Melody : The Story of a Child Part 4

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 gra.s.s.

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 s.h.i.+fted 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 G.o.d'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 s.h.i.+p. 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 gra.s.ses 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 sh.o.r.e. They twinkled round and round each other, now back to back, now face to face. They cha.s.sed 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.

G.o.d'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 gra.s.s is long and yet spa.r.s.e; 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 fas.h.i.+on, as she pulls away the witch-gra.s.s 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 was.h.i.+ng. 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 gra.s.s. 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.t.terflies, and she began pulling up the dandelion roots, and smoothing down the gra.s.s 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-gla.s.s, the other on a pair of cross-bones. Along every line she pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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."