stood wearily in the entrance, proffering the _War Cry_ to all those who
came near. She looked as though she had been pretty when she was a girl.
Now she was obviously worn and weak, like one recovering from a long
illness. High up over her head appeared a shower of colored stars shot
forth from a bomb; and then she remembered how she had seen the
fireworks on the last Fourth of July, only a year before, lying on her
bed which Jim had pulled to the window before he went down to conduct
the meeting. She had lain there peacefully with her two-weeks-old baby
in her arms, and it had seemed to her as though the glowing wheels that
revolved in the air, and the curving lines of fire that rose and fell
again, were but a prefiguration of a golden future where all would be
splendor and glory. How that vision had faded into blackness in the
months that followed!--when the baby sickened because they had not
proper food for him, and when Jim broke down also; and she had had to
get up, feeble as she was, and nurse them both until they died, one
after another. When she let herself think of those days of despair, she
had always to make a resolute effort if she did not wish to give way and
go into a fit of sobbing that left her exhausted for the next
twenty-four hours.
She mastered her rising emotion and turned for relief to the duty of the
moment. For five minutes no one had bought a paper from her, and the
time had come to go into the hall to take part in the service of song.
She pushed inside the swinging-door and found that perhaps a score of
visitors had gathered, and that already half a dozen members of the
Salvation Army had taken their seats at the edge of the low platform at
the end of the shallow hall. Captain Quigley was standing there, with
his shiny black hair carefully curled and his pointed beard carefully
combed. He was waiting, ready to begin, with his accordion in his hands.
She wondered why it was that she was always sorry to have Captain
Quigley lead the service. She would not deny that he led well, giving a
swing to the tunes he played that carried all the people off their feet;
he sang sweetly and he spoke feelingly. But she did not altogether like
his manner, which was almost patronizing; and then he had a way of
bringing her suddenly into his remarks and of calling her forward
needlessly. Even after her two years' service she shrank from
personalities and from self-exhibition. Yet there was no doubt that he
meant to be kind to her, and she knew that he had allowed her special
privileges more than once. With motherly kindness Adjutant Willetts had
asked her only a week before if she really liked Captain Quigley,
telling her that if she did not like him, she ought to be careful not to
encourage him, and since that talk with the adjutant her distaste for
the captain had been intensified.
It was as though Captain Quigley had been waiting for her to appear, for
he began to speak as soon as he saw her. In a high nasal voice and with
an occasional elided aspirate, he welcomed those present and told them
he was glad that they had come. He asked them all to take part in
singing the grand old hymn, "There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood." He
set the tune with his accordion, and lined out the first stanza and led
in the singing. Only three or four of the chance visitors joined in the
song, the burden of which was borne by the members of the Salvation
Army.
Then the captain told his hearers that there was a new _War Cry_
published that very morning full of interesting things, and containing
the words of the songs they would all sing later, so he wanted everybody
in the hall to buy one, that they could all follow the music.
The thin young woman with the saddened face began to move down the
aisles offering her papers right and left.
"That's the way, Sister Miller," called out the captain, as though to
encourage her; but she winced as she heard her name thus thrown to the
public. "I want you all to buy Sister Miller's papers, so that she can
come up here and join us in the singing. You don't know what a sweet
voice Sister Miller has--but we know."
He continued to talk thus familiarly as she made the circuit of the
seats. When she had taken her place on the platform by the side of
Adjutant Willetts, who smiled at her with maternal affection in her eye,
then suddenly the captain changed his tone. "Now we will ask the Lord to
bless us--to bless us all, to bless this meeting. I don't know why any
of you have come here to-night, but I do know this: if you have come
here for God's blessing, you will get it. If you have come here for
something else, I don't know whether you will get it; but if you have
come here for that you will surely get it. God always gives His blessing
to all who ask for it. Brother Higginson, will you lead us in prayer?"
The men and women on the platform fell on their knees, and the most of
those scattered about the hall bowed their heads reverently, while
Brother Higginson prayed that the blessing of God might descend upon
them that night. Sister Miller had heard Brother Higginson lead in
prayer many times and she knew almost to a word what he was likely to
say, for the range of his appeal was limited; but she always thrilled a
little at the simple fervor of the man. It annoyed her, as usual, to
have the captain punctuate the appeal of Brother Higginson with an
occasional "Amen! Amen!" or "Hallelujah!"
After the prayer there was another gospel song, and then the captain
laid aside his accordion and took up a Bible. He read a passage from the
Old Testament describing the advance of the Children of Israel into the
desert, guided by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by
night. He held the book in his hand while he expounded his text. The
Children of Israel had their loins girded to fight the good fight, he
said. That is what every people has to do; the Israelites had to do it,
the English had to do it, the Americans had to do it. They all knew what
the Fourth of July stood for and how well Americans fought then, more
than a hundred years ago; and so saying he seized the flag which had
been leaning against the wall behind him, by the side of the blood-red
banner of the Salvation Army.
As he was waving the Stars and Stripes Sister Miller felt her dislike
accentuated, for she knew that the captain was an Englishman who had
been here but a few years, and it seemed to her mean of him to be taking
sides against his native land. She wondered if he was really ignorant
enough to think that one of the great battles of the Revolution had been
fought on the Fourth of July.
Then her mind went back to her girlhood, and she recalled the last
celebration of the Fourth that had taken place in the old school-house
at home the summer before she graduated. She remembered how old Judge
Standish read the Declaration of Independence with a magnificent air of
proprietorship, as though he had just dashed it off. Other incidents of
that day came floating back to her memory as she sat there in the thick
air of the little hall, and she ceased to hear Captain Quigley calling
urgently on all those present to be Soldiers of God. In her ears there
echoed, instead, the pleading words of young Dexter Standish, telling
her that he was going to the Naval Academy and that he wanted her to
wait for him till he should come back. She had given her promise, and
why had she not kept her word? Why had she been foolishly jealous when
she heard that he was the best dancer in his class at Annapolis, and
that all the Baltimore girls were wild to dance with him. She had long
ago discovered that her reason for breaking off the engagement was
wholly inadequate; and, in her folly, she had not foreseen that Dexter
could not leave the Academy and come to her and explain. If only he had
presented himself and told her he loved her she would have forgiven him,
even if he had really deserved punishment. But he was a cadet, and he
would not have a leave of absence for another year. Before that year was
out, she had married James Miller, a theological student, who soon threw
up all his studies in his religious zeal to join the Salvation Army, as
though craving martyrdom. Jim had loved her, and he had thought she
loved him. It was with a swift pang of reproach that she found herself
asking whether it was not better for Jim that he had died before he
found out that his wife did not love him as he loved her.
With the ingenuity that came of long experience, Captain Quigley had
ended his address with a quotation from "Onward, Christian Soldiers,"
and Sister Miller was roused from her reverie to take part in the
chorus. When they had sung three stanzas the captain stopped abruptly
and turned to the gray-haired woman who sat beside Sister Miller, and
called on Adjutant Willetts to say a few words of loving greeting to the
souls waiting to be saved.
To Sister Miller it was a constant delight to be with the adjutant, to
be comforted by her motherly smile and to be sustained by her cheerful
faith. There was a Quaker simplicity about Sister Willetts, and a Quaker
strength of character that the wan and worn Sister Miller had found she
could always rely upon. And another characteristic of the elder woman's
endeared her also to the younger: her religious fervor was as fresh as
it was sincere, and she gave her testimony night after night with the
same force and the same feeling that she had given it the first time.
Too many of the others had reduced what they had to say to a mere
formula, modified but little and delivered at last in almost mechanical
fashion. But Sister Willetts stood forward on the platform and bore
witness to her possession of the peace of God which passeth all
understanding; and she did this most modestly, with neither shyness nor
timidity, merely as though she were doing her duty gladly in declaring
what God had done for her.
When the adjutant had made an end of speaking and had taken her seat by
the side of the pale young woman, who smiled back at her again, Captain
Quigley grasped his accordion once more.
"Now you shall have a solo," he said. "Sister Miller will sing that
splendid old hymn, 'Rock of Ages.' Come, Sister Miller."
Her voice had no great power, but it sufficed for that little hall. She
did not like to stand forward conspicuously, but the singing itself she
always enjoyed. Sometimes she was almost able to forget herself as she
poured out her soul in song.
On that Fourth of July evening she had not more than begun when she
became conscious that somebody was staring at her with an intensity
quite different from the ordinary gaze of curiosity to which she was
accustomed. She obeyed the impulse, and looked down into the eyes of
Dexter Standish fixed upon her as though he had come to claim possession
of her at once.
So unexpected was this vision, and so enfeebled was her self-control,
that her voice faltered, and she almost broke off in the middle of a
line. But she stiffened herself, and though she felt the blood dyeing
her face, she sang on sturdily. Her first thought was to run away--to
run away at once and hide herself, somewhere, anywhere, so that she were
only out of his sight. He had not seen her for six years and more, and
in those weary years she had lost her youth and her looks. She knew
that she was no longer the pretty girl he had loved, and she shrank from
his scrutiny of her faded features and of her shrunken figure.
She could not run away and she could not hide; she had to stand there
and let him gaze at her and discover how old she looked and how worn.
She met his eyes again--he never took them from her--and it seemed to
her that they were full of pity. She resented this. What right had he to
compassionate her? She drew her thin frame up and sang the louder in
mere bravado. Yet she was glad when she came to the end, and was able to
sink back into the seat by the side of Sister Willetts.
The captain spoke up at once, and said that the time had come to take up
a collection. Let every man give a little, in proportion to his means,
no more and no less. Would Sister Willetts and Sister Miller go about
among the people to collect the offerings?
As she picked up her tambourine she turned impulsively to the elder
woman.
"Let me go to those near the platform, please," she begged. "Won't you
take the outside rows?"
The adjutant looked down on her a little surprised, but agreed at once.
The younger woman went only a few steps down the aisles, keeping as far
away from him as possible. Whenever she glanced towards him she found
his eyes fixed upon her, following her everywhere; and now it was not
pity she thought she saw in his look, but love--the same love she had
seen in those eyes the last time they two had stood face to face.
When the tambourines had been extended towards everybody in the hall,
the two women went back to the platform and the adjutant counted up the
money--coppers and nickels, most of it, and not two dollars in all.
The captain kept on steadfastly. He gave out another hymn. When that had
been sung, he turned to a portly man who had come in late and who was
sitting on the platform behind Brother Higginson.
"Brother Jackman," he asked, with unction, "how is your soul to-night?
Can't you tell us about it?"
While the portly man, standing uneasily with his hands on the chair
before him, was briskly setting forth the circumstances of his assured
salvation, Sister Miller was silent on the platform.
She could not help seeing Dexter Standish, who was straight in front of
her. She noted how erect he was, and how resolutely his shoulders were
squared. She saw that he was older, too; and she observed that his face
had a masterful look, wanting there the last time she had seen him.
He had always been a fine-looking fellow, and the training at Annapolis
had done him good. He was no mere youth now, but a man, bronzed and
bearded, and bearing himself like one who knew what he wanted and meant
to get it. She realized that the woman he chose to guard from the world
would be well shielded. A weary woman might find rest under the shelter
of his stalwart protection. Involuntarily she contrasted the man she had
promised to marry with the man she had married--the manly strength of
the one with the gentle weakness of the other. Then she blushed again,
for this seemed to her disloyalty to the dead. Jim had been very good to
her always; he was the father of her child; he never did any wrong. But
the thought returned again--perhaps if he had had more force of
character the child need not have died as it did.
Brother Jackman was rattling along glibly, but Sister Miller did not
heed him. She did not hear him even. She did not hear anything
distinctly during the rest of the service. She rose to her feet with the
rest of them, and she sat down again automatically, and she knelt like
one in a trance. When the meeting was over and the people began to
disperse she saw that he did not move. He stood there silently, waiting
for her to come to him, ready to bear her away. Without a word Sister
Miller knew what it was her old lover wanted; he wanted to pick up their
love-story where it had been broken off four years before.
When the hall was nearly empty he started towards her.
She turned to the gray-haired woman by her side.
"Tell me what to do," she cried. "He is coming to take me away with
him."
Sister Willetts saw the young man advancing slowly, as those last to go
made a path for him.
"Is he in love with you, too?" she asked.
"Yes," the younger woman answered.
"And do you love him?"
"Yes--at least, I think so. Oh yes!"
"And is he a good man?" was the last question.
"Yes, indeed," came the prompt reply, "the best man I ever knew!"
The sturdy figure was drawing nearer and the elder woman rose.
"If you love him better than you love your work with us, go to him, in
God's name," she said. "We seek no unwilling workers here. If you cannot
give yourself to the service joyfully, putting all else behind you, go
in peace--and may the blessing of God be with you!"
She bent forward and kissed the younger woman and left her, as Dexter
Standish came and stood before her.
"Margaret," he said, firmly, "I have come for you."
Without a word she stepped down from the platform and went with him.
When they came to the door a hansom happened to pass and he called it.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked, glad to be under the shelter of
his devotion and ready to relinquish all right to decide upon her future
for herself.
"To my mother," he answered, as he lifted her into the vehicle. "She's
at a hotel here. She'll be glad to see you."
"Will she?" the girl asked, doubtfully.
"Yes," was the authoritative answer, "she knows that I have always loved
you."
(1897.)
THE SOLO ORCHESTRA
The air was thick and heavy, as it sometimes is in the great city
towards nightfall after a hot spell has lasted for ten days. There were
sponges tied to the foreheads of the horses that wearily tugged at the
overladen cross-town cars. The shop-girls going home fanned themselves
limply. The men released from work walked languidly, often with their
coats over their arms. The setting sun burned fiery red as it sank
behind the hills on the other side of the Hudson. But the night seemed
likely to be as hot as the day had been, for the leaves on the trees
were motionless now, as they had been all the afternoon.
We had been kept in town all through July by the slow convalescence of
our invalid, and with even the coming of August we could not hope to get
away for another ten days yet. The excessive heat had retarded the
recovery of our patient by making it almost impossible for her to sleep.
That evening, as it happened, she had dropped off into an uneasy slumber
a little after six o'clock, and we had left her room gently in the
doubtful hope that her rest might be prolonged for at least an hour.
I had slipped down-stairs and was standing on the stoop, with the door
open behind me, when I heard the shrill notes of the Pan-pipes,
accompanied by the jingling of a set of bells and the dull thumping of a
drum. I understood at once that some sort of wandering musician was
about to perform, and I knew that with the first few bars the needful
slumber of our invalid would be interrupted violently.
I closed the door behind me softly and sprang down the steps, and sped
swiftly to the corner around which the sounds seemed to proceed. If the
fellow is a foreigner, I thought, I must give him a quarter and so bribe
him to go away, and then he will return every evening to be bought off
again, and I shall become a subscriber by the week to the concerts I do
not wish to hear. But if the itinerant musician is an American, of
course I can appeal to him, as one gentleman to another, and we shall
not be troubled with him again.
[Illustration: "THE AIR WAS THICK AND HEAVY"]
When I turned the corner I saw a strange figure only a few yards
distant--a strange figure most strangely accoutred--a tall, thin,
loose-jointed man, who had made himself appear taller still by wearing a
high-peaked hat, the pinnacle of which was surmounted by a wire
framework, in which half a dozen bells were suspended, ringing with
every motion of the head. He had on a long linen duster, which flapped
about his gaunt shanks encased in tight, black trousers. Between his
legs he had a pair of cymbals, fastened one to each knee. Upon his back
was strapped a small bass-drum, on which there was painted the
announcement that the performer was "Prof. Theophilus Briggs, the Solo
Orchestra." A drumstick was attached to each side of the drum and
connected with a cord that ran down his legs to his feet, so that by
beating time with his toes he could make the drum take part in his
concert. The Pan-pipes that I had heard were fastened to his breast just
at the height of his chin, so that he could easily blow into them by the
slightest inclination of his head. In his left hand he held a fiddle,
and in his right hand he had a fiddle-bow. Just as I came in sight, he
tapped the fiddle with the bow, as though to call the attention of the
orchestra. Then he raised the fiddle; not to his chin, for the Pan-pipes
made this impossible, but to the other position, not infrequent among
street musicians, just below the shoulder. Evidently I had just arrived
in time.
He was not a foreigner, obviously enough. It needed only one glance at
the elongated visage, with its good-natured eyes and its gentle mouth,
to show that here was a native American whose parents and grandparents
also had been born on this side of the Atlantic.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you before you begin," I said,
hastily, "but I shall be very much obliged indeed if you would kindly
consent to give your performance a little farther down this street--a
little farther away from this corner."
I saw at once that I had not chosen my words adroitly, for the kindly
smile faded from his lips, and there was more than a hint of stiffness
in his manner as he responded, slowly:
"I don't know as I quite catch your meaning," he began. "I ain't--"
"I'm sorry to have to ask you to go away," I interrupted, wishing to
explain; "I'd like to hear your concert myself; but the fact is, there's
a member of my family slowly recovering from a long sickness, and she's
only just fallen asleep now for the first time since midnight."
"Why didn't you say so at first?" was Professor Briggs's immediate
response, and the genial smile returned to his thin face. "Of course, I
don't want to worry no one with my music. And I'd just as lief as not go
over the other side of the city if it will be any more agreeable to a
sick person. I know myself what it is to have sickness in the house;
there ain't no one knows what that is better than I do--no one don't."
"It is very kind of you, I'm sure," I said, as he walked back with me to
the corner.
"Oh, that's all right," he returned. "It don't make any differ to me.
Now you just show me which house it is, so I can keep away from it."
I pointed out the door to him.
"The third one from the corner, is it?" he repeated. "Well, that's all
right. And I am much obliged to you for telling me about it, for I
should have hated to wake up a sick person; and these pipes and this
drum ain't exactly soothing to the sick, are they?"
Then the smile ripened to a laugh, and after I had thanked him once more
and shaken hands, he turned back and walked away, accompanied by the
bevy of children who had encircled us expectantly ever since I had first
spoken to him.
* * * * *
Before daybreak the next morning a storm broke over the city, and the
heavy rain kept up all day, cooling the streets at last and washing the
atmosphere. With the passing of the hot wave sleep became easier for us
all. Men walked to their offices in the morning with a brisker step, and
the shop-girls were no longer listless as they went to their work. Our
invalid improved rapidly, and we could count the days before we should
be able to take her out of the city.
The rain-storm had brought this relief on a Thursday, and the skies did
not clear till Friday evening. The air kept its freshness over Saturday
and Sunday.
On the latter day, towards nightfall, I had taken my seat on the stoop,
as is the custom of New-Yorkers kept in town during the summer months. I
had brought out a cushion or two, and I was smoking my second
after-supper cigar. I felt at peace with the world, and for the moment
I had even dispensed with the necessity of thinking. It satisfied me to
watch the rings of tobacco-smoke as they curled softly above my head.
Although I was thus detached from earth, I became at last vaguely
conscious that a man had passed before the house for two or three times,
and that as he passed he had stared at me as though he expected
recognition. With his next return my attention was aroused. I saw that
he was a tall, thin man, of perhaps fifty years of age, with a lean face
clean-shaven, plainly dressed in black, and in what was obviously a
Sunday suit, so revealing itself by its odd wrinkles and creases. As he
came abreast of me, he slackened his gait and looked up. When he caught
my eye he smiled. And then I recognized him at once. It was Professor
Theophilus Briggs, the Solo Orchestra.
When he discovered that I knew him again he stood still. I rose to my
feet and greeted him.