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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7824-8.txt b/7824-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7ab2600 --- /dev/null +++ b/7824-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3056 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Melody, by Laura E. Richards + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Melody + The Story of a Child + +Author: Laura E. Richards + +Posting Date: August 30, 2012 [EBook #7824] +Release Date: April, 2005 +First Posted: May 20, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +MELODY + +by + +LAURA E. RICHARDS + +1894 + + + +TO + +THE LOVELY MEMORY + +OF + +My Sister, + +JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE CHILD + +II. THE DOCTOR + +III. ON THE ROAD + +IV. ROSIN THE BEAU + +V. IN THE CHURCHYARD + +VI. THE SERPENT + +VII. LOST + +VIII. WAITING + +IX. BLONDEL + +X. DARKNESS + +XI. LIGHT + + + + +"_Minded of nought but peace, and of a child_." + +SIDNEY LANIER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE CHILD. + + +"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that +is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary +sing like that!" + +Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of +light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and +Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with +sweetness and life and joy. + +"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, +folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air +of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in +the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?" + +Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see +the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June +breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors +went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful +voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. + +Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on +the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the +creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word +for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands +their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them +cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to +my mind." + +"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said +you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!" + +Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, +leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, +though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed +straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and +bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands +showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. +No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, +unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed +between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the +pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark +eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. +Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, +very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, +in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta +was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss +Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It +was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed +her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of +pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything +save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened +at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss +Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there +was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice +had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She +left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to +the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never +been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to +abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living +creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some +one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they +were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she +supposed),--in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her +sister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breaking +of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said +Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived +their life together, without a thought save for each other, till +Melody came into their world. + +But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of +twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, +with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as +those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and +calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which +makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several +times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. +The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or +softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or +soften, for Melody is blind. + +She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, +which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty. + +"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were +saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one +for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the +glowing blossom beside it. + +"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would +find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the +old bush behind the barn?" + +"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came +to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. +Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see +it." + +"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?" + +"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy." + +"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, +as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the +first asking, hey?" + +"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently. + +"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister. + +Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She +wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean +that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite +as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't +sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?" + +"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was +exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference." + +The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice. + +"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so +funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must +always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and +go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses +for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white +ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get +the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, +nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any +more; so I took the rose, and here it is." + +Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was +about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and +motioned her to be silent. + +"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she +meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; +"there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens +this morning, dearie?" + +The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such +fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let +the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one +under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a +good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and +drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is +such a dear!" + +"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an +affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being +talked to and sung to as if they were persons?" + +"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do +live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt +Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?" + +At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The +doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of +joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate. + +"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her +again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But +so it is, in this world." + +"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, +mildly. "You seem put about." + +"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. +"Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha +Penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had +her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear +knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of +a mind to pull it for her." + +"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they +both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE DOCTOR. + + +The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the +child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, +with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind +in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; +and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger. + +"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to +shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? +You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. +Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,--a woman who has never +had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and +that's forty years at least." + +"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you +many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?" + +"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, +is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of +disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want +to see me?" + +Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, +searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then-- + +"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this +morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's +to see little Ned." + +"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of +alarm. + +"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. +Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since +he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, +knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect +one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was +going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the +precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest +of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes +looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this +child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along +back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' +the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice +in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' +then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had +consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all +her children's after her. And _she_ said to try vitriol; but I kind o' +thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now +his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, +what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I +said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your +tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will +do, and much good may it do you.'" + +"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been +addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--you +don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, +and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense. + +"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all +right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to +frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an +impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good +child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the +little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and +the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out +pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't mean +that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about +Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. +But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand +lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent +communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, Melody. My +friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to +hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?" + +The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply. +"What song would you like, Doctor?" + +"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'" + +The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was +just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly +down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept +them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, +and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the +window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not +worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on +her lap, and sang. + +Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; +certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first +written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the +legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do +not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and +sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking +people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and +genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered +symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and +women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by +camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at +the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through +the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who +heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the +lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, +through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, +some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a +great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that +the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in +freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender +mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" +as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head +thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their +unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He +started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung +quivering on the air,-- + + "Maxwellton braes are bonnie, + Where early fa's the dew." + +What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite +knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, +of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with +no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the +country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? +Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been +discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when +he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had +been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. +But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; +clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so +pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's +heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. +Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his +friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he +himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor +not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew +Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the +discomfiture of his knowing friend. + +The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark +when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and +looked at each other. + +There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. +Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the +next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy +Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great +pair of ears." + +The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she +said. "That is _his_ greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss +Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and +lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," +she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after +dinner." + +Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor +doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to +tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I +should not want the child to fret." + +"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face +toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. +Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. +"Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she +walked quickly away. + +Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" +he asked presently. + +"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see +her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How +does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for +a country child, eh?" + +"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,--"like an angel from +heaven." + +"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child +of God, who has never forgotten her Father." + +Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in +his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own +niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you." + +Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, +being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out +of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was +one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said +slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own +daughter to us." + +"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, +kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild +night it was?" + +Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said. + +"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. +"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work. +She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so +on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr. +Anthony how it happened, Vesta." + +Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that +his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head. +"There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little +proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to +the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a +great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like +them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went +hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, +came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in +your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't +know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's +the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the +mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how +the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't +know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and +went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face. +'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and +will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd +like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind +children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would +be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to +speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you +ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor +little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the +world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it. +I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old +they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the +rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't +stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands +on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet +and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it +lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes +wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little +face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw +it in--Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me, +sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to +adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of +it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a +blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza +Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of +some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think +of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor +little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up +well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child, +Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason +why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if +you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew +that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't +going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I +came home, and told Rejoice." + +"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed +thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is +the only sinner admitted." + +"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've +never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I +told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?' +said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came +away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go +and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without +it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen +a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that +child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it, +nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else +shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument +on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord +must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was +fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was +touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I +couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came +on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be +quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My +sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go +myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her +eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I +thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not +stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my +shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I +never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid +across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never +looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else +besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't +know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, +looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the +cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again +before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a +spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home, +and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my +sister Rejoice." + +Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen +blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she +said. "The cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into +kindling-wood, and Liza Green has never been the same woman from that +day to this." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +ON THE ROAD. + + +Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light +swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, +not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out +its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes +from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like +butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the +hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers +that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song +the doctor had taught her:-- + + "Who is Silvia, and what is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heavens such grace did lend her, + That adored she might be." + +One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking +into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a +moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. +"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the +dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, +quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a +familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving +their names into her song in childish fashion,-- + + "Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, + Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." + +Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too," +she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the +words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the +village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:-- + + Meadow-sweet is a treat; + Columbine's a fairy; + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,-- + +What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right. +Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!-- + + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine, + To feed my pet canary. + +I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went +along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!" +she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful +it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never +seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, +and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened +again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of +worrying about it? + + The worry cow + Might have lived till now, + If she'd only saved her breath. + She thought the hay + Wouldn't last all day, + So she choked herself to death." + +Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels +was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose +ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she +said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's +Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't +take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as +the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, +Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on +a piece, please?" + +"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was +sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd +like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I +come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down +as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the +seat beside him. + +Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in +Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet +together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon +squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?" + +"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben +havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was +failin' up sometimes, but I dono." + +"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that +six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she +was then." + +"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That +is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come +to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six +years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know +that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein' +her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He +turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half +expecting her to meet his gaze. + +"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just +because you see her so much, Eben, that you can't tell. Besides, I can +tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped +speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection +which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up +cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference, +Eben?--so of course I know she must be a great deal better." + +"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you _do_?' '_How_ do +you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well, +you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--Where d'you +say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. + +"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see +Neddy." + +"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'--Hevin' some kind o' +trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at +the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some +answering look in them. + +"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right +now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting +things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells +her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?" + +"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,--"that's so, every time. I was down +there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a +thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and +don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his +eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like +tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew +Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we +be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold +on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang +lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as +she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!" + +"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by, +Jerry." + +"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned +toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o' +good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals +with us I don't know when." + +Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, +while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering +admiration. + +"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he +soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for +the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they +come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en +a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times +over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the +doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little +feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't +mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name +for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with +many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN THE CHURCHYARD. + + +God's Acre! A New England burying-ground,--who does not know the +aspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else would +grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and +grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the +scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, +protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grass +is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy +geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of +place. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if +they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual +whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of these +stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and +long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one +corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one +buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight +legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by +the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort for +its inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and +flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the +people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England +people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the +matter of "moniments." + +But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is in +the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the +last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to +linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She +knows nothing of "Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in +this lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she +pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so +much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the +inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the +older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all +the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her +happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her +now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against +the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond of +white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would +wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is +thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she +follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other +fingers were fine enough to trace. + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF + + SUSAN DYER. + + TRUE TO HER NAME, + + She died Aug. 10th, 1814, + In the 19th year of her age. + + The soul of my Susan is gone + To heighten the triumphs above; + Exalted to Jesus's throne + And clasped in the arms of his love. + +Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan," she said, +"I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear, +and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you must +be used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeming +love,' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, +over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to +think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle +and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of +itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good +green grass. I think we liked the same things a good deal, Susan, +don't you? And I think you would like me to go and see the old +gentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and I really must +pull them up. You know I am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. +So many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. +Good-by, Susan dear." + +She bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, then +passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the last +letters of the inscription being barely discernible. + +"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand +respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions very +troublesome this morning, dear sir?" + +Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she +began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass +over the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, which +was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on +an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line +she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every +line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. + + "Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, + Those snares and fetters of the mind + My God, nor let this frame arise + Till every dust be well refined." + +"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody. +"You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed +just so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was well +refined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every +time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's +something growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr. +Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quite +respectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not to +fret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, no +matter how often I come." + +Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of +looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. +Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as +good as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind +through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! +How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might +be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He has +spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How many +walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their +neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration! + +The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leaf +was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knew +every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. +More than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her +the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was +with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether +the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. + +Another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures +living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." Not a cat +or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a +single call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her +wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice +quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and +that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vesta +said, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." But +Miss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touch +of her thin, kind old hand. + +It might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside a +small white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave a +low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone +wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright black +eyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes +would hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. + +"Brother Gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, +caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "I wondered if I +should see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were off +hunting somewhere, and I called and called, but no gray brother came. +How is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?" + +The "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, +under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The inscription on his +tombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not help +feeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, though +they had never exchanged remarks about it. This was the inscription: + + "I was a stout young man + As you would find in ten; + And when on this I think, + I take in hand my pen + And write it plainly out, + That all the world may see + How I was cut down like + A blossom from a tree. + The Lord rest my soul." + +The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him well +enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan +Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white +stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint +little name,--Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village +seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves +bore the name, though no living person now claimed it. + + LOVE GOOD, + + FOUR YEARS OLD. + + Our white rose withered in the bud. + +This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for +these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into +rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. + +Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and +murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, +content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of +the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the +branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and +silence brooded like a dove over the holy place. + +A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on +the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that +this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the +love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his +own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin +well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has +never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; +and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his +little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, +quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only +smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the +child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any +one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's +lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else +should be near to listen to such music as this? + +Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with +keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black +eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder +and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes +a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this +man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with +looks of power, almost of possession? + +Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your +shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to +the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm +is broken, and your paradise is invaded. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SERPENT. + + +"But I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am." + +The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidly +hither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house and +garden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboring +houses. One would have said he was a surveyor, only he had no +instruments with him. + +"I am sure you will listen to reason,--a fine, intelligent lady like +yourself. Think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. There +hasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in this +country, I'll be bold to say. I know something about voices, ma'am. +I've been in the concert business twenty years, and I do assure you I +have never heard such a natural voice as this child has. She has a +great career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am! there's thousands +in that voice! It sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. +You'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer,--one of the +very greatest. Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn't +have her like other people, not for anything. The blind prima-donna,--my +stars! wouldn't it draw? I see the posters now. 'Nature's greatest +marvel, the blind singer! Splendid talent enveloped in darkness.' She +will be the success of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of my +chancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the +world! Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my horse lost +a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. And +now, ma'am, now I count this the most fortunate day of my life! Is the +little lady in the house, ma'am? I'd like to have a little talk with +her; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her,--her mind's eye, +Horatio, eh? Know anything of Shakspeare, ma'am? Is she in the house, +I say?" + +"She is not," said Miss Vesta Dale, finding her voice at last. "The +child is away, and you should not see her if she were here. She is not +meant for the sort of thing you talk about. She--she is the same as +our own child, my sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as long +as we live. I thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. "I don't +doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not that +kind, my sister and I." + +The man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "You +don't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! To keep +a voice like that shut up in a God-forsaken little hole like +this,--oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really you +don't.' And think of the advantage to the child herself!" He saw the +woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, and +hastened to pursue it. "What can the child have, if she spends her +life here? No education, no pleasure,--nothing. Nice little place, no +doubt, for those that are used to it, but--Lord! a child that has the +whole world before her, to pick and choose! She must go to Europe, +ma'am! She will sing before crowned heads; go to Russia, and be +decorated by the Czar. She'll have horses and carriages, jewels, +dresses finer than any queen! Patti spends three fortunes a year on +her clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as Patti, any day. Why, +you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, +perhaps--her and maybe others?" + +Miss Vesta winced; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice! it was a joy to save +and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sister +might have everything she fancied. But did she have everything? Was +it, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister's +sake? + +The man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "You are a fine woman, +ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so,--a remarkably fine woman. But you +are getting on in life, as we all are. This child will support you, +ma'am, instead of your supporting her. Support you, do I say? Why, +you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! You spoke of a sister, +ma'am. Is she in good health, may I ask?" His quick eye had spied the +white-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear had +caught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister." + +"My sister is an invalid," said Miss Vesta, coldly. + +"Another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "You will be able to have +every luxury for your sister,--wines, fruits, travelling, the best +medical aid the country affords. You are the--a--the steward, I may +say, ma'am,"--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral +loftiness, as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, +past and future,--"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this great +treasure. It means everything for you and her, and for your invalid +sister as well. Think of it, think of it well! I am so confident of +your answer that I can well afford to wait a little. Take a few +minutes, ma'am, and think it over." + +He leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in his +pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. He did not feel as +confident as he looked, perhaps, but Miss Vesta did not know that. She +also leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines that +screened Miss Rejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was right? +What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain +before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so +straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old +burying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. +They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print, +sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and +write. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, Miss +Vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart +of the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to a +life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick +with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven; +cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her +voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a +simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. But +now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up? + +As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody a +woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with +everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, +splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women +love to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw something +else besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, to +extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide +and long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs, +great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens; +there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear +eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that +luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendid +couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, +instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them +lay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read +about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with +delicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she? +Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile +with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had +a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the +likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old +surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old +green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. But +all the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. By +Melody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet and +stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on +within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an +occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet +wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. + +All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, only +the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day +and all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so; +for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an +added pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her +breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only a +woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. God +knew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her? + +She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child in +each hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, though +there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been +quarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought them +away. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he +gazed at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was not +glad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the woman listened +for the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbed +spirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it with +angry mutterings, with quick flashes. What if the child should sing +the wrong words, she thought! What were the wrong words, and how +should she know whether they were of God or the Devil? + +It was an old song that Melody was singing; she knew few others, +indeed,--only the last verse of an old song, which Vesta Dale had +heard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it was +a good song, one of the kind Rejoice liked. + + "There's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, + And I hope in my heart you'll go there; + Where the poor man's as great, + Though he hath no estate, + Ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, + As though he'd a thousand a year'" + +"So you see," said Melody to the children, as they paced along, "it +doesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't have +them. It's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy from +the outside, ever. I should think it would be harder if one had lots +of things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps +worry over. I often am so glad I haven't many things." + +They passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweet +rushes grew, for Melody knew that no child could stay cross when it +had sweet rushes to play with; and Miss Vesta turned to the stranger +with a quick, fierce movement. "Go away!" she cried. "You have your +answer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! Go, +and never come here again!" + + * * * * * + +It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was driving rapidly +home toward the village. He had had a tiresome day, and he meant to +have a cup of Vesta Dale's good tea and a song from Melody to smooth +down his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. His +patients had been very trying, especially the last one he had +visited,--an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, and +then told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of Vegetine without +benefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "I really do not +know, Madam," the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up the +seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." Whereupon he +got into his buggy and drove off without another word. + +But the Dale girls and Melody--bless them all for a set of +angels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, and +he would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills in the morning. There was +nothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. Here was the turn; +now in a moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at her +knitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she would call the +child whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, +and all vexations forgotten! + +But what was this? Instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, +who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the little +house, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? Her dress +was disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, making +confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. +But he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted woman +grasped his arm, and cried,-- + +"Melody is stolen! stolen! and Rejoice is dead!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +LOST. + + +Miss Rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadful +fright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes +closed, her face like wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and Miss +Vesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulants +between her closed lips. At last her breath began to flutter, and then +came back steadily. She opened her eyes; at first they were soft and +mild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. + +"The child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!" + +"We know it," said Dr. Brown, quietly. "We shall find her, Rejoice, +never fear. Now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tell +us how it happened. Why, we found you on the floor, my child,"--Miss +Rejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her +by any term of endearment,--"how upon earth did you get there?" + +Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, Miss Rejoice told +her story. It was short enough. Melody had been sitting with her, +reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on the +floor by the window. Milton's "Paradise Lost" it was, and Rejoice Dale +could never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. A +carriage drove up and stopped at the door, and Melody went out to see +who had come. As she went, she said, "It is a strange wagon; I have +never heard it before." They both supposed it some stranger who had +stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, driving +through the village on their way to the mountains. The sick woman +heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "A +little drive--fine afternoon;" and Melody's clear voice replying, "No, +thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and I +could not leave her. Shall I bring you a glass of water?" Then--oh, +then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the beloved +voice, and then a scream. Oh, such a scream! Rejoice Dale shrank down +in her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. She +had called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her +only answer was another cry of anguish: "Help! help! Auntie! Doctor! +Rosin! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help!" Then the cry was muffled, stifled, +sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all was +over. Rejoice Dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself along +on her elbows. Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary +weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a little +way at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when sense +and strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sister +and the doctor bending over her. + +Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice that +would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, +like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master,--Miss +Vesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three days +before and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms of +the earth. + +"I did not tell you, Rejoice," she cried, holding her sister's hand, +and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "I did not tell +you, because I was really tempted,--not for myself, I do believe; I am +permitted to believe, and it is the one comfort I have,--but for you, +Rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. But mostly for you, oh, +my God! mostly for you. And when I came to myself and knew you would +rather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child's +happy, innocent life,--when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and did +not tell you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I had +told you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine; +and I should never have left you, blind fool that I was, for you would +have showed me the danger. Doctor, we are two weak women,--she in +body, I in mind and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think we +must both die!" + +Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, +wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. But Rejoice Dale +took her sister's hand in hers. + +"'Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right +hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee,'" she said steadfastly. "Our +blind child is in her Father's hand, Sister; He leads her, and she can +go nowhere without Him. Go you now, and seek for her." + +"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "I +cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you." + +Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the +burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, and +moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple +quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. + +"You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bear +it if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and I +shall have help." + +"Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her. + +"Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shall +do very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, +Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor +will drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's +time, and you have none too long to reach it." + +Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which +he had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta," +he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation to +perform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no right +to leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," +he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, I +suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you know +well enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down the +well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from +misery,--and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and +the famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew that +under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay +dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of +excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might +live in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this,--his +friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of +hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could +only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart +of the rose. + +Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few +soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore +days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had +been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, +and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" +at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native +village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title +that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had +once been "Jack" to the whole village. + +"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than +you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to +the hand of God; your path is clear before you." + +Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might +in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a +note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. +"He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, +too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help." + +He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came +in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, +hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. +"But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you +are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again. + +For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves +like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to +grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, +in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were +a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they +knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, +forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. + +Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and +far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a +deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, +rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the +ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless +weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the +Beau." + +"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, +and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our +life and his is gone out?" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +WAITING. + + +How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little +chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the +voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very +quiet,--too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched +by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul +for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it +would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to +silent people who bore their troubles with a smile. + +"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twenty +times a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would be +easier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?" + +But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, +we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the +Lord's time." + +"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, +when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "She +ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, +Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now I +tell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in +there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I am +glad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Set +down, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I do +think I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind +to. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that +child is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong +into the stream of talk. + +"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. De +Arthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just +in the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, +takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, +the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if +there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,--well, there! I don't +want to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenay +happenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence +but just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, +but they hoped to every day,--and land sakes, we knew that, I should +hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I do +declare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close as +an oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, most +times. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's,--him that fell and hurt his +leg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?" + +"No, he isn't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, +as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heard +Doctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, +and you know that means death, sartin sure." + +Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. + +"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a +likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way +and another." + +"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing +the subject abruptly. + +Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; +it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak! + +"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I +reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set +eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes +my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But +there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." +She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, +and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week +now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's +room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a +flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things +that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as +ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as +plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, +but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly +believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my +interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting +her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. +What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly +spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em +alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels +in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's +though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've +ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor +health--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, +if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he +makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ +gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, +I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give +me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay +on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd +give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew +the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' +health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. +Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at +one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of +the pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin',--not but what I like +Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her +took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried +respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, +these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell +a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn +folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My +cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought +it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' +Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--" + +Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her +mouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open in +the breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised her +voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house +like the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now +rising, the voice of Rejoice Dale,--not calm and gentle, as they had +always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. + +"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her! +Lord, save her!" + +The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes +wide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? Involuntarily they +turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, +and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. + +"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is it +a spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!" + +But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, the +whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped +gently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. + +"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! they +comfort me." And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fell +asleep, and slept like a little child. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BLONDEL. + + +Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the brick +sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare +toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their +eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. +The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; +the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men pass +along, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go on +whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, +expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, +muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. +Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear +straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in +all degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these +are not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish +thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires +attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of all +the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little +world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the +other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note +of them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get through +the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the +sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must +still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a +running river be,"--with apologies to the boy Chatterton. + +Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of +sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks at +anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the +streets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowy +hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which +glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every +face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away +from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly +against his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl! + +Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the +houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, +as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and +surprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a house +seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the +windows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune,--a simple, +homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, +though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. A +languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys +know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. + +When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the +silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it +is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and +night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, +stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks +in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with +beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in +the world. + +No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro +who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who +tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He +shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes +on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next +disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who +hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who +engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily +enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken +the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that +presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, +noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree +of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of +his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and +old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to +play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, +and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant-looking +girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to +him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or +heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is +careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking +for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair +and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world +figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay, +from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis +who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line +of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in +such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has +earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. +He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather +go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard +the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the +quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and +voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on +his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. +All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and +"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one +here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs +again. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away +from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the +soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful +elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody as +she dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its +gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, +the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world; +then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching +with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the +whole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway; +the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing +all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the +old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for De +Arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady +feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes +leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow +feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a +day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for +that night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his stately +bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low +tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, +to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, weary +after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little +from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his +face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice +saying,-- + +"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's One +has her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear." + +God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin the +Beau! + +But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of +his adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, +wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and +undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a +breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and +the shadow of death? + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +DARKNESS. + + +"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as a +picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, +dearie?" + +It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a +certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, +with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. + +"I am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again. + +The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into +the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented +eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old +burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, +save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the +children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her +soul for her sister's comfort. + +"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said +the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's +your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite +surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like +a flower all in the dark." + +She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a +glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but +her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. + +"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think +that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound +of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an +angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson +has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular +gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls +with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends +with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt +under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so +much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that +comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, +dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you +everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get +a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, most +young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell +you." + +She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulled +her aside. + +"It's no use," he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, my +dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will +never see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. You sense that, do +you?" + +No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was +still,--the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Anderson +clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort +to conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could not +punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the +precious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, this +man. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful on +the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found +a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Could +anything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse a +whole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely +refused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had +called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future +Catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no +note of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would not +even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" +and "no." + +What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the +shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to +get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her +childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and +set all his cherished plans at nought. + +And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do +so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a +child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well +as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little +girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a +father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In +the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a +most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the +benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the +prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous +gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel +crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be +his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into +light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? +Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader +of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not +say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when +carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he +felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not +knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by +his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face +toward him and spoke. + +"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing +all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be +possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a +mistake, that is all." + +"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson. + +"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be +unkind,--Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, +and why will you not take me home?" + +"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You +know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred +times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old +people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion +and power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what, +you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most +girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as +you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you +don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me +for making you sing." + +Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and +clenched his hands fiercely. + +"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has +a right to you." + +"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do +belong to the world,--to God's world of beauty, to the woods and +fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When +the birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song is +as sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it +again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I please +the brook, and all who hear me,--little beasts, and flowers that nod +on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell +me by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love to +hear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to +sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may +sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This is +my life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know the +work my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she stepped +forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God's +child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?" + +There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes +fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head +thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised +in awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began to +cry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but +no words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; +moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch +seemed to burn through and through him,--moved away, groping for the +door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as +a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. + +Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled her +heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever +since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, +from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She +had thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was +deserted, not that God had forgotten,--oh, no; but that He did not +need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she +had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to +some other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in every +limb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way,--that +would not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. So +death would come,--death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had always +described him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand. + +But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, +clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered her +heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of +joy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more +distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face of +Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of +Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath +which she loved to sit and sing. She heard--oh, God! what did she +hear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, the +lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, +beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of +hope,--of hope fulfilled, of life and love? + + "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 to Rosin the Beau." + +Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! +oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dash +my foot against a stone! A welcome,--oh, on my knees, in humble +thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,--a welcome to Rosin the +Beau! + + * * * * * + +An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed and +disordered, making her defence. + +"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. +You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When she +heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been +shot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute she +was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in +my bones yet, and will be till I die." + +She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded +through the blazing streets. + +"Then he came in,--the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came in +like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a +flake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there +on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two +black coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved if +it had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, +but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, +his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. +'You cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot +till I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, +sir, I _had_ no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemed +to melt away together,--he with his arm round her waist, holding her +up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like +heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, +and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir," +cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation; +"and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I am +glad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, as +you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, +I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine +neither. And--and I've never been a professor," cried the woman, with +her apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and +I mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked God +to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meant +to be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And she +said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her +good, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm so +glad!" + +She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; +for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her +that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he +thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of +raising her salary. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +LIGHT. + + +I love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the +fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it +spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from +river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that +sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a +softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common +things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or +unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time +of all the perfect hours. + +It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the +people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is +a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but +lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have +not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they +were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a +respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to +time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received +some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and +had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams +slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it +became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here +and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches; +the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners +of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as +the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing +near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England +men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a +Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones +for once in their lives, though they knew it not. + +But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was +the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and +the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. +They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom +they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and +ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and +the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things +out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one +dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one +tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them +with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one +day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all +temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the +folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by +the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till +he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a +drop of liquor from that day on. + +Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--Jane Pegrum's +baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning +house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, +hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; +and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved +above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, +catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just +ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the +woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven +them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and +when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did +seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor +was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once +she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody +seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. +Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. + +Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on +the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any +one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was +harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up +her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to +the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of +him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been +himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. +Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him +from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, +they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got +hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the +yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood +cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and +she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was; +and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,--reaching +out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he +had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like +to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels? + +Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the +first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They +are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, +Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know +the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the +road--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem +hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for +Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. + +Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the +little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is +running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, +opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted +creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, +all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman +does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, +if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most +patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. Yes, +Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the +far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. +With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might +think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the +road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their +triumphal entry. + +For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears +pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of +waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come +back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred +and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare +with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, +because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. +Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling +herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and +pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous +noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as +sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody, +with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of +each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful +hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost +convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No +marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He +kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and +then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta +Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer +than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance +to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, +and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive +ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all +true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home, +never to leave them again. + +But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of +joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from +every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet +all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful +hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her +heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,-- + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. +What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, +warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. +The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending +and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, +for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melody, by Laura E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Melody + The Story of a Child + +Author: Laura E. Richards + +Posting Date: August 30, 2012 [EBook #7824] +Release Date: April, 2005 +First Posted: May 20, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +MELODY + +by + +LAURA E. RICHARDS + +1894 + + + +TO + +THE LOVELY MEMORY + +OF + +My Sister, + +JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE CHILD + +II. THE DOCTOR + +III. ON THE ROAD + +IV. ROSIN THE BEAU + +V. IN THE CHURCHYARD + +VI. THE SERPENT + +VII. LOST + +VIII. WAITING + +IX. BLONDEL + +X. DARKNESS + +XI. LIGHT + + + + +"_Minded of nought but peace, and of a child_." + +SIDNEY LANIER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE CHILD. + + +"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that +is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary +sing like that!" + +Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of +light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and +Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with +sweetness and life and joy. + +"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, +folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air +of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in +the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?" + +Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see +the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June +breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors +went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful +voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. + +Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on +the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the +creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word +for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands +their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them +cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to +my mind." + +"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said +you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!" + +Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, +leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, +though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed +straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and +bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands +showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. +No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, +unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed +between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the +pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark +eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. +Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, +very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, +in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta +was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss +Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It +was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed +her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of +pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything +save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened +at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss +Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there +was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice +had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She +left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to +the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never +been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to +abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living +creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some +one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they +were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she +supposed),--in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her +sister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breaking +of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said +Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived +their life together, without a thought save for each other, till +Melody came into their world. + +But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of +twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, +with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as +those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and +calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which +makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several +times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. +The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or +softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or +soften, for Melody is blind. + +She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, +which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty. + +"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were +saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one +for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the +glowing blossom beside it. + +"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would +find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the +old bush behind the barn?" + +"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came +to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. +Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see +it." + +"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?" + +"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy." + +"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, +as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the +first asking, hey?" + +"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently. + +"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister. + +Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She +wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean +that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite +as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't +sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?" + +"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was +exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference." + +The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice. + +"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so +funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must +always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and +go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses +for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white +ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get +the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, +nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any +more; so I took the rose, and here it is." + +Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was +about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and +motioned her to be silent. + +"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she +meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; +"there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens +this morning, dearie?" + +The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such +fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let +the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one +under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a +good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and +drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is +such a dear!" + +"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an +affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being +talked to and sung to as if they were persons?" + +"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do +live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt +Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?" + +At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The +doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of +joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate. + +"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her +again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But +so it is, in this world." + +"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, +mildly. "You seem put about." + +"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. +"Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha +Penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had +her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear +knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of +a mind to pull it for her." + +"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they +both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE DOCTOR. + + +The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the +child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, +with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind +in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; +and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger. + +"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to +shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? +You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. +Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,--a woman who has never +had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and +that's forty years at least." + +"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you +many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?" + +"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, +is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of +disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want +to see me?" + +Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, +searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then-- + +"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this +morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's +to see little Ned." + +"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of +alarm. + +"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. +Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since +he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, +knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect +one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was +going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the +precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest +of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes +looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this +child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along +back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' +the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice +in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' +then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had +consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all +her children's after her. And _she_ said to try vitriol; but I kind o' +thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now +his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, +what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I +said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your +tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will +do, and much good may it do you.'" + +"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been +addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--you +don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, +and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense. + +"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all +right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to +frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an +impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good +child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the +little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and +the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out +pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't mean +that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about +Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. +But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand +lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent +communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, Melody. My +friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to +hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?" + +The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply. +"What song would you like, Doctor?" + +"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'" + +The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was +just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly +down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept +them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, +and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the +window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not +worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on +her lap, and sang. + +Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; +certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first +written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the +legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do +not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and +sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking +people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and +genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered +symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and +women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by +camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at +the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through +the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who +heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the +lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, +through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, +some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a +great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that +the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in +freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender +mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" +as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head +thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their +unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He +started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung +quivering on the air,-- + + "Maxwellton braes are bonnie, + Where early fa's the dew." + +What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite +knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, +of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with +no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the +country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? +Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been +discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when +he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had +been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. +But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; +clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so +pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's +heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. +Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his +friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he +himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor +not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew +Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the +discomfiture of his knowing friend. + +The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark +when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and +looked at each other. + +There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. +Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the +next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy +Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great +pair of ears." + +The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she +said. "That is _his_ greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss +Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and +lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," +she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after +dinner." + +Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor +doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to +tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I +should not want the child to fret." + +"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face +toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. +Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. +"Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she +walked quickly away. + +Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" +he asked presently. + +"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see +her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How +does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for +a country child, eh?" + +"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,--"like an angel from +heaven." + +"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child +of God, who has never forgotten her Father." + +Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in +his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own +niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you." + +Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, +being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out +of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was +one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said +slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own +daughter to us." + +"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, +kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild +night it was?" + +Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said. + +"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. +"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work. +She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so +on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr. +Anthony how it happened, Vesta." + +Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that +his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head. +"There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little +proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to +the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a +great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like +them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went +hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, +came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in +your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't +know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's +the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the +mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how +the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't +know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and +went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face. +'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and +will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd +like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind +children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would +be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to +speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you +ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor +little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the +world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it. +I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old +they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the +rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't +stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands +on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet +and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it +lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes +wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little +face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw +it in--Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me, +sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to +adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of +it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a +blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza +Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of +some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think +of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor +little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up +well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child, +Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason +why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if +you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew +that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't +going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I +came home, and told Rejoice." + +"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed +thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is +the only sinner admitted." + +"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've +never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I +told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?' +said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came +away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go +and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without +it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen +a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that +child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it, +nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else +shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument +on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord +must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was +fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was +touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I +couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came +on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be +quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My +sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go +myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her +eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I +thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not +stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my +shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I +never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid +across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never +looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else +besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't +know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, +looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the +cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again +before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a +spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home, +and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my +sister Rejoice." + +Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen +blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she +said. "The cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into +kindling-wood, and Liza Green has never been the same woman from that +day to this." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +ON THE ROAD. + + +Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light +swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, +not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out +its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes +from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like +butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the +hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers +that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song +the doctor had taught her:-- + + "Who is Silvia, and what is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heavens such grace did lend her, + That adored she might be." + +One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking +into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a +moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. +"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the +dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, +quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a +familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving +their names into her song in childish fashion,-- + + "Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, + Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." + +Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too," +she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the +words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the +village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:-- + + Meadow-sweet is a treat; + Columbine's a fairy; + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,-- + +What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right. +Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!-- + + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine, + To feed my pet canary. + +I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went +along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!" +she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful +it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never +seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, +and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened +again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of +worrying about it? + + The worry cow + Might have lived till now, + If she'd only saved her breath. + She thought the hay + Wouldn't last all day, + So she choked herself to death." + +Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels +was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose +ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she +said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's +Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't +take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as +the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, +Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on +a piece, please?" + +"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was +sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd +like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I +come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down +as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the +seat beside him. + +Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in +Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet +together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon +squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?" + +"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben +havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was +failin' up sometimes, but I dono." + +"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that +six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she +was then." + +"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That +is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come +to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six +years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know +that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein' +her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He +turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half +expecting her to meet his gaze. + +"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just +because you see her so much, Eben, that you can't tell. Besides, I can +tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped +speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection +which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up +cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference, +Eben?--so of course I know she must be a great deal better." + +"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you _do_?' '_How_ do +you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well, +you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--Where d'you +say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. + +"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see +Neddy." + +"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'--Hevin' some kind o' +trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at +the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some +answering look in them. + +"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right +now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting +things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells +her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?" + +"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,--"that's so, every time. I was down +there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a +thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and +don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his +eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like +tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew +Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we +be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold +on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang +lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as +she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!" + +"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by, +Jerry." + +"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned +toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o' +good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals +with us I don't know when." + +Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, +while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering +admiration. + +"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he +soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for +the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they +come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en +a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times +over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the +doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little +feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't +mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name +for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with +many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +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 chassed +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN THE CHURCHYARD. + + +God's Acre! A New England burying-ground,--who does not know the +aspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else would +grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and +grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the +scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, +protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grass +is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy +geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of +place. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if +they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual +whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of these +stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and +long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one +corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one +buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight +legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by +the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort for +its inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and +flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the +people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England +people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the +matter of "moniments." + +But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is in +the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the +last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to +linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She +knows nothing of "Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in +this lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she +pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so +much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the +inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the +older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all +the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her +happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her +now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against +the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond of +white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would +wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is +thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she +follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other +fingers were fine enough to trace. + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF + + SUSAN DYER. + + TRUE TO HER NAME, + + She died Aug. 10th, 1814, + In the 19th year of her age. + + The soul of my Susan is gone + To heighten the triumphs above; + Exalted to Jesus's throne + And clasped in the arms of his love. + +Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan," she said, +"I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear, +and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you must +be used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeming +love,' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, +over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to +think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle +and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of +itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good +green grass. I think we liked the same things a good deal, Susan, +don't you? And I think you would like me to go and see the old +gentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and I really must +pull them up. You know I am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. +So many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. +Good-by, Susan dear." + +She bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, then +passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the last +letters of the inscription being barely discernible. + +"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand +respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions very +troublesome this morning, dear sir?" + +Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she +began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass +over the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, which +was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on +an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line +she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every +line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. + + "Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, + Those snares and fetters of the mind + My God, nor let this frame arise + Till every dust be well refined." + +"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody. +"You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed +just so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was well +refined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every +time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's +something growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr. +Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quite +respectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not to +fret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, no +matter how often I come." + +Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of +looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. +Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as +good as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind +through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! +How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might +be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He has +spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How many +walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their +neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration! + +The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leaf +was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knew +every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. +More than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her +the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was +with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether +the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. + +Another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures +living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." Not a cat +or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a +single call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her +wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice +quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and +that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vesta +said, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." But +Miss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touch +of her thin, kind old hand. + +It might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside a +small white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave a +low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone +wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright black +eyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes +would hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. + +"Brother Gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, +caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "I wondered if I +should see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were off +hunting somewhere, and I called and called, but no gray brother came. +How is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?" + +The "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, +under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The inscription on his +tombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not help +feeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, though +they had never exchanged remarks about it. This was the inscription: + + "I was a stout young man + As you would find in ten; + And when on this I think, + I take in hand my pen + And write it plainly out, + That all the world may see + How I was cut down like + A blossom from a tree. + The Lord rest my soul." + +The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him well +enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan +Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white +stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint +little name,--Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village +seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves +bore the name, though no living person now claimed it. + + LOVE GOOD, + + FOUR YEARS OLD. + + Our white rose withered in the bud. + +This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for +these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into +rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. + +Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and +murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, +content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of +the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the +branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and +silence brooded like a dove over the holy place. + +A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on +the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that +this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the +love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his +own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin +well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has +never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; +and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his +little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, +quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only +smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the +child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any +one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's +lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else +should be near to listen to such music as this? + +Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with +keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black +eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder +and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes +a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this +man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with +looks of power, almost of possession? + +Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your +shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to +the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm +is broken, and your paradise is invaded. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SERPENT. + + +"But I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am." + +The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidly +hither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house and +garden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboring +houses. One would have said he was a surveyor, only he had no +instruments with him. + +"I am sure you will listen to reason,--a fine, intelligent lady like +yourself. Think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. There +hasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in this +country, I'll be bold to say. I know something about voices, ma'am. +I've been in the concert business twenty years, and I do assure you I +have never heard such a natural voice as this child has. She has a +great career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am! there's thousands +in that voice! It sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. +You'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer,--one of the +very greatest. Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn't +have her like other people, not for anything. The blind prima-donna,--my +stars! wouldn't it draw? I see the posters now. 'Nature's greatest +marvel, the blind singer! Splendid talent enveloped in darkness.' She +will be the success of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of my +chancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the +world! Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my horse lost +a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. And +now, ma'am, now I count this the most fortunate day of my life! Is the +little lady in the house, ma'am? I'd like to have a little talk with +her; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her,--her mind's eye, +Horatio, eh? Know anything of Shakspeare, ma'am? Is she in the house, +I say?" + +"She is not," said Miss Vesta Dale, finding her voice at last. "The +child is away, and you should not see her if she were here. She is not +meant for the sort of thing you talk about. She--she is the same as +our own child, my sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as long +as we live. I thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. "I don't +doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not that +kind, my sister and I." + +The man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "You +don't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! To keep +a voice like that shut up in a God-forsaken little hole like +this,--oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really you +don't.' And think of the advantage to the child herself!" He saw the +woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, and +hastened to pursue it. "What can the child have, if she spends her +life here? No education, no pleasure,--nothing. Nice little place, no +doubt, for those that are used to it, but--Lord! a child that has the +whole world before her, to pick and choose! She must go to Europe, +ma'am! She will sing before crowned heads; go to Russia, and be +decorated by the Czar. She'll have horses and carriages, jewels, +dresses finer than any queen! Patti spends three fortunes a year on +her clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as Patti, any day. Why, +you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, +perhaps--her and maybe others?" + +Miss Vesta winced; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice! it was a joy to save +and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sister +might have everything she fancied. But did she have everything? Was +it, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister's +sake? + +The man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "You are a fine woman, +ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so,--a remarkably fine woman. But you +are getting on in life, as we all are. This child will support you, +ma'am, instead of your supporting her. Support you, do I say? Why, +you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! You spoke of a sister, +ma'am. Is she in good health, may I ask?" His quick eye had spied the +white-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear had +caught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister." + +"My sister is an invalid," said Miss Vesta, coldly. + +"Another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "You will be able to have +every luxury for your sister,--wines, fruits, travelling, the best +medical aid the country affords. You are the--a--the steward, I may +say, ma'am,"--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral +loftiness, as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, +past and future,--"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this great +treasure. It means everything for you and her, and for your invalid +sister as well. Think of it, think of it well! I am so confident of +your answer that I can well afford to wait a little. Take a few +minutes, ma'am, and think it over." + +He leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in his +pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. He did not feel as +confident as he looked, perhaps, but Miss Vesta did not know that. She +also leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines that +screened Miss Rejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was right? +What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain +before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so +straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old +burying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. +They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print, +sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and +write. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, Miss +Vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart +of the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to a +life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick +with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven; +cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her +voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a +simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. But +now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up? + +As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody a +woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with +everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, +splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women +love to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw something +else besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, to +extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide +and long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs, +great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens; +there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear +eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that +luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendid +couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, +instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them +lay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read +about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with +delicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she? +Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile +with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had +a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the +likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old +surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old +green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. But +all the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. By +Melody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet and +stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on +within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an +occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet +wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. + +All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, only +the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day +and all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so; +for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an +added pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her +breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only a +woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. God +knew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her? + +She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child in +each hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, though +there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been +quarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought them +away. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he +gazed at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was not +glad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the woman listened +for the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbed +spirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it with +angry mutterings, with quick flashes. What if the child should sing +the wrong words, she thought! What were the wrong words, and how +should she know whether they were of God or the Devil? + +It was an old song that Melody was singing; she knew few others, +indeed,--only the last verse of an old song, which Vesta Dale had +heard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it was +a good song, one of the kind Rejoice liked. + + "There's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, + And I hope in my heart you'll go there; + Where the poor man's as great, + Though he hath no estate, + Ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, + As though he'd a thousand a year'" + +"So you see," said Melody to the children, as they paced along, "it +doesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't have +them. It's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy from +the outside, ever. I should think it would be harder if one had lots +of things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps +worry over. I often am so glad I haven't many things." + +They passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweet +rushes grew, for Melody knew that no child could stay cross when it +had sweet rushes to play with; and Miss Vesta turned to the stranger +with a quick, fierce movement. "Go away!" she cried. "You have your +answer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! Go, +and never come here again!" + + * * * * * + +It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was driving rapidly +home toward the village. He had had a tiresome day, and he meant to +have a cup of Vesta Dale's good tea and a song from Melody to smooth +down his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. His +patients had been very trying, especially the last one he had +visited,--an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, and +then told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of Vegetine without +benefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "I really do not +know, Madam," the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up the +seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." Whereupon he +got into his buggy and drove off without another word. + +But the Dale girls and Melody--bless them all for a set of +angels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, and +he would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills in the morning. There was +nothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. Here was the turn; +now in a moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at her +knitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she would call the +child whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, +and all vexations forgotten! + +But what was this? Instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, +who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the little +house, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? Her dress +was disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, making +confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. +But he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted woman +grasped his arm, and cried,-- + +"Melody is stolen! stolen! and Rejoice is dead!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +LOST. + + +Miss Rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadful +fright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes +closed, her face like wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and Miss +Vesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulants +between her closed lips. At last her breath began to flutter, and then +came back steadily. She opened her eyes; at first they were soft and +mild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. + +"The child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!" + +"We know it," said Dr. Brown, quietly. "We shall find her, Rejoice, +never fear. Now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tell +us how it happened. Why, we found you on the floor, my child,"--Miss +Rejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her +by any term of endearment,--"how upon earth did you get there?" + +Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, Miss Rejoice told +her story. It was short enough. Melody had been sitting with her, +reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on the +floor by the window. Milton's "Paradise Lost" it was, and Rejoice Dale +could never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. A +carriage drove up and stopped at the door, and Melody went out to see +who had come. As she went, she said, "It is a strange wagon; I have +never heard it before." They both supposed it some stranger who had +stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, driving +through the village on their way to the mountains. The sick woman +heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "A +little drive--fine afternoon;" and Melody's clear voice replying, "No, +thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and I +could not leave her. Shall I bring you a glass of water?" Then--oh, +then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the beloved +voice, and then a scream. Oh, such a scream! Rejoice Dale shrank down +in her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. She +had called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her +only answer was another cry of anguish: "Help! help! Auntie! Doctor! +Rosin! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help!" Then the cry was muffled, stifled, +sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all was +over. Rejoice Dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself along +on her elbows. Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary +weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a little +way at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when sense +and strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sister +and the doctor bending over her. + +Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice that +would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, +like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master,--Miss +Vesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three days +before and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms of +the earth. + +"I did not tell you, Rejoice," she cried, holding her sister's hand, +and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "I did not tell +you, because I was really tempted,--not for myself, I do believe; I am +permitted to believe, and it is the one comfort I have,--but for you, +Rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. But mostly for you, oh, +my God! mostly for you. And when I came to myself and knew you would +rather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child's +happy, innocent life,--when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and did +not tell you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I had +told you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine; +and I should never have left you, blind fool that I was, for you would +have showed me the danger. Doctor, we are two weak women,--she in +body, I in mind and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think we +must both die!" + +Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, +wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. But Rejoice Dale +took her sister's hand in hers. + +"'Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right +hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee,'" she said steadfastly. "Our +blind child is in her Father's hand, Sister; He leads her, and she can +go nowhere without Him. Go you now, and seek for her." + +"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "I +cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you." + +Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the +burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, and +moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple +quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. + +"You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bear +it if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and I +shall have help." + +"Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her. + +"Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shall +do very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, +Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor +will drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's +time, and you have none too long to reach it." + +Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which +he had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta," +he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation to +perform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no right +to leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," +he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, I +suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you know +well enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down the +well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from +misery,--and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and +the famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew that +under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay +dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of +excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might +live in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this,--his +friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of +hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could +only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart +of the rose. + +Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few +soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore +days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had +been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, +and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" +at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native +village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title +that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had +once been "Jack" to the whole village. + +"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than +you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to +the hand of God; your path is clear before you." + +Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might +in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a +note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. +"He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, +too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help." + +He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came +in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, +hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. +"But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you +are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again. + +For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves +like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to +grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, +in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were +a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they +knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, +forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. + +Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and +far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a +deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, +rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the +ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless +weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the +Beau." + +"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, +and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our +life and his is gone out?" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +WAITING. + + +How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little +chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the +voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very +quiet,--too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched +by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul +for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it +would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to +silent people who bore their troubles with a smile. + +"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twenty +times a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would be +easier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?" + +But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, +we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the +Lord's time." + +"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, +when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "She +ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, +Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now I +tell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in +there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I am +glad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Set +down, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I do +think I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind +to. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that +child is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong +into the stream of talk. + +"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. De +Arthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just +in the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, +takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, +the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if +there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,--well, there! I don't +want to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenay +happenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence +but just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, +but they hoped to every day,--and land sakes, we knew that, I should +hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I do +declare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close as +an oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, most +times. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's,--him that fell and hurt his +leg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?" + +"No, he isn't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, +as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heard +Doctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, +and you know that means death, sartin sure." + +Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. + +"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a +likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way +and another." + +"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing +the subject abruptly. + +Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; +it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak! + +"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I +reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set +eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes +my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But +there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." +She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, +and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week +now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's +room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a +flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things +that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as +ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as +plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, +but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly +believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my +interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting +her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. +What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly +spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em +alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels +in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's +though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've +ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor +health--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, +if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he +makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ +gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, +I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give +me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay +on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd +give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew +the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' +health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. +Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at +one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of +the pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin',--not but what I like +Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her +took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried +respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, +these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell +a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn +folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My +cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought +it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' +Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--" + +Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her +mouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open in +the breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised her +voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house +like the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now +rising, the voice of Rejoice Dale,--not calm and gentle, as they had +always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. + +"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her! +Lord, save her!" + +The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes +wide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? Involuntarily they +turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, +and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. + +"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is it +a spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!" + +But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, the +whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped +gently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. + +"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! they +comfort me." And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fell +asleep, and slept like a little child. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BLONDEL. + + +Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the brick +sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare +toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their +eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. +The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; +the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men pass +along, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go on +whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, +expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, +muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. +Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear +straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in +all degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these +are not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish +thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires +attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of all +the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little +world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the +other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note +of them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get through +the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the +sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must +still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a +running river be,"--with apologies to the boy Chatterton. + +Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of +sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks at +anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the +streets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowy +hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which +glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every +face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away +from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly +against his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl! + +Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the +houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, +as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and +surprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a house +seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the +windows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune,--a simple, +homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, +though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. A +languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys +know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. + +When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the +silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it +is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and +night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, +stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks +in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with +beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in +the world. + +No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro +who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who +tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He +shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes +on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next +disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who +hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who +engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily +enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken +the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that +presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, +noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree +of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of +his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and +old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to +play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, +and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant-looking +girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to +him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or +heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is +careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking +for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair +and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world +figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay, +from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis +who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line +of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in +such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has +earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. +He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather +go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard +the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the +quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and +voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on +his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. +All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and +"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one +here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs +again. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away +from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the +soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful +elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody as +she dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its +gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, +the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world; +then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching +with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the +whole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway; +the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing +all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the +old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for De +Arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady +feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes +leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow +feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a +day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for +that night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his stately +bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low +tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, +to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, weary +after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little +from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his +face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice +saying,-- + +"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's One +has her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear." + +God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin the +Beau! + +But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of +his adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, +wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and +undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a +breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and +the shadow of death? + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +DARKNESS. + + +"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as a +picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, +dearie?" + +It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a +certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, +with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. + +"I am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again. + +The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into +the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented +eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old +burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, +save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the +children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her +soul for her sister's comfort. + +"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said +the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's +your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite +surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like +a flower all in the dark." + +She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a +glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but +her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. + +"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think +that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound +of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an +angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson +has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular +gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls +with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends +with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt +under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so +much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that +comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, +dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you +everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get +a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, most +young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell +you." + +She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulled +her aside. + +"It's no use," he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, my +dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will +never see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. You sense that, do +you?" + +No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was +still,--the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Anderson +clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort +to conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could not +punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the +precious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, this +man. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful on +the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found +a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Could +anything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse a +whole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely +refused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had +called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future +Catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no +note of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would not +even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" +and "no." + +What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the +shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to +get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her +childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and +set all his cherished plans at nought. + +And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do +so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a +child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well +as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little +girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a +father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In +the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a +most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the +benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the +prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous +gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel +crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be +his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into +light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? +Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader +of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not +say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when +carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he +felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not +knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by +his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face +toward him and spoke. + +"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing +all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be +possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a +mistake, that is all." + +"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson. + +"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be +unkind,--Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, +and why will you not take me home?" + +"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You +know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred +times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old +people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion +and power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what, +you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most +girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as +you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you +don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me +for making you sing." + +Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and +clenched his hands fiercely. + +"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has +a right to you." + +"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do +belong to the world,--to God's world of beauty, to the woods and +fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When +the birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song is +as sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it +again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I please +the brook, and all who hear me,--little beasts, and flowers that nod +on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell +me by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love to +hear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to +sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may +sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This is +my life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know the +work my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she stepped +forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God's +child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?" + +There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes +fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head +thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised +in awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began to +cry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but +no words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; +moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch +seemed to burn through and through him,--moved away, groping for the +door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as +a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. + +Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled her +heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever +since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, +from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She +had thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was +deserted, not that God had forgotten,--oh, no; but that He did not +need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she +had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to +some other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in every +limb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way,--that +would not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. So +death would come,--death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had always +described him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand. + +But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, +clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered her +heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of +joy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more +distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face of +Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of +Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath +which she loved to sit and sing. She heard--oh, God! what did she +hear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, the +lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, +beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of +hope,--of hope fulfilled, of life and love? + + "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 to Rosin the Beau." + +Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! +oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dash +my foot against a stone! A welcome,--oh, on my knees, in humble +thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,--a welcome to Rosin the +Beau! + + * * * * * + +An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed and +disordered, making her defence. + +"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. +You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When she +heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been +shot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute she +was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in +my bones yet, and will be till I die." + +She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded +through the blazing streets. + +"Then he came in,--the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came in +like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a +flake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there +on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two +black coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved if +it had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, +but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, +his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. +'You cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot +till I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, +sir, I _had_ no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemed +to melt away together,--he with his arm round her waist, holding her +up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like +heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, +and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir," +cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation; +"and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I am +glad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, as +you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, +I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine +neither. And--and I've never been a professor," cried the woman, with +her apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and +I mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked God +to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meant +to be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And she +said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her +good, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm so +glad!" + +She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; +for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her +that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he +thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of +raising her salary. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +LIGHT. + + +I love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the +fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it +spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from +river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that +sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a +softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common +things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or +unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time +of all the perfect hours. + +It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the +people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is +a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but +lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have +not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they +were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a +respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to +time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received +some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and +had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams +slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it +became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here +and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches; +the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners +of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as +the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing +near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England +men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a +Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones +for once in their lives, though they knew it not. + +But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was +the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and +the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. +They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom +they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and +ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and +the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things +out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one +dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one +tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them +with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one +day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all +temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the +folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by +the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till +he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a +drop of liquor from that day on. + +Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--Jane Pegrum's +baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning +house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, +hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; +and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved +above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, +catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just +ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the +woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven +them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and +when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did +seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor +was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once +she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody +seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. +Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. + +Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on +the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any +one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was +harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up +her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to +the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of +him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been +himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. +Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him +from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, +they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got +hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the +yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood +cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and +she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was; +and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,--reaching +out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he +had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like +to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels? + +Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the +first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They +are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, +Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know +the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the +road--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem +hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for +Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. + +Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the +little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is +running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, +opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted +creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, +all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman +does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, +if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most +patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. Yes, +Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the +far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. +With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might +think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the +road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their +triumphal entry. + +For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears +pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of +waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come +back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred +and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare +with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, +because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. +Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling +herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and +pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous +noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as +sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody, +with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of +each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful +hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost +convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No +marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He +kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and +then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta +Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer +than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance +to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, +and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive +ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all +true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home, +never to leave them again. + +But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of +joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from +every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet +all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful +hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her +heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,-- + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. +What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, +warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. +The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending +and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, +for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melody, by Laura E. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Melody + The Story of a Child + +Author: Laura E. Richards + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7824] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 20, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + + + + +Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +MELODY + +by + +LAURA E. RICHARDS + +1894 + + + +TO + +THE LOVELY MEMORY + +OF + +My Sister, + +JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE CHILD + +II. THE DOCTOR + +III. ON THE ROAD + +IV. ROSIN THE BEAU + +V. IN THE CHURCHYARD + +VI. THE SERPENT + +VII. LOST + +VIII. WAITING + +IX. BLONDEL + +X. DARKNESS + +XI. LIGHT + + + + +"_Minded of nought but peace, and of a child_." + +SIDNEY LANIER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE CHILD. + + +"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that +is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary +sing like that!" + +Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of +light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and +Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with +sweetness and life and joy. + +"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, +folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air +of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in +the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?" + +Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see +the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June +breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors +went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful +voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. + +Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on +the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the +creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word +for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands +their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them +cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to +my mind." + +"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said +you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!" + +Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, +leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, +though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed +straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and +bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands +showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. +No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, +unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed +between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the +pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark +eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. +Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, +very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, +in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta +was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss +Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It +was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed +her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of +pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything +save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened +at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss +Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there +was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice +had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She +left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to +the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never +been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to +abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living +creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some +one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they +were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she +supposed),--in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her +sister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breaking +of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said +Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived +their life together, without a thought save for each other, till +Melody came into their world. + +But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of +twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, +with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as +those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and +calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which +makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several +times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. +The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or +softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or +soften, for Melody is blind. + +She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, +which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty. + +"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were +saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one +for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the +glowing blossom beside it. + +"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would +find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the +old bush behind the barn?" + +"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came +to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. +Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see +it." + +"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?" + +"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy." + +"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, +as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the +first asking, hey?" + +"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently. + +"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister. + +Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She +wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean +that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite +as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't +sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?" + +"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was +exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference." + +The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice. + +"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so +funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must +always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and +go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses +for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white +ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get +the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, +nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any +more; so I took the rose, and here it is." + +Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was +about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and +motioned her to be silent. + +"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she +meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; +"there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens +this morning, dearie?" + +The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such +fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let +the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one +under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a +good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and +drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is +such a dear!" + +"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an +affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being +talked to and sung to as if they were persons?" + +"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do +live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt +Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?" + +At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The +doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of +joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate. + +"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her +again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But +so it is, in this world." + +"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, +mildly. "You seem put about." + +"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. +"Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha +Penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had +her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear +knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of +a mind to pull it for her." + +"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they +both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE DOCTOR. + + +The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the +child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, +with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind +in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; +and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger. + +"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to +shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? +You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. +Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,--a woman who has never +had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and +that's forty years at least." + +"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you +many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?" + +"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, +is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of +disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want +to see me?" + +Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, +searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then-- + +"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this +morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's +to see little Ned." + +"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of +alarm. + +"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. +Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since +he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, +knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect +one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was +going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the +precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest +of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes +looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this +child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along +back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' +the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice +in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' +then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had +consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all +her children's after her. And _she_ said to try vitriol; but I kind o' +thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now +his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, +what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I +said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your +tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will +do, and much good may it do you.'" + +"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been +addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--you +don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, +and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense. + +"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all +right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to +frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an +impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good +child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the +little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and +the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out +pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't mean +that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about +Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. +But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand +lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent +communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, Melody. My +friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to +hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?" + +The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply. +"What song would you like, Doctor?" + +"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'" + +The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was +just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly +down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept +them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, +and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the +window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not +worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on +her lap, and sang. + +Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; +certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first +written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the +legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do +not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and +sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking +people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and +genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered +symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and +women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by +camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at +the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through +the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who +heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the +lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, +through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, +some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a +great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that +the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in +freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender +mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" +as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head +thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their +unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He +started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung +quivering on the air,-- + + "Maxwellton braes are bonnie, + Where early fa's the dew." + +What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite +knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, +of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with +no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the +country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? +Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been +discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when +he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had +been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. +But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; +clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so +pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's +heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. +Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his +friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he +himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor +not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew +Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the +discomfiture of his knowing friend. + +The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark +when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and +looked at each other. + +There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. +Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the +next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy +Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great +pair of ears." + +The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she +said. "That is _his_ greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss +Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and +lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," +she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after +dinner." + +Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor +doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to +tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I +should not want the child to fret." + +"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face +toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. +Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. +"Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she +walked quickly away. + +Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" +he asked presently. + +"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see +her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How +does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for +a country child, eh?" + +"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,--"like an angel from +heaven." + +"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child +of God, who has never forgotten her Father." + +Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in +his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own +niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you." + +Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, +being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out +of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was +one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said +slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own +daughter to us." + +"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, +kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild +night it was?" + +Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said. + +"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. +"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work. +She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so +on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr. +Anthony how it happened, Vesta." + +Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that +his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head. +"There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little +proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to +the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a +great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like +them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went +hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, +came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in +your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't +know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's +the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the +mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how +the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't +know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and +went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face. +'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and +will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd +like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind +children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would +be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to +speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you +ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor +little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the +world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it. +I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old +they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the +rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't +stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands +on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet +and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it +lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes +wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little +face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw +it in--Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me, +sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to +adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of +it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a +blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza +Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of +some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think +of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor +little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up +well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child, +Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason +why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if +you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew +that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't +going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I +came home, and told Rejoice." + +"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed +thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is +the only sinner admitted." + +"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've +never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I +told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?' +said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came +away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go +and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without +it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen +a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that +child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it, +nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else +shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument +on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord +must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was +fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was +touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I +couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came +on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be +quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My +sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go +myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her +eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I +thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not +stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my +shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I +never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid +across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never +looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else +besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't +know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, +looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the +cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again +before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a +spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home, +and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my +sister Rejoice." + +Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen +blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she +said. "The cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into +kindling-wood, and Liza Green has never been the same woman from that +day to this." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +ON THE ROAD. + + +Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light +swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, +not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out +its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes +from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like +butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the +hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers +that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song +the doctor had taught her:-- + + "Who is Silvia, and what is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heavens such grace did lend her, + That adored she might be." + +One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking +into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a +moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. +"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the +dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, +quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a +familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving +their names into her song in childish fashion,-- + + "Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, + Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." + +Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too," +she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the +words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the +village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:-- + + Meadow-sweet is a treat; + Columbine's a fairy; + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,-- + +What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right. +Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!-- + + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine, + To feed my pet canary. + +I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went +along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!" +she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful +it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never +seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, +and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened +again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of +worrying about it? + + The worry cow + Might have lived till now, + If she'd only saved her breath. + She thought the hay + Wouldn't last all day, + So she choked herself to death." + +Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels +was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose +ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she +said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's +Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't +take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as +the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, +Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on +a piece, please?" + +"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was +sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd +like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I +come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down +as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the +seat beside him. + +Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in +Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet +together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon +squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?" + +"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben +havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was +failin' up sometimes, but I dono." + +"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that +six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she +was then." + +"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That +is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come +to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six +years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know +that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein' +her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He +turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half +expecting her to meet his gaze. + +"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just +because you see her so much, Eben. that you can't tell. Besides, I can +tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped +speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection +which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up +cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference, +Eben?--so of course I know she must be a great deal better." + +"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you _do_?' '_How_ do +you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well, +you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--Where d'you +say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. + +"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see +Neddy." + +"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'--Hevin' some kind o' +trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at +the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some +answering look in them. + +"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right +now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting +things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells +her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?" + +"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,--"that's so, every time. I was down +there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a +thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and +don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his +eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like +tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew +Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we +be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold +on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang +lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as +she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!" + +"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by, +Jerry." + +"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned +toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o' +good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals +with us I don't know when." + +Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, +while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering +admiration. + +"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he +soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for +the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they +come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en +a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times +over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the +doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little +feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't +mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name +for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with +many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +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 chassed +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN THE CHURCHYARD. + + +God's Acre! A New England burying-ground,--who does not know the +aspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else would +grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and +grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the +scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, +protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grass +is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy +geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of +place. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if +they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual +whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of these +stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and +long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one +corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one +buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight +legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by +the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort for +its inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and +flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the +people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England +people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the +matter of "moniments." + +But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is in +the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the +last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to +linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She +knows nothing of "Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in +this lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she +pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so +much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the +inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the +older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all +the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her +happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her +now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against +the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond of +white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would +wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is +thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she +follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other +fingers were fine enough to trace. + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF + + SUSAN DYER. + + TRUE TO HER NAME, + + She died Aug. 10th, 1814, + In the 19th year of her age. + + The soul of my Susan is gone + To heighten the triumphs above; + Exalted to Jesus's throne + And clasped in the arms of his love. + +Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan," she said, +"I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear, +and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you must +be used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeming +love,' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, +over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to +think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle +and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of +itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good +green grass. I think we liked the same things a good deal, Susan, +don't you? And I think you would like me to go and see the old +gentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and I really must +pull them up. You know I am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. +So many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. +Good-by, Susan dear." + +She bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, then +passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the last +letters of the inscription being barely discernible. + +"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand +respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions very +troublesome this morning, dear sir?" + +Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she +began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass +over the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, which +was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on +an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line +she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every +line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. + + "Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, + Those snares and fetters of the mind + My God, nor let this frame arise + Till every dust be well refined." + +"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody. +"You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed +just so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was well +refined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every +time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's +something growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr. +Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quite +respectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not to +fret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, no +matter how often I come." + +Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of +looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. +Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as +good as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind +through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! +How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might +be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He has +spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How many +walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their +neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration! + +The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leaf +was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knew +every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. +More than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her +the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was +with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether +the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. + +Another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures +living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." Not a cat +or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a +single call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her +wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice +quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and +that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vesta +said, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." But +Miss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touch +of her thin, kind old hand. + +It might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside a +small white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave a +low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone +wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright black +eyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes +would hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. + +"Brother Gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, +caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "I wondered if I +should see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were off +hunting somewhere, and I called and called, but no gray brother came. +How is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?" + +The "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, +under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The inscription on his +tombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not help +feeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, though +they had never exchanged remarks about it. This was the inscription: + + "I was a stout young man + As you would find in ten; + And when on this I think, + I take in hand my pen + And write it plainly out, + That all the world may see + How I was cut down like + A blossom from a tree. + The Lord rest my soul." + +The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him well +enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan +Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white +stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint +little name,--Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village +seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves +bore the name, though no living person now claimed it. + + LOVE GOOD, + + FOUR YEARS OLD. + + Our white rose withered in the bud. + +This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for +these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into +rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. + +Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and +murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, +content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of +the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the +branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and +silence brooded like a dove over the holy place. + +A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on +the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that +this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the +love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his +own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin +well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has +never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; +and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his +little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, +quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only +smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the +child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any +one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's +lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else +should be near to listen to such music as this? + +Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with +keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black +eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder +and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes +a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this +man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with +looks of power, almost of possession? + +Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your +shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to +the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm +is broken, and your paradise is invaded. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SERPENT. + + +"But I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am." + +The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidly +hither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house and +garden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboring +houses. One would have said he was a surveyor, only he had no +instruments with him. + +"I am sure you will listen to reason,--a fine, intelligent lady like +yourself. Think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. There +hasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in this +country, I'll be bold to say. I know something about voices, ma'am. +I've been in the concert business twenty years, and I do assure you I +have never heard such a natural voice as this child has. She has a +great career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am! there's thousands +in that voice! It sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. +You'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer,--one of the +very greatest. Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn't +have her like other people, not for anything. The blind prima-donna,-- +my stars! wouldn't it draw? I see the posters now. 'Nature's greatest +marvel, the blind singer! Splendid talent enveloped in darkness.' She +will be the success of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of my +chancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the +world! Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my horse lost +a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. And +now, ma'am, now I count this the most fortunate day of my life! Is the +little lady in the house, ma'am? I'd like to have a little talk with +her; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her,--her mind's eye, +Horatio, eh? Know anything of Shakspeare, ma'am? Is she in the house, +I say?" + +"She is not," said Miss Vesta Dale, finding her voice at last. "The +child is away, and you should not see her if she were here. She is not +meant for the sort of thing you talk about. She--she is the same as +our own child, my sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as long +as we live. I thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. "I don't +doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not that +kind, my sister and I." + +The man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "You +don't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! To keep +a voice like that shut up in a God-forsaken little hole like +this,--oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really you +don't.' And think of the advantage to the child herself!" He saw the +woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, and +hastened to pursue it. "What can the child have, if she spends her +life here? No education, no pleasure,--nothing. Nice little place, no +doubt, for those that are used to it, but--Lord! a child that has the +whole world before her, to pick and choose! She must go to Europe, +ma'am! She will sing before crowned heads; go to Russia, and be +decorated by the Czar. She'll have horses and carriages, jewels, +dresses finer than any queen! Patti spends three fortunes a year on +her clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as Patti, any day. Why, +you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, +perhaps--her and maybe others?" + +Miss Vesta winced; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice! it was a joy to save +and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sister +might have everything she fancied. But did she have everything? Was +it, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister's +sake? + +The man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "You are a fine woman, +ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so,--a remarkably fine woman. But you +are getting on in life, as we all are. This child will support you, +ma'am, instead of your supporting her. Support you, do I say? Why, +you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! You spoke of a sister, +ma'am. Is she in good health, may I ask?" His quick eye had spied the +white-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear had +caught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister." + +"My sister is an invalid," said Miss Vesta, coldly. + +"Another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "You will be able to have +every luxury for your sister,--wines, fruits, travelling, the best +medical aid the country affords. You are the--a--the steward, I may +say, ma'am,"--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral +loftiness, as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, +past and future,--"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this great +treasure. It means everything for you and her, and for your invalid +sister as well. Think of it, think of it well! I am so confident of +your answer that I can well afford to wait a little. Take a few +minutes, ma'am, and think it over." + +He leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in his +pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. He did not feel as +confident as he looked, perhaps, but Miss Vesta did not know that. She +also leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines that +screened Miss Rejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was right? +What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain +before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so +straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old +burying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. +They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print, +sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and +write. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, Miss +Vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart +of the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to a +life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick +with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven; +cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her +voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a +simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. But +now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up? + +As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody a +woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with +everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, +splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women +love to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw something +else besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, to +extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide +and long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs, +great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens; +there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear +eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that +luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendid +couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, +instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them +lay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read +about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with +delicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she? +Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile +with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had +a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the +likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old +surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old +green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. But +all the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. By +Melody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet and +stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on +within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an +occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet +wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. + +All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, only +the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day +and all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so; +for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an +added pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her +breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only a +woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. God +knew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her? + +She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child in +each hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, though +there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been +quarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought them +away. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he +gazed at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was not +glad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the woman listened +for the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbed +spirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it with +angry mutterings, with quick flashes. What if the child should sing +the wrong words, she thought! What were the wrong words, and how +should she know whether they were of God or the Devil? + +It was an old song that Melody was singing; she knew few others, +indeed,--only the last verse of an old song, which Vesta Dale had +heard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it was +a good song, one of the kind Rejoice liked. + + "There's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, + And I hope in my heart you'll go there; + Where the poor man's as great, + Though he hath no estate, + Ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, + As though he'd a thousand a year'" + +"So you see," said Melody to the children, as they paced along, "it +doesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't have +them. It's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy from +the outside, ever. I should think it would be harder if one had lots +of things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps +worry over. I often am so glad I haven't many things." + +They passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweet +rushes grew, for Melody knew that no child could stay cross when it +had sweet rushes to play with; and Miss Vesta turned to the stranger +with a quick, fierce movement. "Go away!" she cried. "You have your +answer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! Go, +and never come here again!" + + * * * * * + +It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was driving rapidly +home toward the village. He had had a tiresome day, and he meant to +have a cup of Vesta Dale's good tea and a song from Melody to smooth +down his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. His +patients had been very trying, especially the last one he had +visited,--an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, and +then told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of Vegetine without +benefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "I really do not +know, Madam," the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up the +seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." Whereupon he +got into his buggy and drove off without another word. + +But the Dale girls and Melody--bless them all for a set of +angels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, and +he would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills in the morning. There was +nothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. Here was the turn; +now in a moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at her +knitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she would call the +child whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, +and all vexations forgotten! + +But what was this? Instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, +who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the little +house, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? Her dress +was disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, making +confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. +But he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted woman +grasped his arm, and cried,-- + +"Melody is stolen! stolen! and Rejoice is dead!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +LOST. + + +Miss Rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadful +fright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes +closed, her face like wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and Miss +Vesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulants +between her closed lips. At last her breath began to flutter, and then +came back steadily. She opened her eyes; at first they were soft and +mild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. + +"The child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!" + +"We know it," said Dr. Brown, quietly. "We shall find her, Rejoice, +never fear. Now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tell +us how it happened. Why, we found you on the floor, my child,"--Miss +Rejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her +by any term of endearment,--"how upon earth did you get there?" + +Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, Miss Rejoice told +her story. It was short enough. Melody had been sitting with her, +reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on the +floor by the window. Milton's "Paradise Lost" it was, and Rejoice Dale +could never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. A +carriage drove up and stopped at the door, and Melody went out to see +who had come. As she went, she said, "It is a strange wagon; I have +never heard it before." They both supposed it some stranger who had +stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, driving +through the village on their way to the mountains. The sick woman +heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "A +little drive--fine afternoon;" and Melody's clear voice replying, "No, +thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and I +could not leave her. Shall I bring you a glass of water?" Then--oh, +then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the beloved +voice, and then a scream. Oh, such a scream! Rejoice Dale shrank down +in her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. She +had called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her +only answer was another cry of anguish: "Help! help! Auntie! Doctor! +Rosin! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help!" Then the cry was muffled, stifled, +sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all was +over. Rejoice Dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself along +on her elbows. Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary +weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a little +way at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when sense +and strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sister +and the doctor bending over her. + +Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice that +would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, +like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master,--Miss +Vesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three days +before and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms of +the earth. + +"I did not tell you, Rejoice," she cried, holding her sister's hand, +and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "I did not tell +you, because I was really tempted,--not for myself, I do believe; I am +permitted to believe, and it is the one comfort I have,--but for you, +Rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. But mostly for you, oh, +my God! mostly for you. And when I came to myself and knew you would +rather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child's +happy, innocent life,--when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and did +not tell you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I had +told you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine; +and I should never have left you, blind fool that I was, for you would +have showed me the danger. Doctor, we are two weak women,--she in +body, I in mind and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think we +must both die!" + +Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, +wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. But Rejoice Dale +took her sister's hand in hers. + +"'Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right +hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee,'" she said steadfastly. "Our +blind child is in her Father's hand, Sister; He leads her, and she can +go nowhere without Him. Go you now, and seek for her." + +"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "I +cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you." + +Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the +burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, and +moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple +quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. + +"You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bear +it if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and I +shall have help." + +"Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her. + +"Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shall +do very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, +Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor +will drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's +time, and you have none too long to reach it." + +Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which +he had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta," +he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation to +perform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no right +to leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," +he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, I +suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you know +well enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down the +well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from +misery,--and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and +the famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew that +under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay +dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of +excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might +live in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this,--his +friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of +hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could +only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart +of the rose. + +Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few +soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore +days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had +been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, +and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" +at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native +village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title +that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had +once been "Jack" to the whole village. + +"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than +you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to +the hand of God; your path is clear before you." + +Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might +in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a +note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. +"He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, +too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help." + +He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came +in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, +hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. +"But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you +are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again. + +For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves +like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to +grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, +in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were +a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they +knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, +forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. + +Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and +far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a +deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, +rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the +ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless +weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the +Beau" + +"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, +and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our +life and his is gone out?" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +WAITING. + + +How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little +chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the +voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very +quiet,--too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched +by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul +for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it +would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to +silent people who bore their troubles with a smile. + +"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twenty +times a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would be +easier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?" + +But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, +we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the +Lord's time." + +"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, +when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "She +ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, +Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now I +tell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in +there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I am +glad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Set +down, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I do +think I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind +to. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that +child is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong +into the stream of talk. + +"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. De +Arthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just +in the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, +takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, +the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if +there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,--well, there! I don't +want to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenay +happenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence +but just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, +but they hoped to every day,--and land sakes, we knew that, I should +hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I do +declare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close as +an oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, most +times. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's,--him that fell and hurt his +leg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?" + +"No, he isn't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, +as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heard +Doctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, +and you know that means death, sartin sure." + +Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. + +"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a +likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way +and another." + +"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing +the subject abruptly. + +Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; +it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak! + +"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I +reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set +eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes +my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But +there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." +She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, +and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week +now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's +room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a +flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things +that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as +ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as +plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, +but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly +believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my +interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting +her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. +What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly +spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em +alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels +in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's +though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've +ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor +health--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, +if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he +makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ +gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, +I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give +me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay +on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd +give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew +the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' +health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. +Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at +one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of +the pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin',--not but what I like +Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her +took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried +respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, +these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell +a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn +folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My +cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought +it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' +Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--" + +Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her +mouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open in +the breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised her +voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house +like the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now +rising, the voice of Rejoice Dale,--not calm and gentle, as they had +always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. + +"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her! +Lord, save her!" + +The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes +wide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? Involuntarily they +turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, +and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. + +"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is it +a spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!" + +But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, the +whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped +gently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. + +"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! they +comfort me." And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fell +asleep, and slept like a little child. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BLONDEL. + + +Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the brick +sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare +toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their +eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. +The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; +the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men pass +along, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go on +whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, +expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, +muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. +Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear +straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in +all degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these +are not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish +thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires +attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of all +the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little +world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the +other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note +of them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get through +the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the +sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must +still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a +running river be,"--with apologies to the boy Chatterton. + +Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of +sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks at +anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the +streets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowy +hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which +glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every +face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away +from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly +against his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl! + +Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the +houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, +as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and +surprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a house +seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the +windows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune,--a simple, +homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, +though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. A +languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys +know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. + +When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the +silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it +is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and +night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, +stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks +in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with +beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in +the world. + +No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro +who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who +tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He +shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes +on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next +disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who +hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who +engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily +enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken +the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that +presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, +noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree +of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of +his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and +old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to +play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, +and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant- +looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to +him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or +heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is +careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking +for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair +and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world +figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay, +from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis +who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line +of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in +such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has +earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. +He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather +go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard +the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the +quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and +voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on +his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. +All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and +"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one +here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs +again. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away +from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the +soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful +elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody as +she dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its +gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, +the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world; +then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching +with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the +whole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway; +the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing +all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the +old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for De +Arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady +feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes +leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow +feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a +day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for +that night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his stately +bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low +tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, +to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, weary +after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little +from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his +face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice +saying,-- + +"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's One +has her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear." + +God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin the +Beau! + +But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of +his adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, +wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and +undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a +breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and +the shadow of death? + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +DARKNESS. + + +"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as a +picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, +dearie?" + +It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a +certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, +with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. + +"I am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again. + +The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into +the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented +eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old +burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, +save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the +children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her +soul for her sister's comfort. + +"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said +the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's +your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite +surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like +a flower all in the dark." + +She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a +glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but +her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. + +"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think +that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound +of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an +angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson +has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular +gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls +with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends +with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt +under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so +much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that +comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, +dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you +everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get +a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, most +young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell +you." + +She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulled +her aside. + +"It's no use," he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, my +dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will +never see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. You sense that, do +you?" + +No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was +still,--the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Anderson +clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort +to conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could not +punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the +precious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, this +man. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful on +the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found +a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Could +anything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse a +whole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely +refused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had +called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future +Catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no +note of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would not +even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" +and "no." + +What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the +shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to +get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her +childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and +set all his cherished plans at nought. + +And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do +so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a +child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well +as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little +girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a +father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In +the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a +most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the +benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the +prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous +gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel +crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be +his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into +light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? +Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader +of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not +say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when +carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he +felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not +knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by +his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face +toward him and spoke. + +"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing +all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be +possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a +mistake, that is all." + +"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson. + +"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be +unkind,--Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, +and why will you not take me home?" + +"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You +know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred +times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old +people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion +and power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what, +you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most +girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as +you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you +don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me +for making you sing." + +Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and +clenched his hands fiercely. + +"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has +a right to you." + +"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do +belong to the world,--to God's world of beauty, to the woods and +fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When +the birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song is +as sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it +again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I please +the brook, and all who hear me,--little beasts, and flowers that nod +on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell +me by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love to +hear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to +sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may +sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This is +my life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know the +work my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she stepped +forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God's +child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?" + +There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes +fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head +thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised +in awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began to +cry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but +no words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; +moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch +seemed to burn through and through him,--moved away, groping for the +door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as +a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. + +Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled her +heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever +since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, +from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She +had thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was +deserted, not that God had forgotten,--oh, no; but that He did not +need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she +had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to +some other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in every +limb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way,--that +would not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. So +death would come,--death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had always +described him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand. + +But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, +clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered her +heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of +joy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more +distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face of +Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of +Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath +which she loved to sit and sing. She heard--oh, God! what did she +hear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, the +lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, +beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of +hope,--of hope fulfilled, of life and love? + + "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 to Rosin the Beau." + +Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! +oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dash +my foot against a stone! A welcome,--oh, on my knees, in humble +thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,--a welcome to Rosin the +Beau! + + * * * * * + +An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed and +disordered, making her defence. + +"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. +You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When she +heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been +shot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute she +was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in +my bones yet, and will be till I die." + +She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded +through the blazing streets. + +"Then he came in,--the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came in +like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a +flake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there +on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two +black coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved if +it had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, +but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, +his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. +'You cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot +till I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, +sir, I _had_ no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemed +to melt away together,--he with his arm round her waist, holding her +up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like +heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, +and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir," +cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation;" +and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I am +glad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, as +you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, +I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine +neither. And--and I've never been a professor," cried the woman, with +her apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and +I mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked God +to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meant +to be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And she +said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her +good, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm so +glad!" + +She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; +for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her +that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he +thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of +raising her salary. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +LIGHT. + + +I love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the +fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it +spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from +river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that +sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a +softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common +things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or +unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time +of all the perfect hours. + +It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the +people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is +a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but +lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have +not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they +were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a +respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to +time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received +some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and +had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams +slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it +became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here +and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches; +the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners +of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as +the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing +near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England +men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a +Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones +for once in their lives, though they knew it not. + +But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was +the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and +the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. +They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom +they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and +ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and +the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things +out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one +dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one +tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them +with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one +day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all +temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the +folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by +the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till +he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a +drop of liquor from that day on. + +Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--Jane Pegrum's +baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning +house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, +hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; +and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved +above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, +catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just +ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the +woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven +them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and +when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did +seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor +was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once +she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody +seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. +Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. + +Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on +the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any +one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was +harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up +her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to +the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of +him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been +himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. +Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him +from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, +they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got +hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the +yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood +cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and +she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was; +and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,-- +reaching out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he +had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like +to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels? + +Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the +first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They +are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, +Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know +the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the +road--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem +hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for +Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. + +Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the +little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is +running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, +opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted +creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, +all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman +does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, +if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most +patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. Yes, +Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the +far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. +With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might +think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the +road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their +triumphal entry. + +For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears +pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of +waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come +back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred +and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare +with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, +because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. +Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling +herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and +pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous +noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as +sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody, +with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of +each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful +hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost +convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No +marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He +kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and +then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta +Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer +than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance +to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, +and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive +ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all +true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home, +never to leave them again. + +But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of +joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from +every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet +all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful +hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her +heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,-- + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. +What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, +warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. +The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending +and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, +for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melody, by Laura E. Richards + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + +This file should be named 7melo10.txt or 7melo10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7melo11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7melo10a.txt + +Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Melody + The Story of a Child + +Author: Laura E. Richards + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7824] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on May 20, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + + + + +Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +MELODY + +by + +LAURA E. RICHARDS + +1894 + + + +TO + +THE LOVELY MEMORY + +OF + +My Sister, + +JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. THE CHILD + +II. THE DOCTOR + +III. ON THE ROAD + +IV. ROSIN THE BEAU + +V. IN THE CHURCHYARD + +VI. THE SERPENT + +VII. LOST + +VIII. WAITING + +IX. BLONDEL + +X. DARKNESS + +XI. LIGHT + + + + +"_Minded of nought but peace, and of a child_." + +SIDNEY LANIER. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE CHILD. + + +"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that +is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary +sing like that!" + +Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of +light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and +Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with +sweetness and life and joy. + +"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice, +folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air +of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in +the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?" + +Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see +the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June +breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors +went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful +voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her. + +Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on +the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the +creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word +for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands +their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them +cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to +my mind." + +"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said +you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!" + +Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window, +leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow, +though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed +straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and +bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands +showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds. +No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters, +unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed +between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the +pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark +eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal. +Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge, +very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too, +in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta +was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss +Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It +was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed +her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of +pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything +save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened +at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss +Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there +was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice +had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She +left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to +the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never +been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to +abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living +creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some +one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they +were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she +supposed),--in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her +sister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breaking +of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said +Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived +their life together, without a thought save for each other, till +Melody came into their world. + +But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of +twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead, +with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as +those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and +calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which +makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several +times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm. +The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or +softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or +soften, for Melody is blind. + +She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread, +which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty. + +"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were +saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one +for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the +glowing blossom beside it. + +"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would +find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the +old bush behind the barn?" + +"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came +to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs. +Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see +it." + +"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?" + +"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy." + +"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving, +as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the +first asking, hey?" + +"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently. + +"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister. + +Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She +wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean +that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite +as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't +sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?" + +"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was +exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference." + +The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice. + +"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so +funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must +always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and +go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses +for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white +ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get +the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt, +nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any +more; so I took the rose, and here it is." + +Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was +about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and +motioned her to be silent. + +"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she +meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added; +"there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens +this morning, dearie?" + +The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such +fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let +the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one +under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a +good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and +drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is +such a dear!" + +"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an +affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being +talked to and sung to as if they were persons?" + +"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do +live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt +Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?" + +At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The +doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of +joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate. + +"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her +again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But +so it is, in this world." + +"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice, +mildly. "You seem put about." + +"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister. +"Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha +Penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had +her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear +knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of +a mind to pull it for her." + +"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they +both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE DOCTOR. + + +The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the +child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested, +with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind +in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him; +and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger. + +"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to +shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh? +You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr. +Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,--a woman who has never +had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and +that's forty years at least." + +"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you +many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?" + +"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir, +is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of +disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want +to see me?" + +Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers, +searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then-- + +"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this +morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's +to see little Ned." + +"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of +alarm. + +"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr. +Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since +he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child, +knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect +one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was +going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the +precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest +of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes +looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this +child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along +back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o' +the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice +in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N' +then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had +consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all +her children's after her. And _she_ said to try vitriol; but I kind o' +thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now +his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me, +what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I +said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your +tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will +do, and much good may it do you.'" + +"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been +addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--you +don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale, +and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense. + +"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all +right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to +frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an +impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good +child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the +little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and +the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out +pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't mean +that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about +Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant. +But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand +lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent +communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, Melody. My +friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to +hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?" + +The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply. +"What song would you like, Doctor?" + +"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'" + +The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was +just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly +down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept +them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread, +and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the +window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not +worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on +her lap, and sang. + +Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world; +certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first +written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the +legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do +not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and +sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking +people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and +genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered +symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and +women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by +camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at +the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through +the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who +heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the +lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it, +through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna, +some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a +great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that +the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in +freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender +mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie" +as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head +thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their +unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He +started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung +quivering on the air,-- + + "Maxwellton braes are bonnie, + Where early fa's the dew." + +What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite +knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal, +of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with +no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the +country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert? +Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been +discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when +he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had +been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies. +But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy; +clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so +pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's +heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure. +Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his +friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he +himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor +not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew +Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the +discomfiture of his knowing friend. + +The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark +when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and +looked at each other. + +There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr. +Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the +next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy +Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great +pair of ears." + +The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she +said. "That is _his_ greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss +Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and +lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie," +she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after +dinner." + +Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor +doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to +tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I +should not want the child to fret." + +"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face +toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr. +Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess. +"Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she +walked quickly away. + +Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?" +he asked presently. + +"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see +her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How +does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for +a country child, eh?" + +"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,--"like an angel from +heaven." + +"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child +of God, who has never forgotten her Father." + +Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in +his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own +niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you." + +Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done, +being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out +of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was +one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said +slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own +daughter to us." + +"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown, +kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild +night it was?" + +Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said. + +"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend. +"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work. +She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so +on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr. +Anthony how it happened, Vesta." + +Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that +his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head. +"There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little +proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to +the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a +great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like +them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went +hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then, +came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in +your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't +know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's +the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the +mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how +the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't +know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and +went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face. +'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and +will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd +like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind +children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would +be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to +speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you +ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor +little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the +world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it. +I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old +they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the +rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't +stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands +on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet +and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it +lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes +wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little +face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw +it in--Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me, +sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to +adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of +it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a +blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza +Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of +some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think +of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor +little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up +well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child, +Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason +why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if +you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew +that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't +going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I +came home, and told Rejoice." + +"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed +thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is +the only sinner admitted." + +"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've +never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I +told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?' +said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came +away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go +and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without +it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen +a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that +child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it, +nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else +shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument +on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord +must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was +fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was +touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I +couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came +on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be +quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My +sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go +myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her +eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I +thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not +stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my +shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I +never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid +across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never +looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else +besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't +know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping, +looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the +cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again +before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a +spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home, +and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my +sister Rejoice." + +Miss Vesta paused, and the shadow of a great awe crept into her keen +blue eyes. "The poor-farm was struck by lightning that night!" she +said. "The cradle where that baby was lying was shattered into +kindling-wood, and Liza Green has never been the same woman from that +day to this." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +ON THE ROAD. + + +Melody went singing down the road. She walked quickly, with a light +swaying motion, graceful as a bird. Her hands were held before her, +not, it seemed, from timidity, but rather as a butterfly stretches out +its delicate antennae, touching, feeling, trying its way, as it goes +from flower to flower. Truly, the child's light fingers were like +butterflies, as she walked beside the road, reaching up to touch the +hanging sprays of its bordering willows, or caressing the tiny flowers +that sprang up along the footpath. She sang, too, as she went, a song +the doctor had taught her:-- + + "Who is Silvia, and what is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heavens such grace did lend her, + That adored she might be." + +One might have thought that Silvia was not far to seek, on looking +into the fair face of the child. Now she stopped, and stood for a +moment with head thrown back, and nostrils slightly distended. +"Meadow-sweet!" she said softly to herself. "Isn't it out early? the +dear. I must find it for Aunt Joy." She stooped, and passed her light, +quick hands over the wayside grasses. Every blade and leaf was a +familiar friend, and she greeted them as she touched them, weaving +their names into her song in childish fashion,-- + + "Buttercup and daisy dear, sorrel for her eating, + Mint and rose to please the nose of my pretty sweeting." + +Then she laughed outright. "When I grow up, I will make songs, too," +she said, as she stooped to pick the meadow-sweet. "I will make the +words, and Rosin shall make the music; and we will go through the +village singing, till everybody comes out of the houses to listen:-- + + Meadow-sweet is a treat; + Columbine's a fairy; + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine,-- + +What rhymes with fairy, I wonder. Dairy; but that won't come right. +Airy, hairy,--yes, now I have it!-- + + Mallow's fine, sweet as wine, + To feed my pet canary. + +I'll sing that to Neddy," said Melody, laughing to herself as she went +along. "I can sing it to the tune of 'Lightly Row.' Dear little boy!" +she added, after a silence. "Think, if he had been blind, how dreadful +it would have been! Of course it doesn't matter when you have never +seen at all, because you know how to get on all right; but to have it, +and then lose it--oh dear! but then,"--and her face brightened +again,--"he _isn't_ going to be blind, you see, so what's the use of +worrying about it? + + The worry cow + Might have lived till now, + If she'd only saved her breath. + She thought the hay + Wouldn't last all day, + So she choked herself to death." + +Presently the child stopped again, and listened. The sound of wheels +was faintly audible. No one else could have heard it but Melody, whose +ears were like those of a fox. "Whose wagon squeaks like that?" she +said, as she listened. "The horse interferes, too. Oh, of course; it's +Eben Loomis. He'll pick me up and give me a ride, and then it won't +take so long." She walked along, turning back every now and then, as +the sound of wheels came nearer and nearer. At last, "Good-morning, +Eben!" she cried, smiling as the wagon drove up; "will you take me on +a piece, please?" + +"Wal, I might, perhaps," admitted the driver, cautiously, "if I was +sure you was all right, Mel'dy. How d'you know't was me comin', I'd +like to know? I never said a word, nor so much as whistled, since I +come in sight of ye." The man, a wiry, yellow-haired Yankee, bent down +as he spoke, and taking the child's hand, swung her lightly up to the +seat beside him. + +Melody laughed joyously. "I should know your wagon if I heard it in +Russia, Eben," she said. "Besides, poor old Jerry knocks his hind feet +together so, I heard him clicking along even before I heard the wagon +squeak. How's Mandy, Eben?" + +"Mandy, she ain't very well," replied the countryman. "She's ben +havin' them weakly spells right along lately. Seems though she was +failin' up sometimes, but I dono." + +"Oh, no, she isn't, Eben," answered Melody, cheerfully. "You said that +six years ago, do you know it? and Mandy isn't a bit worse than she +was then." + +"Well, that's so," assented the man, after a thoughtful pause. "That +is so, Mel'dy, though how you come to-know it is a myst'ry to me. Come +to think of it, I dono but she's a leetle mite better than she was six +years ago. Wal! now it's surprising ain't it, that you should know +that, you child, without the use of your eyes, and I shouldn't, seein' +her every day and all day? How do you account for that, now, hey?" He +turned on his seat, and looked keenly at the child, as if half +expecting her to meet his gaze. + +"It's easy enough!" said Melody, with her quiet smile. "It's just +because you see her so much, Eben. that you can't tell. Besides, I can +tell from Mandy's voice. Her voice used to go down when she stopped +speaking, like this, 'How do you _do_?' [with a falling inflection +which was the very essence of melancholy]; and now her voice goes up +cheerfully, at the end, 'How do you do?' Don't you see the difference, +Eben?--so of course I know she must be a great deal better." + +"I swan!" replied Eben Loomis, simply. "'How do you _do_?' '_How_ do +you do?' so that's the way you find out things, is it, Mel'dy? Well, +you're a curus child, that's what's the matter with you.--Where d'you +say you was goin'?" he added, after a pause. + +"I didn't say," said Melody. "But I'm going to Mrs. Jackson's, to see +Neddy." + +"Want to know," said her companion. "Goin'--Hevin' some kind o' +trouble with his eyes, ain't he?" He stopped short, with a glance at +the child's clear eyes. It was impossible not to expect to find some +answering look in them. + +"They thought he was going blind," said Melody; "but it is all right +now. I do wish people wouldn't tell Mrs. Jackson to keep putting +things in his eyes. Why can't they let her do what the doctor tells +her, and not keep wanting her to try all kinds of nonsense?" + +"Wal, that's so," assented Eben,--"that's so, every time. I was down +there a spell back, and I says, 'Phoebe,' I says, 'don't you do a +thing folks tells you,' says I. 'Dr. Brown knows what he's about, and +don't you do a thing but what he says, unless it's jest to wet his +eyes up with a drop o' tobacco-juice,' says I. 'There's nothin' like +tobacco-juice for weakly eyes, that's sure;' and of course I knew +Doctor would ha' said so himself ef he'd ha' been there. Wal, here we +be to Jackson's now," added the good man, pulling up his horse. "Hold +on a minute, and I'll help ye down. Wal, there!" as Melody sprang +lightly from the wagon, just touching his hand by way of greeting as +she went, "if you ain't the spryest ever I see!" + +"Good-by, Eben, and thank you ever so much," said the child. "Good-by, +Jerry." + +"Come down an' see us, Mel'dy!" Eben called after her, as she turned +toward-the house with unfaltering step. "T'would do Mandy a sight o' +good. Come down and stop to supper. You ain't took a meal o' victuals +with us I don't know when." + +Melody promised to come soon, and took her way up the grassy path, +while the countryman gazed after her with a look of wondering +admiration. + +"That child knows more than most folks that hev their sight!" he +soliloquized. "What's she doin' now? Oh, stoppin' to pick a posy, for +the child, likely. Now they'll all swaller her alive. Yes; thar they +come. Look at the way she takes that child up, now, will ye? He's e'en +a'most as big as she is; but you'd say she was his mother ten times +over, from the way she handles him. Look at her set down on the +doorstep, tellin' him a story, I'll bet. I tell ye! hear that little +feller laugh, and he was cryin' all last night, Mandy says. I wouldn't +mind hearin' that story myself. Faculty, that gal has; that's the name +for it, sir. Git up, Jerry! this won't buy the child a cake;" and with +many a glance over his shoulder, the good man drove on. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN THE CHURCHYARD. + + +God's Acre! A New England burying-ground,--who does not know the +aspect of the place? A savage plot of ground, where nothing else would +grow save this crop of gray stones, and other gray stones formless and +grim, thrusting their rugged faces out here and there through the +scanty soil. Other stones, again, enclosing the whole with a grim, +protecting arm, a ragged wall, all jagged, formless, rough. The grass +is long and yet sparse; here and there a few flowers cling, hardy +geraniums, lychnis, and the like, but they seem strangely out of +place. The stones are fallen awry, and lean toward each other as if +they exchanged confidences, and speculated on the probable spiritual +whereabouts of the souls whose former bodies they guard. Most of these +stones are gray slate, carved with old-fashioned letters, round and +long-tailed; but there are a few slabs of white marble, and in one +corner is a marble lamb, looking singularly like the woolly lambs one +buys for children, standing stiff and solemn on his four straight +legs. This is not the "cemetery," be it understood. That is close by +the village, and is the favorite walk and place of Sunday resort for +its inhabitants. It is trim and well-kept, with gravel paths and +flower-beds, and store of urns and images in "white bronze," for the +people are proud of their cemetery, as well-regulated New England +people should be, and there is a proper feeling of rivalry in the +matter of "moniments." + +But Melody cares nothing whatever about the fine cemetery. It is in +the old "berrin'-groun'" that her mother lies,--indeed, she was the +last person buried in it; and it is here that the child loves to +linger and dream the sweet, sad, purposeless dreams of childhood. She +knows nothing of "Old Mortality," yet she is his childish imitator in +this lonely spot. She keeps the weeds in some sort of subjection; she +pulls away the moss and lichens from head and foot stones,--not so +much with any idea of reverence as that she likes to read the +inscriptions, and feel the quaint flourishes and curlicues of the +older gravestones. She has a sense of personal acquaintance with all +the dwellers on this hillside; talks to them and sings to them in her +happy fashion, as she pulls away the witch-grass and sorrel. See her +now, sitting on that low green mound, her white dress gleaming against +the dusky gray of the stone on which she leans. Melody is very fond of +white. It feels smoother than colors, she always says; and she would +wear it constantly if it did not make too much washing. One arm is +thrown over the curve of the headstone, while with the other hand she +follows the worn letters of the inscription, which surely no other +fingers were fine enough to trace. + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF + + SUSAN DYER. + + TRUE TO HER NAME, + + She died Aug. 10th, 1814, + In the 19th year of her age. + + The soul of my Susan is gone + To heighten the triumphs above; + Exalted to Jesus's throne + And clasped in the arms of his love. + +Melody read the words aloud, smiling as she read. "Susan," she said, +"I wonder who wrote your verses. I wonder if you were pretty, dear, +and if you liked to be alive, and were sorry to be dead. But you must +be used to it by this time, anyhow. I wonder if you 'shout redeeming +love,' like your cousin (I suppose she is your cousin) Sophia Dyer, +over in the corner there. I never liked Sophia, Susan dear. I seem to +think she shouted here too, and snubbed you, because you were gentle +and shy. See how her stone perks up, making every inch it can of +itself, while yours tries to sink away and hide itself in the good +green grass. I think we liked the same things a good deal, Susan, +don't you? And I think you would like me to go and see the old +gentleman now, because he has so many dandelions; and I really must +pull them up. You know I am never sure that he isn't your grandfather. +So many of you are related here, it is a regular family party. +Good-by, Susan dear." + +She bent over, and touched the stone lightly with her lips, then +passed on to another which was half buried in the earth, the last +letters of the inscription being barely discernible. + +"How do you do, Mr. Bascom?" said this singular child, laying her hand +respectfully on the venerable headstone. "Are your dandelions very +troublesome this morning, dear sir?" + +Her light fingers hovered over the mound like butterflies, and she +began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the grass +over the bare places. Then she fell to work on the inscription, which +was an elaborate one, surmounted by two cherubs' heads, one resting on +an hour-glass, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line +she passed her delicate fingers, not because she did not know every +line, but that she might trace any new growth of moss or lichen. + + "Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes, + Those snares and fetters of the mind + My God, nor let this frame arise + Till every dust be well refined." + +"You were very particular, Mr. Bascom, weren't you?" inquired Melody. +"You were a very neat old gentleman, with white hair always brushed +just so, and a high collar. You didn't like dust, unless it was well +refined. I shouldn't wonder if you washed your walking-stick every +time you came home, like Mr. Cuter, over at the Corners. Here's +something growing in the tail of your last _y_. Never mind, Mr. +Bascom, I'll get it out with a pin. There, now you are quite +respectable, and you look very nice indeed. Good-by, and do try not to +fret more than you can help about the dandelions. They will grow, no +matter how often I come." + +Melody, in common with most blind persons, always spoke of seeing, of +looking at things, precisely as if she had the full use of her eyes. +Indeed, I question whether those wonderful fingers of hers were not as +good as many pairs of eyes we see. How many people go half-blind +through the world, just for want of the habit of looking at things! +How many plod onward, with eyes fixed on the ground, when they might +be raised to the skies, seeing the glory of the Lord, which He has +spread abroad over hill and meadow, for all eyes to behold! How many +walk with introverted gaze, seeing only themselves, while their +neighbor walks beside them, unseen, and needing their ministration! + +The blind child touched life with her hand, and knew it. Every leaf +was her acquaintance, every flower her friend and gossip. She knew +every tree of the forest by its bark; knew when it blossomed, and how. +More than this,--some subtle sense for which we have no name gave her +the power of reading with a touch the mood and humor of those she was +with; and when her hand rested in that of a friend, she knew whether +the friend were glad or gay, before hearing the sound of his voice. + +Another power she had,--that of attracting to her "all creatures +living beneath the sun, that creep or swim or fly or run." Not a cat +or dog in the village but would leave his own master or mistress at a +single call from Melody. She could imitate every bird-call with her +wonderful voice; and one day she had come home and told Miss Rejoice +quietly that she had been making a concert with a wood-thrush, and +that the red squirrels had sat on the branches to listen. Miss Vesta +said, "Nonsense, child! you fell asleep, and had a pretty dream." But +Miss Rejoice believed every word, and Melody knew she did by the touch +of her thin, kind old hand. + +It might well have been true; for now, as the child sat down beside a +small white stone, which evidently marked a child's grave, she gave a +low call, and in a moment a gray squirrel came running from the stone +wall (he had been sitting there, watching her with his bright black +eyes, looking so like a bit of the wall itself that the sharpest eyes +would hardly have noticed him), and leaped into her lap. + +"Brother Gray-frock, how do you do?" cried the child, joyously, +caressing the pretty creature with light touches. "I wondered if I +should see you to-day, brother. The last time I came you were off +hunting somewhere, and I called and called, but no gray brother came. +How is the wife, and the children, and how is the stout young man?" + +The "stout young man" lay buried at the farther end of the ground, +under the tree in which the squirrel lived. The inscription on his +tombstone was a perpetual amusement to Melody, and she could not help +feeling as if the squirrel must know that it was funny too, though +they had never exchanged remarks about it. This was the inscription: + + "I was a stout young man + As you would find in ten; + And when on this I think, + I take in hand my pen + And write it plainly out, + That all the world may see + How I was cut down like + A blossom from a tree. + The Lord rest my soul." + +The young man's name was Faithful Parker. Melody liked him well +enough, though she never felt intimate with him, as she did with Susan +Dyer and the dear child Love Good, who slept beneath this low white +stone. This was Melody's favorite grave. It was such a dear quaint +little name,--Love Good. "Good" had been a common name in the village +seventy years ago, when this little Love lived and died; many graves +bore the name, though no living person now claimed it. + + LOVE GOOD, + + FOUR YEARS OLD. + + Our white rose withered in the bud. + +This was all; and somehow Melody felt that she knew and cared for +these parents much more than for those who put their sorrow into +rhyme, and mourned in despairing doggerel. + +Melody laid her soft warm cheek against the little white stone, and +murmured loving words to it. The squirrel sat still in her lap, +content to nestle under her hand, and bask in the light and warmth of +the summer day: the sunlight streamed with tempered glow through the +branches of an old cedar that grew beside the little grave; peace and +silence brooded like a dove over the holy place. + +A flutter of wings, a rustle of leaves,--was it a fairy alighting on +the old cedar-tree? No, only an oriole; though some have said that +this bird is a fairy prince in disguise, and that if he can win the +love of a pure maiden the spell will be loosed, and he will regain his +own form. This cannot be true, however; for Melody knows Golden Robin +well, and loves him well, and he loves her in his own way, yet has +never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though; +and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his +little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet, +quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only +smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the +child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any +one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's +lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else +should be near to listen to such music as this? + +Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with +keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black +eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder +and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes +a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this +man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with +looks of power, almost of possession? + +Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your +shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to +the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm +is broken, and your paradise is invaded. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SERPENT. + + +"But I'm sure you will listen to reason, ma'am." + +The stranger spoke in a low, persuasive tone; his eyes glanced rapidly +hither and thither as he spoke, taking the bearings of house and +garden, noting the turn of the road, the distance of the neighboring +houses. One would have said he was a surveyor, only he had no +instruments with him. + +"I am sure you will listen to reason,--a fine, intelligent lady like +yourself. Think of it: there is a fortune in this child's voice. There +hasn't been such a voice--there's never been such a voice in this +country, I'll be bold to say. I know something about voices, ma'am. +I've been in the concert business twenty years, and I do assure you I +have never heard such a natural voice as this child has. She has a +great career before her, I tell you. Money, ma'am! there's thousands +in that voice! It sings bank-notes and gold-pieces, every note of it. +You'll be a rich woman, and she will be a great singer,--one of the +very greatest. Her being blind makes it all the better. I wouldn't +have her like other people, not for anything. The blind prima-donna,-- +my stars! wouldn't it draw? I see the posters now. 'Nature's greatest +marvel, the blind singer! Splendid talent enveloped in darkness.' She +will be the success of the day, ma'am. Lord, and to think of my +chancing on her here, of all the little out-of-the-way places in the +world! Why, three hours ago I was cursing my luck, when my horse lost +a shoe and went lame, just outside your pleasant little town here. And +now, ma'am, now I count this the most fortunate day of my life! Is the +little lady in the house, ma'am? I'd like to have a little talk with +her; kind o' open her eyes to what's before her,--her mind's eye, +Horatio, eh? Know anything of Shakspeare, ma'am? Is she in the house, +I say?" + +"She is not," said Miss Vesta Dale, finding her voice at last. "The +child is away, and you should not see her if she were here. She is not +meant for the sort of thing you talk about. She--she is the same as +our own child, my sister's and mine. We mean to keep her by us as long +as we live. I thank you," she added, with stately courtesy. "I don't +doubt that many might be glad of such a chance, but we are not that +kind, my sister and I." + +The man's face fell; but the next moment he looked incredulous. "You +don't mean what you say, ma'am!" he cried; "you can't mean it! To keep +a voice like that shut up in a God-forsaken little hole like +this,--oh, you don't know what you're talking about, really you +don't.' And think of the advantage to the child herself!" He saw the +woman's face change at this, saw that he had made a point, and +hastened to pursue it. "What can the child have, if she spends her +life here? No education, no pleasure,--nothing. Nice little place, no +doubt, for those that are used to it, but--Lord! a child that has the +whole world before her, to pick and choose! She must go to Europe, +ma'am! She will sing before crowned heads; go to Russia, and be +decorated by the Czar. She'll have horses and carriages, jewels, +dresses finer than any queen! Patti spends three fortunes a year on +her clothes, and this girl has as good a voice as Patti, any day. Why, +you have to support her, don't you?--and hard work, too, sometimes, +perhaps--her and maybe others?" + +Miss Vesta winced; and he saw it. Oh, Rejoice! it was a joy to save +and spare, to deny herself any little luxury, that the beloved sister +might have everything she fancied. But did she have everything? Was +it, could it be possible that this should be done for her sister's +sake? + +The man pursued his advantage relentlessly. "You are a fine woman, +ma'am, if you'll allow me to say so,--a remarkably fine woman. But you +are getting on in life, as we all are. This child will support you, +ma'am, instead of your supporting her. Support you, do I say? Why, +you'll be rolling in wealth in a few years! You spoke of a sister, +ma'am. Is she in good health, may I ask?" His quick eye had spied the +white-curtained bed through the vine-clad window, and his ear had +caught the tender tone of her voice when she said, "my sister." + +"My sister is an invalid," said Miss Vesta, coldly. + +"Another point!" exclaimed the impresario. "You will be able to have +every luxury for your sister,--wines, fruits, travelling, the best +medical aid the country affords. You are the--a--the steward, I may +say, ma'am,"--with subtle intuition, the man assumed a tone of moral +loftiness, as if calling Miss Vesta to account for all delinquencies, +past and future,--"the steward, or even the stewardess, of this great +treasure. It means everything for you and her, and for your invalid +sister as well. Think of it, think of it well! I am so confident of +your answer that I can well afford to wait a little. Take a few +minutes, ma'am, and think it over." + +He leaned against the house in an easy attitude, with his hands in his +pockets, and his mouth pursed up for a whistle. He did not feel as +confident as he looked, perhaps, but Miss Vesta did not know that. She +also leaned against the house, her head resting among the vines that +screened Miss Rejoice's window, and thought intensely. What was right? +What should she do? Half an hour ago life lay so clear and plain +before her; the line of happy duties, simple pleasures, was so +straight, leading from the cottage door to that quiet spot in the old +burying-ground where she and Rejoice would one day rest side by side. +They had taught Melody what they could. She had books in raised print, +sent regularly from the institution where she had learned to read and +write. She was happy; no child could ever have been happier, Miss +Vesta thought, if she had had three pairs of eyes. She was the heart +of the village, its pride, its wonder. They had looked forward to a +life of simple usefulness and kindliness for her, tending the sick +with that marvellous skill which seemed a special gift from Heaven; +cheering, comforting, delighting old and young, by the magic of her +voice and the gentle spell of her looks and ways. A quiet life, a +simple, humdrum life, it might be: they had never thought of that. But +now, what picture was this that the stranger had conjured up? + +As in a glass, Miss Vesta seemed to see the whole thing. Melody a +woman, a great singer, courted, caressed, living like a queen, with +everything rich and beautiful about her; jewels in her shining hair, +splendid dresses, furs and laces, such as even elderly country women +love to dream about sometimes. She saw this; and she saw something +else besides. The walls of the little room within seemed to part, to +extend; it was no longer a tiny whitewashed closet, but stretched wide +and long, rose lofty and airy. There were couches, wheeled chairs, +great sunny windows, through which one looked out over lovely gardens; +there were pictures, the most beautiful in the world, for those dear +eyes to rest on; banks of flowers, costly ornaments, everything that +luxury could devise or heart desire. And on one of these splendid +couches (oh, she could move as she pleased from one to the other, +instead of lying always in the one narrow white bed!),--on one of them +lay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read +about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with +delicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she? +Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile +with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had +a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the +likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old +surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old +green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. But +all the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. By +Melody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet and +stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on +within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an +occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet +wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth. + +All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, only +the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day +and all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so; +for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an +added pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her +breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only a +woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. God +knew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her? + +She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child in +each hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, though +there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been +quarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought them +away. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he +gazed at it. But for the first time in her life Miss Vesta was not +glad to see Melody. The child began to sing, and the woman listened +for the words, with a vague trouble darkening over her perturbed +spirit as a thunder-cloud comes blackening a gray sky, filling it with +angry mutterings, with quick flashes. What if the child should sing +the wrong words, she thought! What were the wrong words, and how +should she know whether they were of God or the Devil? + +It was an old song that Melody was singing; she knew few others, +indeed,--only the last verse of an old song, which Vesta Dale had +heard all her life, and had never thought much about, save that it was +a good song, one of the kind Rejoice liked. + + "There's a place that is better than this, Robin Ruff, + And I hope in my heart you'll go there; + Where the poor man's as great, + Though he hath no estate, + Ay, as though he'd a thousand a year, Robin Ruff, + As though he'd a thousand a year'" + +"So you see," said Melody to the children, as they paced along, "it +doesn't make any real difference whether we have things or don't have +them. It's inside that one has to be happy; one can't be happy from +the outside, ever. I should think it would be harder if one had lots +of things that one must think about, and take care of, and perhaps +worry over. I often am so glad I haven't many things." + +They passed on, going down into the little meadow where the sweet +rushes grew, for Melody knew that no child could stay cross when it +had sweet rushes to play with; and Miss Vesta turned to the stranger +with a quick, fierce movement. "Go away!" she cried. "You have your +answer. Not for fifty thousand fortunes should you have the child! Go, +and never come here again!" + + * * * * * + +It was two or three days after this that Dr. Brown was driving rapidly +home toward the village. He had had a tiresome day, and he meant to +have a cup of Vesta Dale's good tea and a song from Melody to smooth +down his ruffled plumage, and to put him into good-humor again. His +patients had been very trying, especially the last one he had +visited,--an old lady who sent for him from ten miles' distance, and +then told him she had taken seventy-five bottles of Vegetine without +benefit, and wanted to know what she should do next. "I really do not +know, Madam," the doctor replied, "unless you should pound up the +seventy-five bottles with their labels, and take those." Whereupon he +got into his buggy and drove off without another word. + +But the Dale girls and Melody--bless them all for a set of +angels!--would soon put him to rights again, thought the doctor, and +he would send old Mrs. Prabbles some pills in the morning. There was +nothing whatever the matter with the old harridan. Here was the turn; +now in a moment he would see Vesta sitting in the doorway at her +knitting, or looking out of Rejoice's window; and she would call the +child whom his heart loved, and then for a happy, peaceful evening, +and all vexations forgotten! + +But what was this? Instead of the trim, staid figure he looked to see, +who was this frantic woman who came running toward him from the little +house, with white hair flying on the wind, with wild looks? Her dress +was disordered; her eyes stared in anguish; her lips stammered, making +confused sounds, which at first had no meaning to the startled hearer. +But he heard--oh, he heard and understood, when the distracted woman +grasped his arm, and cried,-- + +"Melody is stolen! stolen! and Rejoice is dead!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +LOST. + + +Miss Rejoice was not dead; though the doctor had a moment of dreadful +fright when he saw her lying all crumpled up on the floor, her eyes +closed, her face like wrinkled wax. Between them, the doctor and Miss +Vesta got her back into bed, and rubbed her hands, and put stimulants +between her closed lips. At last her breath began to flutter, and then +came back steadily. She opened her eyes; at first they were soft and +mild as usual, but presently a wild look stole into them. + +"The child!" she whispered; "the child is gone!" + +"We know it," said Dr. Brown, quietly. "We shall find her, Rejoice, +never fear. Now you must rest a few minutes, and then you shall tell +us how it happened. Why, we found you on the floor, my child,"--Miss +Rejoice was older than the doctor, but it seemed natural to call her +by any term of endearment,--"how upon earth did you get there?" + +Slowly, with many pauses for breath and composure, Miss Rejoice told +her story. It was short enough. Melody had been sitting with her, +reading aloud from the great book which now lay face downward on the +floor by the window. Milton's "Paradise Lost" it was, and Rejoice Dale +could never bear to hear the book named in her life after this time. A +carriage drove up and stopped at the door, and Melody went out to see +who had come. As she went, she said, "It is a strange wagon; I have +never heard it before." They both supposed it some stranger who had +stopped to ask for a glass of water, as people often did, driving +through the village on their way to the mountains. The sick woman +heard a man speaking, in smooth, soft tones; she caught the words: "A +little drive--fine afternoon;" and Melody's clear voice replying, "No, +thank you, sir; you are very kind, but my aunt and I are alone, and I +could not leave her. Shall I bring you a glass of water?" Then--oh, +then--there was a sound of steps, a startled murmur in the beloved +voice, and then a scream. Oh, such a scream! Rejoice Dale shrank down +in her bed, and cried out herself in agony at the memory of it. She +had called, she had shrieked aloud, the helpless creature, and her +only answer was another cry of anguish: "Help! help! Auntie! Doctor! +Rosin! Oh, Rosin, Rosin, help!" Then the cry was muffled, stifled, +sank away into dreadful silence; the wagon drove off, and all was +over. Rejoice Dale found herself on the floor, dragging herself along +on her elbows. Paralyzed from the waist down, the body was a weary +weight to drag, but she clutched at a chair, a table; gained a little +way at each movement; thought she was nearly at the door, when sense +and strength failed, and she knew nothing more till she saw her sister +and the doctor bending over her. + +Then Miss Vesta, very pale, with lips that trembled, and voice that +would not obey her will, but broke and quavered, and failed at times, +like a strange instrument one has not learned how to master,--Miss +Vesta told her story, of the dark stranger who had come three days +before and taken her up to a pinnacle, and showed her the kingdoms of +the earth. + +"I did not tell you, Rejoice," she cried, holding her sister's hand, +and gazing into her face in an agony of self-reproach; "I did not tell +you, because I was really tempted,--not for myself, I do believe; I am +permitted to believe, and it is the one comfort I have,--but for you, +Rejoice, my dear, and for the child herself. But mostly for you, oh, +my God! mostly for you. And when I came to myself and knew you would +rather die ten times over than have luxuries bought with the child's +happy, innocent life,--when I came to myself, I was ashamed, and did +not tell you, for I did not want you to think badly of me. If I had +told you, you would have been on your guard, and have put me on mine; +and I should never have left you, blind fool that I was, for you would +have showed me the danger. Doctor, we are two weak women,--she in +body, I in mind and heart. Tell us what we shall do, or I think we +must both die!" + +Dr. Brown hardly heard her appeal, so deeply was he thinking, +wondering, casting about in his mind for counsel. But Rejoice Dale +took her sister's hand in hers. + +"'Though a thousand fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right +hand, yet it shall not come nigh thee,'" she said steadfastly. "Our +blind child is in her Father's hand, Sister; He leads her, and she can +go nowhere without Him. Go you now, and seek for her." + +"I cannot!" cried Vesta Dale, wringing her hands and weeping. "I +cannot leave you, Rejoice. You know I cannot leave you." + +Both women felt for the first time, with a pang unspeakable, the +burden of restraint. The strong woman wrung her hands again, and +moaned like a dumb creature in pain; the helpless body of the cripple +quivered and shrank away from itself, but the soul within was firm. + +"You must go," said Miss Rejoice, quietly. "Neither of us could bear +it if you stayed. If I know you are searching, I can be patient; and I +shall have help." + +"Amanda Loomis could come," said Miss Vesta, misunderstanding her. + +"Yes," said Rejoice, with a faint smile; "Amanda can come, and I shall +do very well indeed till you come back with the child. Go at once, +Vesta; don't lose a moment. Put on your bonnet and shawl, and Doctor +will drive you over to the Corners. The stage goes by in an hour's +time, and you have none too long to reach it." + +Dr. Brown seemed to wake suddenly from the distressful dream in which +he had been plunged. "Yes, I will drive you over to the stage, Vesta," +he said. "God help me! it is all I can do. I have an operation to +perform at noon. It is a case of life and death, and I have no right +to leave it. The man's whole life is not worth one hour of Melody's," +he added with some bitterness; "but that makes no difference, I +suppose. I have no choice in the matter. Girls!" he cried, "you know +well enough that if it were my own life, I would throw it down the +well to give the child an hour's pleasure, let alone saving her from +misery,--and perhaps from death!" he added to himself; for only he and +the famous physician who had examined Melody at his instance knew that +under all the joy and vigor of the child's simple, healthy life lay +dormant a trouble of the heart, which would make any life of +excitement or fatigue fatal to her in short space, though she might +live in quiet many happy years. Yes, one other person knew this,--his +friend Dr. Anthony, whose remonstrances against the wickedness of +hiding this rare jewel from a world of appreciation and of fame could +only be silenced by showing him the bitter drop which lay at the heart +of the rose. + +Rejoice Dale reassured him by a tender pressure of the hand, and a few +soothing words. They had known each other ever since their pinafore +days, these three people. He was younger than Miss Rejoice, and he had +been deeply in love with her when he was an awkward boy of fifteen, +and she a lovely seventeen-year-old girl. They had called him "doctor" +at first in sport, when he came home to practise in his native +village; but soon he had so fully shown his claim to the grave title +that "the girls" and every one else had forgotten the fact that he had +once been "Jack" to the whole village. + +"Doctor," said the sick woman, "try not to think about it more than +you can help! There are all the sick people looking to you as next to +the hand of God; your path is clear before you." + +Dr. Brown groaned. He wished his path were not so clear, that he might +in some way make excuse to turn aside from it. "I will give Vesta a +note to Dr. Anthony," he said, brightening a little at the thought. +"He will do anything in his power to help us. There are other people, +too, who will be kind. Yes, yes; we shall have plenty of help." + +He fidgeted about the room, restless and uneasy, till Miss Vesta came +in, in her bonnet and shawl. "I have no choice," he repeated doggedly, +hugging his duty close, as if to dull the pressure of the pain within. +"But how can you go alone, Vesta, my poor girl? You are not fit; you +are trembling all over. God help us!" cried Dr. Brown, again. + +For a moment the two strong ones stood irresolute, feeling themselves +like little children in the grasp of a fate too big for them to +grapple. The sick woman closed her eyes, and waited. God would help, +in His good way. She knew no more, and no more was needed. There were +a few moments of silence, as if all were waiting for something, they +knew not what,--a sign, perhaps, that they were not forgotten, +forsaken, on the sea of this great trouble. + +Suddenly through the open window stole a breath of sound. Faint and +far, it seemed at first only a note of the summer breeze, taking a +deeper tone than its usual soft murmur. It deepened still; took form, +rhythm; made itself a body of sound, sweet, piercing, thrilling on the +ear. And at the sound of it, Vesta Dale fell away again into helpless +weeping, like a frightened child; for it was the tune of "Rosin the +Beau" + +"Who shall tell him?" she moaned, covering her face with her hands, +and rocking to and fro,--"oh, who shall tell him that the light of our +life and his is gone out?" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +WAITING. + + +How did the time pass with the sick woman, waiting in the little +chamber, listening day by day and hour by hour for the steps, the +voices, which did not come? Miss Rejoice was very peaceful, very +quiet,--too quiet, thought Mandy Loomis, the good neighbor who watched +by her, fulfilling her little needs, and longing with a thirsty soul +for a good dish of gossip. If Rejoice would only "open her mind!" it +would be better for her, and such a relief to poor Mandy, unused to +silent people who bore their troubles with a smile. + +"Where do you s'pose she is, Rejoice?" Mrs. Loomis would cry, twenty +times a day. "Where do you s'pose she is? Ef we only knew, 't would be +easier to bear, seems 's though. Don't you think so, Rejoice?" + +But Rejoice only shook her head, and said, "She is cared for, Mandy, +we must believe. All we have to do is to be quiet, and wait for the +Lord's time." + +"Dear to goodness! She can wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Loomis to Mrs. Penny, +when the latter came in one evening to see if any news had come. "She +ain't done anything but wait, you may say, ever sence time was, +Rejoice ain't. But I do find it dretful tryin' now, Mis' Penny, now I +tell ye. Settin' here with my hands in my lap, and she so quiet in +there, well, I do want to fly sometimes, seems 's though. Well, I am +glad to see you, to be sure. The' ain't a soul ben by this day. Set +down, do. You want to go in 'n' see Rejoice? Jest in a minute. I do +think I shall have a sickness if I don't have some one to open my mind +to. Now, Mis' Penny, where do you s'pose, where do you s'pose that +child is?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she plunged headlong +into the stream of talk. + +"No, we ain't heard a word. Vesta went off a week ago, and Mr. De +Arthenay with her. Providential, wasn't it, his happenin' along just +in the nick o' time? I do get out of patience with Rejoice sometimes, +takin' the Lord quite so much for granted as she doos; for, after all, +the child was stole, you can't get over that, and seems's though if +there'd ben such a good lookout as she thinks,--well, there! I don't +want to be profane; but I will say 'twas a providence, Mr. De Arthenay +happenin' along. Well, they went, and not a word have we heard sence +but just one letter from Vesta, sayin' they hadn't found no trace yet, +but they hoped to every day,--and land sakes, we knew that, I should +hope. Dr. Brown comes in every day to cheer her up, though I do +declare I need it more than she doos, seems's though. He's as close as +an oyster, Dr. Brown is; I can't even get the news out of him, most +times. How's that boy of 'Bind Parker's,--him that fell and hurt his +leg so bad? Gettin' well, is he?" + +"No, he isn't," said Mrs. Penny, stepping in quickly on the question, +as her first chance of getting in a word. "He's terrible slim; I heard +Doctor say so. They're afraid of the kangaroo settin' in in the j'int, +and you know that means death, sartin sure." + +Both women nodded, drawing in their breath with an awful relish. + +"'T will be a terrible loss to his mother," said Mandy Loomis. "Such a +likely boy as he was gettin' to be, and 'Bind so little good, one way +and another." + +"Do you think they'll hear news of Melody?" asked Mrs. Penny, changing +the subject abruptly. + +Amanda Loomis plumped her hands down on her knees, and leaned forward; +it was good to listen, but, oh, how much better it was to speak! + +"I don't," she said, with gloomy emphasis. "If you ask me what I +reelly think, Mis' Penny, it's that. I don't think we shall ever set +eyes on that blessed child again. Rejoice is so sartin sure, sometimes +my hopes get away with me, and I forgit my jedgment for a spell. But +there! see how it is! Now, mind, what I say is for this room only." +She spread her hands abroad, as if warning the air around to secrecy, +and lowered her voice to an awestruck whisper. "I've ben here a week +now, Mis' Penny. Every night the death-watch has ticked in Mel'dy's +room the endurin' night. I don't sleep, you know, fit to support a +flea. I hear every hour strike right straight along, and I know things +that's hid from others, Mis' Penny, though I do say it. Last night as +ever was I heard a sobbin' and a sighin' goin' round the house, as +plain as I hear you this minute. Some might ha' said't was the wind, +but there's other things besides wind, Mis' Penny; and I solemnly +believe that was Mel'dy's sperrit, and the child is dead. It ain't my +interest to say it," she cried, with a sudden change of tone, putting +her apron to her eyes: "goodness knows it ain't my interest to say it. +What that child has been to me nobody knows. When I've had them weakly +spells, the' warn't nobody but Mel'dy could ha' brought me out of 'em +alive, well I know. She tended me and sung to me like all the angels +in heaven, and when she'd lay her hand on me--well, there! seems's +though my narves 'ud quiet right down, and blow away like smoke. I've +ben a well woman--that is to say, for one that's always enjoyed poor +health--sence Dr. Brown sent that blessed child to me. She has a gift, +if ever any one had. Dr. Brown had ought to give her half of what he +makes doctorin'; she's more help than all the medicine ever _he_ +gives. I never saw a doctor so dretful stingy with his stuff. Why, +I've ben perishin' sometimes for want o' doctorin', and all he'd give +me was a little pepsin, or tell me to take as much sody as would lay +on the p'int of a penknife, or some such thing,--not so much as you'd +give to a canary-bird. I do sometimes wish we had a doctor who knew +the use o' medicine, 'stead of everlastin'ly talkin' about the laws o' +health, and hulsome food, and all them notions. Why, there's old Dr. +Jalap, over to the Corners. He give Beulah Pegrum seven Liver Pills at +one dose, and only charged her fifty cents, over 'n' above the cost of +the pills. Now _that's_ what I call doctorin',--not but what I like +Dr. Brown well enough. But Mel'dy--well, there! and now to have her +took off so suddin, and never to know whether she's buried +respectable, or buried at all! You hear awful stories of city ways, +these times. Now, this is for this room only, and don't you ever tell +a soul! It's as true as I live, they have a furnace where they burn +folks' bodies, for all the world as if they was hick'ry lawgs. My +cousin Salome's nephew that lives in the city saw one once. He thought +it was connected with the gas-works, but he didn't know for sure. Mis' +Penny, if Rejoice Dale was to know that Mel'dy was made into gas--" + +Martha Penny clutched the speaker's arm, and laid her hand over her +mouth, with a scared look. The door of the bedroom had swung open in +the breeze, and in the stress of feeling Mandy Loomis had raised her +voice higher and higher, till the last words rang through the house +like the wail of a sibyl. But above the wail another sound was now +rising, the voice of Rejoice Dale,--not calm and gentle, as they had +always heard it, but high-pitched, quivering with intense feeling. + +"I see her!" cried the sick woman. "I see the child! Lord, save her! +Lord, save her!" + +The two women hurried in, and found her sitting up in bed, her eyes +wide, her arm outstretched, pointing--at what? Involuntarily they +turned to follow the pointing finger, and saw the yellow-washed wall, +and the wreath of autumn leaves that always hung there. + +"What is it, Rejoice?" cried Mandy, terrified. "What do you see? Is it +a spirit? Tell us, for pity's sake!" + +But even at that moment a change came. The rigid muscles relaxed, the +whole face softened to its usual peaceful look; the arm dropped +gently, and Rejoice Dale sank back upon her pillow and smiled. + +"Thy rod and thy staff!" she said. "Thy rod and thy staff! they +comfort me." And for the first time since Melody was lost, she fell +asleep, and slept like a little child. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BLONDEL. + + +Noontide in the great city! The July sun blazes down upon the brick +sidewalks, heating them through and through, till they scorch the bare +toes of the little street children, who creep about, sheltering their +eyes with their hands, and keeping in the shade when it is possible. +The apple-women crouch close to the wall, under their green umbrellas; +the banana-sellers look yellow and wilted as their own wares. Men pass +along, hurrying, because they are Americans, and business must go on +whether it be hot or cold; but they move in a dogged jog-trot, +expressive of weariness and disgust, and wipe their brows as they go, +muttering anathemas under their breath on the whole summer season. +Most of the men are in linen coats, some in no coats at all; all wear +straw hats, and there is a great display of palm-leaf fans, waving in +all degrees of energy. Here and there is seen an umbrella, but these +are not frequent, for it seems to the American a strange and womanish +thing to carry an umbrella except for rain; it also requires +attention, and takes a man's mind off his business. Each man of all +the hurrying thousands is shut up in himself, carrying his little +world, which is all the world there is, about with him, seeing the +other hurrying mites only "as trees walking," with no thought or note +of them. Who cares about anybody else when it is so hot? Get through +the day's work, and away to the wife and children in the cool by the +sea-shore, or in the comfortable green suburb, where, if one must +still be hot, one can at least suffer decently, and not "like a +running river be,"--with apologies to the boy Chatterton. + +Among all these hurrying motes in the broad, fierce stream of +sunshine, one figure moves slowly, without haste. Nobody looks at +anybody else, or this figure might attract some attention, even in the +streets of the great city. An old man, tall and slender, with snowy +hair falling in a single curl over his forehead; with brown eyes which +glance birdlike here and there, seeing everything, taking in every +face, every shadow of a vanishing form that hurries along and away +from him; with fiddle-bow in hand, and fiddle held close and tenderly +against his shoulder. De Arthenay, looking for his little girl! + +Not content with scanning every face as it passes, he looks up at the +houses, searching with eager eye their blank, close-shuttered walls, +as if in hope of seeing through the barriers of brick and stone, and +surprising the secrets that may lurk within. Now and then a house +seems to take his fancy, for he stops, and still looking up at the +windows, plays a tune. It is generally the same tune,--a simple, +homely old air, which the street-boys can readily take up and whistle, +though they do not hear it in the music-halls or on the hand-organs. A +languid crowd gathers round him when he pauses thus, for street-boys +know a good fiddler when they hear him; and this is a good fiddler. + +When a crowd has collected, the old man turns his attention from the +silent windows (they are generally silent; or if a face looks out, it +is not the beloved one which is in his mind night and day, day and +night) and scans the faces around him, with sad, eager eyes. Then, +stopping short in his playing, he taps sharply on his fiddle, and asks +in a clear voice if any one has seen or heard of a blind child, with +beautiful brown hair, clear blue eyes, and the most wonderful voice in +the world. + +No one has heard of such a child; but one tells him of a blind negro +who can play the trombone, and another knows of a blind woman who +tells fortunes "equal to the best mejums;" and so on, and so on. He +shakes his head with a patient look, makes his grand bow, and passes +on to the next street, the next wondering crowd, the next +disappointment. Sometimes he is hailed by some music-hall keeper who +hears him play, and knows a good thing when he hears it, and who +engages the old fiddler to play for an evening or two. He goes readily +enough; for there is no knowing where the dark stranger may have taken +the child, and where no clew is, one may follow any track that +presents itself. So the old man goes, and sits patiently in the hot, +noisy place. At first the merry-makers, who are not of a high degree +of refinement, make fun of him, and cut many a joke at the expense of +his blue coat and brass buttons, his nankeen trousers and +old-fashioned stock. But he heeds them not; and once he begins to +play, they forget all about his looks, and only want to dance, dance, +and say there never was such music for dancing. When a pleasant- +looking girl comes near him, or pauses in the dance, he calls her to +him, and asks her in a low tone the usual question: has she seen or +heard of a blind child, with the most beautiful hair, etc. He is +careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking +for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair +and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world +figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay, +from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis +who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line +of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in +such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has +earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time. +He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather +go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard +the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the +quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and +voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on +his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music. +All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and +"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one +here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs +again. And as he plays, the whole tawdry, glaring scene drops away +from the old man's eyes, and instead of vulgar gaslight he sees the +soft glow of the afternoon sun on the country road, and the graceful +elms bending in an arch overhead, as if to watch the child Melody as +she dances. The slender figure swaying hither and thither, with its +gentle, wind-blown motion, the exquisite face alight with happiness, +the floating tendrils of hair, the most beautiful hair in the world; +then the dear, homely country folks sitting by the roadside, watching +with breathless interest his darling, their darling, the flower of the +whole country-side; Miss Vesta's tall, stately figure in the doorway; +the vine-clad window, behind which Rejoice lies, unseen, yet sharing +all the sweet, simple pleasure with heartfelt enjoyment,--all this the +old fiddler sees, set plain before him. The "lady" on his arm (for De +Arthenay's fiddle is a lady as surely as he is a gentleman),--the lady +feels it too, perhaps, for she thrills to his touch, as the bow goes +leaping over the strings; and more than one wild girl and rough fellow +feels a touch of something that has not been felt mayhap for many a +day, and goes home to stuffy garret or squalid cellar the better for +that night's music. And when it is over, De Arthenay makes his stately +bow once more, and walks round the room, asking his question in low +tones of such as seem worthy of it; and then home, patient, undaunted, +to the quiet lodging where Vesta Dale is sitting up for him, weary +after her day's search in other quarters of the city, hoping little +from his coming, yet unwilling to lie down without a sight of his +face, always cheery when it meets hers, and the sound of his voice +saying,-- + +"Better luck to-morrow, Miss Vesta! better luck tomorrow! There's One +has her in charge, and He didn't need us to-day; that's all, my dear." + +God help thee, De Arthenay! God speed and prosper thee, Rosin the +Beau! + +But is not another name more fitting even than the fantastic one of +his adoption? Is not this Blondel, faithful, patient, undaunted, +wandering by tower and town, singing his song of love and hope and +undying loyalty under every window, till it shall one day fall like a +breath from heaven on the ear of the prisoner, sitting in darkness and +the shadow of death? + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +DARKNESS. + + +"And how's our sweet little lady to-day? She's looking as pretty as a +picture, so it's a pleasure to look at her. How are you feeling, +dearie?" + +It was a woman's voice that spoke, soft and wheedling, yet with a +certain unpleasant twang in it. She spoke to Melody, who sat still, +with folded hands, and head bowed as if in a dream. + +"I am well, thank you," answered the child; and she was silent again. + +The woman glanced over her shoulder at a man who had followed her into +the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented +eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old +burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since, +save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the +children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her +soul for her sister's comfort. + +"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said +the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's +your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite +surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like +a flower all in the dark." + +She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a +glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but +her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech. + +"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think +that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound +of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an +angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson +has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular +gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls +with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends +with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt +under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so +much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that +comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you, +dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you +everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get +a little fond of him, and realize all he's doing for you. Why, most +young ladies would give their two eyes for your chance, I can tell +you." + +She was growing angry in spite of herself, and the man Anderson pulled +her aside. + +"It's no use," he said. "We shall just have to wait. You know, my +dear," he continued, addressing the child, "you know that you will +never see your aunts again unless you _do_ sing. You sense that, do +you?" + +No reply. Melody shivered a little, then drew herself together and was +still,--the stillest figure that ever breathed and lived. Anderson +clenched his hands and fairly trembled with rage and with the effort +to conceal it. He must not frighten the child too much. He could not +punish her, hurt her in any way; for any shock might injure the +precious voice which was to make his fortune. He was no fool, this +man. He had some knowledge, more ambition. He had been unsuccessful on +the whole, had been disappointed in several ventures; now he had found +a treasure, a veritable gold-mine, and-he could not work it! Could +anything be more exasperating? This child, whose voice could rouse a +whole city--a city! could rouse the world to rapture, absolutely +refused to sing a note! He had tried cajolery, pathos, threats; he had +called together a chosen company of critics to hear the future +Catalani, and had been forced to send them home empty, having heard no +note of the marvellous voice! The child would not sing, she would not +even speak, save in the briefest possible fashion, little beyond "yes" +and "no." + +What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the +shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to +get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her +childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and +set all his cherished plans at nought. + +And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do +so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a +child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well +as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little +girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a +father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In +the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a +most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the +benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the +prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous +gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel +crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be +his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into +light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing? +Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader +of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not +say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when +carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he +felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not +knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by +his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face +toward him and spoke. + +"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing +all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be +possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a +mistake, that is all." + +"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson. + +"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be +unkind,--Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind, +and why will you not take me home?" + +"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You +know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred +times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old +people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion +and power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what, +you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most +girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as +you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you +don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me +for making you sing." + +Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and +clenched his hands fiercely. + +"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has +a right to you." + +"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do +belong to the world,--to God's world of beauty, to the woods and +fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When +the birds sing to me I can answer them, and they know that my song is +as sweet as their own. The brook tells me its story, and I tell it +again, and every ripple sounds in my voice; and I know that I please +the brook, and all who hear me,--little beasts, and flowers that nod +on their stems to hear, and trees that bend down to touch me, and tell +me by their touch that they are well pleased. And children love to +hear me sing, and I can fill their little hearts with joy. I sing to +sick people, and they are easier of their pain, and perhaps they may +sleep, when they have not been able to sleep for long nights. This is +my life, my work. I am God's child; and do you think I do not know the +work my Father has given me to do?" With a sudden movement she stepped +forward, and laid her hand lightly on the man's breast. "You are God's +child, too!" she said, in a low voice. "Are you doing His work now?" + +There was silence in the room. Anderson was as if spellbound, his eyes +fixed on the child, who stood like a youthful prophetess, her head +thrown back, her beautiful face full of solemn light, her arm raised +in awful appeal. The woman threw her apron over her head and began to +cry. The man moistened his lips twice or thrice, trying to speak, but +no words came. At length he made a sign of despair to his accomplice; +moved back from that questioning, warning hand, whose light touch +seemed to burn through and through him,--moved away, groping for the +door, his eyes still fixed on the child's face; stole out finally, as +a thief steals, and closed the door softly behind him. + +Melody stood still, looking up to heaven. A great peace filled her +heart, which had been so torn and tortured these many days past, ever +since the dreadful moment when she had been forced away from her home, +from her life, and brought into bondage and the shadow of death. She +had thought till to-day that she should die. Not that she was +deserted, not that God had forgotten,--oh, no; but that He did not +need her any longer here, that she had not been worthy of the work she +had thought to be hers, and that now she was to be taken elsewhere to +some other task. She was only a child; her life was strong in every +limb; but God could not mean her to live here, in this way,--that +would not be merciful, and His property was always to have mercy. So +death would come,--death as a friend, just as Auntie Joy had always +described him; and she would go hence, led by her Father's hand. + +But now, what change was coming over her? The air seemed lighter, +clearer, since Anderson had left the room. A new hope entered her +heart, coming she knew not whence, filling it with pulses and waves of +joy. She thought of her home; and it seemed to grow nearer, more +distinct, at every moment. She saw (as blind people see) the face of +Rejoice Dale, beaming with joy and peace; she felt the strong clasp of +Miss Vesta's hand. She smelt the lilacs, the white lilacs beneath +which she loved to sit and sing. She heard--oh, God! what did she +hear? What sound was this in her ears? Was it still the dream, the +lovely dream of home, or was a real sound thrilling in her ears, +beating in her heart, filling the whole world with the voice of +hope,--of hope fulfilled, of life and love? + + "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 to Rosin the Beau." + +Oh, Father of mercy! never doubted, always near in sorrow and in joy! +oh, holy angels, who have held my hands and lifted me up, lest I dash +my foot against a stone! A welcome,--oh, on my knees, in humble +thanksgiving, in endless love and praise,--a welcome to Rosin the +Beau! + + * * * * * + +An hour later Mrs. Brown stood before her employer, flushed and +disordered, making her defence. + +"I couldn't have helped it, not if I had died for it, Mr. Anderson. +You couldn't have helped it yourself, if you had been there. When she +heard that fiddle, the child dropped on her knees as if she had been +shot, and I thought she was going to faint. But the next minute she +was at the window, and such a cry as she gave! the sound of it is in +my bones yet, and will be till I die." + +She paused, and wiped her fiery face, for she had run bareheaded +through the blazing streets. + +"Then he came in,--the old man. He was plain dressed, but he came in +like a king to his throne; and the child drifted into his arms like a +flake of snow, and there she lay. Mr. Anderson, when he held her there +on his breast, and turned and looked at me, with his eyes like two +black coals, all power was taken from me, and I couldn't have moved if +it had been to save my own life. He pointed at me with his fiddle-bow, +but it might have been a sword for all the difference I knew; anyway, +his voice went through and through me like something sharp and bright. +'You cannot move,' he said; 'you have no power to move hand or foot +till I have taken my child away. I bid you be still!' Mr. Anderson, +sir, I _had_ no power! I stood still, and they went away. They seemed +to melt away together,--he with his arm round her waist, holding her +up like; and she with her face turned up to his, and a look like +heaven, if I ever hope to see heaven. The next minute they was gone, +and still I hadn't never moved. And now I've come to tell you, sir," +cried Mrs. Brown, smoothing down her ruffled hair in great agitation;" +and to tell you something else too, as I would burst if I didn't. I am +glad he has got her! If I was to lose my place fifty times over, as +you've always been good pay and a kind gentleman too, still I say it, +I'm glad he has got her. She wasn't of your kind, sir, nor of mine +neither. And--and I've never been a professor," cried the woman, with +her apron at her eyes, "but I hope I know an angel when I see one, and +I mean to be a better woman from this day, so I do. And she asked God +to bless me, Mr. Anderson, she did, as she went away, because I meant +to be kind to her; and I did mean it, the blessed creature! And she +said good-by to you too, sir; and she knew you thought it was for her +good, only you didn't know what God meant. And I'm so glad, I'm so +glad!" + +She stopped short, more surprised than she had ever been in her life; +for Edward Anderson was shaking her hand violently, and telling her +that she was a good woman, a very good woman indeed, and that he +thought the better of her, and had been thinking for some time of +raising her salary. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +LIGHT. + + +I love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the +fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it +spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from +river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that +sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a +softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common +things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or +unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time +of all the perfect hours. + +It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the +people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is +a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but +lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have +not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they +were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a +respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to +time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received +some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and +had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams +slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it +became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here +and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches; +the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners +of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as +the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing +near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England +men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a +Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones +for once in their lives, though they knew it not. + +But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was +the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and +the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it. +They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom +they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and +ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and +the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things +out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one +dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one +tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them +with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one +day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all +temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the +folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by +the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till +he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a +drop of liquor from that day on. + +Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--Jane Pegrum's +baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning +house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing, +hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall; +and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved +above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on, +catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just +ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the +woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven +them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and +when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did +seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor +was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once +she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody +seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child. +Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough. + +Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on +the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any +one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was +harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up +her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to +the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of +him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been +himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth. +Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him +from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him, +they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got +hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the +yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood +cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and +she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was; +and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,-- +reaching out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he +had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like +to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels? + +Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the +first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They +are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes, +Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know +the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the +road--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem +hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for +Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say. + +Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the +little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is +running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron, +opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted +creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands, +all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman +does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept, +if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most +patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. Yes, +Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the +far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs. +With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might +think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the +road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their +triumphal entry. + +For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears +pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of +waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come +back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred +and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare +with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss, +because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs. +Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling +herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and +pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous +noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as +sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody, +with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of +each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful +hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost +convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No +marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He +kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and +then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta +Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer +than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance +to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people, +and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive +ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all +true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home, +never to leave them again. + +But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of +joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from +every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet +all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful +hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her +heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,-- + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer. +What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down, +warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple. +The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending +and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet, +for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. + + "Jubilate, jubilate! + Jubilate, amen!" + +THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melody, by Laura E. Richards + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELODY *** + +This file should be named 8melo10.txt or 8melo10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8melo11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8melo10a.txt + +Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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