  It happened, or shall we say began, on a Sunday night. During the many days previous to this, things had picked up little by little in Cherry’s subway radio studio. One evening the little Irish girl who played the piano had brought in a young fellow with a shabby violin case under his arm. “Can you play it?” Cherry asked. “A little,” was the modest reply. The young fellow, who had gone through all the horrors of the Battle of Flanders and Dunkirk, was Scotch. He could do weird things with that violin. With it alone he could make you believe that a score or more of bagpipers were marching down the street. And when it came to that mellow old Scotch song: “Flow gently, Sweet Afton Among thy green braes Flow gently. I’ll sing thee A song in thy praise.” he could bring a happy tear to many a tired eye. So he was given a place on the program, and weary Cherry sang a little less than before. Other musicians wandered in. Where they all came from no one will ever know. Next there came a cellist, then a drummer, two bass viols, two clarinets, two more violins, a gypsy girl with tambourine and castanets,—all these and half a dozen others wandered in. After that they had an orchestra. There was not an “artist” in the hard and fast meaning of the word among them all, but they could roll the barrel, set Johnny loving, swing the chariot low, roll the old chariot along, and do a hundred other songs dear to the hearts of the good common people of old England and to many another who did not consider himself quite so common. All this gave Cherry a breathing spell now and then. But when the members of the orchestra had each done his bit for just so long, there would come calls from all down the subway: “Cherry! Cherry! We want Cherry! We want the Singin’ Angel.” The Singin’ Angel, that is what they came at last to call her. That was because of Sunday nights, for on that night they left the Old Chariot at home, put lovin’ Johnny to bed early, rolled the barrel far back in the corner, and pushed “The Old Rugged Cross” right out in front. No one seemed to mind. Indeed they appeared to love that hour of the week best of all. In times such as this people cling to their religion. One moment “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me” would go rolling on and on from end to end of the subway. Some one in the orchestra would start “Throw Out The Lifeline to danger frought men.” Then Cherry in her strong young voice would sing: “When all my trials and troubles are o’er And I am safe on that beautiful shore That will be glory, be glory for me.” “Now!” she would cry. “Everybody sing!” “Oh! That will be glory for me, Glory for me, glory for me.” Yes, religion seemed very real on these Sunday nights. On this particular night, it was midnight when Cherry reached Lady Perkins’ home. She remembered it afterward, for at that very moment Big Ben was gloriously booming the hour of twelve. She had walked home alone. It was not far. She let herself in with her latchkey. The “all clear” had sounded, so, feeling weary and happy all in one, she stretched out on her bed fully dressed, and fell asleep. She was dreaming of quiet, sleepy hours, with Flash at her side, while her sheep wandered over the hillside at Ramsey Farm, when suddenly it seemed that a mighty thunderstorm had stolen upon her unawares and that the very hill was being rocked by its roaring. She awoke standing in the center of the room. Her knees trembled so she could scarcely stand. The floor beneath her vibrated like a ship in a storm. From all about her came strange crashes like walls falling one upon another. “Only three walls remained” “Only three walls remained” She tried to call, but could only whisper. A narrow crack of light appeared before her. A board in the door had been split. She stepped to the door and opened it. Then, catching herself, she started back to whisper in dismay: “It’s gone! The house is gone! Only my room is here!” That was not quite true. Of that spacious home only three rooms remained—her own and two others. A half-ton bomb had scattered the rest. Recalling that the French windows of her room opened out on a court, she sprang to the nearest one. Then she was out and away. A weird light from a flare sent down by the enemy illuminated the street. Once on that street she began to run. In all her fright and confusion she had a vague plan. Dave was spending the night with his uncle. She knew the address. Was it far? She did not know. All she knew was that somehow she must get there. She had gone but a block when she ran squarely into the arms of a six-foot policeman. “Here now, Miss! What’s this?” His voice had a kindly rumble. “The house!” she cried. “Lady Perkins’ house! It’s gone!” “Yes,” he agreed. “It was a terrible bomb. The firemen are just there now. Thank God Lady Perkins and all were away.” “No!” Cherry whispered. “I was there.” “You?” The Bobby looked her over. “You were there? And who now might you be?” “I—I’m Cherry.” “What? The Singin’ Angel?” He looked her in the face. “Bless me heart it is now! What do you know about that! Bless the Lord you are safe.” “I can’t talk.” The girl’s head drooped. “I can’t sing. I—I want to go to Dave’s Uncle’s place.” In her fright she was like a child. “And where would that be?” She gave him the address. He read it, then blew a whistle. A man appeared. “Jim,” he said, “this is Cherry, the Singin’ Angel. God’s own child she is.” “The Singin’ Angel!” Jim’s jaw dropped. “None other,” said the Bobby. “An’ you’re to take her to this address. Mind you drive careful, careful and steady as ye would if it were the Christ Child you’re ’avin in yer car.” Jim’s car was old and dilapidated, but to Cherry it was the latest model of a Rolls Royce and its cushions as soft as down, for was it not taking her to her friends? Arrived at the house, in the presence of Dave’s tall, gray-haired uncle, she disgraced herself by throwing herself in Dave’s arms. Then she wept like a child. This storm over, she felt better. Two cups of strong tea revived her spirits but not her voice. She could only whisper as she said: “Dave, please take me home, back to the farm.” “At this hour of the night?” Dave stared. “I’ll have a car for you at once,” said the kindly gray-haired uncle. “Dave, my boy, London’s no place for a girl who has gone through what this girl has tonight.” All the way home Dave had an arm about Cherry. She cuddled close to him, as a scared child would and they were not ashamed. Arrived at the farm, they quietly dismissed the driver. Arousing no one, they sat before the half-burned-out kitchen fire for a time. When at last Dave felt the trembling quiver of her shoulders pass away, he said huskily: “You’d better turn in for a little sleep.” “Dave,” she whispered. “My voice is gone. I can’t sing any more.” “Fright. That’s all.” Dave tried to reassure her. “It will come back.” Would it? He wondered as he watched her make her way slowly, dreamily, like a sleep-walker, up the stairs. |
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