“Oh, well, I doubt if my humor’s cultivated, but it’s, so to speak, my stock-in-trade. You see, I may not get a post, and if I do not, I think I’ll push out for the lonely settlements and play the fiddle. It looks as if the North Americans are a strenuous rather than light-hearted lot, but so long as some days are dreary and folks are sad, perhaps to joke and play the fiddle is a useful job.”
Alison turned her head and looked about. The light wind had dropped and the sun was very hot. The calm lake shone dazzlingly and one smelt the pines, and the creosote in the railroad ties. But for the clash of shovels, all was quiet, and groups of listless emigrants occupied the belts of shade. Nobody talked, and the children had stopped their play. In the Canadian woods one knew them forlorn strangers.
“They’re tired, Kit,” said Alison. “Play them something.”
Kit went for his violin, and sitting in the stones, pulled the bow across the strings. His clothes were not conspicuous and his figure melted in the shadow of the trees. The calm water was like a sounding board, and when he began to play, the great composer’s march seemed to float across the lake. Alison wondered whether Kit consciously helped the illusion, for the music was distant and somehow fairylike. Perhaps it was monotonous, for Kit was satisfied to mark the rhythm, but she felt it called, and the measured beat carried her along. She pictured people going somewhere, going steadfastly, and she wanted to join their advance.
The emigrants were no longer listless. People turned their heads as if to see who played, and Alison thought a number knew the music, because they smiled. Some got up and came nearer the shady rock, but although Kit knew he had captured his audience he used control. Their stopping at the lake was but a rest by the way and nobody yet saw the journey’s end. One shouldered one’s load and went forward; that was all.
When Kit put down his violin a crowd surrounded the rock. Alison heard English voices and calls in languages she did not know.
“They have not had enough,” she said. “They want you to begin again.”
“I think not,” Kit replied. “I played the march on board the ship and we’ll try something fresh. All are not foreigners, and you’ll sing our lot a love song that’s famous where the English language goes.”
He put the fiddle to his neck and for a minute or two played, like an overture, two or three old Scottish airs. Then he nodded to Alison and began a prelude on the lower strings.
Alison got up. Her color was high, but she trusted Kit’s support. Her voice was steady and carried far.