Gifts of Genius Part 7

"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 G.o.d'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 b.u.t.terfly 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 G.o.d, 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 G.o.d'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!"