The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery
Page 43
CHAPTER XLIII.
AN OLD SINGING SOLDIER.
"What will remind me of the summer while you are away, dear?" Robert hadsaid to Emily one morning, little thinking that the sweet girl wouldtreasure the saying for a whole day and end with a pitiful accusation toherself of "selfishness" for leaving him. Could she have consulted herown wish she would have put off the excursion then and there, but astateroom had already been booked in the Yarmouth, Beulah Ware waslooking forward joyfully to the trip and Dr. Eustis' orders had beenimperative. So good Mrs. Barlow sensibly stamped her foot at the notionof her daughter's withdrawal and the maternal fiat went forth finallyand irrevocably that Emily must go.
But Emily determined that while she was away the bare cell in murderers'row should not wholly lack touches of the midsummer of whose passingglories Robert, their loyal votary, was cruelly denied a glimpse.
And so one day the carpenter came and plotted off a space over a footwide at the side of the cell, and the florist followed with a load ofbeautiful long sods rolled up like jelly cake, and little potted plantsall in bloom. And the sods were laid down in the trough the carpenterhad made, and places scooped out with a trowel for the roots of theplants, and presto, there was a flower bed all along the side that gotthe sunshine, for Robert's window faced toward the south.
There were twiggy verbenas and fuchsias of tropic coloring, thenappy-leaved rose geranium, less highly rouged than its scarlet-floweredsisters, and blue oxalis along the border, plaintively appealing fornotice with its spray of tiny stars. And lest these should not insinuatethe odor of the country sufficiently into Robert's senses a pot of sweetbasil was suspended from the ceiling to give out fragrance like the livecoal in an acolyte's censer. Robert had complained of sleeplessness.What was better for this than a pillow stuffed with prunings of afir-balsam at night and a sweet-clover cushion by day, when he sat athis table and wrote down his thoughts on "The Parisian Police Theory ofConcentration of Crime," or some other such momentous topic.
But the last day, when the finishing touch had been placed on thisnarrow bower, over which the shadow of the scaffold so imminently hung,while Emily was sprinkling the beds with her watering-jar, Robert hadlaid aside his pen and was drawing forth sweet music from the violin.
"How divine it will be, Emily," he said. "The ocean sail and the week atbeautiful Digby!"
"I wish you were coming, Robert," she answered, sadly.
"We may arrange a voyage in September. That is the month of glory in theprovinces."
Robert had never admitted entertaining a doubt as to his acquittal. Itmust have been the confinement and the ignominy that had worn him downand converted his nights into carnivals of restless thought.
"But I will be with you in imagination," he added, while Emily silentlypoured the fine spouting streams over thirsty leaf and flower. Poorlittle green prisoners! They, too, would miss the air and the sunshineand, perhaps, would reproach her, when she returned, with wilted stalksand withering petals.
While she hung her head a far-away voice stole over the high jailyardwall, through the narrow cell window, into the lover's ears. It was atenor voice, not without reminiscences of bygone sweetness, though worn,and still powerful as if from incessant use. Something in its tones toldthe listeners that it was no common youth of the city trolling a snatch.For when do such sing, except in derision of song, with grating ironythat is ashamed of the feelings to which true song gives expression? Weare ashamed of our best impulses and proud of our worst, we cynical cityfolk! But this was a street singer, a minstrel, musical and sincere.Straining their attention, the lovers caught here and there the importof this ballad. Or was it a ballad repeated by rote? Was it not rather arecitative improvised as the impulse came, both words and music?
He sang of the southward march of armed battalions. Their ranks werefull, their banners untattered, and the men shouted watchwords of joywhen they beheld the battle-ground before them. A great chieftain stoodmounted and motioned them into place with his brandished sword. Grant!Grim Grant! They echoed his name. Then came the thunder of artilleryfrom distant hills, and the lines of the enemy's rifles were seenglistening as they advanced. The defenders did not linger, but rushedforward to meet them and their embrace was the death-lock of Titans.Hurrah, the chivalry of the south give way! It is cavalry Sheridan whorouts them! Then the sun stood at its meridian. It was the noon of allglory, for the northern crusaders, doing battle in the just cause. Oh,the chase, the rallies, the heroic stands, and the joyful return, withplunder! But the corpse-strewn field checked their paean. Sire and sonlay clasped in death, facing each other. The garb of one was gray, ofthe other blue. Ambulances issued empty from the hospital tents, androde back groaning with the wounded. Nurses knelt with water cups at thedying hero's side. And until night closed over, sorrow mingled with joyin that bivouac by the fresh-fought field.
A loud salvo of applause told that the singer was done. Emily could seein her mind's eye the ring at the sidewalk edge, arrested in the courseof meaner thoughts or idle vacuity by his heart-moving story. The giftof Homer, in a humble degree, was his; and men to-day are not unlikewhat they were 3,000 years ago. Robert had long since hushed his violinand stood with bow suspended in air.
"Emily!" he said in a strange tone.
She looked at him and started. He was eying her so eagerly.
"Emily!" he repeated.
The bow dropped from his hand. He reached forward as if he would touchher.
"What is it, Robert?" she asked.
"The water-lily. You are still wearing it?"
"Still wearing it, Robert. I put it on this morning."
Robert uttered a cry.
"It comes back! It comes back!" he said. "The old singing soldier that Imet at the park gate. He is blind and wears a brown shade over one eye.His hair is white when he takes off his cap and passes among the crowd.I see him again! I see it all!"
Robert's gaze was far away. He was not looking at Emily, yet he heardher voice.
"When was this all, Robert?"
"That day, the day of the fire. I could not remember before."
She repressed a throb of joy. Was it indeed returning? God was good. Hehad at last answered her prayers.
"And the water-lily, Robert?"
"Do you not remember, Emily, that I brought you one that evening? It wasthe first of the season, I told you."
"I do--I do!"
"Search out the old gardener, who lives in the lodge at the west angleof the park. He will remember. 'This is the first of the season,' hesaid. He will remember the date. He will have kept some memorandum."
"And you talked with him, Robert?"
"We are friends of old. He will remember the incident--our stroll intothe glen where the little pond glistens, my noting the one white flowerfloating among the pads, our poling the flat-bottomed boat from the bankand the courteous speech of presentation he made. 'For your sweetheart,'he said. Oh, it is as plain to me now as the sound of my own voice,Emily. How could I ever have forgotten?"
"It is Providence who sent us the old singing soldier," said Emily. "Letus thank Him for His mercy."
Then Robert ran over detail after detail of that afternoon, when herambled from the house, burdened with the fresh grief of his uncle'sdeath--seeing little, hearing little, mechanically following a familiarroute, all his outer senses muffled, as it were. The great shock of thecalamity when he came home late at night had canceled even the feebleimpressions that lingered, and not till the voice of the old singingsoldier came to his ears once more was the impediment removed.
Now the events rushed upon him, few in number, but clearly,microscopically outlined. The sight of the lily brought up the image ofthe gardener. He could no longer be suspected of hiding himself afterthe fire or of secret escape with confederates, or of other conduct thatmight require concealment and a mask of affected forgetfulness.
"The last link of his chain is broken," said Emily, joyfully, meaning,no doubt, the great inspector's. This happy turn o
f affairs reconciledher more than anything else to her vacation trip, and it was a gladsomefarewell the sweethearts took that day.
On her way through the city she heard again the chant of the old singingsoldier and a gush of gratitude impelled her to follow him. He wasindeed blind and wore the brown shade as Robert had described. A littlegirl clung to his coat and guided him when he walked, and the cap heheld out bore the initials of the Grand Army and was ribboned withsilver cord. The bystanders stared at the sweet-faced lady who laid abill in the maiden's hand and hurried off without waiting for her "Thankyou," hurried off to acquaint Shagarach of the glad, good news.
It was not until she reached the upper flight of the office stairs thatshe remembered that it was Shagarach's suggestion that she wear apond-lily now and then so as to start if possible the clogged wheels ofher lover's recollection, as we shake a stopped watch to make it go.
There was a similar case, too, in "The Diseases of Memory."
"But it was heaven," she said, "that brought us the old singingsoldier."