Kit frowned and studied the groups in front. With a song like that one could carry them away, and Alison was doing so; but it was not the song he would have sung. Besides, he doubted if she could keep it up. Her voice shook on a top note, her skin got very white, and although her eyes shone they shone as if they were wet. She began another verse falteringly, and he knew she was going to stop. One could not trust the fellow at the piano to support her, and Kit lifted his violin.
“Go on! I’ll carry you through,” he said.
He drew the bow across the strings, and the harmonious chords gave her confidence. For a few bars he followed the melody, and then he knew she had got back her control, and he signed the accompanist to stop.
Alison’s voice grew clear and firm, and Kit carried her triumphantly along. For an emigrants’ concert, she struck a risky note, but he had gone to her rescue and he must see her out. Besides, the verses moved him. He pictured the oaks at Netherhall, and Evelyn walking in the shade. Her white clothes cut the gloom, and behind the trunks the river sparkled.
Alison stopped, and for a moment all was quiet. Men looked straight in front. Some were stern and some indulged a gentle melancholy. A woman frankly cried. Then heavy boots beat the deck and a storm of noise swept the saloon. The noise did not stop, and Alison, flushed and highly strung, looked at Kit.
“No!” he said. “You mustn’t risk it yet.”
He went to the piano and struck a note, for the string had stretched.
“Miss Forsyth will sing by and by,” he said, and began to play.
Not to bother about the piano was some relief. Kit was going to improvise and work on the reaction he knew would soon begin. Miss Forsyth had moved the emigrants to sadness; he must move them to hope by the marching song.
The first chords rang joyously, but the prelude sank. One heard the pilgrims start, some distance off. Kit’s fingers were busy on the strings, but his eyes were fixed on the rows of faces. Unless the others heard all he heard, his effort was lost. He saw they felt for his meaning and wondered where he led; and then the puzzled looks began to vanish. The audience was going with him. Tired and daunted people heard the beat of marching feet.