by Roy J. Snell
_Chapter_ XII “The House Is Gone”
It happened, or shall we say began, on a Sunday night. During the manydays previous to this, things had picked up little by little in Cherry’ssubway radio studio. One evening the little Irish girl who played thepiano had brought in a young fellow with a shabby violin case under hisarm. “Can you play it?” Cherry asked.
“A little,” was the modest reply.
The young fellow, who had gone through all the horrors of the Battle ofFlanders and Dunkirk, was Scotch. He could do weird things with thatviolin. With it alone he could make you believe that a score or more ofbagpipers were marching down the street. And when it came to that mellowold Scotch song:
“Flow gently, Sweet Afton Among thy green braes Flow gently. I’ll sing thee A song in thy praise.”
he could bring a happy tear to many a tired eye. So he was given a placeon the program, and weary Cherry sang a little less than before.
Other musicians wandered in. Where they all came from no one will everknow. Next there came a cellist, then a drummer, two bass viols, twoclarinets, two more violins, a gypsy girl with tambourine andcastanets,—all these and half a dozen others wandered in. After thatthey had an orchestra. There was not an “artist” in the hard and fastmeaning of the word among them all, but they could roll the barrel, setJohnny loving, swing the chariot low, roll the old chariot along, and doa hundred other songs dear to the hearts of the good common people ofold England and to many another who did not consider himself quite socommon.
All this gave Cherry a breathing spell now and then. But when themembers of the orchestra had each done his bit for just so long, therewould come calls from all down the subway:
“Cherry! Cherry! We want Cherry! We want the Singin’ Angel.”
The Singin’ Angel, that is what they came at last to call her. That wasbecause of Sunday nights, for on that night they left the Old Chariot athome, put lovin’ Johnny to bed early, rolled the barrel far back in thecorner, and pushed “The Old Rugged Cross” right out in front.
No one seemed to mind. Indeed they appeared to love that hour of theweek best of all. In times such as this people cling to their religion.One moment “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me” would go rolling on and on fromend to end of the subway.
Some one in the orchestra would start “Throw Out The Lifeline to dangerfrought men.”
Then Cherry in her strong young voice would sing:
“When all my trials and troubles are o’er And I am safe on that beautiful shore That will be glory, be glory for me.”
“Now!” she would cry. “Everybody sing!”
“Oh! That will be glory for me, Glory for me, glory for me.”
Yes, religion seemed very real on these Sunday nights. On thisparticular night, it was midnight when Cherry reached Lady Perkins’home. She remembered it afterward, for at that very moment Big Ben wasgloriously booming the hour of twelve.
She had walked home alone. It was not far. She let herself in with herlatchkey. The “all clear” had sounded, so, feeling weary and happy allin one, she stretched out on her bed fully dressed, and fell asleep.
She was dreaming of quiet, sleepy hours, with Flash at her side, whileher sheep wandered over the hillside at Ramsey Farm, when suddenly itseemed that a mighty thunderstorm had stolen upon her unawares and thatthe very hill was being rocked by its roaring.
She awoke standing in the center of the room. Her knees trembled so shecould scarcely stand. The floor beneath her vibrated like a ship in astorm. From all about her came strange crashes like walls falling oneupon another.
She tried to call, but could only whisper. A narrow crack of lightappeared before her. A board in the door had been split. She stepped tothe door and opened it. Then, catching herself, she started back towhisper in dismay:
“It’s gone! The house is gone! Only my room is here!”
That was not quite true. Of that spacious home only three roomsremained—her own and two others. A half-ton bomb had scattered the rest.
Recalling that the French windows of her room opened out on a court, shesprang to the nearest one. Then she was out and away.
A weird light from a flare sent down by the enemy illuminated thestreet. Once on that street she began to run. In all her fright andconfusion she had a vague plan. Dave was spending the night with hisuncle. She knew the address. Was it far? She did not know. All she knewwas that somehow she must get there.
She had gone but a block when she ran squarely into the arms of asix-foot policeman.
“Here now, Miss! What’s this?” His voice had a kindly rumble.
“The house!” she cried. “Lady Perkins’ house! It’s gone!”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It was a terrible bomb. The firemen are just therenow. Thank God Lady Perkins and all were away.”
“No!” Cherry whispered. “I was there.”
“You?” The Bobby looked her over. “You were there? And who now might yoube?”
“I—I’m Cherry.”
“What? The Singin’ Angel?” He looked her in the face. “Bless me heart itis now! What do you know about that! Bless the Lord you are safe.”
“I can’t talk.” The girl’s head drooped. “I can’t sing. I—I want to goto Dave’s Uncle’s place.” In her fright she was like a child.
“And where would that be?”
She gave him the address. He read it, then blew a whistle. A manappeared.
“Jim,” he said, “this is Cherry, the Singin’ Angel. God’s own child sheis.”
“The Singin’ Angel!” Jim’s jaw dropped.
“None other,” said the Bobby. “An’ you’re to take her to this address.Mind you drive careful, careful and steady as ye would if it were theChrist Child you’re ’avin in yer car.”
Jim’s car was old and dilapidated, but to Cherry it was the latest modelof a Rolls Royce and its cushions as soft as down, for was it not takingher to her friends?
Arrived at the house, in the presence of Dave’s tall, gray-haired uncle,she disgraced herself by throwing herself in Dave’s arms. Then she weptlike a child.
This storm over, she felt better. Two cups of strong tea revived herspirits but not her voice. She could only whisper as she said: “Dave,please take me home, back to the farm.”
“At this hour of the night?” Dave stared.
“I’ll have a car for you at once,” said the kindly gray-haired uncle.“Dave, my boy, London’s no place for a girl who has gone through whatthis girl has tonight.”
All the way home Dave had an arm about Cherry. She cuddled close to him,as a scared child would and they were not ashamed.
Arrived at the farm, they quietly dismissed the driver. Arousing no one,they sat before the half-burned-out kitchen fire for a time. When atlast Dave felt the trembling quiver of her shoulders pass away, he saidhuskily:
“You’d better turn in for a little sleep.”
“Dave,” she whispered. “My voice is gone. I can’t sing any more.”
“Fright. That’s all.” Dave tried to reassure her. “It will come back.”
Would it? He wondered as he watched her make her way slowly, dreamily,like a sleep-walker, up the stairs.