ROSIN THE BEAU.
The afternoon light was falling soft and sweet, as an old man came
slowly along the road that led to the village. He was tall and thin,
and he stooped as he walked,--not with the ordinary round-shouldered
slouch, but with a one-sided droop, as if he had a habit of bending
over something. His white hair was fancifully arranged, with a curl
over the forehead such as little boys used to wear; his brown eyes
were bright and quick as a bird's, and like a bird's, they glanced
from side to side, taking in everything. He carried an oblong black
box, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate look
from time to time. As he approached the village, his glances became
more and more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend in
every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; he
nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time.
"Getting on now," he said to himself. "Here's the big rose-bush she
was sitting under, the last time I came along. Nobody here now; but
she'll be coming directly, up from the ground or down from the sky, or
through a hole in the sunset. Do you remember how she caught her
little gown on that fence-rail?" He bent over, and seemed to address
his violin. "Sat down and took out her needle and thread, and mended
it as neat as any woman; and then ran her butterfly hands over me, and
found the hole in my coat, and called me careless boy, and mended
that. Yes, yes; Rosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. Old
Rosin remembers. There's the turn; now it's getting time for to be
playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction along the road
before us. Hey?"
He sat down under a spreading elder-bush, and proceeded to open his
violin-case. Drawing out the instrument with as much care as if he
were a mother taking her babe from the cradle, he looked it all over
with anxious scrutiny, scanning every line and crack, as the mother
scans face and hands and tiny curled-up feet. Finding all in order, he
wiped it with a silk handkerchief (the special property of the
instrument; a cotton one did duty for himself), polished it, and tuned
it, and polished again. "Must look well, my beauty," he murmured;
"must look well. Not a speck of dust but she'd feel it with those
little fingers, you know. Ready now? Well, then, speak up for your
master; speak, voice of my heart! 'A welcome for Rosin the Beau.' Ask
for it, Music!"
Do people still play "Rosin the Beau," I wonder? I asked a violinist
to play it to me the other day, and he had never heard of the tune. He
played me something else, which he said was very fine,--a fantasia in
E flat, I think it was; but I did not care for it. I wanted to hear
"Rosin the Beau," the cradle-song of the fiddle,--the sweet, simple,
foolish old song, which every "blind crowder" who could handle a
fiddle-bow could play in his sleep fifty years ago, and which is now
wellnigh forgotten. It is not a beautiful air; it may have no merit at
all, musically speaking; but I love it well, and wish I might hear it
occasionally instead of the odious "Carnival of Venice," which
tortures my ears and wastes my nervous system at every concert where
the Queen of Instruments holds her court.
The old man took up his fiddle, and laid his cheek lovingly against
it. A moment he stood still, as if holding silent commune with the
spirit of music, the tricksy Ariel imprisoned in the old wooden case;
then he began to play "Rosin the Beau." As he played, he kept his eyes
fixed on the bend of the road some rods ahead, as if expecting every
moment to see some one appear from the direction of the village.
"I've travelled this country all over,
And now to the next I must go;
But I know that good quarters await me,
And a welcome for Rosin the Beau."
As he played, with bold but tender touch, the touch of a master, round
the corner a figure came flying,--a child's figure, with hair all
afloat, and arms wide-opened. The old man's face lightened, softened,
became transfigured with joy and love; but he said no word, only
played steadily on.
"Rosin!" cried Melody, stopping close before him, with outstretched
arms. "Stop, Rosin; I want to kiss you, and I am afraid of hurting
her. Put her down, do you hear?" She stamped her foot imperiously, and
the old man laid the fiddle down and held out his arms in turn.
"Melody," he said tenderly, taking the child on his knee,--"little
Melody, how are you? So you heard old Rosin, did you? You knew the old
man was here, waiting for his little maid to come and meet him, as she
always has. Where were you, Melody? Tell me, now. I didn't seem to
hear you till just as you came to the corner; I didn't, now."
"I was down by the heater-piece," said the child. "I went to look for
wild strawberries, with Aunt Vesta. I heard you, Rosin, the moment you
laid your bow across her; but Aunt Vesta said no, she knew it was all
nonsense, and we'd better finish our strawberries, anyhow. And then I
heard that you wondered why I didn't come, and that you wanted me, and
I kissed Auntie, and just flew. You heard how fast I was coming, when
you did hear me; didn't you, Rosin dear?"
"I heard," said the old man, smoothing her curls back. "I knew you'd
come, you see, jewel, soon as you could get here. And how are the good
ladies, hey; and how are you yourself?--though I can tell that by
looking at you, sure enough."
"Do I look well?" asked the child, with much interest. "Is my hair
very nice and curly, Rosin, and do my eyes still look as if they were
real eyes?" She looked up so brightly that any stranger would have
been startled into thinking that she could really see.
"Bright as dollars, they are," assented the old man. "Dollars? no,
that's no name for it. The stars are nearest it, Melody. And your
hair--"
"My hair is like sweet Alice's," said the child, confidently,--"sweet
Alice, whose hair was so brown. I promised Auntie Joy we would sing
that for her, the very next time you came, but I never thought you
would be here to-day, Rosin.
'Where have you been, my long, long love, this seven long years and
more?'
That's a ballad, Rosin; Doctor taught it to me. It is a beauty, and
you must make me a tune for it. But where _have_ you been?"
"I've been up and down the earth," the old man replied,--"up and down
the earth, Melody. Sometimes here and sometimes there. I'd feel a call
here, and I'd feel a call there; and I seemed to be wanted, generally,
just in those very places I'd felt called to. Do you believe in calls,
Melody?"
"Of course I do," replied the child, promptly. "Only all the people
who call you can't get you, Rosin, 'cause you'd be in fifty pieces if
they did." She laughed joyously, throwing her head back with the
birdlike, rapturous motion which seemed the very expression of her
nature.
The old fiddler watched her with delight. "You shall hear all my
stories," he said; "everything you shall hear, little Melody; but here
we are at the house now, and I must make my manners to the ladies."
He paused, and looked critically at his blue coat, which, though
threadbare, was scrupulously clean. He flecked some imaginary dust
from his trousers, and ran his hand lightly through his hair, bringing
the snowy curl which was the pride of his heart a little farther over
his forehead. "Now I'll do, maybe," he said cheerfully. "And sure
enough, there's Miss Vesta in the doorway, looking like a China rose
in full bloom." He advanced, hat in hand, with a peculiar sliding
step, which instantly suggested "chassez across to partners."
"Miss Vesta, I hope your health's good?"
Miss Vesta held out her hand cordially. "Why, Mr. De Arthenay,
[Footnote: Pronounced Dee arthenay] is this you?" she cried. "This is
a pleasure! Melody was sure it was you, and she ran off like a
will-o'-the-wisp, when I could not hear a sound. But I'm very glad to
see you. We were saying only yesterday how long a time it was since
you'd been here. Now you must sit down, and tell us all the news.
Stop, though," she added, with a glance at the vine-clad window;
"Rejoice would like to see you, and hear the news too. Wait a moment,
Mr. De Arthenay! I'll go in and move her up by the window, so that she
can hear you."
She hastened into the house; and in a few minutes the blinds were
thrown back, and Miss Rejoice's sweet voice was heard, saying,
"Good-day, Mr. De Arthenay. It is always a good day that brings you."
The old man sprang up from his seat in the porch, and made a low bow
to the window. "It's a treat to hear your voice, Miss Rejoice, so it
is," he said heartily. "I hope your health's been pretty good lately?
It seems to me your voice sounds stronger than it did the last time I
was here."
"Oh, I'm very well," responded the invalid, cheerfully. "Very well, I
feel this summer; don't I, Vesta? And where have you been, Mr. De
Arthenay, all this time? I'm sure you have a great deal to tell us.
It's as good as a newspaper when you come along, we always say."
The old fiddler cleared his throat, and settled himself comfortably in
a corner of the porch, with Melody's hand in his. Miss Vesta produced
her knitting; Melody gave a little sigh of perfect content, and
nestled up to her friend's side, leaning her head against his
shoulder.
"Begin to tell now, Rosin," she said. "Tell us all that you know."
"Tell you everything," he repeated thoughtfully. "Not all, little
Melody. I've seen some things that you wouldn't like to hear
about,--things that would grieve your tender heart more than a little.
We will not talk about those; but I have seen bright things too, sure
enough. Why, only day before yesterday I was at a wedding, over in
Pegrum; a pretty wedding it was too. You remember Myra Bassett, Miss
Vesta?"
"To be sure I do," replied Miss Vesta. "She married John Andrews, her
father's second cousin once removed. Don't tell me that Myra has a
daughter old enough to be married: Or is it a son? either way, it is
ridiculous."
"A daughter!" said the old man,--"the prettiest girl in Pegrum. Like a
ripe chestnut, more than anything. Two lads were in love with her;
there may have been a dozen, but these two I know about. One of
them--I'll name no names, 'tis kinder not--found that she wanted to
marry a hero (what girl does not?), so he thought he would try his
hand at heroism. There was a picnic this spring, and he hired a boy
(or so the boy says--it may be wicked gossip) to upset the boat she
was in, so that he, the lover, might save her life. But, lo and
behold! he was taken with a cramp in the water, and was almost
drowned, and the second lover jumped in, and saved them both. So she
married the second (whom she had liked all along), and then the boy
told his story."
"Miserable sneak!" ejaculated Miss Vesta. "To risk the life of the
woman he pretended to love, just to show himself off."
"Still, I am sorry for him!" said Miss Rejoice, through the window.
(Miss Rejoice was always sorry for wrongdoers, much sorrier than for
the righteous who suffered. _They_ would be sure to get good out of
it, she said, but the poor sinners generally didn't know how.) "What
did he do, poor soul?"
"He went away!" replied the fiddler. "Pegrum wouldn't hold him; and
the other lad was a good shot, and went about with a shot-gun. But I
was going to tell you about the wedding."
"Of course!" cried Melody. "What did the bride wear? That is the most
important part."
De Arthenay cleared his throat, and looked grave. He always made a
point of remembering the dresses at weddings, and was proud of the
accomplishment,--a rare one in his sex.
"Miss Andrews--I beg her pardon, Mrs. Nelson--had on a white muslin
gown, made quite full, with three ruffles round the skirt. There was
lace round the neck, but I cannot tell you what kind, except that it
was very soft and fine. She had white roses on the front of her gown,
and in her hair, and pink ones in her cheeks; her eyes were like brown
diamonds, and she had little white satin slippers, for all the world
like Cinderella. They were a present from her Grandmother Anstey, over
at Bow Mills. Her other grandmother, Mrs. Bowen, gave her the dress,
so her father and mother could lay out all they wanted to on the
supper; and a handsome supper it was. Then after supper they danced.
It would have done your heart good, Miss Vesta, to see that little
bride dance. Ah! she is a pretty creature. There was another young
woman, too, who played the piano. Kate, they called her, but I don't
know what her other name was. Anyway, she had an eye like black
lightning stirred up with a laugh, and a voice like the 'Fisherman's
Hornpipe.'"
He took up his fiddle, and softly, delicately, played a few bars of
that immortal dance. It rippled like a woman's laugh, and Melody
smiled in instant sympathy.
"I wish I had seen her," she cried. "Did she play well, Rosin?"
"She played so that I knew she must be either French or Irish!" the
fiddler replied. "No Yankee ever played dance-music in that fashion; I
made bold to say to her, as we were playing together, 'Etes-vous
compatriote?'
"'More power to your elbow,' said she, with a twinkle of her eye, and
she struck into 'Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning.' I took it up,
and played the 'Marseillaise,' over it and under it, and round
it,--for an accompaniment, you understand, Melody; and I can tell you,
we made the folks open their eyes. Yes; she was a fine young lady, and
it was a fine wedding altogether.
"But I am forgetting a message I have for you, ladies. Last week I was
passing through New Joppa, and I stopped to call on Miss Lovina Green;
I always stop there when I go through that region. Miss Lovina asked
me to tell you--let me see! what was it?" He paused, to disentangle
this particular message from the many he always carried, in his
journeyings from one town to another. "Oh, yes, I remember. She wanted
you to know that her Uncle Reuel was dead, and had left her a thousand
dollars, so she should be comfortable the rest of her days. She
thought you'd be glad to know it."
"That is good news!" exclaimed Miss Vesta, heartily. "Poor Lovina! she
has been so straitened all these years, and saw no prospect of
anything better. The best day's work Reuel Green has ever done was to
die and leave that money to Lovina."
"Why, Vesta!" said Miss Rejoice's soft voice; "how you do talk!"
"Well, it's true!" Miss Vesta replied. "And you know it, Rejoice, my
dear, as well as I do. Any other news in Joppa, Mr. De Arthenay? I
haven't heard from over there for a long time."
"Why, they've been having some robberies in Joppa," the old man
said,--"regular burglaries. There's been a great excitement about it.
Several houses have been entered and robbed, some of money, others of
what little silver there was, though I don't suppose there is enough
silver in all New Joppa to support a good, healthy burglar for more
than a few days. The funny part of it is that though I have no house,
I came very near being robbed myself."
"You, Rosin?"
"You, Mr. De Arthenay? Do tell us!"
Melody passed her hand rapidly over the old man's face, and then
settled back with her former air of content, knowing that all was
well.
"You shall hear my story," the old man said, drawing himself up, and
giving his curl a toss. "It was the night I came away from Joppa. I
had been taking tea with William Bradwell's folks, and stayed rather
late in the evening, playing for the young folks, singing old songs,
and one thing and another. It was ten o'clock when I said good-night
and stepped out of the house and along the road. 'T was a fine night,
bright moonlight, and everything shining like silver. I'd had a
pleasant evening, and I felt right cheered up as I passed along,
sometimes talking a bit to the Lady, and sometimes she to me; for I'd
left her case at the house, seeing I should pass by again in the
morning, when I took my way out of the place.
"Well, sir,--I beg your pardon; _ladies_, I should say,--as I came
along a strip of the road with the moon full on it, but bordered with
willow scrub,--as I came along, sudden a man stepped out of those
bushes, and told me to stand and throw up my hands.--Don't be
frightened, Melody," for the child had taken his hand with a quick,
frightened motion; "have no fear at all! I had none. I saw, or felt,
perhaps it was, that he had no pistols; that he was only a poor sneak
and bully. So I said, 'Stand yourself!' I stepped clear out, so that
the light fell full on my face, and I looked him in the eye, and
pointed my bow at him. 'My name is De Arthenay,' I said. 'I am of
French extraction, but I hail from the Androscoggin. I am known in
this country. This is my fiddle-bow; and if you are not gone before I
can count three, I'll shoot you with it. One!' I said; but I didn't
need to count further. He turned and ran, as if the--as if a regiment
was after him; and as soon as I had done laughing, I went on my way to
the tavern."
All laughed heartily at the old man's story; but when the laughter
subsided, Melody begged him to take "the Lady," and play for her. "I
have not heard you play for so long, Rosin, except just when you
called me."
"Yes, Mr. De Arthenay," said Miss Vesta, "do play a little for us,
while I get supper. Suppose I bring the table out here, Melody; how
would you like that?"
"Oh, so much!" cried the child, clapping her hands. "So very much! Let
me help!"
She started up; and while the fiddler played, old sweet melodies, such
as Miss Rejoice loved, there was a pleasant, subdued bustle of coming
and going, clinking and rustling, as the little table was brought out
and set in the vine-wreathed porch, the snowy cloth laid, and the
simple feast set forth. There were wild strawberries, fresh and
glowing, laid on vine-leaves; there were biscuits so light it seemed
as if a puff of wind might blow them away; there were twisted
doughnuts, and coffee brown and as clear as a mountain brook. It was a
pleasant little feast; and the old fiddler glanced with cheerful
approval over the table as he sat down.
"Ah, Miss Vesta," he said, as he handed the biscuits gallantly to his
hostess, "there's no such table as this for me to sit down to,
wherever I go, far or near. Look at the biscuit, now,--moulded snow, I
call them. Take one, Melody, my dear. You'll never get anything better
to eat in this world."
The child flushed with pleasure.
"You're praising her too much to herself," said Miss Vesta, with a
pleased smile. "Melody made those biscuit, all herself, without any
help. She's getting to be such a good housekeeper, Mr. De Arthenay,
you would not believe it."
"You don't tell me that she made these biscuit!" cried the old man.
"Why, Melody, I shall be frightened at you if you go on at this rate.
You are not growing up, are you, little Melody?"
"No! no! no!" cried the child, vehemently. "I am _not_ growing up,
Rosin. I don't want to grow up, ever, at all."
"I should like to know what you can do about it," said Miss Vesta,
smiling grimly. "You'll have to stop pretty short if you are not going
to grow up, Melody. If I have let your dresses down once this spring,
I've let them down three times. You're going to be a tall woman, I
should say, and you've a right good start toward it now."
A shade stole over the child's bright face, and she was
silent,--seeming only half to listen while the others chatted, yet
never forgetting to serve them, and seeming, by a touch on the hand
of either friend, to know what was wanted.
When the meal was over, and the tea-things put away, Melody came out
again into the porch, where the fiddler sat smoking his pipe, and
leaning against one of the supports, felt among the leaves which hid
it. "Here is the mark!" she said. "Am I really taller, Rosin? Really
much taller?"
"What troubles the child?" the old man asked gently. "She does not
want to grow? The bud must open, Melody, my dear! the bud must open!"
"But it's so unreasonable," cried Melody, as she stood holding by the
old man's hand, swaying lightly to and fro, as if the wind moved her
with the vines and flowers. "Why can't I stay a little girl? A little
girl is needed here, isn't she? And there is no need at all of another
woman. I can't be like Aunt Vesta or Auntie Joy; so I think I might
stay just Melody." Then shaking her curls back, she cried, "Well,
anyhow, I am just Melody now, and nothing more; and I mean to make the
most of it. Come, Rosin, come! I am ready for music. The dishes are
all washed, and there's nothing more to do, is there, Auntie? It is so
long since Rosin has been here; now let us have a good time, a perfect
time!"
De Arthenay took up his fiddle once more, and caressed its shining
curves. "She's in perfect trim," he said tenderly. "She's fit to play
with you to-night, Melody. Come, I am ready; what shall we have?"
Melody sat down on the little green bench which was her own particular
seat. She folded her hands lightly on her lap, and threw her head back
with her own birdlike gesture. One would have said that she was
calling the spirit of song, which might descend on rainbow wings, and
fold her in his arms. The old man drew the bow softly, and the fiddle
gave out a low, brooding note,--a note of invitation.
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?
She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown."
Softly the old man played, keeping his eyes fixed on the child, whose
glorious voice floated out on the evening air, filling the whole world
with sweetest melody. Miss Vesta dropped her knitting and folded her
hands, while a peaceful, dreamy look stole into her fine face,--a face
whose only fault was the too eager look which a New England woman must
so often gain, whether she will or no. In the quiet chamber, the
bedridden woman lay back on her pillows smiling, with a face as the
face of an angel. Her thoughts were lifted up on the wings of the
music, and borne--who shall say where, to what high and holy presence?
Perhaps--who can tell?--the eyes of her soul looked in at the gate of
heaven itself; if it were so, be sure they saw nothing within that
white portal more pure and clear than their own gaze.
And still the song flowed on. Presently doors began to open along the
village street. People came softly out, came on tiptoe toward the
cottage, and with a silent greeting to its owner sat down beside the
road to listen. Children came dancing, with feet almost as light as
Melody's own, and curled themselves up beside her on the grass.
Tired-looking mothers came, with their babies in their arms; and the
weary wrinkles faded from their faces, and they listened in silent
content, while the little ones, who perhaps had been fretting and
complaining a moment before, nestled now quietly against the
mother-breast, and felt that no one wanted to tease or ill-treat them,
but that the world was all full of Mother, who loved them. Beside one
of these women a man came and sat him down, as if from habit; but he
did not look at her. His face wore a weary, moody frown, and he stared
at the ground sullenly, taking no note of any one. The others looked
at one another and nodded, and thought of the things they knew; the
woman cast a sidelong glance at him, half hopeful, half fearful, but
made no motion.
"Oh, don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
And the master so kind and so true;
And the little nook by the clear running brook,
Where we gathered the flowers as they grew?"
The dark-browed man listened, and thought. Her name was Alice, this
woman by his side. They had been schoolmates together, had gathered
flowers, oh, how many times, by brook-side and hill. They had grown up
to be lovers, and she was his wife, sitting here now beside him,--his
wife, with his baby in her arms; and he had not spoken to her for a
week. What began it all? He hardly knew; but she had been provoking,
and he had been tired, impatient; there had been a great scene, and
then this silence, which he swore he would not break. How sad she
looked! he thought, as he stole a glance at the face bending over the
child.
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown?"
Was she singing about them, this child? She had sung at their wedding,
a little thing of seven years old; and old De Arthenay had played, and
wished them happiness, and said they were the handsomest couple he had
played for that year. Now she looked so tired: how was it that he had
never seen how tired she looked? Perhaps she was only sick or nervous
that day when she spoke so. The child stirred in its mother's arms,
and she gave a low sigh of weariness, and shifted the weight to the
other arm. The young man bent forward and took the baby, and felt how
heavy it had grown since last he held it. He had not said anything, he
would not say anything--just yet; but his wife turned to him with such
a smile, such a flash of love and joy, imploring, promising, that his
heart leaped, and then beat peacefully, happily, as it had not beaten
for many days. All was over; and Alice leaned against his arm with a
little movement of content, and the good neighbors looked at one
another again, and smiled this time to know that all was well.
What is the song now? The blind child turns slightly, so that she
faces Miss Vesta Dale, whose favorite song this is,--
"All in the merry month of May,
When green buds were a-swellin",
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-hed lay,
For love of Barbara Allan."
Why is Miss Vesta so fond of the grim old ballad? Perhaps she could
hardly tell, if she would. She looks very stately as she leans against
the wall, close by the room where her sister Rejoice is lying. Does a
thought come to her mind of the youth who loved her so, or thought he
loved her, long and long ago? Does she see his look of dismay, of
incredulous anger, when she told him that her life must be given to
her crippled sister, and that if he would share it he must take
Rejoice too, to love and to cherish as dearly as he would cherish her?
He could not bear the test; he was a good young fellow enough, but
there was nothing of the hero about him, and he thought that crippled
folk should be taken care of in hospitals, where they belonged.
"'Oh, dinna ye mind, young man,' she said,
'When the red wine was a-fillin',
Ye bade the healths gae round an' round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?'"
If the cruel Barbara had not repented, and "laid her down in sorrow,"
she might well have grown to look like this handsome, white-haired
woman, with her keen blue eyes and queenly bearing.
Miss Vesta had never for an instant regretted the disposition of her
life, never even in the shadow of a thought; but this was the song she
used to sing in those old days, and somehow she always felt a thrill
(was it of pleasure or pain? she could not have told you) when the
child sang it.
But there may have been a "call," as Rosin the Beau would have said,
for some one else beside Vesta Dale; for a tall, pale girl, who has
been leaning against the wall pulling off the gray lichens as she
listened, now slips away, and goes home and writes a letter; and
to-morrow morning, when the mail goes to the next village, two people
will be happy in God's world instead of being miserable. And now? Oh,
now it is a merry song; for, after all, Melody is a child, and a happy
child; and though she loves the sad songs dearly, still she generally
likes to end up with a "dancy one."
"'Come boat me o'er,
Come row me o'er,
Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gi'e John Ross anither bawbee
To boat me o'er to Charlie.
We'll o'er the water an' o'er the sea,
We'll o'er the water to Charlie,
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live and die wi' Charlie.'"
And now Rosin the Beau proves the good right he has to his name. Trill
and quavers and roulades are shaken from his bow as lightly as foam
from the prow of a ship. The music leaps rollicking up and down, here
and there, till the air is all a-quiver with merriment. The old man
draws himself up to his full height, all save that loving bend of the
head over the beloved instrument. His long slender foot, in its quaint
"Congress" shoe, beats time like a mill-clapper,--tap, tap, tap; his
snowy curl dances over his forehead, his brown eyes twinkle with pride
and pleasure. Other feet beside his began to pat the ground; heads
were lifted, eyes looked invitation and response. At length the child
Melody, with one superb outburst of song, lifted her hands above her
head, and springing out into the road cried, "A dance! a dance!"
Instantly the quiet road was alive with dancers. Old and young sprang
to their feet in joyful response. The fiddle struck into "The Irish
Washerwoman," and the people danced. Children joined hands and jumped
up and down, knowing no steps save Nature's leaps of joy; youths and
maidens flew in graceful measures together; last, but not least, old
Simon Parker the postmaster seized Mrs. Martha Penny by both hands,
and regardless of her breathless shrieks whirled her round and round
till the poor old dame had no breath left to scream with. Alone in the
midst of the gay throng (as strange a one, surely, as ever disturbed
the quiet of a New England country road) danced the blind child, a
figure of perfect grace. Who taught Melody to dance? Surely it was the
wind, the swaying birch-tree, the slender grasses that nod and wave by
the brookside. Light as air she floated in and out among the motley
groups, never jostling or touching any one. Her slender arms waved in
time to the music; her beautiful hair floated over her shoulders. Her
whole face glowed with light and joy, while only her eyes, steadfast
and unchanging, struck the one grave note in the symphony of joy and
merriment.
From time to time the old fiddler stole a glance at Miss Vesta Dale,
as she sat erect and stately, leaning against the wall of the house.
She was beginning to grow uneasy. Her foot also began to pat the
ground. She moved slightly, swayed on her seat; her fingers beat time,
as did the slender, well-shaped foot which peeped from under her scant
blue skirt. Suddenly De Arthenay stopped short, and tapped sharply on
his fiddle, while the dancers, breathless and exhausted, fell back by
the roadside again. Stepping out from the porch, he made a low bow to
Miss Vesta. "Chorus Jig!" he cried, and struck up the air of that
time-honored dance. Miss Vesta frowned, shook her head resolutely,--rose,
and standing opposite the old fiddler, began to dance.
Here was a new marvel, no less strange in its way than Melody's wild
grace of movement, or the sudden madness of the village crowd. The
stately white-haired woman moved slowly forward; the old man bowed
again; she courtesied as became a duchess of Nature's own making.
Their bodies erect and motionless, their heads held high, their feet
went twinkling through a series of evolutions which the keenest eye
could hardly follow. "Pigeon-wings?" Whole flocks of pigeons took
flight from under that scant blue skirt, from those wonderful shrunken
trousers of yellow nankeen. They moved forward, back, forward again,
as smoothly as a wave glides up the shore. They twinkled round and
round each other, now back to back, now face to face. They chasséd
into corners, and displayed a whirlwind of delicately pointed toes;
they retired as if to quarrel; they floated back to make it up again.
All the while not a muscle of their faces moved, not a gleam of fun
disturbed the tranquil sternness of their look; for dancing was a
serious business thirty years ago, when they were young, and they had
no idea of lowering its dignity by any "quips and cranks and wanton
wiles," such as young folks nowadays indulge in. Briefly, it was a
work of art; and when it was over, and the sweeping courtesy and
splendid bow had restored the old-time dancers to their places, a
shout of applause went up, and the air rang with such a tumult as had
never before, perhaps, disturbed the tranquillity of the country road.