The Three Furlongers

by Sheila Kaye-Smith

The bar was nearly empty, but Nigel would not have cared had it been full. He stood in the doorway, his hair blowing and ruffling madly, his body swaying, as he forced his fiddle into a duet with the wind. He had never before tried to extemporise, his violin had been for him a memory of sugary tunes, each wrapped up in the tinsel of a little past—he had never tried to wring the present out of it in a sudden, fierce expression of the emotions that tortured him as he played. This evening he wanted to join the wind in its wailing race, to rush with it over the common, to tear with it through the hedges, and sweep with it over the water. He forced out of his fiddle the cries of his own heart—they rose up and challenged the wind. The wind hushed a little—fluttered, throbbed—was still ... the fiddle tore through the silence and shattered it ... then the wind rose, and drummed savagely. Nigel dashed his bow down on the deep strings, and forced deep sounds out of them. The wind galloped up to a shriek—and Nigel's hand tore into harmonics, and wailed there till the wind was only puffing and sobbing. Then the fiddle sobbed. The fiddle and the wind sobbed together ... till the wind swung up a scale—up came the fiddle after it ... the wind rushed higher and higher, it whistled in the dark eaves of the inn, and the fiddle squeaked higher and higher, and Nigel's fingers strained on the fingerboard—he would not be beaten, blind Nature should not defeat him, two should play her game. The wind was like a maniac as it whistled its arpeggios—the casements of the house were rattling like tin, the trees were swishing and bending, the water in the ruts of the lane was rippling, doors were creaking and banging, the fiddle was straining and shrieking ... then suddenly the string broke. Nigel dropped his bow, angry and defeated. The duet with the wind was over.

Then he noticed a strange thing. He had been staring blindly and stupidly ahead of him, all his senses merged into sound, but now he saw that the road was crowded with children, and they were all dancing—little girls with their petticoats held high, little boys jumping aimlessly in their clumsy boots. They stopped as his hand fell, and stared at him in surprise, as if they had expected the music to go on for ever.

"Hullo!" said Nigel—then suddenly he laughed; they all looked so forlorn, holding out their pinafores and pointing their feet.

"Wait a bit," he said, "my string's broken, but I'll have another on in no time."

So he did—but not to play a duet with the wind. He played the Intermezzo from Cavalleria, and the dance went on as raggedly as before. After the Intermezzo he played the Overture to Zampa, which was immensely popular, then threaded a patchwork of La Somnambula, the Bohemian Girl, La Tosca, and Aida, till mothers began to appear on the doorsteps with cries of "Supper's waiting."

Supper was waiting for Nigel when he appeared at Sparrow Hall. Len and Janey asked no questions—it was pathetic how few questions they asked him nowadays—but they both noticed he was happier. He did not speak much—he sat in a kind of dream, with a wistful tremulousness in the corners of his mouth. His mouth had always been the oldest part of him—hard in repose and fierce in movement—but to-night it had taken some of the extreme childishness of his eyes. Nigel felt very much the same as a child that cries for the moon and is given a ball to play with—the ball almost makes him forget that he wants the moon so badly. Those dancing children had, for some strange reason, partly filled the place of stalwart Tony in his heart. That night they came and danced in his dreams—in a pale light, to a tinkling tune. He found himself forming plans for making them dance again. He would never be on the old footing with Tony, but those children should dance for him and help him to forget.

So the next evening he went out again with his fiddle, and played at Blindley Heath. Again the children danced—with clumping boots and high petticoats they danced outside the Sweepers Inn. But this time he did not stay long—he went on to Dormans Land, to see if they would dance there. It was nearly dark now, and one or two misty stars shone above the village roofs—the wind was heavy with approaching rain as it soughed up the street towards him. He did not stand at the inn, but where the road to Lingfield joins the road to Cowden, close to the schools. One or two children came and looked at him curiously.

"He wants a halfpenny," said one, "I'll ask my mumma for it."

"No," said Nigel, "I want you to dance."