The Stolen Singer | Page 8

and equipment of
the little vessel, and in the consequent expense; but he justified himself,
as men will, by a dozen good reasons. The trig little sail-boat turned out
to be a respectable yacht, steam, at that. She was called the Sea Gull.
Neat in the beam, stanch in the bows, rigged for coasting and provided
with a decent living outfit, she was "good enough for any gentleman,"
in the opinion of the agent who rented her. Jim was half ashamed at
giving up the more robust scheme of sailing his own boat, with Aleck;
but some vague and expansive spirit moved him "to see," as he said,
"what it would be like to go as far and as fast as we please." While they
were about it, they would call on some cousins at Bar Harbor and get
good fun out of it.
The idea of his holiday grew as he played with it. As his spin took on a
more complicated character, his zest rose. He went forth on Sunday
feeling as if some vital change was impending. His little cruise loomed
up large, important, epochal. He laughed at himself and thought, with
his customary optimism, that a vacation was worth waiting twelve
years for, if waiting endowed it with such a flavor. Jim knew that Aleck
would relish the spin, too. Aleck's nature was that of a grind tempered
with sportiness. Jim sat down Sunday morning and wrote out the whole
program for Aleck's endorsement, sent the letter by special delivery and
went out to reconnoiter.
The era of Sunday orchestral concerts had begun, but that day, to Jim's
regret, the singer was not a contralto. "Dramatic Soprano" was on the

program; a new name, quite unknown to Jim. His interest in the soloist
waned, but the orchestra was enough. He thanked Heaven that he was
past the primitive stage of thinking any single voice more interesting
than the assemblage of instruments known as orchestra.
Hambleton found a place in the dim vastness of the hall, and sank into
his seat in a mood of vivid anticipation. The instruments twanged, the
audience gathered, and at last the music began. Its first effect was to
rouse Hambleton to a sharp attention to details--the director, the people
in the orchestra, the people in the boxes; and then he settled down,
thinking his thoughts. The past, the future, life and its meaning, love
and its power, the long, long thoughts of youth and ambition and desire
came flocking to his brain. The noble confluence of sound that is music
worked upon him its immemorial miracle; his heart softened, his
imagination glowed, his spirit stirred. Time was lost to him--and earth.
The orchestra ceased, but Hambleton did not heed the commotion
about him. The pause and the fresh beginning of the strings scarcely
disturbed his ecstatic reverie. A deep hush lay upon the vast
assemblage, broken only by the voices of the violins. And then, in the
zone of silence that lay over the listening people--silence that vibrated
to the memory of the strings--there rose a little song. To Hambleton,
sitting absorbed, it was as if the circuit which galvanized him into life
had suddenly been completed. He sat up. The singer's lips were slightly
parted, and her voice at first was no more than the half-voice of a flute,
sweet, gentle, beguiling. It was borne upward on the crest of the
melody, fuller and fuller, as on a flooding tide.
"Free of my pain, free of my burden of sorrow, At last I shall see
thee--"
There was freedom in the voice, and the sense of space, of wind on the
waters, of life and the love of life.
Jimsy was a soft-hearted fellow. He never knew what happened to him;
but after uncounted minutes he seemed to be choking, while the
orchestra and the people in boxes and the singer herself swam in a hazy
distance. He shook himself, called somebody he knew very well an

idiot, and laughed aloud in his joy; but his laugh did not matter, for it
was drowned in the roar of applause that reached the roof.
Jim did not applaud. He went outdoors to think about it; and after a
time he found, to his surprise, that he could recall not only the song, but
the singer, quite distinctly. It was a tall, womanly figure, and a fair,
bright face framed abundantly with dark hair, and the least little
humorous twitch to her lips. And her name was Agatha Redmond.
"Of course, she can sing; but it isn't like having the real thing--'tisn't an
alto," said Jimsy ungratefully and just from habit.
The day's experience filled his thoughts and quieted his restlessness. He
awaited Aleck with entire patience. Monday morning he spent in small
necessary