The White Shield by Myrtle Reed
The Madonna of the Tambourine
With a discordant rumble of drums, and the metallic clang of a dozentambourines, the Salvation Army procession passed down the street.When the leader paused at a busy corner and began to sing, a littleknot of people quickly gathered to listen. Some quavering uncertainvoices joined in the hymn as the audience increased, then mindful ofhis opportunity, a tall young man in red and blue uniform began animpassioned exhortation.
George Arnold and his friend Clayton lingered with half humoroustolerance upon the outskirts of the crowd. They were about to turn awaywhen Arnold spoke in a low tone:
"Look at that girl over there."
The sudden flare of the torch-light revealed the only face in the groupwhich could have attracted Arnold's attention. It was that of a girlbut little past twenty, who stood by the leader holding a tambourine.She was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, but her eyeswere deep and lustrous, her mouth sensitive and womanly, and the uglybonnet could not wholly conceal a wealth of raven hair. Her skin had adelicate pearly clearness, and upon her face was a look of exaltationand purity as though she stood on some distant elevation, far above thepain and tumult of the world.
After a little, the Salvationists made ready to depart, and Arnold andClayton turned away.
"I suppose," said Clayton, speaking tentatively, and gazing at thegirl, "that we have no right to criticise any belief which puts a looklike that upon a woman's face."
"We have no right to say a word," returned Arnold, "until we have thegrace to do some of the things which they do."
Clayton soon forgot, but the glorified, childish face haunted Arnold.In the hope of seeing her again, he frequented the curbstones where themeetings were held. Often, he wondered at the holy peace in the eyes ofso young a woman. He had seen the same expression before, but the faceit illumined had always been battle-scarred and weary.
"She hasn't suffered yet," he said grimly, "and that is the thing thattells."
Months passed and summer shaded imperceptibly into autumn. Then, withlittle sharp flurries of cold, winter took its place. Arnold was hardat work in that merciless slavery which is found only at the newspaperdesk.
"You're just a cog in the machine," he said to Clayton one day. "Someday the thing goes wrong, and they find out it's your particular cog,and they get a new one. That's all there is to it."
Clayton laughed at his friend's cynicism, as he could well afford todo, for he had just been called to a distant city to fill an importantposition upon the staff of a larger and more influential journal.
For some time, Arnold's particular cog did yeoman service. He groundout more "copy" than any man on the staff. He had the keenest nose fornews--the most delicate way of handling a good story.
Sometimes as he wrote at his desk, the face of the young Salvationistintruded itself between him and his work. He smiled at his foolishfancy, but dramatic incidents began to take shape about the imageof that girl. He planned "The Great American Novel"--there is nonewspaper man who could not write it, if he only had the time--and shewas to be the central figure.
All the possibilities of womanhood lay in that sweet Madonna-likeface. Thinking along the lines of art the new century seemed to havelaid down, he struck the key-note of his theme--the development of theindividual. His Madonna might suffer or not, but she must grow into herhighest and best. He turned the story over in his mind, studying itfrom every standpoint. It was not yet ready for paper and pen.
A year went by, and various kinds of trouble came to Arnold. Somethingeventually became wrong with the newspaper machine, for he worked onlyby fits and starts, and at last he was asked for his resignation. Hisface was white and determined when he handed it in, but he felt that hewas facing failure.
He had a little money laid by for an emergency; at all events, it wasenough to supply his wants until he could write his book. He went atit feverishly, but the work soon began to drag. The far-off, elusivephantom of his ideal mocked at him behind its expression. Then hewent more slowly still, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, hewent steadily down the pitiful ladder which leads from bad to worse.Ambition faded, hope died, and at last he found himself on a level withhumanity at its worst--an outcast of the slums. Strong drink had doneits work.
He never knew how he happened to lose the remnant of his self-respectand get into a quarrel with a man distinctly his inferior, nor howhe managed to slip on the icy sidewalk and fall heavily against thecurbstone. Merciful unconsciousness blinded him for a time, and whenhe came to his senses he was in a tiny room, scantily furnished,but exquisitely neat and clean. He was staring at the unfamiliarsurroundings when a soft foot-fall sounded beside the bed. He lookedup--to meet the clear eyes of the Madonna.
He was about to speak, but she stopped him by a gesture. "Hush," shesaid, in a voice of mellow sweetness which soothed him inexpressibly,"you must not talk now."
The touch of her cool fingers on his throbbing temples seemed to easethe pain. He was quite willing to obey her and keep quiet. It wasnot until the day following that he knew how badly he had been hurt,and that it would be at least two months before he could walk again."Compound fracture," the doctor said, and Arnold shuddered, for he hadheard of such things before.
As the days went by, the gentle ministry of the Madonna did not for amoment fail. "I say," he said huskily, one morning, "what makes you sogood to me?"
The high color mounted to her temples. "I want you to get well, that'sall."
She had a library card and brought books which he suggested. Her roomwas near his and often in the night when he was restless with pain, shecame in silently, and, holding his hot hand in her cool fingers, readuntil he went to sleep. He remembered her afterwards as she sat in thelamplight, her hair falling around her shoulders and over the looseblack gown which she wore about the house.
Her voice soothed and charmed him. It was full of lights and, littlecaressing notes and a haunting sweetness which, someway, he could notforget. There had been but one woman in his life, and he knew therewould be no other.
The broken bones knit slowly, but the doctor was encouraging, and hetried hard to be patient. He was ashamed to give way to petulance inthe presence of this gentle, sweet-voiced woman, whose name he knew,but whom he preferred to call "Madonna."
"It means 'my lady'," he said to her one day, "and that is what you areto me."
Through the whole of one painful night she read to him from Mrs.Browning, only resting at short intervals when from very weariness hefell into a short and troubled slumber.
Her education had been sadly neglected, he discovered, but her eagerfacile mind was quick to comprehend. She had too, that inner sense ofbeauty which makes all art its own.
Her voice suited itself to the exquisite melody of the words as sheread "A Denial." When it was finished she sat quite still, with adreamy, far-away look in her eyes.
"Of what are you thinking, Madonna?" he asked tenderly.
"Of this--of what it must be for a man and woman who love eachother to go away like this--because it isn't right for them to betogether--never to see each other again." Then she read once more thosefour lines which have in them all the strength of loving and all thepain of parting.
"So farewell, thou whom I have met too late To let thee come so near; Be happy while men call thee great And one beloved woman feels thee dear--"
Something tightened around his heart and he took her cold fingersinto his own. "There's nothing in all the world that hurts like that,Madonna. God keep you from knowing about it, little girl."
An older woman would have taken warning from his words, but she didnot. The caressing way in which he said "little girl" filled her soulwith strange joy. She had a childish, unquestioning faith in him.Some day when he was better--but further than this her maiden thoughtrefused to go. She simply waited, as a queen might wait for hercoronation day.
He was planning to repay her kindness if it were in any way possible.He knew she would not take money from him
The winter was over, and April, warm with May's promise, came inthrough the open window. Even the sullen roar of the city streets couldnot drown the cheering song of two or three stray birds.
The week before Easter she brought home a tall slender lily in a pot,with a single bud showing at the top of the green shaft. "They told meit would blossom for Easter," she said happily, but she did not tellhim she had saved her carfare for days in order to buy it for him.
He was able to sit up now, but she would not let him go until it wasquite safe for him to walk. She seemed to cling, hungrily, to her lastdays with him. "After Easter," she said bravely, "I won't keep you."
He was watching the lily with impatience almost equal to her own, andtiny lines of white appeared on the green sheath. One day, it seemed asif it would blossom too soon, and again, they feared that it would beafter Easter when the perfect flower opened.
"It had to climb up through a pretty dark place to find the light,didn't it, Madonna?" he asked. "I suppose that's the way people do, andGod knows I've had my share of the dark."
Her eyes filled with tender pity and he went on. "You know, Madonna,there's a pretty theory to the effect that you must suffer before youamount to anything. A man can't write nor paint, and a woman can't singnor play before a cruel hurt. I don't mean the kind that makes a fewtears and is followed by forgetfulness--It's the kind that goes rightdown where you live and cuts and stings and burns. You never think ofit without a shudder, even when the place heals up, if it ever does.If it's lost friendship, you never have such a friend again--if it's alost love, you never can care again. Suffering would make a saint ofyou, but I don't want you hurt like that--dear little girl."
He spoke no more, but the questioning maiden eyes sought his. It wasthe day before Easter, and on the day following it he was to leave her.
For almost two months, she had been unfailingly kind to him; readingto him night and day, caring for him as though he were a child, andsoothing him with her unspoken sympathy. Memory brought it all to himwith peculiar distinctness, and a new impulse came to him--an impulseto lay bare his heart before the deep peaceful eyes of this child.
"Dear little Madonna of the Tambourine," he began, "there's a lot ofthings I want to tell you before we say good-bye.
"I saw your sweet face at a curbstone meeting once, in the days whenI wasn't an outcast, and it's haunted me ever since. I wanted to findthe peace which made you so secure and happy--to get at your secret oflife. I wanted to be more worthy of--" He stopped and looked at her.Her eyes were shining like stars and with a little catch in his voice,he went on.
"There's a woman, Madonna, and worthless as I am she loved me, andmarried me. We were happy for a little while, but I couldn't keep awayfrom the cursed drink. That's what put me into the slums. At last herpatience and her love gave out, and she sent me away from her. She toldme to come back to her, either with my shield, or on it, and thanks toyou, I'm going back to her to-morrow--with my shield."
No sound escaped her, but her hand grew cold as ice. Turning, helooked for those starry eyes once more and, in a sudden flash ofunderstanding, he read her secret.
He started to his feet. "Can it be possible that you--that you--I neverdreamed--Oh, Madonna! Forgive me--if you can."
There was a long silence, then she said trying to speak steadily, "Youare not in the least to blame. I have had no thought of you she couldnot know."
For a moment they looked into each other's eyes. "I am not worthy ofit, Madonna," he said huskily, "I do not deserve the love of any goodsweet woman."
"Would--would you go away to-day?" she asked almost in a whisper; thenwith a brave little smile that went straight to his heart, she added:"It's better, I think, to be quite alone."
He made his simple preparations, and she helped him as best she couldwith trembling hands, but it was dark when he was ready to go. Neithercould frame the words they were wont to speak at parting, so they stoodin silence, hand clasping hand.
With only pity and understanding in his heart, he wanted to take herinto his arms for a moment, but she moved away from him. "No," she saidbrokenly, "it must be like this. Be what she would have you be--she andI."
She stood as he had left her until the street door closed below. Shewatched him on the sidewalk, walking with slow uncertain steps, untilhe was lost in the crowd. Then, stretching out in the dark, her emptyhands, she dropped on her knees beside the window. Her shoulders shookwith sobs, but there are no tears for such as she. She was far beyondthe blessed flow which blinds some eyes to the reality of pain. Theinner depths, bare and quivering, are healed by no such balm as this.
She voiced only the simple question which women of all ages have askedin the midst of a cruel hurt--"Why? Dear God, why must it be?"
Some of the last lines of "A Denial" came to her, seemingly in pitifulcomment--
"So farewell, thou whom I have met too late To let thee come so near; Be counted happy--"
"If only she can care again," she said to herself, "it will not be sohard for me--if 'one beloved woman feels thee dear!'"
The grey dawn broke at last and found her still upon her knees.
With the brightening east the signs of life began again in the streetbelow. After a little she stood up and looked far across the irregularlines of roofs and chimney tops to the glowing tapestry of the morningspread like a promise in the dull grey of the sky.
"He didn't want me hurt like this," she said aloud. "He told me hedidn't want me hurt like this."
The first rays of the sun shot into the little room and rested withloving touch upon her face. The old childish look was gone, but in theeyes of the woman who had wrought and suffered, something of the oldpeace still lay. She turned back to her bare cheerless room, readyto face the world again, and then a little cry escaped her. White,radiant, glorified, her Easter lily had bloomed.
A Mistress of Art