Barney picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with delight.
Even those who had been somewhat impatient for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to ****, who had resumed his place beside her. "Who is the man you wanted so badly to kiss?" she asked quietly.
"Who?" he cried, so that everyone heard. "What! don't you know?
That's Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line."
Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the block where she had been sitting.
"You accompany beautifully," she said in her soft Southern drawl;
"it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that."
"Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager to get back again to his shadow, "but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing again."
"Certainly," cried ****, "she'll sing again. What will you give us now, white or black?"
"Plantation, of course," said Barney brusquely.
"All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?" cried ****.
The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant look. "Do they all obey you here?"
"Ask them."
"That's what," cried Alec Murray, "especially the girls."
She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked for, "You, too, obey, I see," she said.
"Generally--, always when I like," he replied, continuing to play.
"Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose I must then." And she began:
"The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home."
Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello, supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless. No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing tide of song. The old air, ****** and time-worn, took on a new richness of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of unutterable depths.
Even ****'s gay air of command surrendered to the spell. As before, silence followed the song.
"But you did not do your part," she said, smiling up at him with a very pretty air of embarrassment.
"No," said **** solemnly, "we didn't dare."
"Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice sounded deep and hoarse, and ****, looking curiously at him, said apologetically, "Music, when it's good, makes him quite batty."
But Iola ignored him. "Did you ever hear this?" she said to Barney. She strummed a few chords on her guitar. "It's only a little baby song, one my old mammy used to sing."
"Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil winkahs fas', Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass.
Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las', So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass.
CHORUS:
"Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go.
Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho!
De angels want you, guess I know, But mammy hol' you, hol' you tight jes' so.
"Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil fingahs, Meah, Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma fingahs heah, De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, Youah mammy'll hol' you, hol' you till de mawn appeah.
"Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'?
Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'?
But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to hol'."
A long silence followed the song. The girl laid her guitar down and sat quietly looking straight before her, while Barney played the refrain over and over. The ****** pathos of the little song, its tender appeal to the mother-chords that somehow vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep places in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some moments they stood silent about her. It was with an obvious effort that **** released the tension by crying out, "Partners for four-hand reel." Instantly the company resolved itself into groups of four and stood waiting for the music.
"Strike up, Barney," cried **** impatiently, shuffling before Iola, whom he had chosen for his partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother and Margaret were standing. The boy's face was pale through its swarthy tan.
"Come away," he said to his mother in a strained, unnatural voice.
"Isn't she beautiful?" cried Margaret impulsively.
"Is she? I didn't notice. But great goodness! What a voice!"
"Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt," said Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a sharp glance at her son.
