Gifts of Genius Part 6

"How did you want your choir to sing 'good will to men?'" he asked.

Summerman did not look up to answer--did not express any surprise, but the whole man was in the reply given:

"From the heart, sir. Full, confident, a.s.suring. They owe that to G.o.d and man, or they've no business in a choir."

"Do you suppose they could do it?" asked Mr. Rush, not immediately, but, as it seemed, when he had controlled the unpleasant influence the speaker's enthusiastic mode of address had upon him. It seemed as if he were not merely speaking, and engaging the organist in speech for pastime--but rather because he could not help it. His questions, when he asked them, had a more surprising sound to himself than to the person who answered. And they vexed him--but not Summerman. When Mr. Rush asked him if he supposed it possible for them to sing in the way signified, he replied quite confidently:

"Yes, if they only knew what they were about."

"But you explained that to them?"

"Well, then, yes, if they believed it; for after all, belief is of the heart."

"You don't think they believe it?"

"It's a hard thing to say. But if they did, they would do better. They are not a happy set altogether. They whine--they talk one thing, and live another. One of them lost a little money the other day--pretty nearly all he had, I suppose--but what of that?"

"What of that!" exclaimed Mr. Rush, and he looked at the organist amazed.

"Yes, what of it? The man has his health and his faculties. What's money?"

"What's money!"

"Yes, sir, when you come to the point--what is it? Eyes, hands, feet--blood, brain, heart, soul? You would think so to hear him talk. It's dust! I've seen that proved, sir, and I know 'tis true!"

"You don't allow for circ.u.mstances," said the stranger, sharply.

"Circ.u.mstances!" repeated Summerman, incredulous.

"Yes, the difference between your affairs and those of your neighbors. You seem to judge others by yourself?"

"My affairs! I haven't any to speak of," said the organist, with a grave sort of wonder.

"I suppose," replied the stranger, almost angrily, "you are a human creature; things happen to you, and they do not. If you have any feeling at all you are affected by what happens." He ceased speaking with the manner of a man who is annoyed that he should have been so far beguiled into speech.

"Some things have happened to me," answered Summerman quietly, seeing everything, pretending to see nothing. "I lived ten years among the Gipsies. I belonged to them. That's where I had my schooling. I worked in the tin ware; and clock mending I took up of myself. I left my people on account of a church-organ. My father and mother were dead. I had no brother or sister; nor any relation. But I had friends, and they would have kept me; but I had to choose between them and the rest. I couldn't learn the organ in the woods and meadows; I was caught by the music as easily as a pink by a pin. But I kept to the clock mending. I used to travel about on my business once in a while, for a man can't settle down to four walls and a tread-mill in a minute, when he's been used to all creation. Then I learned to take pictures, and I travelled about for a time, carrying the machine with me. But for the last year I've lived in this shop and had the church organ. So you see how it is. I have all these things to look after, and I try to keep in tune, and up to pitch.

"You are a happy man," said Mr. Rush, who had listened with attention to this humble story. "But," he added, "you could not understand--for you have had no cares, no one dependent on you--how necessary to some persons money is for happiness. What ruin follows the loss of it. How many a man would prefer death to such a loss."

"I guess not," said Summerman, in a low tone. "I believe in the Good Will doctrine."

"What has that to do with it?" asked the stranger, impatiently.

To this Summerman replied, speaking slowly--humblest acquiescence sounding through his speech.

"When I settled down, and got the situation in the church, I was about to bring her here.... You understand.... She died about that time. I have not seen her picture. Her brother had died before. I was to be the son of the old people. We were sure that after awhile they would be attracted by our happy home, and by our fireside all their wanderings would end. They should be free as in the forests.... It is all changed now--but I am still their son, and I wish nothing better than to work for them. The old man is failing, and I think that I shall yet persuade them to come and live with me--we might be one family still--and it would please her. If I succeed, there are two or three rooms close by where we can be tolerably happy, all together. G.o.d is not indifferent. He sees all. And sure I am that He bears me no ill will. So it must be for the best. She used to wear this ribbon around her splendid hair. She was so young and gay! It would have done you good to look at such a face. Sometimes I catch myself thinking what a long, gay life we ought to have lived together--and I know there's no wickedness in that. It's more pleasant than bitter."

"So you support the old people," was the listener's sole comment. Not loss, but fidelity--not grief, but constancy, impressed him while he hearkened to this story.

"I have adopted them," answered the organist. "Yes, they are mine now.

Just as they were to have been. Just as she and I used to talk it over.

Only she is not here."

"So you support them," repeated Mr. Rush. And he seemed to ponder that point, as if it involved somewhat beyond his comprehension.

The organist replied, wondering. And he looked at the questioner--but the questioner looked not at him.

"Yes, certainly," he said.

"I suppose they are moderate in their wants. They don't require suites of chambers with frescoed ceilings, and walls hung with white satin, rose color, lavender--and the rest. They don't need a four-story palace, with carpets of velvet to cover the floors from attic to bas.e.m.e.nt. Do they?"

All the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words the organist happily could never perceive. But he discerned enough to make him shudder, and he believed that the speaker was mad.

"I don't think I understand you," he answered, perplexed and cautious. He feared the effect of his words. But anything that he might say would produce now one sole result.

"Very likely you don't understand," said Mr. Rush.

"But," said the organist, "I wish I did."

"Why, man?"

"You look so troubled, sir."

"Troubled?"

"As if you--hadn't--tried out the Good Will doctrine. I mean--yes, I do!

that I shouldn't suppose you believed in it," said Summerman, bravely.

Mr. Rush laughed bitterly. "I'll tell you a story," said he.

"No--no--I mean not yet--don't," exclaimed Summerman, quickly.

"Why, it's a short tale. I'm not going to trouble you much longer. A fine holiday you're having! But you'll never have another like it, I believe.

I--I want your advice before I go. Besides, you have kept to your green, sunny love so long, I would like to give you a notion of what's going on the other side of the fence."

"Then we will walk," said Summerman, "if it's agreeable to you, sir, I mean, of course. I always walk around the lake at this hour." The little man had put on his overcoat while he spoke, and now stood waiting the stranger's pleasure, cap in hand.

"Dare you leave that face of mine among the other faces?" asked Mr. Rush, with all seriousness.

The organist looked nervously around as if he expected something to justify the trouble this question occasioned him.

"Yes--yes--I'll take the risk," he answered, but he spoke without a smile.

One thought alone prevented him from heartily wishing himself rid of this companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such a gloom over his Christmas day. The man seemed to have more need of him than Summerman had of his dinner deferred.

They set out together to walk through the frosty air under the cloudless sky. The sun was near to setting. In half an hour a deep orange belt would unroll round the east, flaming signs would mark the heavens, and a great star hang in the midst of an amethyst hemicycle.

They noticed that the sun was near to setting, and one of them saw the glory.

"I want you to tell me honestly," said the other. "You have taken my picture; what do you think it looks like? That is a fair question."