IV
I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear
I cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying.
I don't think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with
it, I think it was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that
I, who had helped to win a war, should have been made to run from a
gang of cowardly rowdies. Anyhow, here I was, sunk down in a pew of
the church, sobbing as if my heart was broken.
At last I raised my head, and holding on to the pew in front, looked
about me. The church was apparently deserted. There were dark
vistas; and directly in front of me a gleaming altar, and high over
it a stained glass window, with the afternoon sun shining through.
You know, of course, the sort of figures they have in those windows;
a man in long robes, white, with purple and gold; with a brown
beard, and a gentle, sad face, and a halo of light about the head. I
was staring at the figure, and at the same time choking with rage
and pain, but clenching my hands, and making up my mind to go out
and follow those brutes, and get that big one alone and pound his
face to a jelly. And here begins the strange part of my adventure;
suddenly that shining figure stretched out its two arms to me, as if
imploring me not to think those vengeful thoughts!
I knew, of course, what it meant; I had just seen a play about
delirium, and had got a whack on the head, and now I was delirious
myself. I thought I must be badly hurt; I bowed my reeling head in
my arms, and began to sob like a kid, out loud, and without shame.
But somehow I forgot about the big brute, and his face that I wanted
to pound; instead, I was ashamed and bewildered, a queer hysterical
state with a half dozen emotions mixed up. The Caligari story was in
it, and the lunatic asylum; I've got a cracked skull, I thought, and
my mind will never get right again! I sat, huddled and shuddering;
until suddenly I felt a quiet hand on my shoulder, and heard a
gentle voice saying: "Don't be afraid. It is I."
Now, I shall waste no time telling you how amazed I was. It was a
long time before I could believe what was happening to me; I thought
I was clean off my head. I lifted my eyes, and there, in the aisle
of the most decorous church of St. Bartholomew, standing with his
hand on my head, was the figure out of the stained glass window! I
looked at him twice, and then I looked at the window. Where the
figure had been was a great big hole with the sun shining through!
We know the power of suggestion, and especially when one taps the
deeps of the unconscious, where our childhood memories are buried. I
had been brought up in a religious family, and so it seemed quite
natural to me that while that hand lay on my head, the throbbing and
whirling should cease, and likewise the fear. I became perfectly
quiet, and content to sit under the friendly spell. "Why were you
crying?" asked the voice, at last.
I answered, hesitatingly, "I think it was humiliation."
"Is it something you have done?"
"No. Something that was done to me."
"But how can a man be humiliated by the act of another?"
I saw what he meant; and I was not humiliated any more.
The stranger spoke again. "A mob," he said, "is a blind thing, worse
than madness. It is the beast in man running away with his master."
I thought to myself: how can he know what has happened to me? But
then I reflected, perhaps he saw them drive me into the church! I
found myself with a sudden, queer impulse to apologize for those
soldier boys. "We had some terrible fighting," I cried. "And you
know what wars do--to the minds of the people, I mean."
"Yes," said the stranger, "I know, only too well."
I had meant to explain this mob; but somehow, I decided that I could
not. How could I make him understand moving picture shows, and
German competition, and ex-service men out of jobs? There was a
pause, and he asked, "Can you stand up?"
I tried and found that I could. I felt the side of my jaw, and it
hurt, but somehow the pain seemed apart from myself. I could see
clearly and steadily; there were only two things wrong that I could
find--first, this stranger standing by my side, and second, that
hole in the window, where I had seen him standing so many Sunday
mornings!
"Are you going out now?" he asked. As I hesitated, he added,
tactfully, "Perhaps you would let me go with you?"
Here was indeed a startling proposition! His costume, his long
hair--there were many things about him not adapted to Broadway at
five o'clock in the afternoon! But what could I say? It would be
rude to call attention to his peculiarities. All I could manage was
to stammer: "I thought you belonged in the church."
"Do I?" he replied, with a puzzled look. "I'm not sure. I have been
wondering--am I really needed here? And am I not more needed in the
world?"
"Well," said I, "there's one thing certain." I pointed up to the
window. "That hole is conspicuous."
"Yes, that is true."
"And if it should rain, the altar would be ruined. The Reverend Dr.
Lettuce-Spray would be dreadfully distressed. That altar cloth was
left to the church in the will of Mrs. Elvina de Wiggs, and God
knows how many thousands of dollars it cost."
"I suppose that wouldn't do," said the stranger. "Let us see if we
can't find something to put there."
He started up the aisle, and through the chancel. I followed, and we
came into the vestry-room, and there on the wall I noticed a full
length, life-sized portrait of old Algernon de Wiggs, president of
the Empire National Bank, and of the Western City Chamber of
Commerce. "Let us see if he would fill the place," said the
stranger; and to my amazement he drew up a chair, and took down the
huge picture, and carried it, seemingly without effort, into the
church.
He stepped upon the altar, and lifted the portrait in front of the
window. How he got it to stay there I am not sure--I was too much
taken aback by the procedure to notice such details. There the
picture was; it seemed to fit the window exactly, and the effect was
simply colossal. You'd have to know old de Wiggs to appreciate
it--those round, puffy cheeks, with the afternoon sun behind them,
making them shine like two enormous Jonathan apples! Our leading
banker was clad in decorous black, as always on Sunday mornings, but
in one place the sun penetrated his form--at one side of his chest.
My curiosity got the better of me; I could not restrain the
question, "What is that golden light?"
Said the stranger: "I think that is his heart."
"But that can't be!" I argued. "The light is on his right side; and
it seems to have an oblong shape--exactly as if it were his
wallet."
Said the other: "Where the treasure is, there will the heart be
also."
