Just as when a letter comes to a forest cabin, it is turned over and over, and many guesses are made as to the handwriting and the authorship before it occurs to any one to open it and see who sent it, so was this rude knocking at the gate the occasion of argument among the rustic revellers as to what it might portend.Some thought it was the arrival of the belated band.Others supposed the sound betokened a descent of the Corey clan from the Upper Lake, or a change of heart on the part of old Dan Dunning, who had refused to attend the ball because they would not allow him to call out the figures.The guesses were various; but no one thought of the possible arrival of a stranger at such an hour on such a night, until Serena suggested that it would he a good plan to open the door.Then the unbidden guest was discovered lying benumbed along the threshold.
There was no want of knowledge as to what should be done with a half-frozen man, and no lack of ready hands to do it.They carried him not to the warm stove, but into the semi-arctic region of the parlour.They rubbed his face and his hands vigorously with snow.
They gave him a drink of hot tea flavoured with whiskey--or perhaps it was a drink of whiskey with a little hot tea in it--and then, as his senses began to return to him, they rolled him in a blanket and left him on a sofa to thaw out gradually, while they went on with the dance.
Naturally, he was the favourite subject of conversation for the next hour.
"Who is he, anyhow? I never seen 'im before.Where'd he come from?" asked the girls.
"I dunno," said Bill Moody; "he didn't say much.Talk seemed all froze up.Frenchy, 'cordin' to what he did say.Guess he must a come from Canady, workin' on a lumber job up Raquette River way.
Got bounced out o' the camp, p'raps.All them Frenchies is queer."This summary of national character appeared to command general assent.
"Yaas," said Hose Ransom, "did ye take note how he hung on to that pack o' his'n all the time? Wouldn't let go on it.Wonder what 't wuz? Seemed kinder holler 'n light, fer all 'twuz so big an'
wropped up in lots o' coverin's."
"What's the use of wonderin'?" said one of the younger boys; "find out later on.Now's the time fer dancin'.Whoop 'er up!"1
But the ancient instrument was weakening under the strain; the bellows creaked; the notes grew more and more asthmatic.
"Hold the Fort" was the tune, "Money Musk" was the dance; and it was a preposterously bad fit.The figure was tangled up like a fishing-line after trolling all day without a swivel.The dancers were doing their best, determined to be happy, as cheerful as possible, but all out of time.The organ was whirring and gasping and groaning for breath.
Suddenly a new music filled the room.
The right tune--the real old joyful "Money Musk," played jubilantly, triumphantly, irresistibly--on a fiddle!
The melodion gave one final gasp of surprise and was dumb.
Every one looked up.There, in the parlour door, stood the stranger, with his coat off, his violin hugged close under his chin, his right arm making the bow fly over the strings, his black eyes sparkling, and his stockinged feet marking time to the tune.
"DANSEZ! DANSEZ," he cried, "EN AVANT! Don' spik'.Don' res'!
Ah'll goin' play de feedle fo' yo' jess moch yo' lak', eef yo'
h'only DANSE!"
The music gushed from the bow like water from the rock when Moses touched it.Tune followed tune with endless fluency and variety--polkas, galops, reels, jigs, quadrilles; fragments of airs from many lands--"The Fisher's Hornpipe," "Charlie is my Darling," "Marianne s'en va-t-au Moulin," "Petit Jean," "Jordan is a Hard Road to Trabbel," woven together after the strangest fashion and set to the liveliest cadence.
It was a magical performance.No one could withstand it.They all danced together, like the leaves on the shivering poplars when the wind blows through them.The gentle Serena was swept away from her stool at the organ as if she were a little canoe drawn into the rapids, and Bill Moody stepped high and cut pigeon-wings that had been forgotten for a generation.It was long after midnight when the dancers paused, breathless and exhausted.
"Waal," said Hose Ransom, "that's jess the hightonedest music we ever had to Bytown.You 're a reel player, Frenchy, that's what you are.What's your name? Where'd you come from? Where you goin' to?
What brought you here, anyhow?"
"MOI?" said the fiddler, dropping his bow and taking a long breath.
"Mah nem Jacques Tremblay.Ah'll ben come fraum Kebeck.W'ere goin'? Ah donno.Prob'ly Ah'll stop dis place, eef yo' lak' dat feedle so moch, hein?"His hand passed caressingly over the smooth brown wood of the violin.He drew it up close to his face again, as if he would have kissed it, while his eyes wandered timidly around the circle of listeners, and rested at last, with a question in them, on the face of the hotel-keeper.Moody was fairly warmed, for once, out of his customary temper of mistrust and indecision.He spoke up promptly.
"You kin stop here jess long's you like.We don' care where you come from, an' you need n't to go no fu'ther, less you wanter.But we ain't got no use for French names round here.Guess we 'll call him Fiddlin' Jack, hey, Sereny? He kin do the chores in the day-time, an' play the fiddle at night."
This was the way in which Bytown came to have a lover of music among its permanent inhabitants.
