mr. Linton put in. "I
always danced that way--and I was remarkably run after," he added,
modestly. Whereat Wally meekly assured him that he thought the practice
a highly desirable one, and had serious thoughts of adopting it
himself.
"I've been looking at the programme nailed up for the musicians," said
Cecil. "There are some dances I never saw--Varsoviana, Circassian
Circle, and Caledonians."
"In the Varsoviana," said Mr. Linton, retrospectively, "I used to
shine."
"Well, they beat US," said his son. "We can't dance 'em; but we look
on. The first two are round dances, and the Caledonians is a square. I
suppose they'd be all right, only they're not taught now."
"And there are no two-steps," said Cecil, in a tone of personal injury.
Jim laughed outright.
"It'd be so much simpler for you if you'd remember you're at what's
commonly known as 'a bush hop'," he said. "You can't expect the last
adornments of a city spree. Anyway, they get more honest fun out of
this than most people do at a Melbourne or Sydney ball."
Cecil looked patient.
"May I have the next dance, Norah?"
"I'm sorry, truly, Cecil, but I've promised it to Murty."
"Oh!" said Cecil. "The next?"
"That's Mick Shanahan's," said Norah, laughing. "But you may have the
one after that if you like."
"I must be thankful for small mercies, I suppose," said he,
unthankfully.
"Won't you dance with any one else?"
"No, thanks, I don't care to." The tone was final.
"Well, I'm going to collar Sarah or die!" said Wally, manfully. "I'll
probably die, anyway, 'cause Fred has his eye on her. Still, here
goes!"
The musicians gave a preliminary blast, on which followed a shout from
the M.C.
"Select y'r partners for the lancers!"
At the word there was a general stampede. Youths who had been timid
before, grown bolder now, dashed towards the long row of girls. Where
more than one arrived simultaneously, there was no argument; the man
who failed to speak first shot off to find another damsel. In a moment
every available fair one had been secured firmly, and the dancers
awaited further commands.
Wally had not waited for permission from Mr. Boone. At the first sound
of the music he had darted towards Sarah, arriving beside the lady with
"the natural friz" a yard in front of Fred Anderson.
It was not etiquette to refuse to dance, and the fact that he was "the
Boss's" guest, if only a boy, carried weight. Sarah rose, with a rueful
glance at her disappointed swain. The two disconsolate faces moved
Wally to compassion.
"I say--I'm awfully sorry," he said. "'Fraid I got ahead of you
unfairly, Fred--perhaps you'll excuse me this time, Sarah? You don't
mind? Well, you'll give me the next, won't you? Thanks, awfully." He
relinquished her to the beaming Fred, and returned, partnerless, to Mr.
Linton and Cecil.
Then it was a marvellous sight to behold young Dave Boone! With Mrs.
Brown on his arm, he "took the floor" at the head of the room, seeing
that the dancers were correctly sorted out in sets; and thence
proceeded to dance and instruct the room simultaneously, in a manner
truly amazing. With what agility did he "set to partner" and "swing
corner," with his eagle eye all the time scanning the sets to make sure
no one mixed up the commands!--how ably bear his part in "First lady and
second gent.," not even put out of step by the necessity of telling the
further end of the room that it was going wrong!--how splendidly issue
the edict to "chassee-crossee" and "gent. solo," finding time, even in
the press of his double occupation, to propel his panting partner in
the way she should go! His voice rang out over the room, indicating
each figure as it came--there was no excuse for making any mistake in a
square dance when Mr. Boone was in command. And all the while he danced
with a wholehearted energy and a face of absolute gravity. No one,
watching him, could have possibly imagined that this was a pastime.
"I've seen Boone looking infinitely more cheerful when fighting a bush
fire!" said Mr. Linton.
"Talk about a conjurer!" was Cecil's astonished comment. "I never saw
one man do so many things at once!"
The music ceased at last, and the "Seats, please!" marked the temporary
termination of the labours of the M.C. Murty brought Norah back to her
father, thanked her gravely, and made off.
"What happened to you, Wally?" queried Jim, restoring a blushing damsel
in blue to her form and rejoining his relations. "Did Sarah turn you
down?"
"I resigned gracefully in favour of Fred," Wally said. "He looked
murderous, and Sarah looked woe-begone, so it seemed the best plan. But
she's mine for the next--and ill befall the caitiff that disputes my
claim!"
"No one'd dare!" said Jim, hastily. "I'm after Brownie, myself."
"Ah, Jim, be steady with her," said Norah. "It's a polka!"
"I'll be steady as old Time," Jim told her, smiling. True to his
promise, when the music began he danced mildly and moderately, and
Brownie emerged from the ordeal in far better order than might have
been expected.
After that the evening flew. Dance after dance went by in rapid
succession--for the guests were out to dance, and where no time is
wasted in talking much may be done with a few hours. Cecil steadfastly
declined any partner but Norah, and as that maiden had no mind to spare
him more than two, his evening was dull, since his sense of humour was
not equal to finding any fun in the entertainment. He was the object of
considerable curiosity among the visitors, and was generally voted
"stuck-up," and "too big for his boots." As for Jim and Wally, they
flung themselves cheerfully into the business of the night, and even
succeeded in making most of their partners talk, albeit this was a
daring proceeding, and not looked upon with favour by the M.C. They
were too popular, however, to come in for any real criticism, and being
regarded by the majority of the men as "just kids," were allowed to do
very much as they liked.
Supper was a majestic meal, spread on long tables in a big tent. Mr.
Linton led the way to it with Mrs. Brown, followed by Mick Shanahan,
who conveyed Norah much in the way he danced with her--as if she were a
piece of eggshell china, and apt to crack with careless handling. There
was no "head of the table"; every one sat in the place that seemed
good, and tongues flew as fast as the knives and forks. At the end Mr.
Linton made a little speech.
"My friends," he said, "it's a great pleasure to Billabong to see you
all here. I hope you'll keep it up till morning, and come again next
year; you're always welcome. However, it is time my daughter went to
bed." (Dissent, and cries of "Not her!") "Before she goes, though, I
would like to see one more dance. I move that our old friend Andy
Ferguson play the 'Royal Irish.'"
There was frantic applause, and supper adjourned hastily, while every
one hurried back to the loft; in the midst old Andy, his quavering
voice a little raised in excitement, his fiddle held firmly in one
hand. "Too old to work," some called him, wondering why David Linton
kept the old fencer, when younger men were always wanting work on
Billabong; and now, as he faced the long room with his faded blue eyes
a little misty, Andy looked an old man indeed. But the pride of work
was in him, and his master knew it--knew how the gnarled hands ceased to
tremble when they grasped the adze and mattock, just as there was now
no quiver in them as he raised the brown fiddle and cuddled it under
his chin. Age would seize on Andy only when he could work and play no
more. The light came back into his eyes as he saw the boys and girls
waiting for the music--his music.
He drew the bow lovingly across the strings, and swung into the Irish
dance the old, common tune with the little gay lilt to it that grips
the heart and makes the feet beat time, and has the power to wake old
memories across the years. There were no memories to wake in the happy
young hearts in the loft at Billabong that night. But Andy looked over
the heads of the dancers at his master, meeting his eyes as man to man,
and each knew that the mind of the other had gone back to days long
dead.
The long floor echoed under the dancers' feet--up and down, swing in the
centre, hands across; the pace was always a good one when Andy Ferguson
played the "Royal Irish." One foot tapped out the time, and his grey
head nodded in sympathy with it. They called to him now and again,
"Bravo, Andy! Good man, Andy! Keep it going!" and he smiled at the
friendly voices, watching them with the keenness of the Irishman for a
light foot in a dance.
Just before him, Mrs. Brown, dancing with Jim, was footing it in and
out of the figures like a girl, holding her skirts quaintly on either
side as she advanced and retired, and came back to sweep a curtsey that
shamed the quick bow of the younger generation, while the tall lad she
had nursed waited for her with a grave gentleness that sat prettily on
his broad shoulders. Near, too, the old man's eyes dwelt lovingly on
Norah, whose eyes were dancing in time with her feet as Wally pranced
her madly up and down, his own brown face glowing.... just for a moment
Andy saw "the little mistress" who had known her baby for so brief a
time fourteen years before; her face looked at him through her child's
grey eyes. He looked across at his master again, a little wistfully.
The tune broke into "St. Patrick's Day," and Murty O'Toole gave a
sudden involuntary shout, his hand above his head, Mick Shanahan echoed
it; the Irish music was in their blood, and the old man with the brown
fiddle had power to make them boys again. He, too, had gone back on the
lilt of the tune; back to his own green country, where the man with the
fiddle has his kingdom always, and the lads and lasses are his
subjects. There was a girl with blue Irish eyes, coming to meet him on
St. Patrick's morning... the tune wavered ever so little then, as his
heart cried out to her. Then the dream passed, and he knew that he was
a boy no more, but old Andy Ferguson, playing for the boys and girls in
the loft at Billabong. The bow moved faster and faster yet--only a good
pair could see him right through the "Royal Irish." They were panting
when he dropped his hand at last and stood looking at them a little
vaguely. Then they crowded round him, thanking him. Even the Cunjee
musicians were saying that he could beat them all, and Miss Norah had
put her hand into his, and was patting his arm. There was a mist before
him--he could not see them all, though he knew his triumph.
"'Tis wid the kindness of all of y'," he murmured. "So good to me y'
all are!"
David Linton's hand was on his shoulder.
"Come on, old friend," he said, gently; "we're getting old and we're
tired, you and I." He led him away, Norah still holding his hand.
Behind them the music broke out again, cheerily, and the flying feet
made the loft echo until the dawn.