Melody by Laura E. Richards

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Juliet Sutherland, Charlz Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

MELODY

by

LAURA E. RICHARDS

1894

TO

THE LOVELY MEMORY

OF

My Sister,

JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS.

CONTENTS

I. THE CHILD

II. THE DOCTOR

III. ON THE ROAD

IV. ROSIN THE BEAU

V. IN THE CHURCHYARD

VI. THE SERPENT

VII. LOST

VIII. WAITING

IX. BLONDEL

X. DARKNESS

XI. LIGHT

"_Minded of nought but peace, and of a child_."

SIDNEY LANIER.

CHAPTER I.

THE CHILD.

"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that
is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary
sing like that!"

Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of
light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and
Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with
sweetness and life and joy.

"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice,
folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air
of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in
the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?"

Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see
the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June
breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors
went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful
voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her.

Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on
the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the
creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word
for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands
their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them
cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to
my mind."

"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said
you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!"

Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window,
leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow,
though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed
straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and
bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands
showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds.
No one would have thought that she and Miss Rejoice were sisters,
unless he had surprised one of the loving looks that sometimes passed
between them when they were alone together. The face that lay on the
pillow was white and withered, like a crumpled white rose. The dark
eyes had a pleading, wistful look, and were wonderfully soft withal.
Miss Rejoice had white hair too, but it had a warm yellowish tinge,
very different from the clear white of Miss Vesta's. It curled, too,
in little ringlets round her beautiful old face. In short, Miss Vesta
was splendidly handsome, while no one would think of calling Miss
Rejoice anything but lovely. The younger sister lay always in bed. It
was some thirty years since she met with the accident which changed
her from a rosy, laughing girl into a helpless cripple. A party of
pleasure,--gay lads and lasses riding together, careless of anything
save the delight of the moment; a sudden leap of the horse, frightened
at some obstacle; a fall, striking on a sharp stone,--this was Miss
Rejoice's little story. People in the village had forgotten that there
was any story; even her own contemporaries almost forgot that Rejoice
had ever been other than she was now. But Miss Vesta never forgot. She
left her position in the neighboring town, broke off her engagement to
the man she loved, and came home to her sister; and they had never
been separated for a day since. Once, when the bitter pain began to
abate, and the sufferer could realize that she was still a living
creature and not a condemned spirit, suffering for the sins of some
one else (she had thought of all her own, and could not feel that they
were bad enough to merit such suffering, if God was the person she
supposed),--in those first days Miss Rejoice ventured to question her
sister about her engagement. She was afraid--she did hope the breaking
of it had nothing to do with her. "It has to do with myself!" said
Miss Vesta, briefly, and nothing more was said. The sisters had lived
their life together, without a thought save for each other, till
Melody came into their world.

But here is Melody at the door; she shall introduce herself. A girl of
twelve years old, with a face like a flower. A broad white forehead,
with dark hair curling round it in rings and tendrils as delicate as
those of a vine; a sweet, steadfast mouth, large blue eyes, clear and
calm under the long dark lashes, but with a something in them which
makes the stranger turn to look at them again. He may look several
times before he discovers the reason of their fixed, unchanging calm.
The lovely mouth smiles, the exquisite face lights up with gladness or
softens into sympathy or pity; but the blue eyes do not flash or
soften, for Melody is blind.

She came into the room, walking lightly, with a firm, assured tread,
which gave no hint of hesitation or uncertainty.

"See, Aunt Joy," she said brightly, "here is the first rose. You were
saying yesterday that it was time for cinnamon-roses; now here is one
for you." She stooped to kiss the sweet white face, and laid the
glowing blossom beside it.

"Thank you, dear," said Miss Rejoice; "I might have known you would
find the first blossom, wherever it was. Where was this, now? On the
old bush behind the barn?"

"Not in our yard at all," replied the child, laughing. "The smell came
to me a few minutes ago, and I went hunting for it. It was in Mrs.
Penny's yard, right down by the fence, close, so you could hardly see
it."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Vesta. "And she let you have it?"

"Of course," said the child. "I told her it was for Aunt Joy."

"H'm!" said Miss Vesta. "Martha Penny doesn't suffer much from giving,
as a rule, to Aunt Joy or anybody else. Did she give it to you at the
first asking, hey?"

"Now, Vesta!" remonstrated Miss Rejoice, gently.

"Well, I want to know," persisted the elder sister.

Melody laughed softly. "Not quite the first asking," she said. "She
wanted to know if I thought she had no nose of her own. 'I didn't mean
that,' said I; 'but I thought perhaps you wouldn't care for it quite
as much as Aunt Joy would.' And when she asked why, I said, 'You don't
sound as if you would.' Was that rude, Aunt Vesta?"

"Humph!" said Miss Vesta, smiling grimly. "I don't know whether it was
exactly polite, but Martha Penny wouldn't know the difference."

The child looked distressed, and so did Miss Rejoice.

"I am sorry," said Melody. "But then Mrs. Penny said something so
funny. 'Well, gaffle onto it! I s'pose you're one of them kind as must
always have what they want in this world. Gaffle onto your rose, and
go 'long! Guess I might be sick enough before anybody 'ud get roses
for me!' So I told her I would bring her a whole bunch of our white
ones as soon as they were out, and told her how I always tried to get
the first cinnamon-rose for Aunt Joy. She said, 'She ain't your aunt,
nor mine either.' But she spoke kinder, and didn't seem cross any
more; so I took the rose, and here it is."

Miss Vesta was angry. A bright spot burned in her cheeks, and she was
about to speak hastily; but Miss Rejoice raised a gentle hand, and
motioned her to be silent.

"Martha Penny has a sharp way, Melody," said Miss Rejoice; "but she
meant no unkindness, I think. The rose is very sweet," she added;
"there are no other roses so sweet, to my mind. And how are the hens
this morning, dearie?"

The child clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. "Oh, we have had such
fun!" she cried. "Top-knot was very cross at first, and would not let
the young speckled hen eat out of the dish with her. So I took one
under each arm, and sang and talked to them till they were both in a
good humor. That made the Plymouth rooster jealous, and he came and
drove them both away, and had to have a petting all by himself. He is
such a dear!"

"You do spoil those hens, Melody," said Miss Vesta, with an
affectionate grumble. "Do you suppose they'll eat any better for being
talked to and sung to as if they were persons?"

"Poor dears!" said the child; "they ought to be happy while they do
live, oughtn't they, Auntie? Is it time to make the cake now, Aunt
Vesta, or shall I get my knitting, and sing to Auntie Joy a little?"

At that moment a clear whistle was heard outside the house. "The
doctor!" cried Melody, her sightless face lighting up with a flash of
joy. "I must go," and she ran quickly out to the gate.

"Now he'll carry her off," said Miss Vesta, "and we sha'n't see her
again till dinner-time. You'd think she was his child, not ours. But
so it is, in this world."

"What has crossed you this morning, Sister?" asked Miss Rejoice,
mildly. "You seem put about."

"Oh, the cat got into the tea-kettle." replied the elder sister.
"Don't fret your blessed self if I am cross. I can't stand Martha
Penny, that's all,--speaking so to that blessed child! I wish I had
her here; she'd soon find out whether she had a nose or not. Dear
knows it's long enough! It isn't the first time I've had four parts of
a mind to pull it for her."

"Why, Vesta Dale, how you do talk!" said Miss Rejoice, and then they
both laughed, and Miss Vesta went out to scold the doctor.

CHAPTER II.

THE DOCTOR.

The doctor sat in his buggy, leaning forward, and talking to the
child. A florid, jovial-looking man, bright-eyed and deep-chested,
with a voice like a trumpet, and a general air of being the West Wind
in person. He was not alone this time: another doctor sat beside him;
and Miss Vesta smoothed her ruffled front at sight of the stranger.

"Good-morning, Vesta," shouted the doctor, cheerily. "You came out to
shoot me, because you thought I was coming to carry off Melody, eh?
You needn't say no, for I know your musket-shot expression. Dr.
Anthony, let me present you to Miss Vesta Dale,--a woman who has never
had the grace to have a day's sickness since I have known her, and
that's forty years at least."

"Miss Dale is a fortunate woman," said Dr. Anthony, smiling. "Have you
many such constitutions in your practice, Brown?"

"I am fool enough to wish I had," growled Dr Brown. "That woman, sir,
is enough to ruin any practice, with her pernicious example of
disgusting health. How is Rejoice this morning, Vesta? Does she want
to see me?"

Miss Vesta thought not, to-day; then followed questions and answers,
searching on one side, careful and exact on the other; and then--

"I should like it if you could spare Melody for half an hour this
morning," said the doctor. "I want her to go down to Phoebe Jackson's
to see little Ned."

"Oh, what is the matter with Ned?" cried Melody, with a quick look of
alarm.

"Tomfoolery is the principal matter with him, my dear," said Dr.
Brown, grimly. "His eyes have been troubling him, you know, ever since
he had the measles in the winter. I've kept one eye on the child,
knowing that his mother was a perfect idiot, or rather, an imperfect
one, which is worse. Yesterday she sent for me in hot haste: Ned was
going blind, and would I please come that minute, and save the
precious child, and oh, dear me, what should she do, and all the rest
of it. I went down mad enough, I can tell you; found the child's eyes
looking like a ploughed field. 'What have you been doing to this
child, Phffibe?' 'We-ell, Doctor, his eyes has been kind o' bad along
back, the last week. I did cal'late to send for you before; but one o'
the neighbors was in, and she said to put molasses and tobacco-juice
in them.' 'Thunder and turf!' says I. 'What sa-ay?' says Phoebe. ''N'
then old Mis' Barker come in last night. You know she's had
consid'able experi'nce with eyes, her own having been weakly, and all
her children's after her. And _she_ said to try vitriol; but I kind o'
thought I'd ask you first, Doctor, so I waited till morning. And now
his eyes look terrible, and he seems dretful 'pindlin'; oh, dear me,
what shall I do if my poor little Neddy goes blind?' 'Do, Madam?' I
said. 'You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you and your
tobacco-juice and molasses have made him blind. That's what you will
do, and much good may it do you.'"

"Oh, Doctor," cried Melody, shrinking as if the words had been
addressed to her, "how could you say that? But you don't think--you
don't think Ned will really be blind?" The child had grown very pale,
and she leaned over the gate with clasped hands, in painful suspense.

"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "I think he will come out all
right; no thanks to his mother if he does. But it was necessary to
frighten the woman, Melody, for fright is the only thing that makes an
impression on a fool. Now, I want you to run down there, like a good
child; that is, if your aunts can spare you. Run down and comfort the
little fellow, who has been badly scared by the clack of tongues and
the smarting of the tobacco-juice. Imbeciles! cods' heads! scooped-out
pumpkins!" exclaimed the doctor, in a sudden frenzy. "A--I don't mean
that. Comfort him up, child, and sing to him and tell him about
Jack-and-the-Beanstalk. You'll soon bring him round, I'll warrant.
But stop," he added, as the child, after touching Miss Vesta's hand
lightly, and making and receiving I know not what silent
communication, turned toward the house,--"stop a moment, Melody. My
friend Dr. Anthony here is very fond of music, and he would like to
hear you sing just one song. Are you in singing trim this morning?"

The child laughed. "I can always sing, of course," she said simply.
"What song would you like, Doctor?"

"Oh, the best," said Dr. Brown. "Give us 'Annie Laurie.'"

The child sat down on a great stone that stood beside the gate. It was
just under the white lilac-bush, and the white clusters bent lovingly
down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept
them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread,
and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the
window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not
worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on
her lap, and sang.

Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world;
certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first
written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the
legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do
not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and
sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking
people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and
genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered
symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and
women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by
camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at
the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through
the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who
heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the
lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it,
through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna,
some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a
great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that
the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in
freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender
mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie"
as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head
thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their
unchanging calm, she made a picture that the stranger never forgot. He
started as the first notes of her voice stole forth, and hung
quivering on the air,--

"Maxwellton braes are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew."

What wonder was this? Dr. Anthony had come prepared to hear, he quite
knew what,--a child's voice, pretty, perhaps, thin and reedy, nasal,
of course. His good friend Brown was an excellent physician, but with
no knowledge of music; how should he have any, living buried in the
country, twenty miles from a railway, forty miles from a concert?
Brown had said so much about the blind child that it would have been
discourteous for him, Dr. Anthony, to refuse to see and hear her when
he came to pass a night with his old college chum; but his assent had
been rather wearily given: Dr. Anthony detested juvenile prodigies.
But what was this? A voice full and round as the voices of Italy;
clear as a bird's; swelling ever richer, fuller, rising in tones so
pure, so noble, that the heart of the listener ached, as the poet's
heart at hearing the nightingale, with almost painful pleasure.
Amazement and delight made Dr. Anthony's face a study, which his
friend perused with keen enjoyment. He knew, good Dr. Brown, that he
himself was a musical nobody; he knew pretty well (what does a doctor
not know?) what Anthony was thinking as they drove along. But he knew
Melody too; and he rubbed his hands, and chuckled inwardly at the
discomfiture of his knowing friend.

The song died away; and the last notes were like those of the skylark
when she sinks into her nest at sunset. The listeners drew breath, and
looked at each other.

There was a brief silence, and then, "Thank you, Melody," said Dr.
Brown. "That's the finest song in the world, I don't care what the
next is. Now run along, like my good maid, and sing it to Neddy
Jackson, and he will forget all about his eyes, and turn into a great
pair of ears."

The child laughed. "Neddy will want 'The British Grenadier,'" she
said. "That is _his_ greatest song." She ran into the house to kiss
Miss Rejoice, came out with her sun-bonnet tied under her chin, and
lifted her face to kiss Miss Vesta. "I sha'n't be gone long, Auntie,"
she said brightly. "There'll be plenty of time to make the cake after
dinner."

Miss Vesta smoothed the dark hair with a motherly touch. "Doctor
doesn't care anything about our cake," she said; "he isn't coming to
tea to-night. I suppose you'd better stay as long as you're needed. I
should not want the child to fret."

"Good-by, Doctor," cried the child, joyously, turning her bright face
toward the buggy. "Good-by, sir," making a little courtesy to Dr.
Anthony, who gravely took off his hat and bowed as if to a duchess.
"Good-by again, dear auntie;" and singing softly to herself, she
walked quickly away.

Dr. Anthony looked after her, silent for a while. "Blind from birth?"
he asked presently.

"From birth," replied Dr. Brown. "No hope; I've had Strong down to see
her. But she's the happiest creature in the world, I do believe. How
does she sing?" he asked with ill-concealed triumph. "Pretty well for
a country child, eh?"

"She sings like an angel," said Dr. Anthony,--"like an angel from
heaven."

"She has a right to, sir," said Miss Vesta, gravely. "She is a child
of God, who has never forgotten her Father."

Dr. Anthony turned toward the speaker, whom he had almost forgotten in
his intense interest in the child. "This lovely child is your own
niece, Madam?" he inquired. "She must be unspeakably dear to you."

Miss Vesta flushed. She did not often speak as she had just done,
being a New England woman; but "Annie Laurie" always carried her out
of herself, she declared. The answer to the gentleman's question was
one she never liked to make. "She is not my niece in blood," she said
slowly. "We are single women, my sister and I; but she is like our own
daughter to us."

"Twelve years this very month, Vesta, isn't it," said Dr. Brown,
kindly, "since the little one came to you? Do you remember what a wild
night it was?"

Miss Vesta nodded. "I hear the wind now when I think of it," she said.

"The child is an orphan," the doctor continued, turning to his friend.
"Her mother was a young Irish woman, who came here looking for work.
She was poor, her husband dead, consumption on her, and so on, and so
on. She died at the poorhouse, and left this blind baby. Tell Dr.
Anthony how it happened, Vesta."

Miss Vesta frowned and blushed. She wished Doctor would remember that
his friend was a stranger to her. But in a moment she raised her head.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, after all," she said, a little
proudly. "I don't know why I should not tell you, sir. I went up to
the poor-farm one evening, to carry a basket of strawberries. We had a
great quantity, and I thought some of the people up there might like
them, for they had few luxuries, though I don't believe they ever went
hungry. And when I came there, Mrs. Green, who kept the farm then,
came out looking all in a maze. 'Did you ever hear of such a thing in
your life?' she cried out, the minute she set eyes on me. 'I don't
know, I'm sure,' said I. 'Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. How's
the baby that poor soul left?' I said. It was two weeks since the
mother died; and to tell the truth, I went up about as much to see how
the child was getting on as to take the strawberries, though I don't
know that I realized it till this very minute." She smiled grimly, and
went on. "'That's just it,' Mrs. Green screams out, right in my face.
'Dr. Brown has just been here, and he says the child is blind, and
will be blind all her days, and we've got to bring her up; and I'd
like to know if I haven't got enough to do without feedin' blind
children?' I just looked at her. 'I don't know that a deaf woman would
be much better than a blind child,' said I; 'so I'll thank you to
speak like a human being, Liza Green, and not scream at me. Aren't you
ashamed?' I said. 'The child can't help being blind, I suppose. Poor
little lamb! as if it hadn't enough, with no father nor mother in the
world.' 'I don't care,' says Liza, crazy as ever; 'I can't stand it.
I've got all I can stand now, with a feeble-minded boy and two so old
they can't feed themselves. That Polly is as crazy as a loon, and the
rest is so shif'less it loosens all my j'ints to look at 'em. I won't
stand no more, for Dr. Brown nor anybody else.' And she set her hands
on her hips and stared at me as if she'd like to eat me, sun-bonnet
and all. 'Let me see the child,' I said. I went in, and there it
lay,--the prettiest creature you ever saw in your life, with its eyes
wide open, just as they are now, and the sweetest look on its little
face. Well, there, you'd know it came straight from heaven, if you saw
it in--Well, I don't know exactly what I'm saying. You must excuse me,
sir!" and Miss Vesta paused in some confusion. "'Somebody ought to
adopt it,' said I. 'It's a beautiful child; any one might be proud of
it when it grew up.' 'I guess when you find anybody that would adopt a
blind child, you'll find the cat settin' on hen's eggs,' said Liza
Green. I sat and held the child a little while, trying to think of
some one who would be likely to take care of it; but I couldn't think
of any one, for as she said, so it was. By and by I kissed the poor
little pretty thing, and laid it back in its cradle, and tucked it up
well, though it was a warm night. 'You'll take care of that child,
Liza,' I said, 'as long as it stays with you, or I'll know the reason
why. There are plenty of people who would like the work here, if
you're tired of it,' I said. She quieted down at that, for she knew
that a word from me would set the doctor to thinking, and he wasn't
going to have that blind child slighted, well I knew. Well, sir, I
came home, and told Rejoice."

"Her sister," put in Dr. Brown,--"a crippled saint, been in her bed
thirty years. She and Melody keep a small private heaven, and Vesta is
the only sinner admitted."

"Doctor, you're very profane," said Miss Vesta, reprovingly. "I've
never seen my sister Rejoice angry, sir, except that one time, when I
told her. 'Where is the child?' she says. 'Why, where do you suppose?'
said I. 'In its cradle, of course. I tucked it up well before I came
away, and she won't dare to mistreat it for one while,' I said. 'Go
and get it!' says my sister Rejoice. 'How dared you come home without
it? Go and get it this minute, do you hear?' I stared as if I had seen
a vision. 'Rejoice, what are you thinking of?' I asked. 'Bring that
child here? Why, what should we do with it? I can't take care of it,
nor you either.' My sister turned the color of fire. 'No one else
shall take care of it,' she says, as if she was Bunker Hill Monument
on a pillow. 'Go and get it this minute, Vesta. Don't wait; the Lord
must not be kept waiting. Go, I tell you!' She looked so wild I was
fairly frightened; so I tried to quiet her. I thought her mind was
touched, some way. 'Well, I'll go to-morrow,' says I, soothing her; 'I
couldn't go now, anyhow, Rejoice. Just hear it rain and blow! It came
on just as I stepped inside the door, and it's a regular storm now. Be
quiet,' I said, 'and I'll go up in the morning and see about it.' My
sister sat right up in the bed. 'You'll go now,' she says, 'or I'll go
myself. Now, this living minute! Quick!' I went, sir. The fire in her
eyes would have scorched me if I had looked at it a minute longer. I
thought she was coming out of the bed after me,--she, who had not
stirred for twenty years. I caught up a shawl, threw another over my
shoulders, and ran for the poor-farm. 'T was a perfect tempest, but I
never felt it. Something seemed to drive me, as if it was a whip laid
across my shoulders. I thought it was my sister's eyes, that had never
looked hard at me since she was born; but maybe it was something else
besides. They say there are no miracles in these days, but we don't
know everything yet. I ran in at the farm, before them all, dripping,
looking like a maniac, I don't doubt. I caught up the child out of the
cradle, and wrapped it in the shawl I'd brought, and ran off again
before they'd got their eyes shut from staring at me as if I was a
spirit of evil. How my breath held out, don't ask me; but I got home,
and ran into the chamber, and laid the child down by the side of my
sister Rejoice."

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