CHAPTER XXX
ANOTHER MATCH-MAKER
"Music waves eternal wands."
THE days went by pleasantly for the school-master, who became moreand more interested in Martha's struggle for an education. He spentmany of his evenings in directing her studies or in reading to her,and Martha showed her gratitude in a score of ways. Pearl wasdelighted with the turn events had taken, and before the month ofJanuary had gone declared that she could see results. Martha waslearning.
There was one other person in the neighbourhood who was taking aninterest in Martha's case and was determined to help it along, andthat was Dr. Emeritus Emory, the music-teacher of the Souris valley.
Dr. Emory was a mystery, a real, live, undiscoverable mystery. Allthat was really known of him was that he had come from Englandseveral years before and worked as an ordinary farm-hand with afarmer at the Brandon Hills. He was a steady, reliable man, veryquiet and reticent. That he knew anything about music was discoveredquite by accident one day when the family for whom he worked were allaway to a picnic and "Emer" was left to mind the house. One of theneighbour's boys came over to borrow a neck-yoke. "Emer," glad to bealone in the house, was in the parlour playing the piano. Theneighbour's boy knocked and knocked at the back door, but got noresponse. Finally he went around to the front and looked in thewindow to see who was playing the piano, and there sat "Emer""ripplin' it off by the yard," the boy said afterward, "thesmashin'est band music you ever heard."
Soon after that "Emer" left the plough, and Dr Emeritus Emory beganto teach music to the young people of the neighbourhood and of theneighbourhoods beyond, for he was fond of long walks and thoughtnothing of twenty miles in a day. His home was where night found him,and, being of a genial, kindly nature, he was a welcome guest at manya fireside.
The music-teacher's reticence regarding his own affairs exasperatedsome of the women. There was no human way of finding out who he wasor why he left home. Mrs. George Steadman once indignantly exclaimed,speaking of Dr. Emory,--"You can't even tell if he's married, or ifshe's livin'. Maybe she is, for all we know. He never gets no mail.George went and asked."
Dr. Emory was equally silent on the happenings at the houses at whichhe stayed. Mrs. Steadman pointed out to Mrs. Motherwell that "if theold lad wanted he could be real chatty, instead of sittin' aroundsingin' his little fiddlin' toons. Here last week when he came togive Maudie her lesson he came straight from Slater's, and I was justdyin' to know if they was gettin' ready for Edith's weddin'. We heardit had been put off, and so I asked him out straight if he saw muchsewin' around. 'They were sewin' onion seed,' says he. He seems kindastoopid sometimes. But I says to him, makin' it as plain as I could,'I mean, did ye see any sewin' around the house, did ye see anythingin the line of sewin?' because I know people often put it away, butif he was half smart he'd see the bastin' threads or somethin', so Isays, 'Did you see anythin' like sewin?' 'Just the sewin'-machine,'says he, thinkin' hard. 'I remember distinctly seein' it.' Then Ijust got my dander up, for I was determined to know about it, and Iknew very well he c'ud tell me if he'd a mind to. I says, 'Do yethink Edith is gittin' ready to be married?' and says he, real solemnlike--I thought for sure he was goin' to tell me somethin'--says he,'Mrs. Steadman, I believe every girl is gittin' ready for her weddin'sometime. Maudie here is doin' an ocean-wave huckaback cushion now, Isee. What's that for, I wonder? I suppose Edith Slater is gittin'ready. I don't see why she shouldn't,' and then he began to lilt alittle foreign toon, and I was good and mad, I can tell ye; but yecan't get nothin' out, of him. He gits his livin' pretty easy, too,and he ought to be a little chatty, I think."
Dr. Emeritus Emory was not so engrossed in his profession as to beinsensible to a good square meal and a well-kept room to sleep in,and so a chart of his peregrinations through the neighbourhood, withthe meal-stations starred, would have been a surer guide to the goodbread and butter makers than the findings of the Agricultural Societywhich presumed every year at the "Show Fair" to pick the winners, andany young man looking for a wife would make no mistake if he"followed the stars."
Dr. Emory seldom passed the Perkins home without stopping, andalthough he had no pupil there since Edith left, he almost invariablyplanned his pilgrimage so as to be there about nightfall, for a goodsupper, bed, and breakfast and a warm welcome were not to be passedby.
If the music-teacher's way of getting his board and lodging wasunique, he had also his own system of getting his laundry work done.Like all systems, it had its limitations; it required a certainunderstanding on the part of the lady of the house. This sometimesdid not exist, and so it happened that the pair of stockings or theunderwear that he left, quite by accident, in the room he hadoccupied were returned to him on his next visit, neatly wrapped innewspaper, but otherwise unchanged in condition.
But Martha Perkins never failed him. On his next visit the articleshe had left were always returned to him, washed, ironed, and ovenmended, and Martha always asked, as if there were some chance ofdoubt, if they were his.
Although he had never thanked Martha for her kindness, Dr. Emory wasdeeply sensible of it, an many a time as he came walking down theriver-bank and saw the Perkins home, with its friendly, smoke curlingup through the trees, a lively feeling of gratitude stirred in him.He had a habit of talking to him-self--gossiping, indeed, for it wasonly to himself that he discussed neighbourhood matters or his ownaffairs.
"Martha's a good girl," he said to himself one night as he came downthe long Souris hill, "a very good girl. She puts a conscientiousdarn on the heel of a sock, quiet, unobtrusive, like herself. Marthashould marry. Twenty years from now if Martha's not married she willbe lonesome ... and gray and sad. I can see her, bent a little--goodstill, and patient, but when all alone ... quite sad. It is well tolive alone and be free when one is young ... the world is wide ...but the time comes when one would like ...company--all one's own...some one who ... cares."
The old man suddenly came to himself and looked around suspiciouslyat the bare oaks and willows that fringed the road. Not even to themwould he impart the secret of his heart. But some vision of the pastseemed to trouble him for he walked more slowly and seemed to bequite insensible of the beauty of the scene around him.
The setting, sun threw long shafts of crimson light across thesnowbound valley and lit the windows of the distant farmhouse intoflame. A white rabbit flashed across the road and disappeared in thebrown scrub. The wind, which had blown all day, had ceased as eveningapproached, and now not a branch stirred in the quiet valley, overwhich the purple shades of the winter evening were creeping.
"It's a good world," he said at last, as if trying to convincehimself--"it is full of beauty and music. I think there must beanother world . . . over beyond the edge of things . . . a world thatis perhaps a little kinder and more just--it must be. I think it willbe--"
A flock of prairie chickens rose out of the snow almost at his feetand flew rapidly across the river and up over the other hill. His eyefollowed their flight--he loved those brave birds, who stay with usthrough the longest winter and whose stout hearts no storm can daunt.
Then softly he began to sing, a brave song of love and pain andenduring, a song that helped him to believe that:
"Good will fall, At last, far off, at last--to all, And every winter change to spring."
His voice wavered and trembled at first, as if it, too, felt theweariness of the years, but by the time he had sung the first verseall trace of sadness had vanished, and he went up the other, bankwalking briskly and singing almost gaily.
Thomas Perkins, doing his evening chores, stopped to listen at thestable door as the old doctor came across the white field, then heshook his head and said. "By George, it's well to be him, not ablessed thing to bother him. It's great how easy some people getthrough the world."
That night, after a warm supper, the old doctor sat in the cheerfulkitchen of the Perkins home and watched Martha quickly and deftlyclearing away the dishes. Humming to himself an air from "Faust" noone
would have thought that he was deliberately contemplating doing amatch-making turn, but certain it is that his brain was busy devisingmeans of suggesting to Arthur what a splendid girl Martha was.There was this difference between Dr. Emory and Pearl Watson asmatch-makers,--Pearl played the game perfectly fair, calling to heraid such honest helps as the spelling-book and the pages of theWoman's Magazine. The doctor, who knew more of the devious paths ofthe human heart, chose other weapons for his warfare.
Arthur came over for his bread that evening also, and when Dr. Emorywent to the organ in the parlour and began to play, every one in thehouse went in to listen. He did not often play without being asked,but to-night he suggested it himself. The parlour lamp was lighted, agorgeous affair with a large pink globe on which a stalwart deer,poised on a rock, was about to spring across a rushing stream. Butthe parlour lamp seemed to expend all its energy lighting up, thedeer and stream and the wreath of wild roses on the other side, andhave very little left for the room. The doctor silently commended itsdim light, for it suited his purpose better.
At Mr. Perkins's request he played Irish reels and jigs. Mrs. Perkinshad only one favourite, "Home, Sweet Home," with variations; that wasthe only tune she was real sure of. When the Doctor got these twoorders filled he began the real business of the evening with Handel's"Largo." Mr. Perkins began to yawn and soon took his departure,closely followed by Mrs. Perkins. They unitedly declared that they"didn't like a die-away ducky piece like that that hadn't any swingto it."
The Doctor's fine old eyes were shining with a real purpose as heplayed. "I'll suggest their thoughts for them," the old man waschuckling to himself. "Who can resist these dreamy love-songs?"--hewas playing Schubert's "Serenade." "Twilight and music! If the moonwould only show her face at the window! I'm letting loose a wholeflock of cupids. Oh, I know, I know, I've heard their whispers--theytell you there is no death or loneliness--or separation--lying littlerascals! But sweet, oh, wondrously sweet to listen to. Listen tothis, Arthur--it's all yours--Martha's just as true and pure andsweet as all this--and she loves you, man alive, think of that.Sorrow and evil days and death itself will never change Martha--she'sa solid rock for you to build your soul's happiness on. Dream on now,Arthur, as millions have dreamed before you; let your dreams keeppace with this--it will carry you on its strong tide--it will landyou safe on the rainbow shore. It carries me even, and I am old andfull of evil days. What must it be to you, Arthur, for you are youngand can easily believe, and the girl who loves you is right besideyou. Take the thought--it's bright with promise--it's full of loveand comfort and home for you."
The schoolmaster stole away to his room upstairs and took a fadedphotograph from an old portfolio and kissed it tenderly.
* * *
Behind the lace curtains the full moon, with a golden mist around herface, shone softly into the dimly-lighted room, and still the old manplayed on, the deathless songs of youth and love--the sweet,changeless melodies which have come down the ages to remind us of thelove that still lives, glorious and triumphant, though the heartsthat loved are dust.
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