He is
careful whom he asks, however; he would not insult Melody by asking
for her of some of these young women, with bold eyes, with loose hair
and disordered looks. So he sits and plays, a quaint, old-world
figure, among the laughing, dancing, foolish crowd. Old De Arthenay,
from the Androscoggin,--what would his ancestor, the gallant Marquis
who came over with Baron Castine to America, what would the whole line
of ancestors, from the crusaders down, say to see their descendant in
such a place as this? He has always held his head high, though he has
earned his bread by fiddling, varied by shoemaking in the winter-time.
He has always kept good company, he would tell you, and would rather
go hungry any day than earn a dinner among people who do not regard
the decencies of life. Even in this place, people come to feel the
quality of the old man, somehow, and no one speaks rudely to him; and
voices are even lowered as they pass him, sitting grave and erect on
his stool, his magic bow flying, his foot keeping time to the music.
All the old tunes he plays, "Money Musk," and "Portland Fancy," and
"Lady of the Lake." Now he quavers into the "Chorus Jig;" but no one
here knows enough to dance that, so he comes back to the simpler airs
again.
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