“‘Your approbation likes me most, my lord,’” quoted the manager, and passed quickly on with his tin pot, in a futile effort to evade the outstretched hand of his whilom helper.
Thanking the audience for their generosity and complimenting them on their intelligence, the self-constituted lord of the treasury vanished once more behind 67 the curtain. The orchestra of two struck up a negro melody; the audience rose again, the women lingering to exchange their last innocent gossip about prayer-meeting, or about the minister who “knocked the theologic dust from the pulpit cushions in the good old orthodox way,” when some renegade exclaimed: “Clear the room for a dance!”
Jerusha’s shawl straightway fell from her shoulders; Hannah’s bonnet was whipped from her head; Nathaniel paused on his way to the stable yard to bring out the team and a score of willing hands obeyed the injunction amid laughing encouragement from the young women whose feet already were tapping the floor in anticipation of the Virginia Reel, Two Sisters, Hull’s Victory, or even the waltz, “lately imported from the Rhine.” A battered Cremona appeared like magic and
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“In his shirt of check and tallowed hair The fiddler sat in his bull-rush chair,” |
while “’Twas Monnie Musk in busy feet and Monnie Musk by heart”––old-fashioned “Monnie Musk” with “first couple join right hands and swing,” “forward six” and “across the set”; an honest dance for country folk that only left regrets when it came to “Good Night for aye to Monnie Musk,” although followed by the singing of “Old Hundred” or “Come, ye Sinners, Poor and Needy,” on the homeward journey.
In the parlor the younger lads and lasses were playing “snap and catch ’em” and similar games. The portly Dutch clock gazed down benignly on the 68 scene, its face shining good-humoredly like the round visage of some comfortable burgher. “Green grow the rushes, O!” came from many merry-makers. “Kiss her quick and let her go” was followed by scampering of feet and laughter which implied a doubt whether the lad had obeyed the next injunction, “But don’t you muss her ruffle, O!” Forming a moving ring around a young girl, they sang: “There’s a rose in the garden for you, young man.” A rose, indeed, or a rose-bud, rather, with ruffles he was commanded not to “muss,” but which, nevertheless, suffered sadly!
Among these boys and girls, the patroon discovered Constance, no longer “to the life a duchess,” with gown in keeping with the “pride and pomp of exalted station,” but attired in the simple dress of lavender she usually wore, though the roses still adorned her hair. Shunning the entrancing waltz, the inspiring “Monnie Musk” and the cotillion, lively when set to Christy’s melodies, she had sought the more juvenile element, and, when seen by the land baron, was circling around with fluttering skirts. Joyous, merry, there was no hint now in her natural, girlish ways of the capacity that lay within for varied impersonations, from the lightness of coquetry to the thrill of tragedy.
He did not know how it happened, as he stood there watching her, but the next moment he was imprisoned by the group and voices were singing:
“There he stands, the booby; who will have him for his beauty?”