He stood at the side of the brilliantly lighted opera-house with a
note-book and pencil in his hand. Would that interminable symphony
never be finished? The audience listened breathlessly, but he, the
musical critic of a thriving daily paper, only drummed idly with his
fingers and stared vacantly at the people near him.
There was a momentary hush, the orchestra leader waved his baton, and
the trained musicians, with perfect precision began the brilliant
_finale_. The audience was unusually sympathetic, and for an instant
after the closing passage all was still; then came a great burst of
applause.
The leader bowed his acknowledgment, but the clamour only increased.
The critic sank wearily into an empty seat and looked across the house.
He started and grew pale, as among the throng of fashionables he saw a
face that he knew--that he had known.
A sweet face it was too; not beautiful, but full of subtle charm and a
haunting tenderness that he had tried to forget. He sat like one in a
dream, and did not know that the orchestra was about to play the next
number till its opening measures woke him from his abstraction.
[Illustration: Music]
Träumerei! Anything but that! Oh, God, this needless pain! And he
thought he had forgotten!
[Illustration: Music]
He stood again in a little room which the autumn moonlight made as
bright as day. Down below on the rocks was the far-off sound of the
sea, and she, with his roses on her breast, sat before the piano and
played dreamily, tenderly, yes, this same Träumerei that was now
breaking his heart.
He had stood behind her, with his arms around her, his dark, eager face
down close to hers, and whispered huskily: "Sweetheart, I love you."
And she had turned her face up to his and said, softly, "I
love--you--too--dear;" and he had hugged her tightly to him and
covered her face with burning kisses that were almost pain.
And--that--had--been--their--betrothal. Then for a little while there
was happiness--then there was a misunderstanding--and there--she
was--and----
Up through those arches of light the clear, sweet melody stole. Had he
forgotten? Had she? He seized his opera-glass and a quick turn of the
screw brought her again close to him.
Yes, there were tears in her eyes; he could see the white lids quiver,
and her lips trembled and----
With a deeper throb of pain than any he yet had known, the buried love
came back, strong and sweet, as in those dear days when the whole world
seemed aglow with love of her.
He rose and walked nervously around the shining circle and down the
aisle to where she sat. His breath came quick and fast, he hardly dared
trust himself to speak, but with a great effort he commanded himself
and bent over her chair.
She looked up and her tear-wet eyes met his own. He whispered,
hoarsely, "Forgive me--come out a minute--I want to speak to you."
Hardly knowing what she did, she followed him into the dimly lighted,
deserted foyer.
[Illustration]
With the last strain of that wordless love-sweet song, the dear old
dream came back and, unrebuked, he put his arm about her once more.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I love you."
A soft arm stole round his neck, and she answered as of old,
"I love you, too, dear."
"Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"
"Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"
Down in the negro quarters on a Georgia plantation stood a quaint
little log cabin overlooking cotton fields that were white with their
snowy fruit. Born in slavery, living in slavery and apparently destined
to die in slavery, yet old Joe was happy; for to him slavery was not
bondage--only a pleasant way of being cared for.
His days of active usefulness were over. He had served long and
faithfully in those same cotton fields, then as a house servant and
later as a coachman. Now on account of age and the "misery" in his
back, he spent his days in mending harness, telling stories to the
children and making playthings out of the odd bits of rubbish they
brought him.
His wife, Sally, was head cook at the mansion which stood in another
part of the plantation, in the midst of trees and flowers. Down a
little farther was a tiny brook that sang all the livelong day and
turned back, regretfully perhaps, to wind by the window of old Joe's
cabin.
"The Pines" was a most hospitable house and usually thronged with
guests, for its young mistress had an indulgent husband and money
sufficient to gratify every possible whim. Mrs. Langley she was now,
but to old Joe she would be "Miss Eunice" always. He had carried her
when she was a baby, watched over her when she was ill, and once when
a pair of maddened horses dashed down the drive, utterly beyond their
owner's control, he had snatched the unconscious child from almost
under the wild feet, and--saved her life, they said, but the brave
fellow had received internal injuries and had not been able to do much
since.
"Yes," he said one afternoon, to an appreciative audience of
pickaninnies and white children who sat together around his feet in a
truly democratic fashion, "dat ar day war a great time fo ol Joe. I
war jes agwine to de house wen I see dese yer hosses comin _ker-blip_!
right whar Miss Eunice war a playin wid her doll-buggy. Dere wasn't no
time to call her, so I jes grab her and run, an my foot ketch in de
doll-buggy an I trow Miss Eunice ober my haid in some soft grass an
den de hosses tram on me an I kinder lost my 'membunce. Pretty soon I
fin mysel in de house an de doctor an ol Missis war a standin ober me.
Doctor say, 'he come to all right,' an ol Missis, she jes stoop down an
kiss ol Joe! Tink ob dat!"
"Den Miss Eunice come in, an ol Missis say 'come here dear, and see
Uncle Joe. He done sabe yo life.' An den I lose my 'membunce again. One
day Mas'r walk in an he say, 'Joe, here's yo papers, yo's free now,
jus ez free ez I is.' I say Mas'r, I don't want to go away from you an
Missis an Miss Eunice. I want to stay here on de ol plantation, along
'o my ol woman. And den he wipe is eyes an say, 'I'll gib Sally papers
too' an Sally say, 'No Mas'r, me an Joe don't want to be free; we wants
to stay here where we's happies' an Mas'r say he keep dose yer papers
for us till we done want em. Dose was mighty fine times for ol Joe!"
and he beamed at the children around his feet who had been listening
with ever-fresh delight to the old, old story.
"Now play something, Uncle," the children cried, and Tommy Langley
brought the fiddle that always hung in one corner of the cabin. His
eyes brightened at the sight of the old brown thing, but he gently put
the eager child away, saying, "No, honey, not dis time. I got de misery
in my back wuss en eber. Go way, chillens, ol Joe's--so tired!"
They obediently trooped out of the cabin and the old man's head dropped
on his breast. The gaunt grey figure twisted with pain, and he did not
move until Sally came in to get his supper.
"Well, honey," she said cheerily, "how's yo back to-day?"
"Pears like de pain gets wuss, Sally," he replied.
"Nebber yo min, yo'll get better byme by." Coming closer she dropped a
bundle of illustrated papers into his lap. "See wat Miss Eunice send
yo, an look here!" She pointed proudly to her stooped shoulders, where
a scarlet kerchief shone like a ray of light in the dim cabin.
Joe tried to smile, then said feebly, "Miss Eunice mighty good to us,
Sally."
Sally assented, and moving quickly about the cabin, soon had the
evening meal on the table.
"Come, Joe, move up yo cheer. Dis yere hoe cake done to de tu'n!"
"Pears like I couldn't eat no supper," he said, then gave a
half-suppressed groan that betokened an extra twinge of the "misery."
"Po ol man," said Sally sympathetically, and she ate in silence,
watching the kindly pain-drawn face, with ever-increasing anxiety.
As twilight fell, the sufferer sought his couch, where he moaned and
tossed restlessly, and the pitying Sally, stretched wearily on a faded
rug near the door was soon fast asleep.
* * * * *
Up at "The Pines" all was light and laughter and music, for a crowd
of young folks were gathered 'neath its hospitable roof and guitars
and mandolins made the whole house ring with melody of a more or less
penetrating quality. In the midst of the gaiety, Tommy stole up to his
mother with a troubled look on his usually merry little face.
"What is it, dearie?" she asked, putting her arm about him.
"Mamma, I'm afraid Uncle Joe is going to die. His 'misery' hurts him
awful."
"Is Uncle Joe very sick, dear? I knew he was not well, but he has
always been ailing, you know. I'll have the doctor see him to-morrow."
"All right, mamma," and the little face grew bright again.
She kissed him tenderly and said: "Run away to bed, little son, the
birds went long ago."
Tommy went off obediently, but Mrs. Langley felt worried about
the faithful old fellow who had saved her life. "I'll see to him
to-morrow," she thought and began to plan various things for his
comfort and happiness.
A little later a pretty girl with a mandolin, said: "Do you know I feel
like having a lark. Excuse the slang, please, but there's no other word
that will express my meaning."
"Try a swallow," suggested a young man in a way that was meant to be
funny. "There's lots of lemonade left in the pitcher."