As he played and as he talked, the listener heard the birds; the cool breeze of the country fanned her cheek; she saw the flowers; the sun warmed her; the hard road fatigued her; she listened to the birds in the woods, the rustle of the leaves, the whistling of the wind in the telegraph-wires; she sat in the grateful shade; she bathed her feet in the cool, running water.
Alice listened—carried away; her cheeks were flushed; she clutched the cushions of the sofa. Far away—out of sight—forgotten—were the grand rooms of the rich man's hotel; far away—forgotten—were the diamonds and the silks.
Dick watched, with grave and earnest face, the effect of his playing. With him it was always an experiment. He tried to mesmerize his people; to charm them into forgetfulness.
"Sometimes," he went on, "I get a place in a country theatre—in the orchestra, you know. This is the orchestra." He became, on the spot, a whole orchestra, blatant, tuneless, paid to make a noise; you heard all the discordant instruments played together. Alice sank back in her chair. She did not care much about the orchestra. Dick changed quickly. "Sometimes I join a circus, and play in the procession through the town. The band goes first in a cart; you can hear how the bumping shakes the music." Indeed it did—the cart was without springs, and the road was uneven. "Behind us are the horses with the splendid riders." The music passed down the street, while the patter of the horses on the road was loud enough to be heard above the music. "Last of all the riders, before the clown and the rest of the people, is the Lady Equestrienne of the Haute École. At sight of her all the girls in the town yearn for the circus, and the hearts of all the young men sink with love and admiration." No. Mrs. Haveril cared very little for this part of the show, either. "Sometimes we come to a village, where there is a green. Then the people come out—it is a fine summer evening—and I play to them, and they dance. What shall it be? Sellinger's Round, or Barley Break? Take your partners—take your places; curtsey and bow, and hands across and down the middle, and up again and one place lower. Now then, keep it up—time—time—time." Again the lady sat up and listened with rapt face. Dick watched her closely. "Now we find a school-treat in a field—I play to them. Jump and dance; boys and girls, come out to play. Lasses and lads, take leave of your dads. Boys, don't be rough with the girls, but dance with each other. Now, hands all—and round we go, and round we go." Then the tears came into the pale lady's eyes. "Good-bye—we are on the road again. The sun is sinking; the swallows fly low; we shall have rain; luckily, we've got our supper in the bag. My girl, we must take shelter in this barn. Come—you are tired—I play my girl to sleep with a gentle lullaby. Sweet hay—sweet hay—it hath no fellow. Sleep, dear girl, sleep. Good night. Good night—Good night."
He stopped and laid down the fiddle, well pleased with himself. For that part of his audience to which he had played was in tears.
Molly jumped up. "Alice dear, what is the matter?"
"Oh, Molly, it is beautiful! Oh, it is beautiful! For I've done it. I know it all. I've been on tramp myself—just as he played it—with the fiddle, too—just as he made it. Oh, I know the country fair, and the village inn, and the circus, and all! I remember it all. When last I went on tramp I had my——!"
"Alice," her husband interposed. "Don't, my dear."
"It is four and twenty years ago. I remember it all so well. I had my——"
"Alice"—her husband stopped her again.