Melody : The Story of a Child Part 3

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 Ba.s.sett, 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 s.e.x.

"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 'Ma.r.s.eillaise,' 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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?