Aladdin thought that Larch was hiding in jest. He arose unsteadily andwandered off in search of him. After a time he found himself beforethe door of his own house. There were lights in the parlor, and Aladdinbecame almost sober. He realized with a thrill of stricken consciencethat Mrs. Brackett was sitting up for him, and he was afraid. He triedthe front door and found it unlocked. He went in. On the right, the doorleading into the parlor stood open. On the table burned a lamp. Besidethe table in the crushed plush rocker sat Mrs. Brackett. Her spectacleswere pushed high up on her forehead. Her eyes were closed, and her mouthwas slightly open. From the corners of her eyes red marks ran down hercheeks. Her thin gray hair was in disarray. In her lap, open, lay herhuge family Bible; a spray of pressed maidenhair fern marked the place.
Aladdin, somewhat sobered by now, and already stung with the anguish ofremorse, tiptoed into the parlor and softly blew out the light; but theinstant before he did so he glanced down at the Bible in the good lady'slap and saw that she had been reading about the prodigal son. Greattears ran out of Aladdin's eyes. He went up-stairs, weeping and ontiptoe, and as he passed the door of his brother's room he heard a stirwithin.
"Is that you, 'Laddin?"
"Sssh, darlint," said Aladdin; "you'll wake Mother Brackett."
In his own room there was a lamp burning low, and on his bureau was anote for him from Margaret:
DEAR ALADDIN: Papa wants you to come up and have supper with us.Peter Manners is here, and I think it will be fun. Please do come, andremember a lot of foolish songs to sing. Why wouldn't you speak to me?It hurts so when you act like that....
Aladdin, kissing the note, went down on his knees and twice began topray, "O God--O God!" He could say no more, but all the penitence andheartburnings of his soul were in his prayer. Later he lay on his bedstaring into a darkness which moved in wheels, and he kept saying to thedarkness:
"Neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
Late in the still morning he awoke, grieving and hurt, for he did notsee how he should ever face Mrs. Brackett, or his brother, or Margaret,or himself, or anybody ever again.
XII
There was in town at this time what passed for a comic-opera troupe, andMargaret and her father, by way of doing honor to their guest, invitedall the young people to go to the performance and attend a supperafterward. The party occupied the three foremost rows in the music-hall,and Aladdin sat next to Margaret, and Manners sat upon the other side.
The hero of the piece was a jovial big rascal with a spirited voice, andmuch byplay which kept his good-natured audience in titters--from theyoung gentlemen and little shrieks--from the young ladies. Mr. Blythoe,the hero, when the curtain had fallen upon what the management waspleased to call the second act, consented, in response to continuedapplause, due to a double back somersault and two appropriate remarksfired off in midair (this was his great psychic moment), to make alittle speech and sing a song. His speech, though syntactically erratic,was delivered in a loud, frank way that won everybody's heart, and inclosing he said:
"Three nights ago I met with a young feller in this tow--city[applause], and when we had taken one together for luck [titters fromthe young gentlemen, who wanted one another to know that they knew whathe meant], he made me the loan of the song I'm a-going to sing. He madeup the words and the tune of this song hisself, and he's right here inthis audience." This gave an opportunity for some buffoonery among theyoung gentlemen. Mr. Blythoe looked for one instant straight at Aladdin,and Aladdin went into a cold sweat, for he began to recollect thatsomewhere on a certain awful night he had taken drinks with Mr. Blythoeand had sung him songs. Mr. Blythoe went on:
"This young gentleman said I specially wasn't to mention his name, andI won't, but I want all you ladies and gentlemen to know that this herebeautiful ballad was composed right here in this tow--city [applause] bya citizen of this city. And here goes."
Then Mr. Blythoe did a wonderful thing. Much was owing to the words andair, but a little something to the way in which Mr. Blythoe sang. Hetook his audience with the first bar, and had some of them crying whenhe was through. And the song should have been silly. It was about a gay,gay young dog of a crow, that left the flock and went to a sunny landand lived a mad, mad life; and finally, penitent and old, came home tothe north country and saw his old playmates in the distance circlingabout the old pine-tree, but was too weak to reach them, or to call loudenough for them to hear, and so lay down and died, died, died. The tunewas the sweetest little plaintive wail, and at the end of each stanza itdied, died, till you had to cry.
Mr. Blythoe received tremendous applause, but refused to encore. Hewinked to Aladdin and bowed himself off. Then Aladdin executed anunparalleled blush. He could feel it start in the small of his back andspread all over him--up under the roots of his hair to the top of hishead. He should have felt proud, instead of which he was suffused withshame. Margaret caught sight of his face.
"What is it, Aladdin?" she said in a whisper.
"Nothing."
"Won't you tell me?"
"It's nothing." He got redder and redder.
"Please."
With downcast eyes he shook his head. She looked at him dubiously anda little pathetically for a moment. Then she said, "Silly goose," andturned to Manners.
"Poor old crow!" said Manners. "I had one, Margaret, when I was little;he had his wings clipped and used to follow me like a dog, and one dayhe saw some of his old friends out on the salt-marsh, and he hopped outto talk it over with them, and they set upon him and killed him. AndI couldn't get there quick enough to help him--I beg your pardon." Hepicked up a fan and handed it to the girl on his left, and she, havingdropped it on purpose, blushed, thanked him, and giggled. Manners turnedto Margaret again. "Ever since then," he said, "when I have a gun in myhand and see a crow, I want to kill him for the sake of the crows thatkilled mine, and to let him go for the sake of mine, who was such a niceold fellow. So it's an awful problem."
Aladdin sat and looked straight before him. "Is real fame as awful asthis?" he thought.
Somebody clapped him on the shoulder, and a hearty voice, something theworse for wear, said loudly in his ear, "Bully, Aladdin, bully!"
Aladdin looked up and recognized that bad companion, Beau Larch.
"That's all right," Aladdin tried to say, but Mr. Larch would not bedowned.
"Wasn't it bully, Margaret?" he said.
"Oh--hallo--hallo, Beau!" said she, starting and turning round andcollecting her wits. "What? Wasn't what bully?"
Aladdin frowned at Larch with all the forbiddingness that he couldmuster, but Larch was imperturbable.
"Why, Aladdin's song!" he said. "You know, the one about the oldcrow--the one the man just sang."
Here a young lady, over whom Beau Larch was leaning, confided to herescort in an audible, nervous voice that she knew Beau Larch had beendrinking, but she wouldn't say why she knew--anybody could see he had;and then she sniffed with her nose by way of indicating that seeing wasnot the only or best method of telling.
"You don't mean to say--" said Margaret to Aladdin, and looked him in theeyes. "Why, Aladdin!" she said. And then: "Peter--Peter--'Laddin wroteit, he did. Isn't it gr-reat!"
And Peter, rising to the occasion, said, "Bully," and "I thought it wasgreat," with such absolute frankness and sincerity that Aladdin's heartalmost warmed toward him. It was presently known all over the house thatAladdin had written the song. And some of the more clownish of the youngpeople called for Author, Author. Aladdin hung his head.
At supper at the St. Johns' later was a crisp, brisk gentleman withgrayish hair, who talked in a pleasant, dry way. Aladdin learned that itwas Mr. Blankinship, editor and proprietor of the Portland "Spy." Almostimmediately on learning this important item, he saw Mr. Blankinshipexchange a word with Margaret and come toward him.
"Mr. O'Brien?"
"Yes, sir."
"The same that sent us three poems a while ago?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you wrote that song we heard to-night?"
"Yes, sir." Aladdin was now fiery red.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I've just finished school," said Aladdin. "And I don't know what todo."
"Newspaper work appeal to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Timid as a coot," thought Mr. Blankinship.
"Write easily?" he said. "Fast--short words?"
Aladdin thought a moment. "Yes, sir," he said coolly.
"Less timid than a coot," thought Mr. Blankinship.
"Willing to live in Portland?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll give you five dollars a week and give you a trial."
"Thank you, sir."
"Can you get moved and start work Monday?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Blankinship smiled cheerfully.
"Pretty entertainment, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, O'Brien, see you Monday; hope we get on." Mr. Blankinship noddedpleasantly and passed up the room to the punch, muttering as he went,"Writes better than talks--dash of genius--more or less timid than acoot."
Aladdin went quickly to find Margaret. He traced her to the pantry,where she was hurrying the servant who had charge of the ice-cream.Aladdin waited until the servant had gone out with a heaping tray.
"Margaret," he said, "I'm going away to live."
He spoke in the flat, colorless voice with which a little childannounces that it has hurt itself.
"What do you mean, Aladdin?" She changed color slightly.
"Only that I've got to make a living, Margaret, and it's on a paper, soI ought to be glad."
"Aren't you glad, Aladdin?"
"A little."
"Aladdin--"
"Margaret--O Margaret--"
She read in his eyes what was coming.
"Not now, Aladdin," she said.
"Not now--dear Aladdin."
"Then you know?"
"I've always known, Aladdin, and been grateful and that proud."
"Will there never be any chance for me, Margaret?"
"Aladdin, I think I like you better than anybody else in the world--"
"Darling--" he had never supposed that it could be said so easily; heleaned toward her.
"No," she said suddenly; "I've got to go and see after all those foolishpeople."
"Just for the sake of old times, and now, and new times--"
She hesitated, reddened a little, and then, as sweetly and innocently asa child, put up her lips for him to kiss.
XIII
Hannibal St. John's campaign for reelection to the senatorship was,owing to a grievous error in tact, of doubtful issue. A hue and cryarose against him among his constituents, and things in general fellout so unhappily that it looked toward the close of the contest as if hewould be obliged to sit idle and dangle his heels, while the two halvesof the country, pushing against each other, were rising in the middlelike the hinge of a toggle-joint into the most momentous crisis inthe nation's history. It looked as if the strong man, with his almostblasphemous intolerance of disunion, his columnlike power of supporting,and his incomparable intellect, was to stand in the background and watchthe nightmare play from afar. He fought for his place in the forefrontof the battle with a great fervor of bitterness, and the possibility ofdefeat weighed upon his glowering soul like a premature day of judgment.He knew himself to be the one man for the opportunity, and could histrue feelings have found utterance, they would have said, "Damn useverlastingly in hell, but don't shelve us now!"
Opposed to St. John was a Mr. Bispham, of about quarter his heightintellectually and integrally--a politician, simple, who went to war forloot. But he was blessed with a tremendous voice and an inexhaustiblestore of elemental, fundamental humor, upon the waves of which the shipbearing his banner floated high. It seemed that because of one glaringexhibition of tactlessness, and a lack of humor, a really important,valuable, and honest man was to lose the chance of serving his countryto a designing whipper-snapper, who was without even the saving grace ofviolent and virulent prejudices. And so the world goes. It seemed at onetime that St. John's chance was a ghost of a chance, and his friends,sons, and relatives, toiling headstrong by night and day, were broughtup at the verge of despair. To make the situation even more difficult,St. John himself was prostrated with the gout, so that his tellingoratory and commanding personality could not be brought to bear.Margaret was never far from her father's side, and she worked like a dogfor him, writing to dictation till her hands became almost useless, andwhen the spasms of pain were great, leaving her work to kiss his oldbrow.
It was at this time that people all over the State began to take up asong with an inimitably catching tune. The words of this song held upMr. Bispham in so shrewdly true and farcically humorous a light thateven his own star began to titter and threatened to slip from its highplace in the heavens. The song fell so absolutely on the head ofthe nail that Mr. Bispham, when he heard it for the first time, wasconvulsed with anger and talked of horse-whips. The second time he heardit, he drew himself up with dignity and pretended not to notice, andthe third time he broke into a cold sweat, for he began to be afraid ofthose words and that tune. At a mass-meeting, while in the midst of avoluble harangue, somebody in the back of the hall punctuated--an absurdstatement, which otherwise might have passed unnoticed, by whistling thefirst bar of the song. Mr. Bispham faced the tittering like a man, andendeavored to rehabilitate himself. But his hands had slipped on thehandle of the audience, and the forensic rosin of Demosthenes would nothave enabled him to regain his grip. He was cruelly assured of the factby the hostile and ready-witted whistler. Again Mr. Bispham absurded.This time the tune broke out in all parts of the hall and was itselfpunctuated by catcalls and sotto-voce insults delivered with terrificshouts. Mr. Bispham's speech was hurriedly finished, and the perorationcame down as flat as a skater who tries a grape-vine for the first time.He left the hall hurriedly, pale and nervous. The tune followed him downthe street and haunted him to his room. The alarming takingness of ithad gotten in at his ear, and as he was savagely undressing he caughthimself in the traitorous act of humming it to himself.
Among others to leave the hall was a tall, slim young man with frecklesacross the bridge of his nose and very bright blue eyes. A party ofyoung men accompanied him, and all were a little noisy, and, as theymade the street, broke lustily into the campaign song. People said,"That's him," "That's O'Brien," "That's Aladdin O'Brien," "That's theman wrote it," and the like. The young men disappeared down the streetsinging at the tops of their voices, with interlardations of turbulent,mocking laughter.
Aladdin's song went all over the North, and his name became known in theland.
Hannibal St. John was not musical. There were only four tunes, and threeof them were variations of "Carry Me Back to Old Virginia," that herecognized when he heard them. As he lay on his bed of pain, heheard the shrill whistle of his gardener piping in the garden below.Unconsciously the senator's well hand marked the time. All day, as hecame and went about his business, the gardener kept whistling that tune,and the senator heard and reheard ever with increasing pleasure. Andthis was an extraordinary thing, for it was as difficult or nearly soto move Hannibal St. John with music as it must have been for Orpheusto get himself approached by rocks and stones and trees, and far moredifficult than it ever was for the Pied Piper to achieve a following ofbrats and rats.
Margaret had been for a drive with a girl friend. She came home and toher father's side in great spirits.
"Oh, papa," she cried, "will you do me a favor?"
She read consent.
"Claire has got the wonderfulest song, and I want you to let her come inand sing it for you."
"A song?" said the senator, doubtfully.
"Papa de-e-ear, please."
He smiled grimly.
"If Claire will not be shocked by my appearance
," he said against hope.
"Rubbish," cried Margaret, and flew out of the room.
There were a few preliminary gasps and giggles in the hall, and thetwo maidens, as sedate and demure as mice, entered. Claire was a littleparty, with vivacious manners and a comical little upturned face.
"How do you do, senator?" she said. "I'm so sorry you're laid up. Isn'tit lovely out?" She advanced and shook his well hand.
"Won't you take a chair?" said the senator.
"I just ran in for a moment. Margaret and I thought maybe you'd like tohear the new campaign song that everybody's singing. My brother broughtit up from Portland--" she paused, out of breath.
"It would afford me great pleasure," said the senator.
And forthwith Claire sang in a rollicking voice. The tune was the sameas that which the gardener had been whistling. St. John recognized itin spite of the difference in the mediums and smiled. Then he smiledbecause of the words, and presently he laughed. It was the first realpleasure he had had in many a day.
"Everybody is wild about it," said Claire, when she had finished.
The senator was shaking with laughter.
"That's good," he said, "that's good."
"Papa," said Margaret, when Claire had gone, "who do you think wrotethat song?"
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