IV
He was a young man with an
eager soul, and his work in
Apple Blossom Court and places like
it had torn him many ways. Religious
conventions established through
centuries of custom had not prepared
him for life among the submerged.
He had struggled and been appalled,
he had wrestled in prayer and felt
himself unanswered, and in repentance
of the feeling had scourged himself
with thorns. Miss Montaubyn,
returning from the hospital, had filled
him at first with horror and protest.
"But who knows--who knows?"
he said to Dart, as they stood and
talked together afterward, "Faith as
a little child. That is literally hers.
And I was shocked by it--and tried
to destroy it, until I suddenly saw
what I was doing. I was--in my
cloddish egotism--trying to show
her that she was irreverent BECAUSE
she could believe what in my soul I
do not, though I dare not admit so
much even to myself. She took from
some strange passing visitor to her
tortured bedside what was to her a
revelation. She heard it first as a
child hears a story of magic. When
she came out of the hospital, she told
it as if it was one. I--I--" he
bit his lips and moistened them,
"argued with her and reproached
her. Christ the Merciful, forgive
me! She sat in her squalid little
room with her magic--sometimes
in the dark--sometimes without
fire, and she clung to it, and loved it
and asked it to help her, as a child
asks its father for bread. When she
was answered--and God forgive me
again for doubting that the simple
good that came to her WAS an answer
--when any small help came to her,
she was a radiant thing, and without
a shadow of doubt in her eyes told
me of it as proof--proof that she
had been heard. When things went
wrong for a day and the fire was out
again and the room dark, she said, `I
'aven't kept near enough--I 'aven't
trusted TRUE. It will be gave me
soon,' and when once at such a time
I said to her, `We must learn to say,
Thy will be done,' she smiled up at
me like a happy baby and answered:
`Thy will be done on earth AS IT IS IN
'EAVEN. Lor', there's no cold there,
nor no 'unger nor no cryin' nor pain.
That's the way the will is done in
'eaven. That's wot I arst for all
day long--for it to be done on
earth as it is in 'eaven.' What could
I say? Could I tell her that the will
of the Deity on the earth he created
was only the will to do evil--to
give pain--to crush the creature
made in His own image. What else
do we mean when we say under all
horror and agony that befalls, `It is
God's will--God's will be done.'
Base unbeliever though I am, I could
not speak the words. Oh, she has
something we have not. Her poor,
little misspent life has changed itself
into a shining thing, though it shines
and glows only in this hideous place.
She herself does not know of its
shining. But Drunken Bet would
stagger up to her room and ask to be
told what she called her `pantermine'
stories. I have seen her there sitting
listening--listening with strange
quiet on her and dull yearning in
her sodden eyes. So would other
and worse women go to her, and
I, who had struggled with them,
could see that she had reached some
remote longing in their beings which
I had never touched. In time the
seed would have stirred to life--it is
beginning to stir even now. During
the months since she came back to the
court--though they have laughed
at her--both men and women have
begun to see her as a creature weirdly
set apart. Most of them feel something
like awe of her; they half believe
her prayers to be bewitchments,
but they want them on their side.
They have never wanted mine. That
I have known--KNOWN. She believes
that her Deity is in Apple Blossom
Court--in the dire holes its people
live in, on the broken stairway, in
every nook and awful cranny of it--
a great Glory we will not see--only
waiting to be called and to answer.
Do _I_ believe it--do you--do any
of those anointed of us who preach
each day so glibly `God is EVERYWHERE'?
Who is the one who believes? If
there were such a man he would go
about as Moses did when `He wist
not that his face shone.' "
They had gone out together and
were standing in the fog in the
court. The curate removed his hat
and passed his handkerchief over his
damp forehead, his breath coming
and going almost sobbingly, his eyes
staring straight before him into the
yellowness of the haze.
"Who," he said after a moment
of singular silence, "who are you?"
Antony Dart hesitated a few
seconds, and at the end of his pause
he put his hand into his overcoat
pocket.
"If you will come upstairs with
me to the room where the girl Glad
lives, I will tell you," he said, "but
before we go I want to hand something
over to you."
The curate turned an amazed gaze
upon him.
"What is it?" he asked.
Dart withdrew his hand from his
pocket, and the pistol was in it.
"I came out this morning to buy
this," he said. "I intended--never
mind what I intended. A wrong
turn taken in the fog brought me
here. Take this thing from me and
keep it."
The curate took the pistol and put
it into his own pocket without comment.
In the course of his labors
he had seen desperate men and
desperate things many times. He had
even been--at moments--a desperate
man thinking desperate things
himself, though no human being had
ever suspected the fact. This man
had faced some tragedy, he could see.
Had he been on the verge of a crime
--had he looked murder in the eyes?
What had made him pause? Was
it possible that the dream of Jinny
Montaubyn being in the air had
reached his brain--his being?
He looked almost appealingly at
him, but he only said aloud:
"Let us go upstairs, then."
So they went.
As they passed the door of the
room where the dead woman lay
Dart went in and spoke to Miss
Montaubyn, who was still there.
"If there are things wanted here,"
he said, "this will buy them." And
he put some money into her hand.
She did not seem surprised at the
incongruity of his shabbiness producing
money.
"Well, now," she said, "I WAS
wonderin' an' askin'. I'd like 'er
clean an' nice, an' there's milk
wanted bad for the biby."
In the room they mounted to Glad
was trying to feed the child with
bread softened in tea. Polly sat near
her looking on with restless, eager
eyes. She had never seen anything
of her own baby but its limp newborn
and dead body being carried
away out of sight. She had not even
dared to ask what was done with such
poor little carrion. The tyranny of
the law of life made her want to paw
and touch this lately born thing, as her
agony had given her no fruit of her
own body to touch and paw and nuzzle
and caress as mother creatures will
whether they be women or tigresses
or doves or female cats.
"Let me hold her, Glad," she half
whimpered. "When she 's fed let
me get her to sleep."
"All right," Glad answered; "we
could look after 'er between us well
enough."
The thief was still sitting on the
hearth, but being full fed and
comfortable for the first time in many a
day, he had rested his head against
the wall and fallen into profound
sleep.
"Wot 's up?" said Glad when the
two men came in. "Is anythin'
'appenin'?"
"I have come up here to tell you
something," Dart answered. "Let
us sit down again round the fire. It
will take a little time."
Glad with eager eyes on him
handed the child to Polly and sat
down without a moment's hesitance,
avid of what was to come. She
nudged the thief with friendly elbow
and he started up awake.
" 'E 's got somethin' to tell us,"
she explained. "The curick 's come
up to 'ear it, too. Sit 'ere, Polly,"
with elbow jerk toward the bundle
of sacks. "It 's got its stummick
full an' it 'll go to sleep fast enough."
So they sat again in the weird
circle. Neither the strangeness of
the group nor the squalor of the
hearth were of a nature to be new
things to the curate. His eyes fixed
themselves on Dart's face, as did the
eyes of the thief, the beggar, and the
young thing of the street. No one
glanced away from him.
His telling of his story was almost
monotonous in its semi-reflective
quietness of tone. The strangeness
to himself--though it was a strangeness
he accepted absolutely without
protest--lay in his telling it at all,
and in a sense of his knowledge that
each of these creatures would
understand and mysteriously know what
depths he had touched this day.
"Just before I left my lodgings
this morning," he said, "I found
myself standing in the middle of my
room and speaking to Something
aloud. I did not know I was going
to speak. I did not know what I
was speaking to. I heard my own
voice cry out in agony, `Lord, Lord,
what shall I do to be saved?' "
The curate made a sudden move-
ment in his place and his sallow
young face flushed. But he said
nothing.
Glad's small and sharp countenance
became curious.
" `Speak, Lord, thy servant
'eareth,' " she quoted tentatively.
"No," answered Dart; "it was
not like that. I had never thought
of such things. I believed nothing.
I was going out to buy a pistol and
when I returned intended to blow
my brains out."
"Why?" asked Glad, with
passionately intent eyes; "why?"
"Because I was worn out and done
for, and all the world seemed worn
out and done for. And among other
things I believed I was beginning
slowly to go mad."
From the thief there burst forth a
low groan and he turned his face to
the wall.
"I've been there," he said; "I 'm
near there now."
Dart took up speech again.
"There was no answer--none.
As I stood waiting--God knows for
what--the dead stillness of the room
was like the dead stillness of the grave.
And I went out saying to my soul,
`This is what happens to the fool
who cries aloud in his pain.' "
"I've cried aloud," said the thief,
"and sometimes it seemed as if an
answer was coming--but I always
knew it never would!" in a tortured
voice.
" 'T ain't fair to arst that wye,"
Glad put in with shrewd logic.
"Miss Montaubyn she allers knows
it WILL come--an' it does."
"Something--not myself--turned
my feet toward this place," said Dart.
"I was thrust from one thing to
another. I was forced to see and hear
things close at hand. It has been as
if I was under a spell. The woman
in the room below--the woman lying
dead!" He stopped a second, and
then went on: "There is too much
that is crying out aloud. A man such
as I am--it has FORCED itself upon me
--cannot leave such things and give
himself to the dust. I cannot explain
clearly because I am not thinking as
I am accustomed to think. A change
has come upon me. I shall not
use the pistol--as I meant to use
it."
Glad made a friendly clutch at the
sleeve of his shabby coat.
"Right O!" she cried. "That 's
it! You buck up sime as I told yer.
Y' ain't stony broke an' there's 'allers
to-morrer."
Antony Dart's expression was
weirdly retrospective.
"I did not think so this morning,"
he answered.
"But there is," said the girl.
"Ain't there now, curick? There 's
a lot o' work in yer yet; yer could
do all sorts o' things if y' ain't
too proud. I 'll 'elp yer. So 'll
the curick. Y' ain't found out yet
what a little folks can live on till
luck turns. Me, I'm goin' to try
Miss Montaubyn's wye. Le's both
try. Le 's believe things is comin'.
Le 's get 'er to talk to us some
more."
The curate was thinking the thing
over deeply.
"Yer see," Glad enlarged cheerfully,
"yer look almost like a gentleman.
P'raps yer can write a good
'and an' spell all right. Can yer?"
"Yes."
"I think, perhaps," the curate began
reflectively, "particularly if you
can write well, I might be able to
get you some work."
"I do not want work," Dart
answered slowly. "At least I do not
want the kind you would be likely
to offer me."
The curate felt a shock, as if cold
water had been dashed over him.
Somehow it had not once occurred
to him that the man could be one
of the educated degenerate vicious
for whom no power to help lay in
any hands--yet he was not the common
vagrant--and he was plainly
on the point of producing an excuse
for refusing work.
The other man, seeing his start
and his amazed, troubled flush, put
out a hand and touched his arm
apologetically.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"One of the things I was going to
tell you--I had not finished--was
that I AM what is called a gentleman.
I am also what the world knows as a
rich man. I am Sir Oliver Holt."
Each member of the party gazed
at him aghast. It was an enormous
name to claim. Even the two female
creatures knew what it stood for. It
was the name which represented the
greatest wealth and power in the world
of finance and schemes of business.
It stood for financial influence which
could change the face of national
fortunes and bring about crises. It was
known throughout the world. Yesterday
the newspaper rumor that its
owner had mysteriously left England
had caused men on 'Change to discuss
possibilities together with lowered
voices.
Glad stared at the curate. For the
first time she looked disturbed and
alarmed.
"Blimme," she ejaculated, " 'e 's
gone off 'is nut, pore chap!--'e 's
gone off it!"
"No," the man answered, "you
shall come to me"--he hesitated a
second while a shade passed over his
eyes--"TO-MORROW. And you shall
see."
He rose quietly to his feet and the
curate rose also. Abnormal as the
climax was, it was to be seen that
there was no mistake about the
revelation. The man was a creature of
authority and used to carrying
conviction by his unsupported word.
That made itself, by some clear,
unspoken method, plain.
"You are Sir Oliver Holt! And
a few hours ago you were on the
point of--"
"Ending it all--in an obscure
lodging. Afterward the earth would
have been shovelled on to a work-
house coffin. It was an awful thing."
He shook off a passionate shudder.
"There was no wealth on earth that
could give me a moment's ease--
sleep--hope--life. The whole
world was full of things I loathed the
sight and thought of. The doctors
said my condition was physical. Perhaps
it was--perhaps to-day has
strangely given a healthful jolt to my
nerves--perhaps I have been dragged
away from the agony of morbidity
and plunged into new intense emotions
which have saved me from the
last thing and the worst--SAVED
me!"
He stopped suddenly and his face
flushed, and then quite slowly turned
pale.
"SAVED ME!" he repeated the words
as the curate saw the awed blood
creepingly recede. "Who knows,
who knows! How many explanations
one is ready to give before one
thinks of what we say we believe.
Perhaps it was--the Answer!"
The curate bowed his head
reverently.
"Perhaps it was."
The girl Glad sat clinging to her
knees, her eyes wide and awed and
with a sudden gush of hysteric tears
rushing down her cheeks.
"That 's the wye! That 's the
wye!" she gulped out. "No one
won't never believe--they won't,
NEVER. That's what she sees, Miss
Montaubyn. You don't, 'E don't,"
with a jerk toward the curate. "I
ain't nothin' but ME, but blimme if I
don't--blimme!"
Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still.
He felt as he had done when Jinny
Montaubyn's poor dress swept against
him. His voice shook when he
spoke.
"So do I," he said with a sudden
deep catch of the breath; "it was
the Answer."
In a few moments more he went
to the girl Polly and laid a hand on
her shoulder.
"I shall take you home to your
mother," he said. "I shall take you
myself and care for you both. She
shall know nothing you are afraid of
her hearing. I shall ask her to bring
up the child. You will help her."
Then he touched the thief, who
got up white and shaking and with
eyes moist with excitement.
"You shall never see another man
claim your thought because you have
not time or money to work it out.
You will go with me. There are
to-morrows enough for you!"
Glad still sat clinging to her knees
and with tears running, but the ugliness
of her sharp, small face was a
thing an angel might have paused to
see.
"You don't want to go away from
here," Sir Oliver said to her, and she
shook her head.
"No, not me. I told yer wot I
wanted. Lemme do it."
"You shall," he answered, "and
I will help you."
The things which developed in
Apple Blossom Court later, the things
which came to each of those who
had sat in the weird circle round the
fire, the revelations of new existence
which came to herself, aroused no
amazement in Jinny Montaubyn's
mind. She had asked and believed
all things--and all this was but
another of the Answers.
