Above all, she brought a light heart to her work. One evening in the
latter part of that first week of the new regime, Parker perceived Bud
Tipworthy standing in the doorway of the printing-room, beckoning him
silently to come without.
"What's the matter, Buddie?"
"Listen. She's singin' over her work."
Parker stepped outside. On the pavement, people had stopped to listen;
they stood in the shadow, looking up with parted lips at the open, lighted
Windows, whence came a clear, soft, reaching voice, lifted in song; now it
swelled louder, unconsciously; now its volume was more slender and it
melted liquidly into the night; again, it trembled and rose and dwelt in
the ear, strong and pure; and, hearing it, you sighed with unknown
longings. It was the "Angels' Serenade."
Bud Tipworthy's sister, Cynthia, was with him, and Parker saw that she
turned from the window and that she was crying, quietly; she put her hand
on the boy's shoulder and patted it with a forlorn gesture which, to the
foreman's eye, was as graceful as it was sad. He moved closer to Bud and
his big hand fell on Cynthia's brother's other shoulder, as he realized
that red hair could look pretty sometimes; and he wondered why the
editor's singing made Cynthy cry; and at the same time he decided to be
mighty good to Bud henceforth. The spell of night and song was on him;
that and something more; for it is a strange, inexplicable fact that the
most practical chief ever known to the "Herald" had a singularly
sentimental influence over her subordinates, from the moment of her
arrival. Under Harkless's domination there had been no more steadfast
bachelors in Carlow than Ross Schofield and Caleb Parker, and, like
timorous youths in a graveyard, daring and mocking the ghosts in order to
assuage their own fears, they had so jibed and jeered at the married state
that there was talk of urging the minister to preach at them; but now let
it be recorded that at the moment Caleb laid his hand on Bud's other
shoulder, his associate, Mr. Schofield, was enjoying a walk in the far end
of town with a widow, and it is not to be doubted that Mr. Tipworthy's
heart, also, was no longer in his possession, though, as it was after
eight o'clock, the damsel of his desire had probably long since retired to
her couch.
For some faint light on the cause of these spells, we must turn to a
comment made by the invaluable Mr. Martin some time afterward. Referring
to the lady to whose voice he was now listening in silence (which shows
how great the enthralling of her voice was), he said: "When you saw her,
or heard her, or managed to be around, any, where she was, why, if you
couldn't git up no hope of marryin' her, you wanted to marry
somebody."