It was very still in the church as the opening chords of the anthem
were struck. The anthems were always appreciated by the congregation.
Since Grace Kendall had been organist and choir master there was
always something new and pleasing, and no one knew beforehand just
who might be going to sing a solo that day. Sometimes Grace Kendall
herself sang, although but rarely. People loved to hear her sing. Her
voice was sweet and well cultivated, and she seemed to have the power
of getting her words across to one’s soul which few others possessed.
Cornelia, as her lips formed the words of the opening chorus,
wondered idly, almost apathetically, whether Grace would take the
tenor solo this time. She could, of course; but Cornelia dreaded it
like a blow that was coming swiftly to her. It seemed the knell of
her brother’s self-respect. He had failed her right at the start,
and of course no one would ever ask him to sing again; and equally
of course he would be ashamed, and never want to go to that church
again. Her heart was so heavy that she had no sense of the triumph
and beauty of the chorus as it burst forth in the fresh young voices
about her, voices that were not heavy like her own with a sense of
agony and defeat.
“I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord.”
It was, of course, a big thing for an amateur volunteer choir to
attempt, but in its way it was well done. Grace Kendall seemed to
have a natural feeling for expression, and she had developed a
wonderful talent for bringing out some voices and suppressing others.
Moreover, she trained for weeks on a composition before she was
willing to produce it. This particular one had been in waiting some
time until a tenor soloist fit for the part should be available.
Carey had seemed to fit right in. Grace had told Cornelia this
the night before, which made the humiliation all the harder now.
Cornelia’s voice stopped entirely on “the beginning,” and never got
to “the ending” at all. Something seemed to shut right up in her
throat and make sound impossible. She wished she could sink down
through the floor, and hide away out of sight somewhere. Of course
the audience did not know that her brother was to have sung in this
particular anthem; but all the choir knew it, and they must be
wondering. Surely they had noticed his absence. She was thankful that
her seat kept her a trifle apart from the rest, and that she was a
comparative stranger, so that no one would be likely to ask where he
was. If she could only get through this anthem somehow, making her
lips move till the end, and sit down! The church seemed stifling. The
breath of the roses about the pulpit came sickeningly sweet.
It was almost time for the solo. Another page, another line! At least
she would not look around. If anybody noticed her, he should think
she knew all about what was going to happen next. They would perhaps
think that Carey had been called away—as, indeed, he had; she caught
at the words “called away”; that was what she would have to say when
they asked her after service, called away suddenly. Oh! And such a
calling! Would Grace ever speak to him again? Would they be able to
keep it from her that that detestable Clytie had been at the bottom
of it all? It wouldn’t be so bad if Grace had never met her. Oh, why
had Cornelia been so crazy as to invite them together? Now! _Now!
Another note!_
Into the silence of the climax of the chorus there came a clear,
sweet tenor voice, just behind Cornelia, so close it startled her,
and almost made her lose her self-control, so sweet and resonant and
full of feeling that at first she hardly recognized that she had ever
heard it before.
“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts!”
“Carey!”
Her trembling senses took it in with thrill after thrill of wonder
and delight. It was really Carey, her brother, singing like that!
Carey, standing on the top step of the little stairway winding up
from the choir room, close beside the organ. Carey with his hair
rumpled wildly, his coat-sleeve half ripped out, a tear in the knee
of his trousers, a white face with long black streaks across it, a
cut on his chin, and his eyes blue-black with the intensity of the
moment, but a smile like a cherub’s on his lips. He was singing as
he had never sung before, as no one knew he could sing, as he had
not thought he could sing himself, singing as one who had come “out
of great tribulation,” as the choir had just sung a moment before, a
triumphant, tender, marvellous strain.
“Gee!” breathed Harry back by the door, in awe, under his breath,
and the soul of Maxwell was lifted and thrilled by the song. Little
Louise in her seat all alone gripped her small hands in ecstasy, and
smiled till the tears came; and the father, who had found his friend
too ill for his wife to leave him, and had stolen into church late
by the side door and sat down under the gallery, bowed his head and
prayed, his heart filled with one longing, that the boy’s mother
could have heard him.
Into Cornelia’s heart there flooded a tide of strength and joy
surpassing anything she had ever known in pride of herself. Her
brother, _her brother_ was singing like that! He had overcome all
obstacles, whatever they might have been, and got there in time! He
was there! He had not failed! He was singing like a great singer.
Out at the curbstone beside the church sat huddled in a “borrowed”
car, with a broken wind-shield, borrowed without the knowledge of the
owner, three girls, frightened, furious, and overwhelmed with wonder.
All during that stormy drive to the city they had screamed and
reasoned and pommelled their captor in vain. He had paid no more heed
to their furor than if they had been three gadflies sitting behind
him. When one of them tried to climb into the front seat beside him,
he swept her back with one blind motion and a threat to throw them
all out into the road if they didn’t stop. They had never seen him
like this. They subsided, and he had sat silent, immovable, driving
like Jehu, until with a jerk he suddenly brought up at the church,
and sprang out, vanishing into the darkness. And now this voice,
this wonderful voice, piercing out into the night like the searching
of God.
“Holy, holy, holy!” They listened awesomely. This was not the
young man they knew, with whom they had rollicked and feasted and
revelled. This was a new man. And this—this that he was voicing made
them afraid. Holy, holy! It was a word that they hated. It seemed
to search into their ways from the beginning. It made them aware
of their coarseness and their vulgarity. It brought to their minds
things that made their cheeks burn, and made them think of their
mothers and retribution. It reminded them of the borrowed car, and
the fact that they were alone in it, and that even now some one might
be out in search of it.
“Holy, holy!” sang the voice, “Lord God of Hosts!” and, as if a
searchlight from heaven had been turned upon their silly, weak
young faces, they trembled, and one by one clambered out into the
shadow silently, and slunk away on their little clinking high heels,
hurriedly, almost stumbling. They were running away from that voice
and from that word, “Holy, holy, holy!” They were gone, and the
borrowed car stood there alone. Stood there when the people filed
out from the church, still talking about the wonderful new tenor
that “Miss Grace” had found; stood there when the janitor locked the
door and turned out the lights and went home. Stood there all night
silently, with a hovering watchman in the shadows waiting for some
one to come; stood there till morning, when it was reported and taken
back to its owner with a handkerchief and a cigarette and a package
of chewing gum on its floor to help along the evidence against the
two young prisoners who had been brought to the station-house the
night before.
But the young man who had driven the car from the cross-roads, and
who had held on to his glorious tenor through the closing chorus,
rising like a touch of glory over the whole body of singers until the
final note had died away exquisitely, had suddenly crumpled into a
limp heap and slid down upon the stairs.
Some one slipped around from among the basses, and lifted him up; two
tenors came to his assistance, and bore him to the choir room; and
Grace with anxious face slipped from the organ-bench and followed as
the sermon text was announced; and no one was the wiser. Cornelia
in her secluded seat with her singing heart knew nothing of the
commotion.
A doctor was summoned from the congregation and discovered a
dislocated shoulder, a broken finger, and a bad cut on the leg which
had been bleeding profusely. Carey’s shoe was soaked with blood.
Carey, coming to, was much mortified over his collapse, looked up
nervily, and explained that he had had a slight accident, but would
be all right in a minute. He didn’t know what made him go off like
that. Then he promptly went off again.
Maxwell and Harry from their vantage of the doorway had seen the
sudden disappearance, and hurried round to the choir room. Now
Maxwell explained briefly that Carey had “had a little trouble with a
couple of roughs who were trying to get away with somebody’s car,”
and must have been rather shaken up by the time he got to the church.
“He sang wonderfully,” said Grace in a low tone full of feeling;
“I don’t believe I ever heard that solo done better even by a
professional.”
“It certainly was great!” said Maxwell, and Harry slid to the outer
door, and stood in the darkness, blinking with pride and muttering
happily. “Aw, gee!”
Carey came to again presently, and insisted on going back for the
last hymn and the response after the closing prayer. Carey was a
plucky one; and, though he was in pain, and looked white around
his mouth, he slid into his seat up by the organ, and did his part
with the rest. His hair had been combed and his face washed in the
meantime, and Grace had found a thread and needle and put a few
stitches in the torn garments, so that the damage was not apparent.
Carey received the eager congratulations of the entire choir as they
filed past him at the close of service. It was a proud moment for
Cornelia, standing in her little niche at the head of the stairs,
unable to get out till the crowd had passed. Every one stopped to
tell her how proud she ought to be of her brother; and her cheeks
were quite rosy and her eyes starry when she finally slipped away
into the choir room to find Maxwell waiting for her, a tender
solicitude in his face.
“He’s all right,” he hastened to explain. “Just a little faint from
the loss of blood, but he certainly was plucky to sing that solo with
his shoulder out of place. It must have taken a lot of nerve. We’ve
got him fixed up, and he’ll soon be all right.”
Cornelia’s face went white in surprise.
“Was he hurt?” she asked. “Oh, I didn’t think there would be
danger—not of that kind! It was so kind of you to go after him! It is
probably all due to you that he got here at all.” She gave him a look
which was worth a reward, but he shook his head, smiling wistfully.
“No, I can’t claim anything like that,” he said. “Carey didn’t even
know I was there, doesn’t know it yet, in fact. He fought the whole
thing out for himself, and took their car, and ran away. It’s that
nervy little youngest brother of yours that’s the brave one. If it
hadn’t been for Harry, I should have been a mere onlooker.”
“Well, I rather guess not!” drawled Harry, appearing suddenly from
nobody knew where, with Louise standing excitedly behind him. “You
just oughtta a seen Max fight! He certainly did give that driver guy
his money’s worth.”
“Oh!” said Cornelia. “Let’s get home quick, and hear all about it.
Where is Carey?”
Carey and Grace were coming down the steps together, and his sister
came toward him eagerly.
“O Carey, you’re hurt!” she said tenderly. “I hadn’t thought—” she
stopped suddenly with a half look at Grace.
Carey grinned.
“You needn’t mind her,” he said sheepishly. “She knows all about it.
I ’fessed up!” and he gave Grace a look of understanding that was
answered in full kind.
“Wasn’t his singing wonderful?” said Grace in an earnest voice with
a great light in her eyes. “I kept praying and feeling sure he would
come. And just at the last minute, when I’d almost made up my mind I
must sing it myself, he came. I just had time to hand him the music
before it was time for him to begin. It was simply great of him to
sing it like that when he was suffering, and with only that second to
prepare himself.”
Carey smiled, but a twinge of pain made the smile a ghastly grin, and
they hurried him into the car and home, taking Grace Kendall with
them for just a few minutes’ talk, Maxwell promising to take her home
soon. They established Carey on the big couch with cushions under
his shoulder; and then Harry could stand it no longer, and came out
with the story, which he had already told in full detail to Louise
outside the choir-room door, giving a full account of Maxwell’s part
in the fight. It was the first that Carey knew of their presence at
the cross-roads, and there was much to tell, and many questions to
answer on all sides. Harry had the floor with entire attention, much
to his delight, while he told every detail of the capture of the two
and his own tying of the man who got away. Maxwell had his share of
honor and praise, and in turn told how brave Harry had been, fooling
his man with his jack-knife for a revolver. Everybody was excited
and everybody was talking at once. Nobody noticed that twice Carey
called Grace by her first name; and once Maxwell said “Cornelia,” and
then talked fast to hide his embarrassment. The father came in, and
sat quietly listening in the corner, his face filled with pride,
gathering the story bit by bit from the broken sentences of the
different witnesses, until finally Harry said:
“Say, Kay, whaddidya do with that stolen car?”
Carey grinned from his pillows.
“Left her on the road somewhere in front of the church, with the
three girls in the back seat.”
“Good night!” Harry jumped up importantly. “Kay, do you know that car
was stolen? I heard ’em say so. They called it ‘borrowed,’ but that
means they stole it. You might get arrested.”
“I should worry!” shrugged Carey, making a wry face at the pain his
move had cost him. “I’m not in it any more, am I?”
“But the girls!” said Harry again. “D’you s’pose they’re in it yet?”
“Don’t you worry about those girls, Harry,” growled Carey, frowning.
“They weren’t born yesterday. They’ll look out for themselves. And
I might as well finish this thing up right here and now, and own up
that I’ve been a big fool to ever have anything to do with girls like
that; and I’m glad my sister went to work and invited one of ’em here
to show me what a fool I had been. I don’t mind telling you that I’m
going to try to have more sense in future; and say, Nell haven’t you
got anything round to eat. I certainly am hungry, and I’ve got to
work tomorrow, remember.”
Everybody laughed, and Cornelia and Louise hurried out for the
sandwiches and chocolate that had been forgotten in the excitement;
but the father got up and went over to his son with a beaming face.
Laying his hand on the well shoulder, he said in a proud tone: “I
always knew you’d come out right, Carey. I always felt you had a
lot of sense. And then your mother was praying for you. I knew you
couldn’t miss that. I’m proud of you, son!”
“Thanks dad! Guess I don’t deserve that, but I’ll try to in the
future.”
But just here Harry created a diversion by saying importantly: “Max,
don’t you think you oughtta call up the police station and tell ’em
’bout that car? Somebody else might steal it you know.”
While Maxwell and Harry were busy at the telephone and Cornelia and
Louise were in the kitchen getting the tray ready, Carey and his
father and Grace Kendall had a little low-toned talk together around
the couch. When Cornelia entered, and saw their three heads together
in pleasant converse, her heart gave thanks, and Louise close behind
her whispered, “Nellie, He _did_ answer, didn’t He?”
A minute later, as they stood in the living room, Cornelia with the
big tray in her hands, Harry whirled around from the telephone, and
shouted.
“Hurrah for our interior decorator!” They all laughed and clapped
their hands; and Maxwell hurried to take the tray from her, giving
her a look that said so much that she had to drop her lashes to cover
the sudden joy which leaped into her face. Just for the instant she
forgot the crimson and white lady and was completely happy.
Maxwell deposited the tray on the sideboard, and took her hand.
“Come,” he said gently, “I have something to say to you that won’t
wait another minute.”
He drew her out on the new porch, behind the madeira vines that Carey
had trained for a shelter while more permanent vines were growing,
and there in the shadow they stood, he holding both her hands in a
close grasp and looking down into her eyes which were just beginning
to remember.
“Listen,” he said tenderly. “They have been saying all sorts of nice
things about you, and now I have one more word to add, ‘I love you!’
Do you mind—dearest!”
He dropped her hands and put his arms softly about her, drawing her
gently to him as if he almost feared to touch one so exquisitely
precious. Then Cornelia came to life.
“But _the lady_!” she cried in distress, putting out her hands at
arm’s length and holding herself aloof. “Oh, it is not like you to do
a thing like this!”
But he continued to draw her close to himself.
“The lady!” he laughed, “But there is no other lady! The lady is
really a vampire that tried to suck my blood. But she is nothing to
me now. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that she wasn’t even a friend?”
“Oh,” trembled Cornelia, “I didn’t understand,” and she surrendered
herself joyously to his arms.
“Well, I want you to understand. It’s a miserable tale to have to
tell and I’m ashamed of it, but I want you to know it all. I meant
to tell it yesterday but everything seemed to be against me. How
about riding in the park tomorrow afternoon and we’ll thrash it all
out and get it done with forever. And meantime, can you take me on
trust? For I love you with all the love a man can give to a woman,
and nobody, not even in imagination, ever had the place in my heart
that you have taken. Can you love me dear heart?”
The company in the house missed them after a time and trooped out
to find them, even Carey getting up from his cushions against the
protest of Grace, and coming to the door.
“You know I’ve got to go to work tomorrow,” he explained smiling, “I
can’t afford to baby myself any longer.”
And Cornelia came rosily out from behind the vines and went in for
the good-nights, her eyes starry with joy.
As they went up the stairs for the night Louise slipped an arm around
her sister and whispered happily:
“Cornie, I don’t believe that red lady is anything at all to Mr.
Maxwell, do you?”
Cornelia bent and kissed her sister tenderly and whispered back in a
voice that had a ring in it:
“No, darling, I _know_ she isn’t!”
Louise falling cosily to sleep while her sister arranged her hair for
the night said to herself sleepily:
“I wonder now, _how_ she knows! She didn’t seem so sure yesterday. He
must have told her about her out on the porch.”