"Good night," he said thickly. "I have played and lost. I lay down my hand."From the Drawing by Dalton Stevens.
"Good night," he said thickly. "I have played and lost. I lay down my hand."From the Drawing by Dalton Stevens.
"Hush! There'll never be any need of that word between you and me. I've forgiven you long ago, for everything you've ever done or ever can do. It's an unlimited fund to draw upon—that and my love. You know," he went on in another tone, "that if it were for your happiness, I could give you up, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. You'd never be as happy with anybody you'd only known a week, as you would with me, because I've loved you for years. You have my whole heart, Mabel,—there's never been another woman with even a hint of a claim. I know all your little moods and tenses and you don't have to explain things to me. I know you can't ride backward and you don't like to walk when you have high-heeled shoes on, and a thousand other things that are infinitely dear just because they are you. I was thinking of them all the way down here, and loving them—every one."
"I don't deserve it," she answered, and then broke into a wild sobbing.
The Other Man moved his chair closer and drew her head to his shoulder. "There," he said, slipping a handkerchief into the hand that covered her eyes; "cry if you want to. You're tired—my little girl is tired."
He held her so until the storm had spent itself. He kept his face against her hair, soft and silky, and fragrant with orris—forgetting himself utterly in his loving pity for her. At last she moved away from him. Her tear-stained face in the moonlight, filled him with tenderness so great that his love was pain.
"It's late," she said, "it must be after one o'clock. I must go up-stairs." She started toward the open window, but still he held her back gently. "Dear," he said softly, "we've been away from each other four weeks and three days, and I've come two thousand miles to see you. You haven't kissed me yet. Don't you want to? You don't need to if you'd rather not, but if you could——"
His voice vibrated with passionate appeal. She lifted her white face to his and kissed him mechanically. "To-morrow," she breathed, "I'll be more like myself; I'll try to make up for to-night,but if you love me, let me go now!"
He went with her to the elevator, and watched until she was lifted out of his sight, smiling at her until the last—the old loving smile. He went out to the balcony again, and sat down with his arms thrown over the back of the chair that had so recently held her. His brow was wrinkled with deep thought, but his boyish mouth still smiled.
Presently there was a step behind him and he turned—to look into the face of the war correspondent who spoke first.
"I've come back," he said, "to shake hands with you, if you don't mind."
The Other Man's hand met his, more than half-way.
"And," continued the war correspondent, "I want to apologise. I've been all kinds of a brute, but what I said was the truth. I love her as no man ever before loved a woman. That's my only excuse."
"You're not to blame for loving her," returned the Other Man generously; "nobody is. And as for her loving you, that's all right too. She's got a lot of temperament and she's used to being loved, and you're not a bad sort, youknow—not at all." And he concluded fondly, "my little girl was lonesome without me."
The war correspondent went away quietly. In the moonlight he could see the boyish face of the Other Man, radiant with an all-believing, all-forgiving love.
"Yes," said the Other Man again, after an interval, and not realising that he was alone, "that was it. My little girl was lonesome without me."
The Roses and the Song
There had been a lover's quarrel and she had given him back his ring. He thrust it into his pocket and said, unconcernedly, that there were other girls who would be glad to wear it.
Her face flushed, whether in anger or pain he did not know, but she made no reply. And he left her exulting in the thought that the old love was dead.
As the days went by, he began to miss her. First, when his chum died in a far-off country, with no friend near. He remembered with a pang how sweetly comforting she had always been, never asking questions, but soothing his irritation and trouble with her gentle womanly sympathy.
He knew just what she would do if he could tell her that Tom was dead. She would put her soft cheek against his own rough one, and say: "I am so sorry dear. I'm not much, I know, but you've got me,and nothing, not even death can change that."
"Not even death"—yes, it was quite true. Death changes nothing.—It is only life that separates utterly.
He began to miss the afternoon walks, the lingering in book store and art galleries, and the quiet evenings at home over the blazing fire, when he sat with his arm around her and told her how he had spent the time since they last met. Every thought was in some way of her, and the emptiness of his heart without her seemed strange in connection with the fact that the old love was dead.
He saw by a morning paper that there was to be a concert for the benefit of some charitable institution, and on the program, printed beneath the announcement, was her name. He smiled grimly. How often he had gone with her when she sang in public! He remembered every little detail of every evening. He always waited behind the scenes, because she said she could sing better when he was near her. And whatever the critics might say, she was sure of his praise.
It was on the way home from one of these affairs that he had first told her thathe loved her. Through the rose-leaf rain that fell from her hair and bosom at his touch he had kissed her for the first time, and the thrill of her sweet lips was with him still. How short the ride had been that night and why was the coachman in such an unreasonable hurry to get home?
He made up his mind that he would not go to the concert that night, but somehow, he bought a ticket and was there before the doors opened. So he went out to walk around a little. People who went to concerts early were his especial detestation.
In a florist's window he saw some unusually beautiful roses. He had always sent her roses before, to match her gown, and it seemed queer not to buy them for her now.
Perhaps he really ought to send her some to show her that he cherished no resentment. Anyone could send her flowers over the footlights. The other men that she knew would undoubtedly remember her, and he didn't want to seem unfriendly.
So he went in. "Four dozen La France roses," he said, and the clerk speedily made the selection. He took a card out of his pocket, and chewed the end of his pencil meditatively.
It was strange that he should have selected that particular kind, he thought. That other night, after he had gone home, he had found a solitary pink petal clinging to his scarf-pin. He remembered with a flush of tenderness that it had come from one of the roses—his roses—on her breast. He had kissed it passionately and hidden it in a book—a little book which she had given him.
With memory came heartache, his empty life and her wounded love. The words shaped themselves under his pencil:
"You know what the roses mean. Will you wear one when you sing the second time? Forgive me and love me again—my sweetheart."
He tied the card himself into the centre of the bunch, so it was half hidden by the flowers. He gave them to the usher with a queer tremolo note in his voice. "After her first number, understand?"
There was a piano solo, and then she appeared. What she sang he did not know, but her deep contralto, holding heaven in its tones, he both knew and understood. She did not sing as well as usual. Her voice lacked warmth and sincerity and her intonation was faulty.The applause was loud but not spontaneous although many of her friends were there. His were the only flowers she received.
When she came out the second time, he looked at her anxiously, but there was never a sign of a rose. He sank down in his chair with a sigh and covered his face with his hand.
This time she sang as onlyshecould sing. Oh, that glorious contralto! Suggestions of twilight and dawn, of suffering and joy, of love and its renunciation.
There was no mistaking her success and the great house rang with plaudits from basement to roof. He, only, was silent; praying in mute agony for a sign.
She willingly responded to the encore and a hush fell upon the audience with the first notes of Tosti's "Good-Bye."
"Falling leaf, and fading tree."
Oh, why should she sing that? He writhed as if in bodily pain, but the beautiful voice went on and on.
"Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!"
How cruel she seemed! Stately, imperious, yet womanly, she held her listenersspellbound, but every word cut into his heart like a knife.
"All the to-morrows shall be as to-day."
The tears came and his lips grew white. Then some way into the cruel magnificence of her voice came a hint of pity as she sang:
"Good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye!"
There was a hush, then she began again:
"What are we waiting for, Oh, my heart?Kiss me straight on the brows, and part!"
All the love in her soul surged into her song; the joy of happy love; the agony of despairing love; the pleading cry of doubting love; the dull suffering of hopeless love; and then her whole strength was merged into a passionate prayer for the lost love, as she sang the last words:
"Good-bye forever, good-bye forever!Good-bye, good-bye, good—bye—!"
She bowed her acknowledgments again and again, and when the clamour was over, he hastened into the little room behind the stage where she was putting on herwraps. She was alone but her carriage was waiting.
As he entered, she started in surprise, then held out her hand.
"Dear," he said, "if this is the end, won't you let me kiss youoncefor the sake of our old happiness? We were so much to each other—you and I. Even if you wouldn't wear the rose, won't you let me hold you just a minute as I used to do?"
"Wear the rose," she repeated, "what do you mean?"
"Didn't you see my card?"
"No," she answered, "I couldn't look at them—they are—La—France—you know—and——"
She reached out trembling fingers and found the card. She read the tender message twice—the little message which meant so much, then looked up into his face.
"If I could," she whispered, "I'd pin them all on."
Someway she slipped into her rightful place again, and very little was said as they rolled home. But when he lit the gas in his own room he saw something queer in the mirror, and found, clinging to his scarf-pin, the petal of a La France rose.
A Laggard in Love
"My dear," said Edith judiciously, "I think you're doing wrong."
Marian dabbed her eyes with a very wet handkerchief and said nothing. Edith adjusted the folds of her morning gown and assumed a more comfortable position on the couch.
"They all have to be managed," she went on, "and you'll find that Mr. Thomas Drayton is no exception. I'll venture that when he makes his visits, which are like those of angels, 'few and far between' you tell him how lonesome you've been without him, and how you've thought of him every minute since the last time, and perhaps even cry a little bit! Am I right?"
Marian nodded. "If it wasn't for that hateful Perkins girl, I wouldn't care so much. She's neither bright nor pretty, and I'm sure I don't see what Tom sees in her. I think it's more her fault than his."
"The Perkins girl is entirely blameless, Miss Reynolds, though she certainly is unpleasant. It is Tom's fault."
The afflicted Miss Reynolds wiped her eyes again. "Perhaps it's mine. If I were quite what I ought to be, Tom wouldn't seek other society, I'm sure."
Mrs. Bently sat up straight. "Marian Reynolds," she demanded, "have you ever said anything like that to Tom?"
"Something like that," Marian admitted. "What should I have done?"
"Thrown a book at him," responded Mrs. Bently energetically. Then she leaned back among the pillows, and twisted the corners of her handkerchief.
"Don't be horrid, Edith, but tell me what to do," pleaded Marian.
Mrs. Bently looked straight out of the window. "I've been married nearly ten years," she said meditatively, "and I point with pardonable pride to my husband. There hasn't been any of the 'other woman business' since the first days of our engagement. He never forgets the little words of endearment, he brings me flowers, and books, and he's quite as polite to me as he is to other women."
"I know," replied Marian. "I've seenhim break away from a crowd in the middle of a sentence to put your rubbers on for you."
"All that," resumed Edith, "is the result of careful training. And what Tom needs is heroic treatment. If you will promise to do exactly as I say, you will have his entire devotion inside of a month."
"I promise," responded Marian hopefully.
"First, then, take off your engagement ring."
Marian's pretty brown head drooped lower and lower, and a brighter diamond fell into her lap. She felt again the passionate tenderness in his voice when he told her how much he loved her, and she remembered how he had kissed each finger-tip separately, then the diamond, just because it was hers.
She looked at her friend with eyes full of tears. "Edith, I can't."
"Take it off."
Marian obeyed, very slowly, then threw herself at the side of the couch sobbing. "Edith, Edith," she cried, "don't be so cross to me! I am so dreadfully unhappy!"
"Marian, dearest, I'm not cross, but I want you to be a sensible girl. Thehappiness of your whole life is at stake, and I want you to be brave—it is now or never with Mr. Thomas Drayton. If you let him torture you now for his own amusement, he will do it all his life!"
"I'll try, Edith, but you don't know how it hurts."
"Yes, I do know, dear; I've been through it myself. Now listen. First, no more tears or reproaches. Secondly, don't allude to his absence, nor to the Perkins girl. Thirdly, you must find some one else at once."
"That's as bad as what he is doing, isn't it?"
"Similia similibus curantur," laughed Edith. "Joe's friend, Jackson, is coming to the city for a month or so, and he'll do nicely. He's awfully handsome, and a perfectly outrageous flirt. He always singles out one girl, however, and devotes himself to her, so we won't have any trouble on that score. People who don't know Jackson, think that he's in deadly earnest, but I don't believe he ever had a serious thought in his life."
"I think I have seen him," said Marian. "Wasn't he at the Charity Ball with you and Mr. Bently last year?"
"Yes, he was there, but only for a few minutes. Now, let's see—to-day is Thursday. Have you seen Tom this week?"
Marian hesitated. "N-no, that is, not since Sunday. But I think he will come this afternoon."
"Very well, my dear, you have an engagement for the rest of the day with me. Run home and put on your prettiest gown. We'll go to the Art Gallery and call on Mrs. Kean later. We both owe her a call, and I'll look for you at two."
Promptly at two o'clock Marian appeared with all traces of tears smoothed away. "You'll do," said Edith. "I believe you're a thoroughbred after all."
At the Art Gallery they met what Mrs. Bently termed "the insufferable Perkins" clad in four different colours and looking for all the world like a poster. She was extremely pleasant, and insisted upon showing them a picture which was "one of Mr. Drayton's favourites."
Miss Reynolds adjusted her lorgnette critically. "Yes, I think this is about the only picture in this exhibit which Tom and I both like. I'm so glad that you approve of our taste, Miss Perkins," and Marian smiled sweetly.
Edith squeezed her arm rapturously as they moved away. "I'm proud of you. Those pictures were hung only day before yesterday. Why, there's Joe."
Mr. Bently greeted them cordially. "Jackson came this morning, Edith, and I have asked him to dine with us Monday evening."
"That will be charming. Marian is coming to visit us over Sunday and I think they will like each other."
"I hope so," was Mr. Bently's rejoinder. "It's really good of you to come, Miss Reynolds, for I very seldom see you, and Jackson is a capital fellow."
"Come, Marian," said Edith, "you know we were going to make a call."
"Always going somewhere, aren't you, sweetheart?" and Mr. Bently smiled lovingly at his pretty wife.
"Never far away from you, dear," she answered and waved her hand to him as the crowd swept them apart.
"You're going to stay all night with me, you know," Edith said. "We'll stop at your house on our way back, and leave word with your mother—incidentally we can learn if any one has called."
It was almost dark when they reachedMarian's home, and Edith waited in the hall, while she went in search of her mother. As she came down-stairs, Mrs. Bently held up a small white card, triumphantly. Marian's face flushed as she saw the name.
"Mr. Thomas E. Drayton."
"It's all right," said her friend, "just wait and see."
Friday morning, the servant who admitted Marian, said that Mr. Drayton had called the previous evening and left some flowers which Miss Reynolds would find in the library.
A great bunch of American Beauties stood on the table, and almost overpowered her with their fragrance.
"Dear, dear Tom! Hedoeslove me," she thought. "I'll write him a note."
She sat down to her desk without removing her hat. "Perhaps I've been mistaken all along." The words shaped themselves under her pen: "My Dearest." Then she stopped and surveyed it critically. "Not in the present incarnation of Miss Reynolds." She tore the sheet straight across, and dropped it into the waste basket. Taking another, she wrote:
"My dear Tom:"The roses are beautiful. I am passionately fond of flowers—of roses especially, and I must thank you for the really great pleasure the 'Beauties' are giving me."Sincerely yours,"Marian Reynolds."
"My dear Tom:
"The roses are beautiful. I am passionately fond of flowers—of roses especially, and I must thank you for the really great pleasure the 'Beauties' are giving me.
"Sincerely yours,"Marian Reynolds."
Over his coffee the next morning Tom studied the little note. "I wonder what's the matter. 'My Dear Tom'! 'Marian Reynolds' and not a bit of love in it. It isn't the least bit like her. I must go and see her this afternoon. No, I'll be hanged if I will, she had no business to be out," and he chewed a toothpick savagely. "I'll ask her to go to the theatre."
After much cogitation, he evolved a note which struck him as being a marvel of diplomacy.
"My dear Marian:"I am glad the roses give you pleasure. Will you go to the theatre with me on Monday evening?"Yours in haste,"Tom."
"My dear Marian:
"I am glad the roses give you pleasure. Will you go to the theatre with me on Monday evening?
"Yours in haste,"Tom."
Marian's reply was equally concise:
"My dear Tom:"I am very sorry that I have an engagement for Monday evening and cannot possibly break it. You know I enjoy the theatre above all things, and I am sure I should have an especially pleasant evening with you."Sincerely,"Marian Reynolds."
"My dear Tom:
"I am very sorry that I have an engagement for Monday evening and cannot possibly break it. You know I enjoy the theatre above all things, and I am sure I should have an especially pleasant evening with you.
"Sincerely,"Marian Reynolds."
Tom grew decidedly uncomfortable. What the mischief was the matter with the girl! One thing was certain, next time he called, it would be at her invitation. But the following afternoon found him again at the house.
"Miss Reynolds is out, sir," said the servant as he opened the door, in response to his ring.
"I know," he responded impatiently; "I want to return a book I borrowed the other day."
"Certainly, sir," and the servant ushered him into the library.
He put the book in its place, and his glance, travelling downward met the waste basket. Marian's distinctive penmanship stared him in the face. "My Dearest!"
Mr. Thomas Drayton was an honourable gentleman, but he wanted to examine that waste-paper basket. He rushed out of the library, lest he should yield to the temptation, and said to the servant in the hall: "Say nothing of my having been here to-day, Jones."
"Certainly not, sir."
"The book is a joke on Miss Reynolds," he said putting a silver half dollar in Jones's ready palm.
"All right, sir, I see." And Tom went out.
Before he reached the avenue, he was mentally kicking himself for explaining to a servant. He had of course noticed the roses on the table, and he was very sure they had not been in Marian's room.
Once she had told him, how she had slept with one of the roses next her heart, and a thorn had pricked the flesh, making a red spot on a white petal. She showed him the rose with its tiny blood stain. He had kissed the flower and put it in a little memorandum book with a gold clasp. And he had told Marian, over and over again, what a horrid rose it was—to hurt his sweetheart. He smiled grimly at his own previous foolishness, and felt surethat none of the American Beauties would rest next to Marian's heart that night.
Miss Reynolds and Mrs. Bently sat in the latter's boudoir. Edith nodded sagely over Tom's note, and Marian was curled up in a forlorn heap on the couch.
"How does he usually begin his notes to you?"
"'My Dearest Girl,' or 'Dear Sweetheart,'" answered Marian.
"H'm! Well, my dear, you may depend upon it, he is 'beginning to take notice.'"
Sunday, Tom spent morosely at his club, and was so disagreeable that his friends were very willing to give him a wide berth. Marian was neither cheerful nor happy, and wept copiously in private, fancying Tom worshipping at the shrine of Miss Perkins.
Monday evening she and Edith dressed together. Marian had a new gown of that peculiar shade of blue which seems to be especially made for brown eyes and hair, and looked, as her friend told her, "simply stunning."
"Joe has a box at the theatre to-night. Isn't he lovely?"
Marian assented, but inwardly hoped that Tom would not hear of her being there.
Mr. Sterling Jackson was a very pleasant fellow, with an inexhaustible fund of humour. He devoted himself to Marian and looked unutterable things whenever opportunity offered. Handsome, he certainly was, and she was secretly flattered by his evident adoration. Tom didn't matter quite so much now.
At the theatre Marian sat in the front of an upper box beside Mrs. Bently. The devoted Jackson leaned forward and talked to her in subdued tones. After the first act, Edith whispered to her:
"Don't look, nor turn pale, nor do anything rash, but Mr. Thomas Drayton is down in the parquet with Miss Matilda Perkins." Marian turned white and grasped the rail of the box. "Don't faint till I tell you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since he first saw you, and I don't believe he has seen the stage at all. Perkins is simply green with rage, and I wish you could see her hat. It's a dream in pink and yellow—an equine dream."
Marian's colour returned, and conscious of looking her best, she flirted outrageously with the ever willing Jackson, though she confided to Edith at the end of the second act, that she was "perfectly wretched."
"Nobody suspects it," returned Mrs. Bently, "least of all Tom. He's chewing Perkins's fan, and she's trying to draw him out."
For the remainder of the week Mr. Drayton studiously avoided the Reynolds mansion. Marian had been seen on the Boulevard with the odious Jackson, and Miss Perkins had suddenly lost her charm. Marian was always at home on Tuesdays. Next week he would drop in, in the afternoon, and see how the land lay.
Mrs. Bently had heard, through her husband, that Drayton had gone out of the city, and the intelligence was promptly conveyed to Marian.
The solitaire lay in a corner of Marian's chatelaine bag. She meditated the propriety of sending it back, but Edith would not hear of it. Her heart ached constantly for Tom, and she flirted feverishly with Jackson. "I am at home Tuesdays," she said one evening when he left her. "Come in for a little while and I will give you a cup of tea."
He came early and found her alone. They chatted for a few minutes, and then Mr. Thomas Drayton was announced. The two men were civil to each other, butMarian felt their mutual irritation, and was relieved when Jackson rose to take his departure. He crossed the room to Tom and shook hands. "I am very glad to have met you, Mr. Drayton. I am sure we shall meet often, if you find Miss Reynolds as charming as I do." He bowed politely to Marian and went out.
"The insufferable cad!" thought Tom. He shivered, and Marian hastened to the tea table.
"It's awfully cold outside," she said, "and these rooms are not any too warm. I'll make you some tea. You take two lumps of sugar, don't you?"
Tom said nothing. Marian's pretty hands hovered over the teacups, and he noticed that the left one was ringless.
"Don't you wear your solitaire any more, Marian?" His voice was strange and she was half afraid.
"Oh, yes," she responded brightly, "sometimes. The points of the setting catch in my glove though, and I am afraid of loosening the stone."
"Marian, don't you care for me?"
"Certainly."
"How much?"
"As much as you care for me, I think, don't you?"
He went over and put his arm around her. She shrank a little at his touch, but he pulled her down on the sofa beside him.
"Marian, darling, tell me what the matter is. I know I don't deserve you, and I'll go, if you say I must. Has that fellow Jackson come between us?"
Marian disregarded one of Edith's injunctions. "Perhaps it's Miss Perkins."
Tom said a very emphatic swear word, which does not look well in print, then buried his head in one of the sofa cushions. She was frightened and sank down on her knees beside him, her armor of self-defence vanishing in womanly pity. "Tom, dear Tom! What is it? Tell me!"
He straightened up and lifted her to the sofa beside him.
"I see, sweetheart, I've been a fool and a great deal worse than that. Can you ever forgive me?"
"One thing first, Tom, do you love me?"
"Marian, dear, I never knew until this last wretched week, just how much you meant to me. I am yours, body and soul, to do with what you will. I have no rightto insult you, Marian, but will you take me back?" His voice trembled with the agony of love and pain, as she drew the solitaire out of the chatelaine bag at her belt. She held it silently toward him.
"Darling, is it good-bye?"
"No, dear, I want you to put it back."
And that evening, in accordance with instructions, the servant said to Mr. Sterling Jackson, "Miss Reynolds is out."
Träumerei
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 brilliantfinale. 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 offashionables 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.
Music
Träumerei! Anything but that! Oh, God, this needless pain! And he thought he had forgotten!
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, thissame 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 aroundthe 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.
Music
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"
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 andturned 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 cominker-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 Euniceober 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 inone 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."
She scorned the interruption. "I want a lark, a regular lark!"
"How would a serenade do?"
"Capital!" she laughed. "Just the thing! We'll take our mandolins andguitars into the moonlight and make things pleasant generally."
"But," said a maid with a practical turn of mind, "who is there to serenade? There aren't any neighbours, are there?"
"Give it up!"
"Ask Mrs. Langley—she'll know," and a smiling ambassador from the merry group, Mrs. Langley's own nephew, went to the fair-haired hostess who sat with her husband in the library.
"Aunty, who is there in this charming spot whom we can serenade? The girls think it would be fun, but we don't know where to find a victim in this isolated Eden."
Mrs. Langley rose quickly, and going to the little party, told them of old Joe and how she owed her life to those strong arms. She finished the story with an eloquent gesture that brought tears to the eyes of many, and added: "Go down to the old man's cabin and sing the quaint negro melodies he loves so well—that he used to sing to me when I was a little child. And take these roses with you; he used to love them so; you can throw them in at the open window."
As she spoke, she took a great handfulof white roses from a vase and with a little pearl-handled knife, dextrously removed the thorns, then handed them to her nephew.
"How do we get there, Aunty?" he asked, with something like a tremor in his voice.
"Follow the brook," she replied. "It flows right under his window, and you cannot miss the place. I'd go with you, only I can't sing, and wouldn't be of any use." She smiled brightly at them as they went down among the shadows, then to the tiny brook that seemed like a musical stream of silver in the moonlight.
The party was strangely silent for one bound for a "lark," and by much crossing of the little stream that wound its tortuous way through the grounds, they came to Uncle Joe's tiny cabin in an unseen nook of the plantation. They grouped themselves under the window in silence.
"Now then!" whispered one of them. The mandolins and guitars played the opening strains of the sweet old melody, then their fresh young voices rose high and clear: