by Myrtle Reed
A Minor Chord
One afternoon before Christmas, a man with bowed head and aimless stepwalked the crowded streets of a city. The air was clear and cold, theblue sky was dazzlingly beautiful, the sun shone brightly upon his way,yet in his face was unspeakable pain.
His thoughts were with the baby daughter whom he had seen lowered intothe snow, only a few hours before. He saw it all,--the folds of thepretty gown, the pink rose in the tiny hands, and the happy smile whichthe Angel of the Shadow had been powerless to take away.
"You will forget," a friend had said to him.
"Forget," he said to himself again and again. "You can't forget yourheart," he had answered, "and mine is out there under the snow."
Through force of habit, he turned down the street on which stoodthe great church where he played the organ on Sundays and festivaldays. He hesitated a moment before the massive doorway, then felt inhis pocket for the key, unlocked the door and went in. The sun shonethrough the stained glass windows and filled the old church with glory,but his troubled eyes saw not. He sat down before the instrument heloved so well and touched the keys with trembling fingers. At once, themusic came, and to the great heart of the organ which swelled with pityand tenderness, he told his story. Wild and stormy with resentment atfirst, anger, love, passion, and pain blended together in the outburstwhich shook the very walls of the church.
"God gives us hearts--and breaks them," he thought and his face grewwhite with bitterness.
Beside himself with passion, he played on, and on, till the sun sankbehind the trees and the afternoon shaded into twilight.
As the shadows filled the church, he accidentally struck a minor chord,plaintive, sweet, almost sad.
He stopped. With that sound a flood of memories came over him--anautumn day in the woods, the trees dropping leaves of crimson andgold, the river flowing at his feet, with the purple asters andgoldenrod on its banks, and beside him the fair sweet girl who hadmade his life a happy one;--and insensibly he drifted into the melody,dreaming, on the saddest day of his life, of the day which had been hishappiest.
He remembered the look in her eyes when he had first kissed her.Beautiful eyes they were, brown, soft, and tender, with that inwardradiance which comes to a woman only when she looks into the face ofthe man she loves.
"I will go to her," he whispered, "but not yet, not yet!" And stillhe played on in that vein of sadness, the sweet influence stealinginto his heart till the pain was hushed in peace. Conscious only of astrange sense of uplifting, the music grew stronger as the thought ofthe future was before him. He was young, talented, he had a wife tolive for, and a child--no, not a child--and the tears stole over hischeeks as he again touched the minor chord.
The crescendo came again. The child was safe in the white arms of thesnow, and she was hidden away from the sorrows of the earth in the onlyplace where we are ever safe from these--in its heart.
The moon had risen over the hill-tops, and the church was as light asif touched on every side with silver. The organ sounded a strain ofexultation in which the minor chord was in some way mingled with thetheme. He could face the world now. Any one can die but it takes ahero to live. Something he had read came back to him: "Once to everyhuman being, God gives suffering--the anguish that cuts, burns andstings. The terrible 'one day' always comes and after it our hearts aresometimes cruel and selfish--or sometimes tender as He wishes them tobe."
And the strong soul rose above its bitterness, for his "one day" wasover, and it could never come again. His strength asserted itselfanew as he came down from the organ loft and went toward the door.A little bundle in one of the pews attracted his attention, and hestooped to see what it was. A pale, pinched baby face looked up athim wonderingly, the golden hair shining with celestial glory in themoonlight. The hair, the eyes, the position of the head were much likethose of the child he had lost.
Back came the rush of infinite pain--he was not so strong as he hadthought--but only for an instant. Hark! was it an echo or his own soulplaying upon his quivering heartstrings the minor chord? Again the newstrength reasserted itself and into his consciousness rose the higherduty to the living over the love and faith for the lost.
"Was it you played the music?" said the sweet child voice. "I heard itand I comed in!"
"Dear," he said, "where is your home? Are you all alone?"
"Home," she said wonderingly. "Home?"
Without another word, he took the child in his arms and hurried out ofthe doorway. Along the brilliantly lighted avenue he hastened, till hereached the little cottage in a side street. It was dark within exceptfor the fitful glancings of the moonlight, and he deposited his burdenin a big arm-chair while he went in search of his wife.
"Sweetheart," he called, "where are you?"
The sweet face came into the shadow before him, and she laid her handupon his arm without speaking. He led her to the little waif sayingsimply: "I have brought you a Christmas gift, dear."
She put out her empty arms and gathered the desolate baby to herbreast. The eternal instinct of motherhood swelled up again and for amoment, in the touch of the soft flesh against her own, the tiny gravein the snow seemed only a dream.
"Theodora--Gift of God," he said reverently. Then as the clouds parted,and the moonlight filled every nook and corner of the little room:"Dearest, we cannot forget, but we can be brave, and our Gift of God,shall keep us; shall it be so?"
The Madonna of the Tambourine