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THE STOLEN SINGER
by
MARTHA BELLINGER
With Illustrations by Arthur William Brown
[Frontispiece: Miss Redmond detected a passage of glances between them.]
Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers
Copyright 1911
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
TO
MY HUSBAND
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I TWILIGHT IN THE PARK
II HAMBLETON OF LYNN
III MIDSUMMER MADNESS
IV MR. VAN CAMP MAKES A CALL
V MELANIE'S DREAMS
VI ON BOARD THE JEANNE D'ARC
VII THE ROPE LADDER
VIII ON THE BREAST OF THE SEA
IX THE CAMP ON THE BEACH
X THE HEART OF YOUTH
XI THE HOME PORT
XII SEEING THE RAINBOW
XIII ALECK SEES A GHOST
XIV SUSAN STODDARD'S PRAYER
XV ECHOES FROM THE CITY
XVI A FIGHTING CHANCE
XVII THE TURN OF THE TIDE
XVIII THE SPIRIT OF THE ANCIENT WOOD
XIX MR. CHAMBERLAIN, SLEUTH
XX MONSIEUR CHATELARD TAKES THE WHEEL
XXI JIMMY REDIVIVUS
XXII A MAN OF NO PRINCIPLE
XXIII JIMMY MUFFS THE BALL
XXIV AFTER YOU, MONSIEUR!
EPILOGUE
ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Redmond detected a passage of glances between them . . . . . .
(Frontispiece)
"That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."
"It _does_ make one feel queer, you know."
She stood over him looking down tenderly.
"You shall not turn me down like this."
THE STOLEN SINGER
CHAPTER I
TWILIGHT IN THE PARK
"You may wait, Renaud."
The voice was firm, but the lady herself hesitated as she stepped from
the tonneau. There was no answer. Holding the flapping ends of her
veil away from her face, she turned and looked fairly at the driver of
the machine.
He seemed a businesslike, capable man, though certain minor details of
his chauffeur's rig were a bit unusual, and now that he had been
obliged, by some discomfort, to remove his goggles, his face appeared
pleasant and quite untanned. His passenger noted these things,
remarking: "Oh, it isn't Renaud!"
"No, Mademoiselle; Renaud hadn't showed up at the office when you
telephoned, so they put me on in his place."
"Ah, I see." Accent seemed to imply, however, that she was not quite
pleased. "The manager sent you. And your name is--?"
"My name--rather odd name--Hand."
The face half hidden behind the veil remained impassive. A moment's
hesitation, and then the lady turned away with a short, "You will wait?"
"As mademoiselle wishes. Or shall I perhaps follow slowly along the
drive?"
"No, wait here. I shall return--soon."
The young woman walked away, erect, well-poised, lifting skirts
skilfully as she paused a moment at the top of the stone steps leading
down into the tiny park. The driver of the machine, free from
observation, allowed a perplexed look to occupy his countenance. "What
the devil is to pay if she doesn't return--_soon_!"
The avenue lifts a camel's hump toward the sky in the space of fifteen
blocks, and on the top, secure as the howdah of a chieftain, stands the
noble portico of the old college. To the westward, as every one knows,
lie the river and the more pretentious park; on the east an abrupt
descent offers space for a small grassy playground for children, who
may be seen, during the sunny hours of the day, romping over the slope.
As the gaze of the woman swept over the charming little pleasance, and
beyond, over the miles of sign-boards, roofs, chimneys, and
intersecting streets, the serious look disappeared from her face.
Summer haze and distance shed a gentle beauty over what she knew to be
a clamoring city--New York. Angles were softened, noises subdued,
sensational scenes lost in the dimmed perspective. To a chance
observer, the prospect would have been deeply suggestive; in the woman
it stirred many memories. She put back her veil; her face glowed; a
long sigh escaped her lips. Slowly she walked down the steps, along
the sloping path to a turn, where she sank down on a bench. A rosy,
tired child, rather the worse for mud-pies, and hanging reluctantly at
the hand of its nonchalant nurse, brought a bit of the woman's emotion
to the surface. She smiled radiantly at the lagging infant.
The face revealed by the uplifted veil was of a type to accompany the
youthful but womanly figure and the spirited tread. Beautiful she
would be counted, without doubt, by many an observer; those who loved
her would call her beautiful without stint. But more appealing than
her beauty was the fine spirit--a strong, free spirit, loving honesty
and courage--which glowed like a flame behind her beauty. Best of all,
perhaps, was a touch of quaintness, a slightly comic twist to her lips,
an imperceptible alertness of manner, which revealed to the initiated
that she had a sense of humor in excellent running order.
It was evident that the little excursion was of the nature of a
pilgrimage. The idle hour, the bit of holiday, became a memorial, as
recollection brought back to her the days of childhood spent down
yonder, a few squares away, in this very city. They seemed bright in
retrospect, like the pleasant paths of a quiet garden, but they had
ended abruptly, and had been followed by years of activity and colorful
experience in another country. Through it all what anticipations had
been lodged in her return to Home! Something there would complete the
story--the story with its secret ecstasies and aspirations--the story
of the ardent springs of youth.
Withdrawing her gaze from the scene below, though with apparent
reluctance, she took from the pocket of her coat an opened envelope
which she regarded a moment with thoughtfulness, before drawing forth
the enclosures. There were two letters, one of which was brief and
written in bad script on a single sheet of paper bearing a legal head.
It was dated at Charlesport, Maine, and stated that the writer, in
conformity with the last wish of his friend and client, Hercules
Thayer, was ready to transfer certain deeds and papers to the late Mr.
Thayer's designated heir, Agatha Redmond; also that the writer
requested an interview at Miss Redmond's earliest convenience.
Holding the half-opened sheets in her hand, the lady closed her eyes
and sat motionless, as if in the grasp of an absorbing thought. With
the disappearing child, the signs of life on the hillside had
diminished. The traffic of the street passed far below, the sharp
click-click of a pedestrian now and then sounded above, but no one
passed her way. The hum of the city made a blurred wash of sound, like
the varying yet steady wash of the sea. As she opened her eyes again,
she saw that the twilight had perceptibly deepened. Far away, lights
began to flash out in the city, as if a million fireflies, by twos and
threes and dozens, were waking to their nocturnal revelry.
On the hill the light was still good, and the lady turned again to her
reading. The other letter was written on single sheets of thin paper
in an old-fashioned, beautiful hand. Wherever a double-s occurred, the
first was written long, in the style of sixty years ago; and the whole
letter was as easily legible as print. Across the top was written: "To
Agatha Redmond, daughter of my ward and dear friend, Agatha Shaw
Redmond"; and below that, in the lawyer's choppy handwriting, was a
date of nearly a year previous. As Agatha Redmond read the second
letter, a smile, half of sadness, half of pleasure, overspread her
countenance. It ran as follows:
"ILION, MAINE.
"MY DEAR AGATHA:
"I take my pen in hand to address you, the daughter of the dearest
friend of my life, for the first time in the twenty-odd years of your
existence. Once as a child you saw me, and you have doubtless heard my
name from your mother's people from time to time; but I can scarcely
hope that any knowledge of my private life has come to you. It will be
easy, then, for you to pardon an old man for giving you, in this
fashion, the confidence he has never been able to bestow in the flesh.
"When you read this epistle, my dear Agatha, I shall have stepped into
that next mystery, which is Death. Indeed, the duty which I am now
discharging serves as partial preparation for that very event. This
duty is to make you heir to my house and estate and to certain
accessory funds which will enable you to keep up the place.
"You may regard this act, possibly, as the idiosyncrasy of an
unbalanced mind; it is certain that some of my kinsfolk will do so.
But while I have been able to bear up under _their_ greater or less
displeasure for many years, I find myself shrinking before the
possibility of dying absolutely unknown and forgotten by you. Your
mother, Agatha Shaw, of blessed memory now for many years, was my ward
and pupil after the death of your grandfather. I think I may say
without undue self-congratulation that few women of their time have
enjoyed as sound a scheme of education as your mother. She had a
knowledge of mathematics, could construe both in Latin and Greek, and
had acquired a fair mastery of the historic civilization of the Greeks,
Egyptians and ancient Babylonians. While these attainments would
naturally be insufficient for a man's work in life, yet for a woman
they were of an exceptional order.
"Sufficient to say that in your mother's character these noteworthy
abilities were supplemented by gracious, womanly arts; and when she
arrived at maturity, I offered her the honor of marriage.
"It is painful for me to recall the scene and the consequences of your
mother's refusal of my hand, even after these years of philosophical
reflection. It were idle for a man of parts to allow a mere preference
in regard to his domestic situation to influence his course of action
in any essential matter, and I have never permitted my career to be
shaped by such details. But from that time, however, the course of my
life was changed. From the impassioned orator and preacher I was
transformed into the man of books and the study, and since then I have
lived far from the larger concourses of men. My weekly sermon, for
twenty years, has been the essence of my weekly toil in establishing
the authenticity, first, of the entire second gospel, and second, of
the ten doubtful verses in the fifteenth chapter. My work is now
accomplished--for all time, I believe.
"From the inception of what I considered my life mission, I made the
resolve to bequeath to Agatha Shaw whatever manuscripts or other
material of value my work should lead me to accumulate, together with
this house, in which I have spent all the later years of my life. You
are Agatha Shaw's only child, therefore to me a foster-child.
"Another reason, four years ago, led me to confirm my former testament.
From time to time I have informed myself concerning your movements and
fortunes. The work you have chosen, my dear Agatha, I can but believe
to be fraught with unusual dangers to a young woman. Therefore I hope
that this home, modest as it is, may tempt you to an early retirement
from the stage, and lead you to a more private and womanly career.
This I make only as a request, not as a condition. I bid you farewell,
and give you my blessing.
"Faithfully yours,
"HERCULES THAYER."
Agatha Redmond folded the thin sheets carefully. There was a mist in
her gaze as she looked off toward the distant city lights.
"Dear old gentleman! His whole love-story, and my mother's, too,
perhaps!" Her quickened memory recalled childish impressions of a
visit to a large country house and of a solemn old man--he seemed
incredibly ancient to her--and of feeling that in some way she and her
mother were in a special relationship to the house. It was called "the
old red house," and was full of fascinating things. The ancient man
had bidden her go about and play as if it were her home, and then had
called her to him and laid open a book, leading her mind to regard its
mysteries. Greek! It seemed to her as if she had begun it there and
then. Later the mother became the teacher. She was nursed, as it
were, within sight of the windy plains of Troy and to the sound of the
Homeric hymns--and all by reason of this ancient scholar.
There was a vivid picture in her mind, gathered at some later visit, of
a soft hillside, a small white church standing under its balm-of-gilead
tree, and herself sitting by a stone in the old churchyard, listening
to the strains of a hymn which floated out from the high, narrow
windows. She remembered how, from without, she had joined in the hymn,
singing with all her small might; and suddenly the association brought
back to her a more recent event and a more beautiful strain of music.
Half in reverie, half in conscious pleasure in the exercise of a facile
organ, she began to sing:
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow,
At last I shall see thee--"
The song floated in a zone of silence that lay above the deep-murmuring
city. The voice was no more than the half-voice of a flute, sweet,
gentle, beguiling. It told, as so many songs tell, of little earthly
Love in the grasp of mighty Fate. Still she sang on, softly, as if
loving the entrancing melody.
Suddenly the song ceased, and the reminiscent smile gave place to an
expression of surprise, as the singer became conscious of a deeper
shadow falling directly in front of her. She glanced up quickly, and
found herself looking into the face of a man whose gimlet-like gaze was
directed upon herself.
Quickly as she rose, she could not turn into the path before the
gentleman, hat in hand, with a deep bow and clearly enunciated words,
arrested her impulse to flight.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle, I am a stranger in the city. I was directed
this way to Van Cortlandt Hall, but I find I am in error, intrigued--in
confusion. Would mademoiselle be so good as to direct me?"
The tones had a foreign accent. There was something, also, in their
bland impertinence which put Miss Redmond on her guard. He was a
good-sized, blond person, carefully dressed, and at least appeared like
a gentleman.
Miss Redmond looked into the smooth, neat countenance, upon which no
record either of experience or of thought was engraved, and decided
fleetingly that he was lying. She judged him capable of picking up
acquaintances on the street, but thought that more originality might be
expected of him.
Suddenly she wished that she had returned sooner to her car, for though
she was of an adventurous nature, her bravery was not of the physical
order; and she disliked to have the appearance of unconventionality.
After the first minute she was not so much afraid as annoyed. Her
voice became frigid, though her dignity was somewhat damaged by the
fact that she bungled in giving the desired information.
"I think monsieur will find Van Cortlandt Hall in the College grounds
two blocks south--no, north--of the gateway yonder, at the upper end of
this walk."
"Ah, mademoiselle is but too kind!" He bowed deeply again, hat still
in hand. "I thank you profoundly. And may I say, also, that this
wonderful picture--" here he spread eloquent hands toward the
half-quiescent city whose thousand eyes glimmered over the lower
distance--"this panorama of occidental life, makes a peculiar appeal to
the imagination?"
The springs of emotion, touched potently as they had been by the
surging recollections of the last half-hour, were faintly stirred again
in Miss Redmond's heart by the stranger's grandiloquent words.
Unconsciously her features relaxed, though she did not reply.
"Again I pray mademoiselle to pardon me, but only a moment past I heard
the song--the song that might be the sigh of all the daughters of
Italy. Ah, Mademoiselle, it is wonderful! But here in this so fresh
country, this youthful, boisterous, too prosperous country, that song
is like--like--like Arabian spices in a kitchen. Is it not so?"
Miss Redmond was moving up the steps toward the entrance, hesitating
between the desire to snub her interlocutor and to avoid the appearance
of fright. The man, meanwhile, moved easily beside her, courteously
distant, discourteously insistent in his prattle. But the motor-car
was now not far away.
The stranger looked appealingly at her, seemingly sure of a humorous
answering look to his pleasantry. It was not wholly denied. She
yielded to a touch of amusement with a cool smile, and hastened her
steps. The man kept pace without effort. Luckily, the car stood only
a few feet away, with Renaud, or rather Hand, at the curb, holding open
the door. A vague bow and a lifting of the hat, and apparently the
stranger went the other way. She felt a foolish relief, and at the
same instant noted with surprise that the cover of her car had been
raised.
"Why did you raise the top?"
"It appeared to me, Mademoiselle, that it was likely to rain."
"Put it down again. It will not rain," Miss Redmond was saying, when,
from sidelong eyes, she saw that the stranger had not turned in the
other direction, after all, but was almost in her tracks, as though he
were stalking game. With foot on the step she said sharply, but in a
low voice, "To the Plaza quickly," then immediately added, with a
characteristic practical turn: "But don't get yourself arrested for
speeding."
"No, Mademoiselle, with this car I can make--" Even as the chauffeur
replied, Miss Redmond's sharpened senses detected a passage of glances
between him and the stranger, now close behind her.
She sprang into the tonneau and seized the door, but not before the man
had caught at it with a stronger hold, and stepped in close after her.
The chauffeur was in his seat, the car was moving slowly, now faster
and faster. Suddenly the bland countenance slid very near her own,
while firm hands against her shoulders crowded her into the farther
corner of the tonneau.
"O Renaud--Hand!" she cried, but the driver made no sign. "Help,
help!" she shrieked, but the cry was instantly choked into a feeble
protest. A mass of something, pressed to her mouth and nostrils,
incited her to superhuman efforts. She struggled frantically, fumbled
at the door, tore at the curtain, and succeeded in getting her head for
an instant at the opening, while she clutched her assailant and held
him helpless. But only for a moment. The firm large hands quickly
overpowered even the strength induced by frenzy, and in another minute
she was lying unresisting on the soft cushions of the tonneau.
The car careened through the streets, the figure of the unresponsive
Hand mocked her cries for help, the neat hard face of the stranger
continued to bend over her. Then everything swam in a maelstrom of
duller and duller sense, the world grew darker and fainter, till
finally it was lost in silence.