Part 12

A sound from behind aroused him. The door was suddenly thrown open. He turned, still clasping the child, and met the infuriated eyes of the wife and mother.

The scene that followed was one that roused him to a point of excitement he had never known before. It was very brief, but in those moments, in which Rose-Jewel clung about his neck, while her mother tried in vain to get possession of her, while she seemed to appeal to him for protection, and the very appeal seemed to give him the power of response, he felt himself, for the first time since his marriage, a strong, self-reliant man, and a sense of exultation swelled upward with the surgings of his excited blood, until he felt able to do and dare everything for the sake of defending this child. His wife, scarcely recognizing him in this unfamiliar aspect, was for a moment surprised into silence, but the reaction after this made her more angry yet, and the long restrained indignation of years broke loose. She gave it full vent, and he heard his beloved art defamed and derided, and a possession of the musical gift called a misfortune, a nuisance and a curse. It was enough, she said, to have borne with it in him, and to have had calamity brought through him into her life; but to go through it again, with her own child--was more than she could stand! She declared that her confidence had been abused--that Rose-Jewel should never be left one moment alone with him again--that it should be the object of her life, henceforth, to suppress every sign of musical talent the child might manifest--that she was resolved to do this, if she had to whip her, tie her, starve her, lock her up, a dozen times a day. She looked into his eyes defiantly, and warned him that the child should not be spared! As he heard these words come from her lips, he felt a tightening of the little arms around his neck. The fire of his passionate love for his baby was kindled into a keener flame, and he wished it were possible never to loose her from his arms. Her every second’s absence from his sight would be torturing anxiety to his heart.

When the mother came nearer, and tried to take the little creature from him, he threw out his disengaged arm and warded her off, with a look in his eyes which she felt to be dangerous, and somehow, to her own surprise, it checked her. Rose-Jewel, terrified by the only half-comprehended threats of the mother, cried piteously on his neck, and even while to the excited woman before him he showed a spirit of daring, of which he knew he had never been capable until that minute, he was soothing and reassuring the child with soft, caressing sounds and touches, and inwardly vowing that, no matter what happened, he would never be separated from her--never give her up.

His wife saw that unknown look of resolution in his eyes, and felt compelled by it to yield her point.

She drew back a few steps, and after a moment’s hesitation, said:

“I won’t attempt to reason with a man who is out of his mind, for that is what you are, at present. Of course, if you choose to exercise force toward a woman, you are too strong for me. But, when I get my child back, I shall know how to keep her.”

“She is my child, too,” he answered, “and you shall never get her away from me. I will never give her up to you, or to any one.”

These words were said more by way of reassurance to the sobbing child than to the mother. He had felt Rose-Jewel draw him closer, as she heard her mother’s threat, and he answered the baby’s touch, rather than the woman’s words.

“You are too excited to see how foolish your words are,” answered his wife coldly, “but no one expects any practical sense from you. Rose-Jewel,” she added, with a sudden tone of harsh authoritativeness, “if you don’t stop that crying, I shall punish you for it. I’m going now, and your papa can keep you, but, to-night, you’ll have to come to me, and I’ll see if I can’t make you a better girl.”

As the mother left the room, Eastin felt the child’s sobbing increase. She uttered little stifled cries of terror that cut him to the very soul.

“There, my Rose, my Jewel, my Bird,” he said. “Don’t you be frightened. No one shall take Papa’s baby away from him. Papa’ll keep her, right in his arms, and never let her go out of them, that’s what he’ll do. Nobody shall lay their fingers on his baby.”

He said recklessly anything that he thought would reassure her, but, even while he spoke, he felt oppressed and terrified at the impossibility of performing what he was promising. His heart felt like lead, when he realized that he would _have_ to give her up--that he would, in a few hours, now, at best, be forced to see her taken from him, struggling, crying, terrified, to begin her initiation into a life of torture, and that, when she left his arms, he could never take her back to them, in the same way, forever. All the privacy and sacredness of their intercourse was gone, even if, as was doubtful, he was ever allowed to have her again. And when she was out of his sight, what would be his dread about her? She had been threatened with blows, starvation, and revengeful anger, if she ever tried to play or sing again--and to stop her music would seem to him like murdering her soul.

A longing for the old isolation of freedom came upon him. They might have it once again! He reached for his violin and bow and put them into the case. Then, still holding the child pressed close against him, he took up the case with his free hand, and went out of the opened door.

It was a mild, overcast summer day. The very act of getting out of doors exhilarated and strengthened him. He spoke gay and encouraging words to the child, as he carried her down the little, well-worn path which led to the river, without going in sight of the house. They had often gone along this path together, and when he reached the bank and loosed the little boat tied there, and put Rose-Jewel down on the cushion in the bottom, with the violin against her feet, they were only re-enacting old familiar scenes of companionship and delight.

Eastin took up the small paddle that lay in the boat, and pushed out into the stream. The river was perfectly placid on days like this, and it was his delight to get off with the child a little way from land and to play to her. The boat scarcely moved upon the water, and they did not go out far enough to get into the current. It was in the wide and sleepy part of the stream above the narrows.

The child had grown completely quiet now, and looked up at him with a face of unclouded happiness as he laid down the paddle and took his violin out of its case. He put it in perfect tune, and then, with that radiant presence opposite him, began to play.

On his own heart the shadow of a great dread hung heavy. He felt that this hour separated the dear and beautiful past from a future full of pain and wrangling, and even of cruelty and harshness. He would have to make a desperate fight with his wife for the soul and body of the child, and he felt that everything was against him. It was inevitable that he should be conquered, and what would it all mean to his darling? He looked into her beautiful, confiding little face, and it almost broke his heart. He resolved that she should be happy, for this hour, at least.

He played to her gay dance music, and she clapped her hands in time to it, and rocked her little body about, until the boat moved with her motion, and made them seem to be dancing. Eastin helped this effect by patting his foot and shaking his head, and answering audibly her little cries of glee. He passed from waltz to polka, and from polka to _galop_, the child, conforming to every change of time; and Eastin, remembering that it was their last free hour together, got intoxicated with the delight of it, and bewildered by the thought of its fleetingness played faster and faster, nodding his head in time to Rose-Jewel’s motions, and never taking his eyes from her face.

At last, with a final scrape of the bow, the exciting measure ended, and he dropped his arms with a wild and breathless laugh, to which the child responded.

But how was it that, although both their tired bodies had grown still and relaxed, that sense of movement continued? Eastin felt a spasm of fear at his heart, and looking about him he discovered that they were far from the shore, and in the very center of the stream, whose current was bearing them rapidly onward, and every moment becoming stronger and swifter. He realized, in one awful instant, that they had been drifting for some time, and were quickly getting into the narrows. He looked ahead and could see the high cliffs of rocks on either side, which, for unknown ages of time, had been the impregnable bounds of that crowding torrent of waves and spray and bubbling foam that rushed onward to the falls below.

He reached for the little paddle, but he felt it would be useless. Every moment the motion was becoming stronger and more irresistible. He scarcely felt the thin planks between him and the seething stream below. He put out the paddle, but one blow from that bounding water knocked it from his hand and hurled it away, and he could see it tossed from wave to wave with a sportive motion that seemed to mock him.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, at which his heart gave a great bound, and a light, as it had been from heaven, overspread his face. He knew that rescue was impossible, and the idea that God had planned for him and for Rose-Jewel this release from the pain of earth and this entrance into the glory of heaven swept over him with a wave of joy. There were no words that he had ever said more devoutly than, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins,” and he knew Rose-Jewel was already a companion for the angels. The vision of a certain ecstacy and bliss shone all around about him. O the freedom of it, the rapture, the music! Even the dread of physical death was nothing to him. Rose-Jewel would be his companion, and the journey would be short!

His one care was that the child should not be frightened. She had always answered to his control, and he took up the violin now and began to play.

“Listen, darling, listen!” he said, holding her eyes with his own, and drowning in a flood of rich, keen melody the noise of the rushing water.

And Rose-Jewel answered to the insistence of those swelling sounds of music as unquestioningly as she had ever done. She forgot everything, as she bent forward to listen. He leaned close to her, that she might not lose one sound. The beauty of the music that swelled out over those turbulent waters was entrancing, even to himself. He did not know what he was playing--something he had never heard before, but something fit to play in those choirs of heaven to which he was going so quickly. He could not wonder that the child was under the spell of it. It came to him without one interruption--an unbroken strain of divinest sweetness, such as he had never heard before. In the very midst of it, the ever-narrowing, ever-quickening current gave the little boat such a wrench, that the violin was knocked out of his hand into the leaping waters.

Then Rose-Jewel gave a little cry, and turned to look about her, but before she had faced the sight of those terrifying waves, he caught her in his arms. She felt her little golden head drawn down upon its sweet, familiar resting-place, and the arms of her father folded close about her. Words of love and comfort and reassurance were whispered in her ear. She was being rocked into repose and rest quite naturally, as she had so often been before, upon her father’s breast.

There was a sudden rush of something cold and strange--a swish of sound--a lurch--a fall--and then, still holding each other in the dear fondness of that close embrace, the musician and his little child sank together into death, and their spirits soared forth into infinite music.

The Masked Singer

The Masked Singer

The only objection which Edward Randall had to his new bachelor apartments was found in the fact, that they looked out upon some very dingy, dull, and gloomy houses opposite. This had been his chief obstacle in deciding to take these rooms, but there were advantages which soon proved a sufficient offset.

The fact that he was the only lodger in Mrs. Green’s extremely well-ordered house, and that the elderly widow had a delicate feeling for his old china and other perishable property, and looked after the cleaning and arranging of his rooms, herself, was a great thing for him; and the fact, also, that his back windows looked out upon a beautiful little bit of old garden and a wealth of greenery made the other outlook seem comparatively unimportant. He had the whole of Mrs. Green’s second floor, and beyond the sitting-room there was a pleasant, vine-screened porch supplied with hammocks and easy chairs, where, when the weather was mild, he could sit and smoke with his friends, or read or meditate, as the humor of the hour dictated.

He was not over thirty-five, and yet the fact was universally conceded that he was a confirmed bachelor--a matter of some regret to those of his friends who held that in that condition his good income, personal attractions, and lovable domestic qualities were more or less wasted.

The front view from his chambers being unpleasing to him, and the back view decidedly pleasing, he rarely drew aside the curtains of the former room, but one morning when he was rather idle, and also in a state of some uncertainty about the weather, he went to look out into the street to help him to decide whether or not to go out before lunch. It was Sunday and rather cloudy, and it seemed to him that the shabby buildings opposite looked duller and dingier than ever, when his attention was caught by the opening of the door of the house directly facing him, and the appearance on the threshold of a young girl. She, too, it seemed, was in some uncertainty about the weather, for she came out on the steps and turned her face upwards to investigate the clouds. In this way, Randall was enabled to get a full and satisfactory view of this upturned face, which was very beautiful--so beautiful, in fact, that he felt the survey all too brief, and was conscious of a sense of strong protest when the girl, with an air of decision, shook out the folds of a thick blue veil and fastened it around her hat, then taking up her umbrella and a little book, which she had laid aside in order to pin on her veil, quickly descended the steps and walked away.

Randall watched her as far as he could, and noted carefully every detail of her dress, which certainly bordered on shabbiness, and was poor and plain in material, and yet had for him a certain charm. It could only have been her figure and her movements which gave this impression, for, contrasted with some very smart young ladies who walked in front of her, she was an object dull and colorless enough. These young ladies had their faces frankly bared to observation, but Randall turned from them with distaste, to recall the pure young beauty of the face now closely screened behind that thick veil.

He wondered much about the young girl, for she was undoubtedly rarely beautiful, and there was an impression caught from her appearance which distinctly charmed him. The sight of the little book in her hand, together with the ringing of the church bells, assured him that she was on her way to church, and for the first time for a very long while, he felt like going to church, himself.

It was much too late to think of this, however, for his toilet was not begun, and so he turned back within the room, and lounging in dressing-gown and slippers, spent an hour reading the morning papers and smoking. At the end of that time, he started up suddenly and began his toilet, with an air of haste and impatience. As soon as he was dressed, he took his hat and gloves and went downstairs. Just as he opened the front door, he caught sight of the young girl mounting the steps opposite, on her return home. She was in the act of taking off her veil, and Randall thought she did so with a certain air of relief from a bondage which irked her. Once more he got a brief impression of that young and exquisite face, and then, without having looked at him at all, she opened the door with a latch-key and entered the gloomy old house, and the dingy door closed behind her.

Randall went his way, and presently found himself seated at a beautifully appointed lunch table with a party of gay and brilliant people, among whom he was made very welcome, and where he laughed and chattered for an hour, but throughout it all he could not shake off the impression that this girl had made upon him, and her pure, young face, and plain, dark garments rose before his vision, as alien to this scene as the impression of some rapt, ascetic nun.

After lunch there was a general demand that Mr. Randall should play to them, and rather more obligingly than usual he yielded to the request, and, going to the piano, he began with certain powerful chords and impressive pauses, that soon compelled the company to perfect silence and attention. He was a fine musician, and quite accustomed to having his playing treated deferentially, but he did not often take the trouble to play to people as he was playing now. His audience had expected something light and brilliant, and instead of that it was only sacred music that he played--harmonies and masses from the great masters of old, with an improvised arrangement and connection of his own.

He rose from the piano and said good-bye abruptly, hurrying away from the enthusiastic praise of his audience, and walking quickly back to his lodgings, where he spent the remainder of the day. Some men dropped in to see him, but either they were hurried, or they found him unamusing, for they presently went away, and at twilight he was left alone.

More than once, he had gone to look out on the opposite house, but the dull, gray front of that dismal structure was unsuggestive of the least hint of its radiant young inmate. When the lamps were lighted, at last, and the curtains drawn, and the servant, having attended to his comfort, had left him quite alone for the evening, he opened his piano and began to play. It must have been for hours that he sat there, with no music before him, playing on and on, thinking, thinking, thinking to those beautiful strains.

Of course, he did not fancy anything so absurd as that he was in love with this young girl, whose face and nearness so possessed him; that was out of the question. But what he did feel was that a quality in her face had roused to new being a certain ideal which had once held him, and which in recent years had been losing its hold.

Randall had an ardent and romantic nature, subdued by circumstance and rearing into conventional conformity. The passion of his life was music, and although he was a more or less earnest and successful lawyer, the hearing of good music and the cultivation of his own musical gift was the strongest interest of his life. His friends wondered that he had not married, and, to tell the truth, he wondered at that fact as much as they. If they were ignorant of his reason though, he, himself, was not. He knew well that it was because he had, so far in life, met no woman whose nature and personality made the appeal to him, and satisfied the desire of his soul, in the way that music appealed to and satisfied him, and what he wondered at was, that in all his wide acquaintance he had never seen this woman. He had grown tired of looking for her, at last, and had even deliberately considered the advisability of marrying a person who would have compelled a lowering of his ideal. A real, definite woman had been considered in this light, a woman with beauty, good breeding, position, and money, whom he thought he might win; but this woman not only was not musical herself, but she contradicted the ideal which seemed to go hand in hand with music in his soul.

No, certainly he was not in love with this opposite neighbor of his, but the remarkable effect which she had had upon him was to rouse in him the belief of the possibility of realizing this vanished ideal. There was something in her that seemed to tell him that what he had dreamed of might still be. It was her face only that had done this. He had not seen the outline of her figure, for that had been concealed by a long black cloak, that was loose from neck to hem. And even more than this, he had not heard her voice. Randall had always conceived that his ideal woman would sing, though that was not a necessity with him, but he was so susceptible to the influence of sound that a coarse, or nasal, or discordant voice, even in speaking, would have killed the most fiery love that charm or beauty could arouse. He suddenly felt a great desire to know if this exquisite girl could sing, or to hear her speak. It was not so much an emotional stirring of love which she had aroused in him, as a sort of spirit of intellectual investigation. He knew that she had a face that might belong to his ideal woman, and he wondered if her voice would carry out the idea.

These thoughts absorbed him, while he was playing, and he began to imagine plans by which he might hear her speak or sing. He could think of nothing, except to follow her to church some Sunday, and get a seat near her in the hope that she might join in the hymns, but the girl evidently went out alone and unprotected, and he could not quite get his consent to following and watching her.