Chapter 4

"We must have a centre--an idea," said he. "And if that be self, then the devil's to pay. Christ is the only absolute idea--the only possible giver of peace, therefore. I mean by Him, His doctrine. He stands for that, _being_ Truth, as he said, you know. They came out better on the 'good will to men,' if you noticed. It was easier for them to believe in the eternal good will of God, this morning. But they failed in the next line, 'We bless Thee, we give thanks to Thee, for Thy great glory!' If they knew more they would sing better. You know what was said, sir, 'Milton himself could not teach a boy more than he could learn.' That's the amount of it."

Now and then, during these last words, spoken so evidently by a man who liked to talk because he looked for sympathy, and hoped for it, the face of the stranger had changed in its expression; there seemed to be less fierceness, more sadness in his gloom. But the change was so slight as to be hardly perceptible, even to the eyes of Summerman. When he paused in speaking he had still no answer.

They walked on a few paces in silence, when suddenly the organist stepped up to the door of a house that opened on the sidewalk, and unlocked it.

"This is my shop," said he; "won't you come in, and warm yourself? it is so cold in spite of the sun."

Redman Rush hesitated, with his foot upon the doorstep. He looked up and down the street. It was beautiful and bright without, but, oh, how bare and cold! homely enough within, but the glare of a hot coal fire suggested comfort, as the skylight did cheerfulness. Did he really wish for warmth and comfort, for cheerfulness and company? That was the point.

"Come in, I will show you something," said Summerman.

"He invites me as if I were another boy like himself," thought the man. Perhaps for the sake of that unimaginable boyhood he crossed the threshold, and allowed Summerman to close the door behind him.

This room was the organist's home. His household goods were all around him when he stepped into the shop. It was a little place, but so well arranged, that there seemed room, and to spare. Summerman was hospitable as a prince--the shade of Voltaire reminds me of the great Frederick's hospitality! yet, let the word stand.

This shop gave outward and visible signs of the versatility of its owner's mind. The front part was devoted to the clock and watch making business; before the large window stood a table, where the requisite tools were kept for conduct of that business. A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a shelf, and dust was never allowed to accumulate around or upon them. Never was housemaid more exact and scrupulous than the proprietor of this Gallery.

In the back part of the shop, which was lighted by the skylight, stood the instrument for daguerreo-typing, possession of which would have made the organist a proud man, if anything could have done so.

When he had invited Mr. Rush to sit down, and the invitation was accepted, it was by a device of Summerman's that the gentleman found himself directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an interest in any earthly thing, or was capable of curiosity, some good would come of it, thought the organist.

He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, and accordingly approached him with a miniature case in his hand.

Mr. Rush had removed his fur cap, and Summerman approaching him, was so struck by his appearance, the dignity, and pride, and trouble his countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in his surprise, and quite forgot the intention he had, till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his hand for the picture.

"This is little Mary," exclaimed he, presenting the miniature. "I took it last summer. She died in October. Maybe you will understand now why I said that we should have had a singer, if she had lived."

But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, from the point to which he immediately retired, he cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who took the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look.

At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice him. But he did not return it with a glance. Was it the brightness and innocence of the young face that won upon him, or did it for the moment take its place as the type of all beauty and innocence, and hold him to contemplation, as for the last time. Was it really into the face of _that_ little child, dead and buried since October, that he looked? or was _he_ really _here_, under the roof of this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his coal stove this bright Christmas day, locked safe his secret thoughts, himself secure with them?

At last some word or sound escaped the organist. He had gazed at Mr. Rush till he seemed possessed of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary one, expressed better than any inquiry could have done, how much disturbed he was. The stranger heard, and seemed to understand, for at the sound he rose quickly, and laid the picture on the counter; not gently; at the same time he looked at Summerman and laughed; but without merriment.

"Come," said Summerman quickly, "let me take your portrait. I have quite a collection here, you see." And as he spoke he did not remove his eyes from the stranger--he had come to the conclusion that he was mad, or in some direful strait that made him almost irresponsible, and his first purpose was one of helpful commiseration.

Instead of quitting the shop straightway, as Summerman expected he would do when he made this proposition (and if he did depart he meant to follow), the stranger walked toward the instrument, and on his way picked up the picture he had thrown down with so little ceremony. He seemed to think he owed this courtesy:

"Do you find much patronage here?" he asked.

"Oh, considerable," replied Summerman. "Just now more than common. Your likeness is such a good present to make your friend!"

"Do you think so?"

"Certainly," was the emphatic response.

"You ask to take my likeness--what for?"

"I want it myself."

"Oh--for a sign. Well, young man, you don't know what it's the sign of, after all," and here Mr. Rush evidently set himself against the world.

"I hope it's the sign of a friend," answered Summerman, who was keeping up his spirits by an effort, for the mere presence of this man weighed on them with an almost intolerable weight. Yet he was sparing no effort to retain that presence.

"Why do you hope that?" asked Mr. Rush with a disagreeable show of authority.

"Because we met at the church door on Christmas day." Simple answer--yet it was spoken so gently, so truthfully, it seemed to make an impression.

"Christmas day. So it is. But it's getting late. How high is the sun yet?"

"Three hours, maybe."

Hearing this, the gentleman turned away, and walked to the further extremity of the shop. Summerman's eyes followed him with anxiety. But he went on polishing a plate, and seemed beyond all things intent on that.

Presently Mr. Rush came back.

"You may take my likeness," said he. "You are a good fellow. And it will help pass time."

So the artist stepped quickly about, and looked pleased, but not too much so. The work was soon done. While Summerman was putting it through the process of perfection, the gentleman stood and watched him.

"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, assuring. They owe that to God 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 circumstances," said the stranger, sharply.

"Circumstances!" 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. God 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 basement. 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."

"Like misery," replied Summerman, promptly enough.

"Is that all? I thought worse. I thought it looked like a very devil's face. When I go back, I'll destroy it. But, then, it looks like me! Now, I can't afford to live a scarecrow. I believe I wasn't made to frighten others to death. I'd choose to die myself first." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I've been trying to do that. Tried twice. Is there any particular luck in a third time, that you know of?"

Summerman did not answer, though Rush was looking full upon him; neither did he avoid the long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him. He met that like a man.

"You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush.

"Not exactly."

"Thank you. But you are a gipsy. Read my fortune."

Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth palm that was suddenly stretched before him.

"You have been unfortunate," said he.

"Oh, no; you mustn't admit that. Only a little money lost, that's all."

"Is it all, indeed?" asked Summerman, and he dropped the palm. Then he shook his head. "I do not think it could have served you so. A little loss!" said he.

"That is because fortune never made a fool of you. Let me alone; I want to think." He spoke in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is accustomed to command; but he came very near to smiling the next moment, as he looked down at the little person whom he had ordered into silence.

Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.

"Suppose you were in my case," said he, "how would you act?"

"I am not. How can I tell?" was Summerman's prudent answer.

These words, as indeed any words that he could have spoken, were the best that Redman Rush could hear; for now he was leaning with the whole weight of his moral nature on the life of this strong-hearted, true-hearted organist. He liked the unpresuming, modest, generous word.

"I'll tell you what you would be," said he, quickly. "A month ago worth half a million--to-day not a cent. Brought up like a fool, you would probably be one. Turned out of house, helpless as a baby. You have yourself--master of your wits and your hands. Look at these hands! And all my wits can advise me is, this life isn't worth the keeping."

"Oh, no; not to-day! They don't say that to-day!" exclaimed Summerman, speaking as if he knew. And he ventured further, boldly: "They advise you, go home to your wife and your child; live for them and yourself, and God's honor."

"Wife--child!" repeated Rush; and he blushed when he added; "you read fortunes. Your pardon."

"I saw it in your face," said the organist, quietly. "When you looked at our little Mary, I believed you were thinking of some other little child. And it reminded you of some other young lady, when I told you what I expected once. If it hadn't been for them, you would never have thought of destroying yourself; and I'm sure, on their account, what you ought to ask and hope is, that your life may be spared."

It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws. This elegant stranger, who had emerged from mystery to disturb the Christmas day of a humble organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little man, walking along with him, _not_ as he once sauntered through the promenade, a butterfly disdaining all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of flowers. Poor worm! he was half frozen in this wintry brightness, this exhilarating atmosphere, in which Summerman throve so well.

"Are all the men that are born in woods and meadows, and brought up tinkers, like you?" he asked.

"No," answered Summerman. "Some turn out fools, and some knaves, and some ten times better men and wiser men, than I shall ever be."

"Like the rest of the world. Are men, men everywhere?"

"Pretty much. You talk about your wits. You were made to do a bigger business than I shall ever do. Go home and begin it. I've a mind to go with you, so you shan't lose your way."

"You know the way so well," said Rush. He had not before spoken as he now spoke, almost cheerfully, almost hopefully. Here was this fellow that told fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for him! But then, was he not a bankrupt? And if he lived--a beggar still?

* * * * *

The sun had set, and the faces of the two men were again turned to the village. They had walked quite round the lake, and Summerman had concluded that he would invite the gentleman to dine with him when they came back to the inn; would he accept the courtesy? Summerman looked at Mr. Rush, that he might ascertain the probabilities, and thought that he could see a breaking of the black clouds which held this man a prisoner. He wanted to preach to him. He wanted exceedingly to launch out again on the Good Will doctrine; and at length he did, but not exactly in the manner he would have chosen, had he been left to himself.

As they walked along in silence, suddenly came and met them the sound of a quick clanging church bell; then rose a mighty cry, and a still more potent flame ascending heavenward.

"It's a fire!" cried Summerman. And, true to his living impulse and instinct, which was forever--first and last, and ever--the good of the public, the little man set off on a run. His companion, the gentleman who had never, in his thirty years, run to a fire, with generous intent, followed on as fleetly. So they came together to the village street, when, lo! the shop of Daniel Summerman, was making all this stir! drawing such crowds about it as never before the artist's varied powers had done.

There was neither door nor roof, wall or window, visible, but a pit of flame, and within, as everybody knew, the entire stock, sum total of the organist's worldly goods.

"Well! well!" said he, as, panting, he came to a stand-still in the middle of the street, his companion close beside him.

"Curse God, and die!" was all that the wife of Job could think to say to him, in his extremity.

"Well! well!" was the comment Redman Rush could make on this disaster, repeating Summerman's words with an emphasis not all his own. It was evident that, for a moment at least, he had forgotten himself; his face was no longer dark with misery, but full of consternation, alive with sympathy. And still he said:

"Where's your Good Will doctrine, though?"

"Safe!" cried the organist, and he crossed his arms on his breast with a look of perfect triumph.

"You eat your words with a vengeance. You preach the best sermon I ever heard, _I_ swear," said Mr. Rush, looking at him with amazement.

"Humph!" ejaculated Summerman.

"I believe, after all, 'twas my cursed picture that did it," continued Rush. He was not able to stand there in silence listening to the roaring of the fire, by the side of the man whose property was being destroyed in this relentless manner. He must talk; and no one hindered him, for the most of the working force of the village was busy trying to draw water from the frozen pumps of the neighborhood.

"I might have known such a face would raise the devil," muttered he.

"Then, they are both done for!" was Summerman's quick answer. "If you are burnt to death, it's clear you can't be drowned. So, it seems you're a new man altogether. Sir, your wife calls you! But, before you go, pray, take the Good Will doctrine in. A present from me, if you please."

Having said these words, the organist wiped his eyes, and laughed.

"If this is a dream," said Redman Rush, astonished into doubt of all he saw and heard, "let me get home before I wake up, for God's sake." And he turned away from the organist, and was hid in the crowd from the eyes that followed him.

He turned away, but would he ever lose the memory of a soft voice, saying:

"Mr. Summerman, my boys and I insist on your coming to spend the holidays with us."

Or, of a grey-haired gentleman's aspect, who came hurrying through the crowd till he stood face to face with the little organist, whose hands he grasped as he said:

"Never mind, lad; never mind. You'll be a richer man before night than you ever were before. Here is a year's salary in advance, from the church, sir. You understand. And we all want our daguerreotypes; so order an instrument."

Or, of an agitated voice, that followed him like the voice of a spirit, mysterious and persuasive:

"Oh, believe in the Good Will Doctrine!"

SEA-WEED.