Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”