KIT TUNES HIS FIDDLE
Newfoundland was not far off, and a keen northwester sang in the
_Falernian’s_ shrouds. Her lights swung with a measured heave and
green halos shone and melted in the foam that leaped about her
starboard bow. When the long rollers broke one felt the shock, but the
big engines throbbed steadily and the keen bows thrust ahead.
Sometimes a broken sea rolled across the forward well, and the spray
from the plunging forecastle beat the navigation officers keeping
dreary watch on the inclined bridge.
The _Falernian_, however, was large, and in the third-class saloon
near the water line one hardly felt the deck planks heave, and the
turmoil of the flung-back seas was dull and soothing. Benches and
chairs were occupied, and a big red ensign hung like a curtain by the
piano. The blue and white crosses reflected the electric light, and
when the flag wavered in the draft it looked as if the Beaver carried
the maple leaf across the crimson field.
A thin young man at the piano sang a song from the music-halls. His
accent was the Lancashire accent and he struck wrong notes, but his
audience was not fastidious. The passengers wanted to be amused, for
when one laughs one forgets. Kit, in the gloom behind the flag,
fingered his violin. His turn was soon, and he thought a new string
stretched.
People smiled, but he imagined the smiles were rather brave than
humorous. He saw shabby clothes, careworn faces, and bent shoulders.
In the back row a tired woman soothed a fretful child. Another leaned
against her husband and held a handkerchief to her mouth. Her face was
pinched, and Kit heard her straining cough; he doubted if the
immigration officers would allow her to land. He saw young men and
women, and some laughed, but for the most part their look was not
joyous. A number were broken by war; others had borne dreary labor and
grinding poverty. They were on board because they hoped in Canada
their luck might turn.
The strange thing was, Kit thought they heard the Old Country call. In
the morning they would see Newfoundland, and the _Falernian_ would
carry them up the St. Lawrence to the West optimistic advertisements
declared was golden. Yet one does not gladly leave all one knows, and
the stern Old Country was home.
By and by the music stopped, and a girl advanced. Kit had talked to
Alison Forsyth and he gave her a smile. He thought her attractive, but
he did not altogether know where was her charm. Although she was
short, she carried herself well, and her neck and shoulders were
strong; her hair and eyes were brown and her look was frank. Now she
was obviously nervous, and when she put some music on the stand her
color came and went. Then she turned, and tilting her head a little,
faced the audience. Although Kit saw her hand shake, her pose was
firm.
He could not fix the tinkling prelude, but he thought it was not
strange and the song was out-of-date. Then the girl began to sing, and
he looked up sharply.
“Had I the wings of a dove....”
Although her voice was not cultivated, it was musical. Her intonation
was good and she sang with feeling; in fact, Kit began to see she sang
with emotion. He thought her rash. She was young, and it looked as if
the music might break her control.
“.... I would flee, Just for to-night to my own country.”
Kit frowned and studied the groups in front. With a song like that one
could carry them away, and Alison was doing so; but it was not the
song he would have sung. Besides, he doubted if she could keep it up.
Her voice shook on a top note, her skin got very white, and although
her eyes shone they shone as if they were wet. She began another verse
falteringly, and he knew she was going to stop. One could not trust
the fellow at the piano to support her, and Kit lifted his violin.
“Go on! I’ll carry you through,” he said.
He drew the bow across the strings, and the harmonious chords gave her
confidence. For a few bars he followed the melody, and then he knew
she had got back her control, and he signed the accompanist to stop.
Alison’s voice grew clear and firm, and Kit carried her triumphantly
along. For an emigrants’ concert, she struck a risky note, but he had
gone to her rescue and he must see her out. Besides, the verses moved
him. He pictured the oaks at Netherhall, and Evelyn walking in the
shade. Her white clothes cut the gloom, and behind the trunks the
river sparkled.
Alison stopped, and for a moment all was quiet. Men looked straight in
front. Some were stern and some indulged a gentle melancholy. A woman
frankly cried. Then heavy boots beat the deck and a storm of noise
swept the saloon. The noise did not stop, and Alison, flushed and
highly strung, looked at Kit.
“No!” he said. “You mustn’t risk it yet.”
He went to the piano and struck a note, for the string had stretched.
“Miss Forsyth will sing by and by,” he said, and began to play.
Not to bother about the piano was some relief. Kit was going to
improvise and work on the reaction he knew would soon begin. Miss
Forsyth had moved the emigrants to sadness; he must move them to hope
by the marching song.
The first chords rang joyously, but the prelude sank. One heard the
pilgrims start, some distance off. Kit’s fingers were busy on the
strings, but his eyes were fixed on the rows of faces. Unless the
others heard all he heard, his effort was lost. He saw they felt for
his meaning and wondered where he led; and then the puzzled looks
began to vanish. The audience was going with him. Tired and daunted
people heard the beat of marching feet.
Perhaps Kit exaggerated, but he had feeling and talent and he let
himself go. He must banish the others’ moodiness and his own; he and
they steered West, where better fortune was, and all must push ahead.
He frankly used all the tricks he knew, but the emigrants were not
critical, and the march fired their blood. The music got loud, as if
it marked a triumphant advance, and then Kit took the fiddle from his
neck. The others went where he wanted, and he knew where to stop.
People shouted and beat the tables, but Kit vanished behind the flag,
put up his fiddle and started for the deck. At the rails by the ladder
to the forward well he stopped. The spot was high, and across the well
he saw the forecastle heave and plunge. Long, white-topped seas rolled
up from the dark, broke against the bows, and melted in foam. Spray
leaped up, blew like smoke, and beat the screens on the bridge. There
was no moon, but the stars shone, and the combers’ broken tops cut the
gloom. Kit felt the ship heave along, and to know he was going
somewhere and went fast carried a thrill. The music had braced him and
his heart beat with hope. In the West his luck would turn, and Evelyn
was stanch. He began to think about her with romantic tenderness.
After a few minutes he saw he was not alone. Somebody leaned against
the rails under a lifeboat, and he thought the figure was a girl’s.
She turned her head, and Kit advanced.
“Miss Forsyth? I thought nobody was about. Why did you not speak?”
“In the dark I didn’t know you,” Alison Forsyth replied. “Then I
rather wanted to be alone.”
Kit thought her voice trembled. Brisk steps beat the deck overhead and
he heard a woman’s careless laugh. The first-class passengers walked
about and joked, and, by contrast, the girl was forlorn.
“Oh, well,” he said, “I was going——”
“Now I do know you, you needn’t go,” Alison replied with some
embarrassment.
Kit laughed. “An unconscious compliment carries weight, and I’d rather
stay. Then, if you’re downhearted, perhaps you oughtn’t to be alone.”
“I was rather downhearted,” Alison admitted. “You see, my nerve wasn’t
all I thought. I knew I was going to be ridiculous. In a moment or two
I must have stopped; and then you came to help——”
“If you were bothered because you hesitated, you were ridiculous. Your
song was a triumph.”
“The triumph wasn’t mine, and when you played the march I was ashamed.
I felt I was afraid for nothing.”
Kit saw her mood was emotional. She was young and, so far as he knew,
she had no friends on board the crowded ship. It looked as if her
loneliness weighed, and to talk might cheer her.
“After your song, my march was perhaps a contrast, but a contrast, so
to speak, is not a contradiction. To be sad because something you
loved is gone is human; but it’s human to brace up and look for better
luck. You did brace up nobly. All the same, I didn’t play to cheer
you; I myself was doleful.”
“Ah,” said Alison, “in a way, my nearly stopping was not important,
but I thought it ominous. It looked as if I’d started on an adventure
I couldn’t carry out.”
“The adventure was your starting for Montreal?”
Alison hesitated, but her loneliness weighed, and somehow she trusted
Kit.
“Yes,” she said. “You see, I wasn’t altogether forced to go. My father
and mother are dead, but my relations in the North wanted me to join
them. Until trade got slack I was at a manufacturer’s office, and then
I couldn’t find another post. I wanted to go to Whinnyates, but I knew
if I went and helped my aunt I might stay for good. Whinnyates is a
small moorland farm.”
“But if you were not happy at Whinnyates, when business was better you
might have gone back to the town.”
“I doubt——” said Alison thoughtfully. “One is soon forgotten and one
forgets one’s job. Whinnyates, at the dalehead, is very quiet; you
only see the sheep on the fellside and the cattle by the beck. A rock
shuts in the valley and old ash-trees hide the house. At a spot like
that you get slow and perhaps you get dull. You think about the dairy
and the calves, and until dark comes work must go on. At a modern
office they do not want a girl whose back is bent by turning the
churn.”
“Have you turned a churn?”
Alison smiled. “My father was a small farmer in the bleak North. The
soil is barren and one must fight floods and storms; but somehow when
one knows the moors one does not go away. Well, I was afraid; I wanted
to be where people traffic and life is thrilling.”
“All the same, to-night you felt Whinnyates called?”
“I expect I wasn’t logical, but in summer, when the wind drops and the
fern is long, Whinnyates is a charming spot. While I sang I saw the
hills get dark and my aunt by the fire; the rough-haired dogs, and my
uncle on the oak bench. They’re kind, blunt folks. I knew they thought
about me, and I wanted to be back.”
“In some respects you are luckier than I am. I believe my relations
are glad I went. But are you joining friends in Canada?”
“I have a friend at a Manitoba town, and she thinks I might get
employment.”
“You are going to do so. So long as you’re not daunted, you’ll get all
you’d like to get.”
Alison smiled, for Kit’s talk was bracing. “You are very hopeful, but
as a rule one must be resigned to go without. For example, I wanted,
just for once, to walk about the first-class passengers’ deck.”
“Then let’s go; it’s pretty dark,” said Kit, and gave her his arm.
They went up a ladder and round the spacious deck, but the wind was
keen, and Kit steered Alison to a nook behind a boat. Two or three
people occupied the sheltered spot, and by and by a steward, carrying
a tray, came along the deck.
“Grilled sardines and toast, sir? Prawns is off,” he said to a man in
the group.
“The company doesn’t pander to our appetites,” Kit remarked to Alison.
“Do you like grilled sardines?”
The steward turned his head and Alison’s heart beat, but the adventure
was intriguing and she felt Kit would not let her down. Kit beckoned
the man.
“Two portions, please! Have you coffee?”
“Coffee’s not served after dinner. I might, perhaps——”
“Never mind; we musn’t break the rules,” said Kit. “Bring the
sardines.”
The steward went off, and when he returned he carried two plates.
Alison took her plate. Kit had banished her moodiness, and although
she doubted if she ought to agree, his ordering a first-class
passenger’s supper was something of a joke. After a time she got up,
and he put a coin on a plate.
“I’m not scrupulous about cheating a steamship company, but one ought
not to cheat a steward,” he remarked. “Then, since he reckons on
getting his tips at Montreal, he’ll speculate about our generosity,
and he may see the joke. Unless the other sees it, a joke has not much
point.”
They stole away, and at the bottom of the ladder Alison laughed.
“Your code’s elastic.”
“Oh, well,” said Kit, “I don’t know if one is justified to rob the
rich, but one ought not to rob the poor. Anyhow, in the old romantic
days it was supposed to be the rule. Now perhaps it’s out of date; but
since I’m starting off with my fiddle like the ancient minstrels, I
must play up. Well, you remarked my bluffing the steward, and the
motto is: When you undertake an adventure, you mustn’t hesitate!” They
were opposite a light, and Alison gave him a grateful look.
“Ah,” she said, “my hesitation’s gone! You gave me back the pluck I
lost. But we have stayed for some time, and you said I would sing
again.”