“There's a deal in what you say, Mr. Fuller,” said the old man, who had a bearing of sad and gentle dignity, and gave, in a curious and not easily explainable way, the idea that he spoke but seldom and was something of a recluse. “There's a deal in what you say, Mr. Fuller, but the fiddle is not a thing as can be played like any ordinary instryment. A fiddle's like a wife, in a way of speaking. You must offer her all you've got. If she catches you going about after other women—”
“It's woe betide you!” Sennacherib interrupted.
“You drive her heart away,” the old man pursued. “The fiddle's jealouser than a woman. It wants the whole of a man. If Reuben was to settle down to it twelve hours a day, I make no doubt he'd be a player in a few years' time.”
“Twelve hours a day!” cried Sennacherib. “D'ye think as life was gi'en to us to pass it all away a scrapin' catgut?”
“Why, no, Mr. Eld,” the old man answered, smilingly. “But to my mind there's only two or three men in the world at any particular space o' given time as has the power gi'en 'em by Nature to be fiddlers; that is to say, as has all the qualities to be masters of the instryment. It is so ordered as the best of qualities must be practised to be perfect, and howsoever a man may be qualified to begin with, he must work hour by hour and day by day for years afore he plays the fiddle.”
“I look upon any such doctrine as a sinful crime,” said Sennacherib. “The fiddle is a recrehation, and was gi'en us for that end. So, in a way, for them as likes it, is skittles. So is marvils, or kite-flyin', or kiss-i'-the-ring. But to talk of a man sittin' on his hinder end, and draggin' rosined hosshair across catgut hour by hour and day by day for 'ears, is a doctrine as I should like to hear Parson Hales's opinion on, if ever it was to get broached afore him.”
“Ruth,” called the 'cello-player, as the girl reappeared, bearing a tray with a huge jug and glasses, “come along with the beer. And when we've had a drink, lads, well have a cut at the hallygro. It's marked 'vivaysy,' Reuben, an' it'll tek thee all thy time to get the twirls and twiddles i' the right placen.”
Ruth poured out a glass of beer for each of the players, and, having set the tray and jug upon the grass, took up her former place and position by the apple-tree.
“Wheer's your rosin, 'Saiah?” asked Sennacherib.
“I forgot to bring it wi' me,” said Isaiah. “I took it out of the case last night, and was that neglectful as I forgot to put it back again.”