Part 3

Once ’Lijah had the supreme delight of nursing Farley through a short but severe illness. Then it was that his musical accomplishments, which had at first attracted his benefactor, again came into play. His repertoire, it is true, was scant, including only “Whiter than Snow,” which he had heard at one of Mr. Moody’s revival meetings, and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” doubtless a relic of the old days when the slaves sang at their work in the cotton fields, or among the huts at night. Of tune he knew absolutely nothing, and the different airs which he improvised for the words, according to the mood he was in, gave the effect of a much greater variety than the two hymns would otherwise have afforded.

To-night he was as happy as a child, and went to and fro about the house humming, to a tune which seemed a combination of “Dixie” and “Coronation”

“Swing low,--swing low-- Comin’ fer ter carry me ho-o-ome.”

All the way down to the store after supper he murmured by turns “Sweet Chariot,” and “Mars’ George done trus’ me sho’ly!” People noticed his lightsome looks, and some one must have given him a sprig of holly, which he wore proudly, after all the berries had dropped off, in his buttonhole.

Arriving at the store he found Farley waiting impatiently for him, and was at once instructed in the duties of his two-hours’ watch. He was to sit in the main office, which was in the third story and looked out upon a large street. Every fifteen minutes he must take a lantern and patrol the entire building above the first floor, which was occupied by another firm, furniture dealers and manufacturers.

“Here, ’Lijah,” said Farley, hurriedly drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket and thrusting them into the other’s hands; “take these. That flat key will open the safe, and in it--look--is this box, containing the most valuable papers in the store. If anything happens be sure to look after them. Now good-bye, old fellow. Don’t go to sleep, and look out for me inside of two hours.” And he was gone.

’Lijah listened to his retreating footsteps with intense satisfaction.

“Hi! Ain’t dis a Chris’mus Eve fer ole ’Lijah!” he said, softly, taking a survey of his surroundings, and proceeding to settle himself in one of the most uncomfortable chairs in the room.

Pretty soon he looked at the clock. The hand indicated exactly half-past seven.

“Reck’n I’ll begin dis yere business on time,” he soliloquized, picking up the lantern Farley had left for him.

It would have been laughable, and pathetic at the same time, had any one been there to see how anxiously he peered into every corner for signs of danger; scrutinizing the door mats, gravely pausing before tables and desks, giving a comprehensive glance now and then at the ceiling, stepping on tiptoe, and, with eyes as round as saucers, listening as he approached each door. This entire performance he repeated regularly on the quarter-hours, as Farley had told him; his features relaxing into his gleeful chuckle each time, as he found himself in the cosy office, with all well behind him.

Meanwhile the hands of the clock upon the wall crept round in leisurely fashion to nine, half-past, ten; and ’Lijah’s broad, white smile expanded further and further as no Farley appeared.

“He’s done trus’ me lots dis yere night, sho’ly,” he repeated again. “Guess you’s a tol’able good watchman, po’ ole ’Lijah, you is. Hi! dat’s some o’ Miss Rosy’s work, sho’ ’nuff!”

He had finished his quarter-past-ten round, and had been sitting for some time in his straight-backed chair, singing softly to himself, and ruminating on Mars’ George’s manifold virtues and the fair face of his lady, and was watching the clock for the signal of his next survey of the premises, when he noticed a peculiar effect in the upper portion of the room. The ceiling seemed to be going farther and farther away, lifting higher and higher. Was he falling asleep then, after all, like an unfaithful sentinel? He sat bolt upright, rubbed his smarting eyes, and looked up again. The ceiling was almost out of sight. At the same moment the old negro was seized with a violent fit of coughing. He sprang to his feet, trembling in every limb. There was no longer any mystery about it; the room was rapidly filling with smoke, which poured in steadily through the transom over the office door.

’Lijah stood a moment and tried to think. Then he ran, lantern in hand, into the entry and down the stairs, uttering incoherent cries of “O Lor’! O Mars’ George! Look yere, look yere! O ’Lijah, you wuf’less ole--O Lor’, O Lor’!” Scrambling, tumbling, sliding, he found his way down through the stifling smoke, which boiled up in an ever increasing volume from the basement. Reaching the street, ’Lijah ran plump into a policeman, and, his teeth chattering with terror, tried to tell him what was the matter.

But his haste was needless, for even while he spoke, deep voices were repeating ’Lijah’s message in solemn, measured tones, above the roofs all over the city; a low roar, growing louder each instant, arose far down the street. Louder and louder, mingled with a jangling of gongs and dismal blowing of horns, as the mighty foes of the fire gathered to their work. Suddenly the crowd, which seemed to have sprung up out of the ground, fled to right and left. A magnificent pair of black horses dashed fiercely up before the store, leaving behind them a long trail of floating sparks from the beautiful, glistening creature of brass and steel at their backs. Then came one piece of apparatus after another, engines, ladders and hose. In the confusion and uproar of their arrival, the policeman had quite forgotten the trembling old black man and his lantern. Now he looked around and saw him crowding his way toward the store, from which tongues of flame began to dart viciously.

“Come back there!” shouted the officer sternly, rushing upon ’Lijah and jerking him backward so that he nearly fell. “Don’t you see the stairway’s all on fire?”

“B-b-but Mars’ George done trus’”--

“I don’t know anything about that,” interrupted the policeman, pushing back the crowd to right and left. “You can’t go in there again, and that’s all there is about it.”

A determined look came into ’Lijah’s dark face. He stopped shaking and watched his chance. It came soon, and with a movement wonderfully quick for such an old man, he darted through the line and toward the burning building.

“Stop him! Stop the nigger!” shouted half a dozen voices. “He’s crazy!”

Two or three firemen sprang forward, but it was too late. An involuntary and audible shudder went through the crowd as he plunged into the black stairway, stooping to avoid the flames which curled around the posts above his head.

In another minute some one cried out, “Look, look! there he is, way up in the third story!”

How he had made his way through that terrible barrier, no one ever knew. There he was, gesticulating wildly at the window, shouting to the firemen, and presently holding up what appeared to be a small box. With a warning cry to those below, he dropped it, watched it as it fell and was borne safely out of danger by a uniformed officer,--and sank back upon the window sill. Those in the opposite building afterward said they could see then that he was terribly burned, but seemed in all his pain to be laughing to himself. They thought, as did the crowd below, that he was insane.

All this time the firemen were attacking the fire upon every side, but with no visible effect. The varnish and oils stored by the furniture dealers in various portions of their establishment made rallying points for the flames, which almost at the very outset had found their way through the central staircase, and so up and out of the roof. Every front window in the two lower stories poured forth its volume of fire and smoke, so that no ladders could be successfully planted. Nor could entrance be effected through the skylight, the enemy having, as I have described, taken possession of that important point. Meanwhile old ’Lijah seemed quite content to sit just inside his window and wait for what was coming fast. His grizzled head drooped gradually, and those nearest could see his lips moving. If they had been very near indeed, they would have heard him talking and singing to himself:

“‘Swing low, sweet chari-o-t, Comin’ fer to carry me home!’

I’se done it, Mars’ George, jes’ ’s you tole me. You done trus’ ’Lijah, an’ he warn’t a-gwine to give up.

‘Whiter dan sno-o-ow! Swing low!’”

Yes, old ’Lijah, your chariot is swinging low for you, very low.

“Comin’ fer to carry me”--

The thick smoke rolls out heavily through the window overhead. The firemen keep a steady stream playing through the broken panes, and fight fiercely with their axes to reach him. It grows so hot that the people in the opposite windows hold their hands before their faces, while they watch.

Still nearer swings the great roaring chariot of fire. Lower and lower droops the faithful head upon the black, scorched hands.

His lips were still moving faintly, and he was still whispering, “Swing low, swing low, swing low,” when CRASH! came a burly figure, his face blackened with smoke and his rubber coat dripping with water, straight in through the window. Without a word he seized ’Lijah firmly around the waist and raised himself upright on the window-sill; then looking upward he shouted, hoarsely, “Haul away!”

The crowd held their breath as the two figures swung out into the air at that fearful height, and spun round once or twice before they were drawn up--up--inch by inch, and landed safe and sound on the roof. Then up went such a shout as has rarely been heard in this good city; a great, beautiful, manly cry of triumph and joy, such as the angels might utter over him who was lost.

It was a long time before ’Lijah could realize that he had not been borne away in his chariot, that had swung so low. I believe he felt a pang of disappointment when he first looked at his wrinkled, scarred hands, and found they were not “whiter than snow.” But Rosy, dear, repentant little Rosy, soon found ways to comfort him; for she would not hear of his staying in the hospital, because she knew it was all her fault, she said, keeping George so long. So ’Lijah is quite as content to stay on the earth a little while longer as he was to go. For does not Mars’ George come every evening and sit by him, and tell him they must live together always? and doesn’t ’Lijah know, too, that the crowning glory of his life is to be on next Christmas Eve, just a year from the great fire, when Miss Rosy will be Miss Rosy no longer, and he is to enter upon permanent duties in her new home?

IV

A CHRISTMAS REVERIE

It was growing late, on a certain December evening, when I put on my dressing-gown and slippers, turned off the gas, drew my easy chair up in front of the blazing wood fire, and settled back with a long breath of comfort, thanking my lucky stars that work was over, for that day at any rate. Not that any stars were in sight, lucky or otherwise. In the first place, the windows were covered with a heavy, fuzzy layer of frost, except up in one corner where I couldn’t possibly look out without climbing into a chair; and in the next place, even if I had raised the sash, which I was by no means inclined to do, I should have seen nothing but a great, white, howling blur of snow, tossing and foaming between the brick walls which confined it, like the rapids of Niagara.

In fact the wind was with difficulty kept outside at all, and at intervals would knock savagely at the frosted pane, or shout down the chimney, to the great amusement of the good-humored fire.

Now if there is anything I particularly like, it is the sound of a furious northeaster in the chimney on such a night as this. So I sat there, watching the dancing flames, feeling the grateful warmth beginning to creep through the soles of my slippers, and listening to my boisterous friend outside, when I became conscious of a curious optical effect in one of the black marble pillars which supported my mantel. As the shadows flitted to and fro about its Ionic scrolls, it looked exactly as if it were nodding its head, and the fringe of the lambrequin hung out over its forehead like a mass of disheveled hair. Yielding myself wholly to the queer fancy, I was not at all surprised to have the pillar straighten itself up until it was nearly six feet tall, and ask me in rather a severe voice what I meant by translating _notus_, “northeast wind?”

“I didn’t mean to, sir,” I stammered, feeling all at once greatly in awe of the projecting tuft of hair that loomed up threateningly over me. “I suppose it was because it was snowing, and the northeast wind is really”--Here I paused, for I happened to glance at the window as I spoke, and behold, there was no sign of frost or snow on the dusty pane. I looked foolish and--I had scrambled to my feet when the question was asked--sat down hastily.

“Next!” said the tall figure, bending its dark brows on a boy who had glided in unobserved and taken his seat beside me. While he was translating in a hesitating and monotonous voice what seemed to be a passage from Virgil, I had time to look about me, at the same time experiencing an odd sensation of waking up after a long sleep. It had been a wild, strange dream, then,--my college life, my adventures abroad, my business and its cares. Yes, even the few gray hairs that had begun to peep around my ears were but fancied symptoms of maturity and age. For here I was, where of course I ought to be, sitting on a hard bench, Virgil in hand, following the recitation and reading ahead hurriedly about where I thought my turn would come. Every moment the scene became more natural, and the dream-life of my manhood more and more indistinct. The old head master, Francis Gardner, whom I now recognized beyond all doubt, soon reached my end of the class once more, but before he could call on me to translate, the hands of the clock touched eleven, and we were dismissed for recess.

Down we poured over the long, worn staircase, which trembled under our tread, one flight after another, until we reached the yard. Here we played our old games, running to and fro between the high brick walls, and dodging around their sharp angles. At length the bell--I can hear its exact tones now--called to us from a window overhead, and we scrambled up again, taking our places at our desks with just as much bustle and interchange of sly thrusts as we dared. One boy was late, and the Doctor met him at the threshold.

“Now, sir,” said he sternly, looking down at the culprit, and fixing upon him a glance which I never knew to fail of inspiring awe, “Now, sir, do you want a rasping?” The boy shuffled his feet back and forth on the floor, twisted his hat in his hands, and began to mumble an excuse.

“Look here,” said the tall figure, “you can take either of the two horns of the dilemma,” holding up two fingers. “Either you went so far away that you couldn’t hear the bell, or you didn’t start when you did hear it. Which horn will you take?”

How that boy trembled as he surveyed those long, gaunt fingers on which hung his fate! Foolish fellow, not to know the warm heart that was beating behind all the kind old Doctor’s frowns! For do I not remember his many gentle deeds, often done in secret and found out by accident? It seems only yesterday, when, having sent one of his scholars away in disgrace, and learned a few days later that the boy was at home and sick, he had misgivings that he had been unjust, and appeared at that boy’s door after school hours with a bouquet at least a foot in diameter, and the injunction--awkwardly enough given--that the boy should not be worried about what had occurred, nor about the lessons he was losing. Feeble as he was, with age and disease fast laying hold upon him, the head master had traversed the entire breadth of the city in the dead of winter to leave this message for the pupil he feared he had wronged.

While I was reflecting upon these things the Doctor had finished his rebuke to the tardy boy and left the room. Others came and went. The boys’ faces were all familiar, and my heart brimmed over with delight as I recognized those whom, in my dream of college and business, I had thought of as sober, work-a-day men. Here was the round-eyed, mischievous fellow whom I had fancied to be a learned physician; another, a librarian; a third, a student and teacher of German, but now, bereft of whiskers and bass voice, once more a boy, and the scapegrace of the class. Then there were the teachers. One, whose fair, scholarly face I had never expected to see again on this earth, was busily explaining a Latin exercise to the class, with the aid of several old vellum-bound books he had brought from his own private library. Another bustled in with a carpetbag and a hearty, cheery air; compared the school clock with his watch (of whose almost superhuman accuracy we boys always stood in awe), and heard us recite in French. This lesson passed off with a briskness and good will that waked us all up as if we had been out in the fresh air, and left us keen for the next study. Meanwhile I caught glimpses of other teachers, all more or less associated with the dearest and best days of my life. There was he who once invited us all out to skate on his pond, in the country; who knew how to be stern with wrong-doers, but who was known to stay late in the afternoon, day after day, to hear a sick boy recite lessons in his home, that the little fellow might not fall behind his class, and so lose a possible chance for a prize. In my after-dream, his hair had been threaded with gray; but now it was brown, as I remembered it of old. Still another was a young man whose even-handed justice--“squareness,” we used to call it--was proverbial among my schoolmates. I had heard that his own son had since grown old enough to pass through college most honorably, and that he himself had taken the place of the grim Doctor in some strange air-castle of a new schoolhouse, far from its former site. Now I realized that I was back in the old days, and laughed to myself so loud that nothing but a disingenuous cough, into which I dexterously turned my mirth, saved me a mark for misconduct.

But now the room was hushed, as the master addressed us in quiet, earnest tones. He was bidding us good-bye for a few days, and ended by wishing us all a Merry Christmas.

Bless me, how we did throng around the desk on our way out, and return his hearty greeting! In spite of my sense of the reality of the whole scene, I could not dispel a strange foreboding that I was saying farewell to school and master forever. The twilight shadows of the short winter afternoon--it was storming furiously now, and had grown quite dark within doors--gathered about the old man’s form as he sat there shaking hands with one after the other, his eyes twinkling in their deep sockets, and meeting with kindly glance the fresh young boy faces around him. In a moment more this was all forgotten, for we had reached the street, and were rioting about in the snow as only boys let out from school for a week’s vacation can do. How we did assail policemen and wagon-drivers and pretty girls, to be sure! These last were on their way home from school, too, and many were the laughing glances and shy smiles that were flung us in return for our harmless pats of snow.

Full of the merriment of the day, although not yet aware that it was really Christmas Eve, I made my way up to Boylston Market, which was completely transfigured from a rather jail-like and dreary receptacle for unpleasantly red shoulders of mutton and beef, to a wonderland of evergreen and holly; it had not yet given place to a great dry-goods emporium. Here I saw my former teachers--God bless them, every one!--approach in a group, very much like boys themselves, for the time, and select various wreaths and bunches of green for home. I touched my “B. L. S.” cap respectfully as they passed, but a flurry of snow came between and they did not see me. I stretched out my hand to them, but they were gone. Again the aching sense of loss, the dread of finding that I was in the midst of unrealities came over me, and I shivered from head to foot. Pulling my cap low over my ears, I hurried back to Bedford Street. Alas! my worst fears were realized. The old schoolhouse was gone. Strange faces stared at me through the darkening storm. I leaned against the black iron fence, which still remained, and hid my face in my hands. As I did so, the wind moaned drearily overhead, and I heard the snow and sleet drifting against--what? My own window-panes!

Yes, the dream was truth, and the truth was a dream. I shivered again, in my easy chair, felt of my beard, stretched myself and rose stiffly to my feet. The fire had burned low, had fallen in entirely between the andirons, and the room was growing more chilly. I took some good birch sticks from the wood-box, encouraged them with a handful of dry cones, and, as they threw out their cheerful warmth, I became more and more content to remain a man, and leave my boyish days tied up, like old letters, in an out-of-the-way corner where I could take them out and live them over again at will.

V

THE CRACKED BELL

There was no doubt whatever of its melancholy condition. Cracked it was, and cracked it had been for the last two years. Just how the crack came there, nobody knew. It was, indeed, a tiny flaw, long ago covered by green rust, and apparently as harmless as the veriest thread or a wisp of straw, lodging for a moment on the old bell’s brazen sides. But when the clapper began to swing, and gave one timid touch to the smooth inner surface of its small cell, the flaw made itself known, and as the strokes grew louder and angrier, the dissonance so clattered and battered against the ears of the parish, that after two years’ patient endurance of this infliction (which they considered a direct discipline, to humble their pride over a new coat of white paint on the little church), one small, black-bonneted sister rose in prayer-meeting and begged that the bell be left quiet, or at least muffled for one day, as it disturbed her daughter, whom all the village knew to be suffering from nervous prostration.

Emboldened by this declaration of war, a deacon declared that it was an insult to religion and its Founder, to ring such a bell. It was the laughing-stock of the village, he added, and its flat discords were but a signal for derision on the part of every scoffer and backslider in the parish.

Other evidence of convincing character was given by various members of the congregation; the bell was tried, convicted and sentenced; and more than one face showed its relief as good old Dr. Manson, the pastor, instructed the sexton publicly to omit the customary call to services on the following Sabbath.

“I hope,” he further said, looking around gravely on his people, “that you will all make more than usual effort to be in your pews promptly at half-past ten.”

For a time the members of the First Congregational Society of North Penfield were noticeably and commendably prompt in their attendance upon all services. They were so afraid that they should be late that they arrived at the meeting-house a good while before the opening hymn. Dr. Manson was gratified, the village wits were put down, and the old bell hung peacefully in the belfry over the attentive worshipers, as silent as they. Snow and rain painted its surface with vivid tints, and the swallows learned that they could perch upon it without danger of its being jerked away from their slender feet.

There was no other meeting-house in the town, and as the nearest railroad was miles away, the sound of a clear-toned bell floating down from the summer sky, or sending its sweet echoes vibrating through a wintry twilight in an oft-repeated mellow call to prayers, was almost forgotten.