The Doctor [27]
shade of the big willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare summer evenings that fall in harvest weather when, after the burning heat of the day, the cool air is beginning to blow across the fields with long shadows. When their work was done the boys hurried to join the little group under the big willows. They were all there. Ben was set there in the big armchair, Mrs. Boyle with her knitting, for there were no idle hours for her, Margaret with a book which she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent content, Iola lazily strumming her guitar and occasionally singing in her low, rich voice some of her old Mammy's songs or plantation hymns. Of these latter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did she ever quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of instrument. But in spite of her there were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern "baby songs."
Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock at first that he heard the Southern girl with her "foreign instrument" try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.
"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences, "and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things when your mother sings."
"Different how?" said Dick.
"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink."
"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar. They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden rose."
"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us one now."
"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola. "You would not be shaming your mother, Richard."
"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly.
"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could sing."
Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.
"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,' too."
"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began to play that exquisite Highland lament.
It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin accompanying.
Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell
Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock at first that he heard the Southern girl with her "foreign instrument" try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him. Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.
"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences, "and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things when your mother sings."
"Different how?" said Dick.
"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth, just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink."
"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar. They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden rose."
"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us one now."
"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola. "You would not be shaming your mother, Richard."
"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly.
"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could sing."
Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.
"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,' too."
"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began to play that exquisite Highland lament.
It was not her son's entreaty so much as something in the soft drawl of the Southern girl that made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. When Barney reached the end of the refrain his mother took up the verse with the violin accompanying.
Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn and thin, but she had the exquisite lilting note of the Highland maids at their milking or of the fisher folk at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and with a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and cadences that a tune takes on with age. As she sang her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying idly in her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy depths, the spell