A Lost Hall Hour

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

IT promised fair when I started down town, and to have carried an umbrella would have been to impeach the sun’s veracity. But in a short hour a storm gathered from Heaven knows where — February has them always up his sleeve. And presently, without warning, one of the worst showers of the season was scattering folk in every direction to the nearest shelter that offered, amid the thud of feet and pant of bodies unused to haste.

Into the doorway which I happened to be passing at the time I pelted with several others who had converged to the same coign of vantage from the storm. For a few moments each one was busy emptying hat-brims and shaking out the dampness from folds or furbelows. But when these first readjustments were made we had leisure to look about, to see where we were and who we were.

It was the traditional auctioneer’s storage room into which we had strayed, — the respectable, dignified, antique kind, whose evanescent collections always wear the self-conscious air of having an educational mission : of existing, in fact, solely to be looked at for a suitable period before removal to a new sphere of usefulness.

The room was crowded with antique furniture, china, books, pictures, chests, and boxes of ambiguous import. Spiderlegged tables sprawled aggressively, occupying all the space possible ; gloomy secretaries drew themselves back against the walls and viewed life seriously ; frivolous gilt bijouteries from the white and gold period of Louis Quatorze stood a-tiptoe here and there. In one corner posed a graceful harp, in another a quaint spinet ; between them huddled, half ashamed, an awkward piano of that woeful age when the newly fashionable instruments seemed like overgrown boys, — all legs and dubious voice.

The persons who had here sought shelter from the storm waited about in various attitudes of listlessness or impatience. The Lawyer, the Journalist, the Business Man frowned and tapped the floor with their toes. The Dressmaker’s Apprentice seated herself on her big box and stared vacantly. The pretty Actress and the Judge strolled aimlessly, looking at the solemn pictures of somebody’s forgotten ancestors, handling the china, questioning the tall clocks, whose barefaced mendacity in regard to the hour went unchallenged. The Musician with his violin under his arm seemed lost in thought. The Politician stared out at the pelting rain, which still kept the street dark and deserted, and swore softly and continuously under his breath. The Messenger Boy, bulging with the package he had been sent to deliver, whistled to himself with the nonchalance of his tribe.

They were an oddly assorted collection which the storm had brought into apparently unreconcilable proximity, and they noted one another no more than did the wooden antiques about them, or the wooden Proprietor who stood with folded arms at the back of his premises, lost in gloom.

Suddenly, out of the dreariness came sounds. It was the cracked voice of the piano timidly asserting itself in an ancient ditty. Every one turned from his contemplation of dampness or antiquity and stared into the dim corner.

An old colored man, hitherto unnoticed, had drawn a rickety chair before the piano, and was absently running his stiff fingers over the keys.

“ I wish I was in Dixie ! ” One became aware that the old fellow was humming below his breath, and the voice was a pleasant one, with something pathetic in its cadences. There was, moreover, a world of suggestion in his loving touch upon the yellowed keys. He seemed absorbed in making the most of an unwonted opportunity.

The wooden Proprietor stared at him, but made no movement to interfere. The Musician ceased fidgeting with his mustache and drew nearer, interested. The others turned their backs on the present and listened.

The old negro noticed nothing His kinky wool was very white, and his face scored with deep furrows. Beside the chair lay a rusty black bag and a walking stick. He was a peddler of small wares, perhaps. After Dixie he ran through a number of old war songs and lays of the sunny South, and the effect was in quaint contrast with the time and the hour, — with February rain in Boston of the new century.

The listeners drew nearer, and the Musician leaned eagerly upon the piano. Suddenly the player looked up and became conscious of his audience. His dusky face changed, and he would have risen to slink away, but the little German pressed his shoulder encouragingly.

“ No, no, my friend, go on. It is fine ! ” he cried. The Judge, from the other end of the piano, nodded in the way familiar to so many in the courtroom, and spoke judicially. “ It is good to hear you,” he said. “ Will you not give us Swanee River ? I am fond of that melody.”

The old darky hesitated, then broke into a nervous laugh. “ Wall, I reckon I can, Massa,” he said deprecatingly, “ if you ladies ’n’ gemmen all jine in de chorus. Dat’s way we uster do down Massa’s, w’en I play fo’ ’em befo’ de wah.”

Presently the piano was trembling to the familiar, never outworn air, accompanying the frail old voice. One by one the fellow refugees had drawn into the little group about him, and when the chorus came we all joined in the simple words, and, inspired by the old man’s earnestness, sang with a fervor which must have surprised the reserved New England heirlooms about us. I saw the Lawyer beating time with his green bag, and the Politician contorted with a spasm of bass. The Messenger Boy and the Dressmaker’s Apprentice let out the full strength of their vigorous young lungs, longing for exercise, and even the lips of the solemn Proprietor moved spasmodically. I thought I saw a tear in the Judge’s eye — but that must have been imagination, or perhaps my own did not see too clearly. And the Musician — who plays in the front rank of one of the finest orchestras of the world — was in a glow. We drew closer together around the old darky’s chair, and sang the second verse, kindling to its pathos. A heterogeneous chorus we were, — folk of all sorts and conditions drifted together from the city’s chaos. And the leader of us, he who had made our proximity a veritable nearness of spirit, had been a slave.

But abruptly our musical communion was ended. The Messenger Boy came to himself. “ Gee ! ” he cried, “ the sun’s out ; ’t ain’t rainin’. How long since, I wonder ? ” And with a whistle he bolted out to deliver his overdue package.

Then we pulled ourselves together and looked about. We had forgotten time ! Sure enough, the old shop was flooded with golden light, the street was full of passers eager to make up for the lost half hour. A lost half hour! The Business Man looked blank and fled. The Dressmaker’s Apprentice skurried guiltily away with her box. The Lawyer looked at his watch, frowned, and hastened to his appointment ; the pretty Actress disposed her ruffles discreetly and stepped into the glistening street, late, I fear, for her rehearsal ; the Journalist buttoned his coat and put on again the glare of preoccupation ; the Politician bustled away with an oath condemning time ; the Judge wiped his spectacles, and departed with a vague remark about a rainbow.

The Musician took his violin and started abruptly for the door. But in a moment he came back to the old darky, who had risen in a bewildered way, and was groping for scrip and staff, preparing to renew his pilgrimage. The little German seized his wrinkled hand.

“ Thank you for saving us the happiest half hour of the day,” he said, and he was gone.