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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18529-8.txt b/18529-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..68cda93 --- /dev/null +++ b/18529-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3116 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, August First, by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews +and Roy Irving Murray, Illustrated by A. I. Keller + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: August First + + +Author: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews and Roy Irving Murray + + + +Release Date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18529] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustration. + See 18529-h.htm or 18529-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529/18529-h/18529-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529/18529-h.zip) + + + + + +AUGUST FIRST + +by + +MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS and ROY IRVING MURRAY + +Illustrated by A. I. Keller + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: "She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am."] + + + + +New York +Charles Scribner's Sons +1915 +Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons +Published March, 1915 + + + + +AUGUST FIRST + +"Whee!" + +The long fingers pulled at the clerical collar as if they might tear it +away. The alert figure swung across the room to the one window not +wide open and the man pushed up the three inches possible. "Whee!" he +brought out again, boyishly, and thrust away the dusty vines that hung +against the opening from the stone walls of the parish house close by. +He gasped; looked about as if in desperate need of relief; struck back +the damp hair from his face. The heat was insufferable. In the west +black-gray clouds rolled up like blankets, shutting out heaven and air; +low thunder growled; at five o'clock of a midsummer afternoon it was +almost dark; a storm was coming fast, and coolness would come with it, +but in the meantime it was hard for a man who felt heat intensely just +to get breath. His eyes stared at the open door of the room, down the +corridor which led to the room, which turned and led by another open +door to the street. + +"If they're coming, why don't they come and get it over?" he murmured +to himself; he was stifling--it was actual suffering. + +He was troubled to-day, beyond this affliction of heat. He was the new +curate of St. Andrew's, Geoffrey McBirney, only two months in the +place--only two months, and here was the rector gone off for his summer +vacation and McBirney left at the helm of the great city parish. +Moreover, before the rector was gone a half-hour, here was the worst +business of the day upon him, the hour between four and five when the +rector was supposed to be found in the office, to receive any one who +chose to come, for advice, for godly counsel, for "any old reason," as +the man, only a few years out of college, put it to himself. He +dreaded it; he dreaded it more than he did getting up into the pulpit +of a Sunday and laying down the law--preaching. And he seriously +wished that if any one was coming they would come now, and let him do +his best, doggedly, as he meant to, and get them out of the way. Then +he might go to work at things he understood. There was a funeral at +seven; old Mrs. Harrow at the Home wanted to see him; and David +Sterling had half promised to help him with St. Agnes's Mission School, +and must be encouraged; a man in the worst tenement of the south city +had raided his wife with a knife and there was trouble, physical and +moral, and he must see to that; also Tommy Smith was dying at the +Tuberculosis Hospital and had clung to his hands yesterday, and would +not let him go--he must manage to get to little Tommy to-night. There +was plenty of real work doing, so it did seem a pity to waste Lime +waiting here for people who didn't come and who had, when they did +come, only emotional troubles to air. And the heat--the unspeakable +heat! "I can't stand it another second!" he burst out, aloud. "I'll +die--I shall die!" He flung himself across the window-sill, with his +head far out, trying to catch a breath of air that was alive. + +As he stretched into the dim light, so, gasping, pulling again at the +stiff collar, he was aware of a sound; he came back into the room with +a spring; somebody was rapping at the open door. A young woman, in +white clothes, with roses in her hat, stood there--refreshing as a cool +breeze, he thought; with that, as if the thought, as if she, perhaps, +had brought it, all at once there was a breeze; a heavenly, light touch +on his forehead, a glorious, chilled current rushing about him. + +"Thank Heaven!" he brought out involuntarily, and the girl, standing, +facing him, looked surprised and, hesitating, stared at him. By that +his dignity was on top. + +"You wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. The girl flushed. + +"No," she said, and stopped. He waited. "I didn't expect--" she +began, and then he saw that she was very nervous. "I didn't +expect--you." + +He understood now. "You expected to find the rector. I'm sorry. He +went off to-day for his vacation. I'm left in his place. Can I help +you in any way?" + +The girl stood uncertain, nervous, and said nothing. And looked at +him, frightened, not knowing what to do. Then: "I wanted to see +him--and now--it's you!" she stammered, and the man felt contrite that +it was indubitably just himself. Contrite, then amused. But his look +was steadily serious. + +"I'm sorry," he said again. "If I would possibly do, I should be glad." + +The girl burst into tears. That was bad. She dropped into a chair and +sobbed uncontrollably, and he stood before her, and waited, and was +uncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat with +roses was still plunged into the two bare hands--it was too hot for +gloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; the +room was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man in +his black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chair +and the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again. + +"Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in the +detached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything for +you unless you tell me." + +The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowers +stopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I--know. +I beg--your pardon. It was--such a shock to see--you." And then, most +unexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with a +gasp--but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that--it wasn't +you I expected. I was in church--ten days ago. And the rector +said--people might come--here--and--he'd try to help them. It seemed +to me I could talk to him. He was--fatherly. But you're"--the voice +trailed into a sob--"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, but +none came. "I mean--it's harder." + +"I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. And +there's no one like the rector--one could tell him anything. I know +that. But if I can help you--I'm here for that, you know. That's all +there is to consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instant +effect. + +"Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herself +together, and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inward +indecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap +close by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the +two in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As +the rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the +rector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your +kindness--and patience. I am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" and +her voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tell +you," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be so +good. You are here for the rector, aren't you?" + +"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do +all I can for--any one." + +She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want," +she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a +chair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now +in sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress +and the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and +patter of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note of +pleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she +said. + +"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man +widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after. +They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it. +Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So +when I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be +honest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. He +seemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talk +to him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--in +confidence, you know--if he really and truly thought it was wrong for a +person to kill herself. I can't see why." She glanced at the +attentive, quiet figure at the window. "Do you think so?" she asked. +He looked at her, but did not speak. She went on. "Why is it wrong? +They say God gives life and only God should take it away. Why? It's +given--we don't ask for it, and no conditions come with it. Why should +one, if it gets unendurable, keep an unasked, unwanted gift? If +somebody put a ball of bright metal into your hands and it was pretty +at first and nice to play with, and then turned red-hot, and hurt, +wouldn't it be silly to go on holding it? I don't know much about God, +anyway," she went on a bit forlornly; not irreverently, but as if pain +had burned off the shell of conventions and reserves of every day, and +actual facts lay bare. "I don't feel as if He were especially +real--and the case I'm in is awfully real. I don't know if He would +mind my killing myself--and if He would, wouldn't He understand I just +have to? If He's really good? But then, if He was angry, might He +punish me forever, afterward?" She drew her shoulders together with a +frightened, childish movement. "I'm afraid of forever," she said. + +The rain beat in noisily against the parish house wall; the wet vines +flung about wildly; a floating end blew in at the window and the young +man lifted it carefully and put it outside again. Then, "Can you tell +me why you want to kill yourself?" he asked, and his manner, free from +criticism or disapproval, seemed to quiet her. + +"Yes. I want to tell you. I came here to tell the rector." The grave +eyes of the man, eyes whose clearness and youth seemed to be such an +age-old youth and clearness as one sees in the eyes of the sibyls in +the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel--eyes empty of a thought of self, +impersonal, serene with the serenity of a large atmosphere--the +unflinching eyes of the man gazed at the girl as she talked. + +She talked rapidly, eagerly, as if each word lifted pressure. "It's +this way--I'm ill--hopelessly ill. Yes--it's absolutely so. I've got +to die. Two doctors said so. But I'll live--maybe five +years--possibly ten. I'm twenty-three now--and I may live ten years. +But if I do that--if I live five years even--most of it will be as a +helpless invalid--I'll have to get stiff, you know." There was a +rather dreadful levity in the way she put it. "Stiffer and +stiffer--till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down, +immovable. I'll have to go on living that way--years, you see. I'll +have to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on living +that way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seems +particularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I ride +and play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. I +care about them--a lot." One could see it in the vivid pose of the +figure. "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I _won't_ +stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!" The sliding, clear voice was +low, but the "no" meant itself. + +From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl could +see the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light; +receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain came +in soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearness +over the details of the room and left them vaguer. + +"Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him. "What do you +think? Say it." + +"Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly. + +"The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" she +gasped. + +"I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, I +suppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to help +you better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much." + +There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and the +muttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dress +was motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal--he could see only the +blurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream, +a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds; +unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancy +came the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words. + +"Yes, there's more. A love story, of course--there's always that. +Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it." She stopped +again. "I don't know why I should tell you this part." + +"Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly. +He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would much +prefer to "cut it out," as he would have expressed it to himself. + +"I _do_ want to--now. I didn't mean to. But it's a relief." And it +came to him sharply that if he was to be a surgeon of souls, what +business had he to shrink from blood? + +"I am here to relieve you if I can. It's what I most wish to do--for +any one," he said gently then. And the girl suddenly laughed again. + +"For any one," she repeated. "I like it that way." Her eyes, +wandering a moment about the dim, bare office, rested on a calendar in +huge lettering hanging on the wall, rested on the figures of the date +of the day. "I want to be just a number, a date--August first--I'm +that, and that's all. I'll never see you again, I hope. But you are +good and I'll be grateful. Here's the way things are. Three years ago +I got engaged to a man. I suppose I thought I cared about him. I'm a +fool. I get--fads." A short, soft laugh cut the words. "I got about +that over the man. He fascinated me. I thought it was--more. So I +got engaged to him. He was a lot of things he oughtn't to be; my +people objected. Then, later, my father was ill--dying. He asked me +to break it off, and I did--he'd been father and mother both to me, you +see. But I still thought I cared. I hadn't seen the man much. My +father died, and then I heard about the man, that he had lost money and +been ill and that everybody was down on him; he drank, you know, and +got into trouble. So I just felt desperate; I felt it was my fault, +and that there was nobody to stand by him. I felt as if I could pull +him up and make his life over--pretty conceited of me, I expect--but I +felt that. So I wrote him a letter, six months ago, out of a blue sky, +and told him that if he wanted me still he could have me. And he did. +And then I went out to live with my uncle, and this man lives in that +town too, and I've seen him ever since, all the time. I know him now. +And--" Out of the dimness the clergyman felt, rather than saw, a smile +widen--child-like, sardonic--a curious, contagious smile, which +bewildered him, almost made him smile back. "You'll think me a pitiful +person," she went on, "and I am. But I--almost--hate him. I've +promised to marry him and I can't bear to have his fingers touch me." + +In Geoffrey McBirney's short experience there had been nothing which +threw a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. He +was keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. At +all events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might. + +"When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light in +the blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurried +to do it. But he wouldn't. He--" A sound came, half laugh, half sob. +"He's certainly faithful. But--I've got a lot of money. It's +frightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt even +his sincerity. And I may be wrong--he may care for me. He says so. I +think my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quite +cold when he says so. I _can't_ marry him! So I might as well kill +myself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold water +on the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening, +realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mind +seemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-hearted +voice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell me +I'd certainly go to hell forever." + +Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't do +that," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runaway +horse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed--is +that as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horse +ran into a wall and killed him? I think not. And besides, any second, +his pull on the reins may tell, and the horse may slow down, and his +life may be saved. It's better riding and it's better living not to +give in till you're thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, but +doctors have been wrong plenty of times; diseases take unexpected +turns; you may get well." + +"Then I'd have to marry _him_," she interrupted swiftly. + +"You ought not to marry him if you dislike him"--and the young parson +felt himself flush hotly, and was thankful for the darkness; what a +fool a fellow felt, giving advice about a love-affair! + +"I _have_ to. You see--he's pathetic. He'd go back into the depths if +I let go, and--and I'm fond of him, in a way." + +"Oh!"--the masculine mind was bewildered. "I understood that +you--disliked him." + +"Why, I do. But I'm just fond of him." Then she laughed again. "Any +woman would know how I mean it. I mean--I am fond of him--I'd do +anything for him. But I don't believe in him, and the thought of--of +marrying him makes me desperate." + +"Then you should not." + +"I have to, if I live. So I'm going to kill myself to-night. You have +nothing to say against it. You've said nothing--that counts. If you +said I'd certainly go to hell, I might not--but you don't say that. I +think you can't say it." She stood up. "Thank you for listening +patiently. At least you have helped me to come to my decision. I'm +going to. To-night." + +This was too awful. He had helped her to decide to kill herself. He +could not let her go that way. He stood before her and talked with all +his might. "You cannot do that. You must not. You are overstrained +and excited, and it is no time to do an irrevocable thing. You must +wait till you see things calmly, at least. Taking your own life is not +a thing to decide on as you might decide on going to a ball. How do +you know that you will not be bitterly sorry to-morrow if you do that +to-night? It's throwing away the one chance a person has to make the +world better and happier. That's what you're here for--not to enjoy +yourself." + +She put a quiet sentence, in that oddly buoyant voice, into the stream +of his words. "Still, you don't say I'd go to hell forever," she +commented. + +"Is that your only thought?" he demanded indignantly. "Can't you think +of what's brave and worth while--of what's decent for a big thing like +a soul? A soul that's going on living to eternity--do you want to +blacken that at the start? Can't you forget your little moods and your +despair of the moment?" + +"No, I can't." The roses bobbed as she shook her head. The man, in +his heart, knew how it was, and did not wonder. But he must somehow +stop this determination which he had--she said--helped to form. A +thought came to him; he hesitated a moment, and then broke out +impetuously: "Let me do this--let me write to you; I'm not saying +things straight. It's hard. I think I could write more clearly. And +it's unfair not to give me a hearing. Will you promise only this, not +to do it till you've read my letter?" + +Slowly the youth, the indomitable brightness in the girl forged to the +front. She looked at him with the dawn of a smile in her eyes, and he +saw all at once, with a passing vision, that her eyes were very blue +and that her hair was bright and light--a face vivid and responsive. + +"Why, yes. There's no particular reason for to-night. I can wait. +But I'm going home to-morrow, to my uncle's place at Forest Gate. I'll +never be here again. The people I'm with are going away to live next +month. I'll never see you again. You don't know my name." She +considered a moment. "I'd rather not have you know it. You may write +to--" She laughed. "I said I was just a date--you may write to August +First, Forest Gate, Illinois. Say care of, care of--" Again she +laughed. "Oh, well, care of Robert Halarkenden. That will reach me." + +Quite gravely the man wrote down the fantastic address. "Thank you. I +will write at once. You promised?" + +"Yes." She put out her hand. "You've been very good to me. I shall +never see you again. Good-by." + +"Good-by," he said, and the room was suddenly so still, so empty, so +dark that it oppressed him. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + August 5th. + +This is to redeem my promise. When we talked that afternoon, it seemed +to me that I should be able to write the words I could not say. Every +day since then I have said "Tomorrow I shall be able to tell her +clearly." The clearness has not come--that's why I have put it off. +It hasn't yet come. Sometimes--twice, I think--I have seen it all +plainly. Just for a second--in a sort of flash. And then it dropped +back into this confusion. + +I won't insult you by attempting to discount your difficulties. You +have worked out for yourself a calculation made, at one time or +another, by many more people than you would imagine. And your answer +is wrong. I know that. You know it too. When you say that you are +afraid of what may come after, you admit that what you intend to do is +impossible. If you were not convinced of something after, you would go +on and do what you propose. Which shows that there is an error in your +mathematics. Do you at all know what I mean? + +I must make you understand. I can see why you find the prospect +unendurable. You don't look far enough, that is all. Why do people +shut themselves up in the air-tight box of a possible three score years +and ten, and call it life? How can you, who are so alive, do so? It +seems that you have fallen into the strangely popular error of thinking +that clocks measure life. That is not what they are for. A clock is +the contrivance of springs and wheels whereby the ambitious, early of a +summer's day when sane people are asleep or hunting flowers on the +hill-side, keep tally of the sun. Those early on the hill-side see the +gray lighten and watch it flush to rose--the advent of the +day-spring--and go on picking flowers. They of the clocks are one day +older--these have seen a sunrise. There is the difference. + +If you really thought that all there is to life is that part of it we +have here in this world--if you believed that--then what you +contemplate doing would be nothing worse than unsportsmanlike. But you +do not believe that. You are afraid of what might come--after. You +came to me--or you came to the rector--in the hope of being assured +that your fear was groundless. You had a human desire for the advice +of a "professional." You still wish that assurance--that is why you +promised to wait for this letter. You told me your case; you wanted +expert testimony. Here it is: You need not be afraid. God will not be +angry--God will not punish you. You said that you did not know much +about God. Surely you know this much--anger can never be one of His +attributes. God is never angry. Men would be angry if they were +treated as they treat Him--that is all. In mathematics, certain +letters represent certain unknown quantities. So words are only the +symbols for imperfectly realized ideas. If by "hell" you understand +what that word means to me--the endlessness of life with nothing in it +that makes life worth while--then, if you still want my opinion, I +think that you will most certainly go there. God will not be angry. +God will not send you there, you will have sent yourself--it will not +be God's punishment laid on you, it will be your punishment laid by you +on yourself. But it is not in you to let that come to pass. + +All of the "philosophies of life," as they are called, are, I think, +varieties of two. I suppose Materialism and Idealism cover them. +Those who hold with the first are in the air-tight box of years and +call it life. The others are in the box, too, but they call it time. +And they know that, after all, the box is really not air-tight; each of +them remembers the day when he first discovered that there were cracks +in the box, and the day he learned that one could best see through +those narrow openings by coming up resolutely to the hard necessary +walls that hold one in. Then came the astounding enlightenment that +only a shred of reality was within the cramped prison of the box--just +a darkened, dusty bit--that all the beautiful rest of it lay outside. +These are the ones who, pressing up against the rough walls of the box, +see, through their chinks, the splendor of what lies outside--see it +and know that, one day, they shall have it. + +The others, the Materialists, never come near the walls of the box, +except to bang their heads. Their reality is inside. These call life +a thing. The Idealists know that it is a process, and there is not a +tree or a flower or a blade of grass or a road-side weed but proves +them right. It is a process, and the end of it is perfection--nothing +less. The perfection of the physical is approximated to here in this +world, and, after that, the tired hands are folded, and the worn-out +body laid away. But even the very saints of God barely touch, here, +the edges of the possible perfection of the soul. Why, it is that that +lifts us--that possibility of going on and on--out of imaginable +bounds, into glory after glory--until the wisdom of the ages is +foolishness and time has no meaning where, in the reaches of eternity, +the climbing soul thinks with the mind of God. + +You were going to cut yourself off from that! At the very start, you +were going to fling away your single glorious chance--you, who told me +that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be +allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your +soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if +you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But, +if you do that--if you treat your single opportunity like that--can you +believe that another will be given you? + +You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the +box. Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't +life--only the smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a +question of God--it is not a question of punishment. It is this--what +are _you_ going to do with your soul? + +I wonder if you have read as far as this. I wonder if I have been at +all intelligible? + +Will Robert Halarkenden see that you get this thick letter? There is +only one way by which I can know that it found you. + +I know that I have been hopelessly inadequate--perhaps grotesque. To +see it and be unable to tell you--imagine the awfulness! Give me +another chance. I was not going to ask that, but I must. Can't you +see I've got to show you? I mean--about another chance--will you not +renew that promise? Will you not send a word in answer to this letter, +and promise once more not to do anything decisive until you have heard +from me again? I am + +Sincerely yours, + GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +FOREST GATE, August 8th. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +Robert Halarkenden saw that I got it. You don't know who Robert +Halarkenden is, do you? He's interesting, and likely you never will +know about him--but it doesn't matter. Your letter left me with a +curious feeling, a feeling which I think I used to have as a child when +I was just waking from one of the strong dreams of childhood which +"trail clouds of glory." It was a feeling that I had been swept off my +feet and made to use my wings--only I haven't much in the line of +wings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where I +gasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and +I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the +ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the +gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in +the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that +I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing this +game with you very fairly, you see--which sounds conceited and as if +the game meant anything to you, a stranger. But because you are good, +and saving souls is your job, and because you think my soul might get +wrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think. + +About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about it +that way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that if +I'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn't +interested me very much--what I've heard has sounded rather dull--the +people supposed to be on the express trains there have, many of them, +been people I didn't want to play with. I've cared to be straight and +broad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks and +catty people--not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful idea +of yours, that my only life--as I've regarded it--is just about five +minutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength. +You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe you +believe it. Excuse me--I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadly +real. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead, +whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquettically +about things like this. And I won't, whatever you may think of me. +Your letter didn't convince me. It inspired me; it made me feel that +maybe--just maybe--it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or more +painfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out--all of us poor +things would come out--into gloriousness some time. I would hate to +have queered myself, you know, by going off at half-cock. But would it +queer me? What do you know about it? How can you tell? I might be +put back a few laps--I'm not being flippant, I simply don't know how to +say it--and then, anyhow, I'd be outside the "box," wouldn't I? And in +the freedom--and I could catch up, maybe. Yet, it might be the other +way; I might have shown an "unforgiveable contempt" for my life. +Unforgiveable--by whom? You say God forgives forever--well, I know He +must, if He's a God worth worshipping. So I don't know what you mean +by "unforgiveable." And you don't know if it's my "single, glorious +chance" at life. How can you know? On the other hand, I don't know +but that it is--that's the risk, I suppose--and it is a hideous risk. +I suppose likely you mean that. You see, when it gets down below +Sunday-school lessons and tradition, I don't know much what I do +believe. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly to +pieces in an uncomfortable way if one doesn't. But is that any belief? +As to "faith," that sounds rather nonsense to me. What on earth is +faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what you +really don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot--I suspect that--but I'd +gladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point and +arguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much less +handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'm +taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till I +get your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise +because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the +breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I +stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or +is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines +through you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to +know that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English +about clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. That +irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with +sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go +along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go +and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence. + +Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional +letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to +me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot +even remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a +quality of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no, +I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent, +I may be personal, because I am not a person, only + Yours gratefully, + AUGUST FIRST. + + +FOREST GATE, August 10th. + +MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY-- + +This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or +I might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a +hideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing saves +me--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word +unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I +think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will, +almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. And +your letter guarded it. My first personality _couldn't_ lift your +letter off to get the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like the +queer things one reads in psychological books. I _couldn't_ get past +that letter. Of course, I'm in some strained, abnormal condition, and +that's all, but send me another letter, for if one is a barricade two +should be a fortress. And I nearly broke down the barricade; Number +Two did, that is. + +Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that I +wish I could send you a slice of it--coolness and birds singing and +trees rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs in +the heat--and I know you hate heat--I took that in. This house stands +in big grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roars +up on the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me, +please--and you so busy! I am a selfish person. + + AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + August 12th. + +Yesterday it rained. And then the telephone rang, and some incoherent +person mumbled an address out in the furthest suburb. It was North +Baxter Court. You never saw that--a row of yellow houses with the +door-sills level to the mud and ashes of the alley, and swarms of +children who stare and whisper, "Here's the 'Father.'" Number 7 1/2 +was marked with a membraneous croup sign--the usual lie to avoid strict +quarantine and still get anti-toxin at the free dispensary; the room +was unspeakable--shut windows and a crowd of people. A woman, young, +sat rocking back and forth, half smothering a baby in her arms. Nobody +spoke. It took time to get the windows open and persuade the woman to +lay the child on the bed in the corner. There wasn't anything else to +use, so I fanned the baby with my straw hat--until, finally, it got +away from North Baxter Court forever. Which was as it should be. Then +tumult. Probably you are not in a position to know that few spectacles +are more hideous than the unrestrained grief of the poor. The things +they said and did--it was unhuman, indecent. I can't describe it. As +I was leaving, after a pretty bad half hour, I met the doctor at the +door--one of these half-drunken quacks who live on the ignorant. That +child died of diphtheria. I knew it, and he admitted it. The funeral +was this breathless morning, with details that may not be written down. + +LATER. + +Somebody interrupted. And now it's long past midnight. I must try to +send you some answer to your letter. I have been thinking--the +combination may strike you as odd--of North Baxter Court and you. Not +that the happenings of yesterday were unusual. That is just it--they +come almost every day, things like that. And you, with your birds and +rustling trees and your lake--you keep a shiny pistol in the drawer of +your dressing-table, and write me the sort of letter that came from you +this morning. When all these people need _you_--these blind, dumb +animals, stumbling through the sordid, hopeless years--need you, +because, in spite of everything, you are still so much further along +than they, because you are capable of seeing where their eyes are shut, +because you and your kind can help them, and put the germ of life into +the deadness of their days, because of all that makes you what you are, +and gives you the chance to become infinitely more--you, in the face of +all that, can sit down in the fragrance of a garden-scented breeze and +write as you have done about God and the things that matter. + +You said that it was not flippancy. Your whole point of view is wrong. +Do not ask me how I "know"--some conclusions do not need to be +analyzed. I wonder if you realize, for instance, what you said about +faith? I haven't the charity to call it even childish. Have you ever +got below the surface of anything at all? Do you want to know what it +is that has brought you to the verge of suicide? It is not your horror +of illness, nor your oddly concluded determination to marry a man whom +you do not love. Suicide is an ugly word--I notice that you avoid +it--and love is a big word; I am using them understandingly and +soberly. You came to the edge of this thing for the reason that there +is not an element of bigness in your life, and there never has been. +You lack the balance of large ideas. This man of whom you tell me--of +course you do not love him--you have not yet the capacity for +understanding the meaning of the word. You like to ride and you like +to dance and you are fond of the things that please, but you do not +love anybody or even any thing. You are living, yes, but you are +asleep. And it is because you are ignorant. + +If your letter had been designedly flippant, it would merely have +annoyed. It is the unconscious flippancy in it that is so +discouraging. You do not know what you believe because you believe +nothing. Your most coherent conception of God is likely a hazy vision +of a majestic figure seated on a cloud--a long-bearded patriarch, +wearing a golden crown--the composite of famous pictures that you +have seen. You have been taught to believe in a personal God, +and you have never taken the trouble to get beyond the notion that +personality--God's or anybody's--is mainly a matter of the possession +of such things as hands and feet. What can be the meaning to one like +you of the truth that we are made in the image of God? The Kingdom of +Heaven--that whole whirling activity of the commonwealth of God--the +citizenship towards which you might be pointing Baxter Court--you +have not even imagined it. I am not being sentimental. Don't +misunderstand. Don't fancy, for instance, that I am exhorting you to +go slumming. Deliberately or not, you took a wrong impression from my +first letter. You can't mistake this. Reach after a few of the +realities. Why not shut your questioning mind a while and open your +soul? _Live_ a little--begin to realize that there is a world outside +yourself. Try to get beyond the view-point of a child. And, if I have +not angered you beyond words, let me know how you get on. + +The unconventionality of this correspondence, you see, is not all on +one side. If you found English to your taste in what I wrote before, +this time you have plain truths, perhaps less satisfactory. You are +not in a position to decide some matters. I do not ask you to let me +decide them for you. I have only tried to indicate some reasons why +you must wait before you act. And I think it has made you angry. One +has to risk that. Yesterday I could not have imagined sending a letter +like this to anybody. But it goes--and to you. I ask you to answer +it. I think you owe me that. It hasn't been exactly easy to write. + +One more thing--don't trust letters to stand between you and the toy in +the dressing-table drawer. Any barrier there, to be in the least +effective, will have to be of your own building. + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +About a month after the above letter had been received, on September +10th, Geoffrey McBirney, dashing down the three flights of stairs in +the Parish House from his quarters on the top floor, peered into the +letter-box on the way to morning service. He peered eagerly. There +had been no answer to his letter; it was a month; he was surprisingly +uneasy. But there was nothing in the mail-box, so he swept along to +the vestry-room, and got into his cassock and read service to the +handful of people in the chapel, with a sense of sick depression which +he manfully choked down at every upheaval, but which was distinctly +there quite the same. Service over, there were things to be done for +three hours; also there was to be a meeting in his rooms at twelve +o'clock to consider the establishment of a new mission, his special +interest, in the rough country at the west of the city; the rector and +the bishop and two others were coming. He hurried home and up to his +place, at eleven-forty-five, and gave a hasty look about to see if +things were fairly proper for august people. Not that the bishop would +notice. He dusted off the library table with his handkerchief, put one +book discreetly on the back side of the table instead of in front, +swept an untidy box of cigarettes into a drawer, and gathered up the +fresh pile of wash from a chair and put it on the bed in his +sleeping-room and shut the door hard. Then he gazed about with the air +of a satisfied housekeeper. He lifted up a loudly ticking clock which +would not go except lying on its face, and regarded it. Five minutes +to twelve, and they were sure to be late. He extracted a cigarette +from the drawer and lighted it; his thoughts, loosened from immediate +pressure, came back slowly, surely, to the empty mailbox, his last +letter, the girl whom he knew grotesquely as "August First." Why had +she not written for four weeks? He had considered that question from +many angles for about three weeks, and the question rose and confronted +him, always new, at each leisure moment. It was disproportionate, it +showed lack of balance, that it should loom so large on the horizon, +with the hundred other interests, tragedies, which were there for him; +but it loomed. + +Why had he written her that hammer-and-tongs answer? he demanded of +himself, not for the first time. Of course, it was true, but when one +is drowning, one does not want reams of truth, one wants a rope. He +had stood on the shore and lectured the girl, ordered her to strike out +and swim for it, and not be so criminally selfish as to drop into the +ocean; that was what he had done. And the girl--what had she done? +Heaven only knew. Probably gone under. It looked more so each day. +Why could he not have been gentler, even if she was undeveloped, +narrow, asleep? Because she was rich--he answered his own question to +himself--because he had no belief in rich people; only a hard distrust +of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of +smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same, +they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed +himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden +memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle +child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept +darkness, of roses bobbing. + +McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted +the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve. +He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged +again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly, +he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from +the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector +and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust +the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and +turned to meet his guests. + +When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting +meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop +off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then +hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore +untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the +luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he +spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room +and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get +personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally +interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her +again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble. +And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has +got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table +and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he +saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his +pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with +elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing. + + +My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story +about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing +they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and +went through evolutions, and finally, with thunder and energy, trained +a huge Krupp gun--or something--on a chipmunk? If there is such a +story, and you've heard it, doesn't it remind you of your last letter +at me? Not to me, I mean _at_ me. It was a wonderful letter again, +but when I got through I had a feeling that what I needed was not +suicide--I do dare say the word, you see--but execution. Maybe +shooting is too good for me. And you know I appreciate every minute +how unnecessary it is for you to bother with me, and to put your time +and your strength, both of which mean much to many people, into +hammering me. And how good you are to do that. I am worthless, as you +say between every two lines. Yet I'm a soul--you say that too, and so +on a par with those tragic souls in North Baxter Court. Only, I feel +that you have no patience with me for getting underfoot when you're on +your way to big issues. But do have patience, please--it means as much +to me as to anybody in your tenements. I'm far down, and I'm +struggling for breath, and there seems to be no land in sight, nothing +to hold to except you. I'm sorry if you dislike to have it so, but it +is so; your letters mean anchorage. I'd blow out to sea if I didn't +have them to hope for. You ought to be glad of that; you're doing +good, even if it is only to a flippant, shallow, undeveloped doll. I +can call myself names--oh yes. + +I have been slow answering, though likely you haven't noticed [McBirney +smiled queerly], because I have been doing a thing. You said you +didn't advise me to go slumming--though I think you did--what else? +You said I ought to get beyond the view-point of a child; to realize +the world outside myself. + +I sat down, and in my limited way--I mean that, sincerely, humbly--I +considered what I could do. No slumming--and, in any case, there's +none to be done in Forest Gate. So I thought I'd better clear my +vision with great books. I went to Robert Halarkenden, the only +bookish person in my surroundings, and asked him about it--about what +would open up a larger horizon for me. And he, not understanding much +what I was at, recommended two or three things which I have been and am +reading. I thought I'd try to be a little more intelligent at least +before I answered your letter. Don't thunder at me--I'm stumbling +about, trying to get somewhere. I've read some William James and some +John Fiske, and I realize this--that I did more or less think God was a +very large, stately old man. An "anthropomorphic deity." Fiske says +that is the God of the lower peoples; that was my God. Also I realize +this--that, somehow, some God, _the_ God if I can get to Him, might +help might be my only chance. What do you think? Is this any better? +Is it any step? If it is, it's a very precarious one, for though it +thrills me to my bones sometimes to think that a real power might lift +me and bring me through, if I just ask Him, yet sometimes all that hope +goes and I drop in a heap mentally with no starch in me, no grip to try +to hold to any idea--just a heap of tired, dull mind and nerves, and +for my only desire that subtle, pushing desire to end it all quickly. +Once an odd thing happened. When I was collapsed like that, just +existing, suddenly there was a feeling, a brand-new feeling of letting +go of the old rubbish that was and somebody else pervading it through +and through and taking all the responsibility. And I held on tight, +something as I do to your letters, and the first thing, I was believing +that help was coming--and help came. That was the best day I've had +since I saw those devil doctors. Do you suppose that was faith? Where +did it come from? I'd been praying--but awfully queer prayers; I said +"Oh just put me through somehow; give me what I need; _I_ don't know +what it is; how can you expect me to--I'm a worm." I suppose that was +irreverent, but I can't help it. It was all I could say. And that +came, whatever it was. Do you suppose it was an answer to my blind, +gasping prayer? + +Now I'm going to ask you to do a thing--but don't if it's the least +bother. I don't want you to talk to me about myself just now, any +more. And I want to hear more about North Baxter Court and such. You +don't know how that stirred me. What a worth-while life you lead, +doing actual, life-and-death things for people who bitterly need things +done. It seems to me glorious. I could give up everything to feel a +stream of genuine living through me such as you have, all your rushing +days. Yes--I could--but yet, maybe I wouldn't make good. But I do +care for "life, and life more abundantly," and the only way of getting +it that I've known has been higher fences to jump, and more dances and +better tennis and such. I never once realized the way you get it--my! +what a big way. And how heavenly it must be to give hope and health +and help to people. I adore sending the maids out in the car, or +giving them my clothes. I just selfishly like pleasing people, and I +think giving is the best amusement extant--and you give your very self +from morning to night. You lucky person! How could I do that? Could +I? Would I balk, do you think? You say I'm not capable of loving +anything or anybody. I think you are wrong. I think I could, some +day, love somebody as hard as any woman or man has, ever. Not Alec. +What will happen if I marry Alec and then do that--if the somebody +comes? That would be a mess; the worst mess yet. The end of the +world; but I forget; my world ends anyhow. I'll be a stone image in a +chair--a cold, unloveable stone image with a hot, boiling heart. I +won't--I _won't_. This world is just five minutes, maybe--but me--in a +chair--ten years. Oh--I _won't_. + +What I want you to do is to write me just about the things you're +doing, and the people--the poor people, and the pitiful things and the +funny things--the atmosphere of it. Could you forget that you don't +know me, and write as you would to a cousin or an old friend? That +would be good. That would help. Only, anyhow, write, for without your +letters I can't tell what bomb may burst. Don't thunder next time. +But even if you thunder, write. The letters do guard the pistol--I +can't help it if you say not. It has to be so now, anyway. They guard +it. Always-- + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + Sept. 12th. + +You're right. It's idiotic to leap on people like that. I knew I was +all wrong the moment after the letter went. And when nothing came from +you--it wasn't pleasant. I nearly wrote--I more nearly telegraphed +your Robert Halarkenden. Do you mind if I say that for two days, just +lately--in fact, they were yesterday and the day before--I was on the +edge of asking for leave of absence to go west? You see, if you had +done it, it was so plainly my fault. And I had to know. Then I +argued--it's ghastly, but I argued that it would be in the papers. And +it wasn't. Of course, it might possibly have been kept out. But +generally it isn't. My knowledge of happenings in Chicago and +thereabouts, since my last letter, would probably surprise you a +little. Yes, I "noticed" that you didn't write--more than I noticed +the heat, which, now I think, has been bad. But when you're pretty +sure you've blundered in a matter of life and death, you don't pray for +rain. + +You've turned a corner. _A_ corner. _The_ corner--the big one, is +further along, and then there's the hill and the hot sun on the dusty +road. You'll need your sporting instincts. But you've got them. So +had St. Paul and those others who furnished the groundwork for that +oft-mentioned Roman holiday. That's religion, as I see it. That's +what _they_ did; pushed on--faced things down--went out +smiling--"gentlemen unafraid." It's like swimming--you can't go under +if you make the least effort. That's the law--of physics and, +therefore, of God. The experience you tell of is exactly what you have +the right to expect. The prayer you said; that's the only way to come +at it, yourself--talking--with that Other. There's a poem--you +know--the man who "caught at God's skirts and prayed." + +But you said not to write about you. All right then, I've been to the +theatre, the one at the end of our block. That may strike you as tame. +But you don't know Mrs. Jameson. She's the relict of the late senior +warden. A disapproving party, trimmed with jet beads and a lorgnette. +A few days after the rector left me in charge she triumphed into the +office, rattled the beads and got behind the lorgnette. She presumed I +was the new curate. No loop-hole out of that. I had been seen at the +theatre--not once nor twice. I could well believe it. The late +Colonel Jameson, it appeared, had not approved of clergymen attending +playhouses. She did not approve of it herself. She presumed I +realized the standing of this parish in the diocese? She dwelt on the +force of example to the young. Of course, the opera--but that was +widely different. She would suggest--she did suggest--not in the least +vaguely. Sometime, perhaps, I would come to luncheon? She had really +rather interested herself in the sermon yesterday--a little abrupt, +possibly, at the close--still, of course, a young man, and not very +experienced--besides, the Doctor had spoiled them for almost anybody +else. Naturally. + +The room widened after she had gone. You know these ladies with the +thick atmosphere. + +That night I went to the theatre. There's a stock company there for +the summer and I have come to know one of the actors. He belongs to +us--was married in the church last summer. The place was +packed--always is--it's a good company. And Everett--he's the +one--kept the house shouting. He's the regular funny man. The play +that week was very funny anyhow--one of those things the billboards +call a "scream." It was just that. Everett was the play. He stormed +and galloped through his scenes until everybody was helpless. People +like him; it's his third summer here. Well, at the end, nobody went. +A lot of lads in the gallery began calling for Everett. We're common +here; and not many of the quality patronize stock. Soon he pushed out +from behind the curtain and made one of those fool speeches which +generally fall flat. Only this one didn't. + +Then I went "behind." The dressing rooms at the Alhambra are not +home-like. Bare walls with a row of pegs along one side--a couple of +chairs--a table piled with make-up stuff and over it a mirror flanked +by electric lights with wire netting around them. Not gay. And grease +paint, at close range, is not attractive. A man shouldn't cry after +he's made up--that's a theatrical commandment, or ought to be. +Probably a man shouldn't anyhow. But some do. I imagined Everett had, +and that he'd done it with his head in his arms and his arms in the +litter of the big table. I think I shook hands with him--one does +inane things sometimes--but I don't know what I said. I had something +like your experience--I just wasn't there for a minute or two. + +Afterward, I went home with him--a long half-hour on the trolley, then +up three flights into "light housekeeping" rooms in the back. There +was cold meat on the table, and bread. The janitor's wife, good soul, +had made a pot of coffee. "Light housekeeping" is a literal +expression, let me tell you, and doctor's bills make it lighter. I +followed him into the last room of the three. It looked different from +the way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gas +higher I saw why--the bed was gone--one of those stretcher things takes +less room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was--all that +he had left of all that he had had--the girl he'd been mad about and +married in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when she +died; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn't +let him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." She +didn't wait. + +And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did--and +was funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front of +hundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, and +all the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in the +last room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence. + +Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, but +I doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it was +very simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it was +too late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if they +closed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he said +nothing--and was funny. + +I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told it +to you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one's +job--isn't that the big thing, after all? + +Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He has +laid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and for +the last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd like +him--he's so alive. + +Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that I +know you'll--but you said not to write about you. + +The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing all +night just because, or, for the reason that." + + +It's night now--big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes I +stay up late to realize that I'm alive. The days are so crammed with +happenings. And late at night seems so wide and everlasting. You've +got the idea that I do things. Well, I don't. There are whole rows of +days when it seems just a muddle of half-started attempts--a manner of +hopeless confusion. There's a good deal of futility in it, first and +last. That boy tonight for instance. And, sometimes, I get to +wondering if, after all, one has the right to meddle in other people's +lives. It's curious, but with you I've been quite sure. Always it has +been as clear as light to me that you must come through this--that it +will be right. I don't know how. Even that day you came, I was sure. +As soon as _you_ are sure, the thing is done. That man isn't to be +worried about--or the doctors. Easy for me to say, isn't it? + +Are you interested to know that I'm to have my building on the West +Side? There was a meeting today. It's the best thing that's happened +yet, that is, parochially. Maybe she's human after all. I mean Mrs. +Jameson. She's going to pay for it. + +I think that's all. You can't say I've tried to thunder at you this +time. I really didn't last time. I've known all along that you +wouldn't be impressed by thunder. The answer to that young devil's +question seems to be: I'm writing "for the reason that," and not, "just +because." Every time I think of that boy's name I have to laugh. + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +September 17th. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +What _is_ the boy's name? It must be queer if you laugh every time you +think of it. Don't forget to tell me. + +Your letters leave me breathless with things to say back. I suppose +that's inspiration, to make people feel full of new ideas, and that +you're crammed with it. In the first place I'm in a terrible hurry to +tell you that something really big has touched the edge of my anaemic +life, and that I have recognized it; I'm pleased that I recognized it. +Listen--please--this is it. Robert Halarkenden; I must tell you who he +is. Thirteen years ago my uncle was on a camping trip in Canada and +one of the guides was a silent Scotchman, mixed in with French-Canadian +habitants and half-breed Indians. My uncle was interested in him--he +was picturesque and conspicuous--but he would not talk about himself. +Another guide told Uncle Ted all that anyone has ever known about him, +till yesterday. He was a guardian of the club and lived alone in a +camp in the wildest part of it, and in summer he guided one or two +parties, by special permission of the club secretary. This other guide +had been to his cabin and told my uncle that it was full of books; the +guide found the number astounding--"_effrayant_." Also he had a garden +of forest flowers, and he knew everything about every wild thing that +grew in the woods. Well, Uncle Ted was so taken with the man that he +asked the secretary about him, and the secretary shook his head. All +that he could tell was that he was a remarkable woodsman and a perfect +guide and that he had been recommended to him in the first place by Sir +Archibald Graye of Toronto, who had refused to give reasons but asked +as a personal favor that the man should be given any job he wished. +This is getting rather a long story. Of course you know that the man +was Halarkenden and you are now to know that my uncle brought him to +Forest Gate as his gardener. He thought over it a day when Uncle Ted +asked him and then said that he had lived fifteen years in the forest +and that now he would like to live in a garden; he would come if Uncle +Ted would let him make a garden as beautiful as he wished. Uncle Ted +said yes, and he has done it. You have never seen such a garden--no +one ever has. It is four acres and it lies on the bluff above the +lake; that was a good beginning. If you had seen the rows of lilies +last June, with pink roses blossoming through them, you would have +known that Robert Halarkenden is a poet and no common man. Of course +we have known it all along, but in thirteen years one gets to take +miracles for granted. Yesterday I went down into the wild garden which +lies between the woods and the flowers--this is a large place--and I +got into the corner under the pines, and lay flat on the pink-brown +needles, all warm with splashes of September sunlight, and looked at +the goldenrod and purple asters swinging in the breeze and wondered if +I could forget my blessed bones and live in the beauty and joy of just +things, just the lovely world. Or whether it wouldn't be simpler to +pull a trigger when I went back to my room, instead of kicking and +struggling day after day to be and feel some other way. I get so sick +and tired of fighting myself--you don't know. Anyhow, suddenly there +was a rustle in the gold and purple hedge, and there was Robert +Halarkenden. I wish I could make you see him as he stood there, in his +blue working blouse, a pair of big clippers in his hand, his thick, +half-gray, silvery thatch of hair bare and blowing around his scholar's +forehead, his bony Scotch face solemn and quiet. His deep-set eyes +were fixed with such a gentle gaze on me. We are good friends, Robin +and I. I call him Robin; he taught me to when I was ten, so I always +have. "You're no feeling well, lassie?" he asked; he has known me a +long time, you see. And I suddenly sat up and told him about my old +bones. I didn't mean to; I have told no one but you; not Uncle Ted +even. But I did. And "Get up, lassie, and sit on the bench. I will +talk to you," said Robin. So we both sat down on the rustic bench +under the blowy pines, and I cried like a spring torrent, and Robin +patted my hand steadily, which seems an odd thing for one's uncle's +gardener to do, till I got through. Then I laughed and said, "Maybe +I'll shoot myself." And he answered calmly, "I hope not, lassie." +Then I said nothing and he said nothing for quite a bit, and then he +began talking gently about how everybody who counted had to go through +things. "A character has to be hammered into the likeness of God," he +said. "A soul doesn't grow beautiful by sunlight and rich earth," and +he looked out at his scarlet and blue and gold September garden and +smiled a little. "We're no like the flowers." Then he considered +again, and then he asked if it would interest me at all to hear a +little tale, and I told him yes, of course. "Maybe it will seem +companionable to know that other people have faced a bit of trouble," +he said. And then he told me. I don't know if you will believe it; it +seems too much of a drama to be credible to me, if I had not heard +Robert Halarkenden tell it in his entirely simple way, sitting in his +workingman's blouse, with the big clippers in his right hand. Thirty +years before he had been laird of a small property in Scotland, and +about to marry the girl whom he cared for. Then suddenly he found that +she was in love with his cousin--with whom he had been brought up, and +who was as dear as a brother--and his cousin with her. In almost no +more words than I am using he told me of the crisis he lived through +and how he had gone off on the mountains and made his decision. He +could not marry the girl if she did not love him. His cousin was heir +to his property; he decided to disappear and let them think he was +dead, and so leave the two people whom he loved to be happy and +prosperous without him. He did that. Two or three people had to know +to arrange things, and Sir Archibald Graye, of Toronto, was one, but +otherwise he simply dropped out of life and buried himself in Canadian +forests, and then, just as he was growing hungry for some things he +could not get in the forest, my uncle came along and offered him what +he wanted. + +"But how could you?" I asked him. "You're a gentleman; how could you +make yourself a servant, and build a wall between yourself and nice +people?" + +Robin smiled at me in a shadowy, gentle way he has. "Those walls are a +small matter of dust, lassie," he said. "A real man blows on them and +they're tumbling. And service is what we're here for. And all people +are nice people, you'll find." And when, still unresigned, I said +more, he went on, very kindly, a little amused it seemed. "Why should +it be more important for me to be happy than for those two? I hope +they're happy," he spoke wistfully. "The lad was a genius, but a wild +lad too," and he looked thoughtful. "Anyhow, it was for me to decide, +you see, and a man couldn't decide ungenerously. That would be to tie +one's self to a gnawing beast, which is what is like the memory of your +own evil deed. Take my word for it, lassie, there was no other way." + +"It seems all exaggerated," I threw at him; "there was no sense in your +giving up your home and traditions and associations--it was +unreasonable, fantastic! And to those two who had taken away your +happiness anyhow." + +I wish you could have heard how quietly and naturally Robert +Halarkenden answered me. He considered a moment first, in his Scotch +way, and then he said: "Do not you see, lassie, that's where it was +simple, verra simple. Houses and lands and a place in the world are +small affairs after love, and mine was come to shipwreck. So it seemed +to me I'd try living free of the care of possessions. I'd try the old +rule, that a man to find his life must lay it down. It was verra +simple, as I'm telling you, once I'd got the fancy for it. Laying down +a life is not such a hard business; it's only to make up your mind. +And I did indeed find life in doing it, I was care-free as few are in +those forest years." + +I think you would have agreed with me, Mr. McBirney, that the +middle-aged, lined face of my uncle's gardener was beautiful as he said +those things. "Why did you leave the forest?" I asked him then; you +may believe I'd forgotten about my bones by now. + +"Ah, you'll find it grows irksome to be coddling one's own soul +indefinitely," he confided to me with the pretty gentleness which +breaks through his Scotch manner once in a while. "One gets tired of +one's self, the spoiled body. I hungered to do something for somebody +besides Robert Halarkenden. I'd taken charge of a lad with +tuberculosis one summer up there, and I'd cured him, and I had a +thought I could do the same for other lads. I wanted to get near a +city to have that chance. I've been doing it here," and then he drew +back into his Scotchness and was suddenly cold and reserved. But I +knew that was shyness, and because he had spoken of his secret good +deeds and was uncomfortable. + +So I was not frozen. "You have!" I pounced on him. And I made him +tell me how, besides his unending gardening, besides his limitless +reading, he has been, all these years, working in the city in his few +spare hours, spending himself and his wages--wages!--and helping, +healing, giving all the time--like you---- + +I felt the most torturing envy of my life as I listened to that. _I_ +wanted to be generous and wonderful and self-forgetting, and have a +great, free heart "of spirit, fire, and dew." _I_ wanted the something +in me that made that still radiance of Robert Halarkenden's eyes. You +see? "I"--always "I." That's the way I'm made. Utterly selfish. I +can't even see heavenliness but I want to snatch it for myself. Robin +never thought once that he was getting heavenliness--he only thought +that he was giving help. Different from me. And all these years that +I have been prancing around his garden of delight in two hundred dollar +frocks--oh lots of them, for I'm rich and extravagant and I buy things +because they're pretty and not because I need them--all these years he +has been saving most of his seventy-five dollars a month, and getting +sick children sent south, and never mentioning it. Why, I own a place +south. I'm not such a beast but that--well, very likely I am a +beast--I don't know. Anyhow, I've consistently lived the life of a +selfish butterfly. And I cling to it. Despise me if you will. I do. +I like my pretty clothes and my car, and how I do love my two +saddle-horses! And I like dancing, too--I turn into a bird in the +tree-tops when I dance, with not a care, not a responsibility. I don't +want to give all that up. Have I got to? Have I _got_ to "lay down my +life" to find it? For, somehow, cling as I will to all these things, +something is pushing, pushing back of them, stronger than them. You +started it. I want the big things now--I want to be worth while. But +yet clothes and gayety and horses and automobiles--I'm glued tight in +that round. I don't believe I can tear loose. I don't believe I want +to. Do you see--I'm in torment. And--silly idiot that I am--it's not +for me to decide anything. I'm turning into a ton of stone--I'll be a +horrible unhuman monster and have to give it all up and have nothing in +return. Soon I'll lay down my life and _not_ find it. I won't. I'll +pull the trigger. Will I? Do you see how I vacillate and shiver and +boil? This is my soul I'm pouring out to you. I hope you don't mind +hot liquids. What you wrote about the actor made me sit still a whole +half-hour without stirring a finger, with your letter in my hands. It +was glorious--there's no question. You meant it to inspire me. But he +had a job. I haven't. Back to me again, you see--unending me. Do you +know about the man who used to say "Now let's go into the garden and +talk about me"? + +In any case, thank you for telling me that story. I'm glad to know +that there are people like that--several of them. I know you and Robin +anyhow, but the actor makes the world seem fuller of courage and +worth-whileness. I wish a little of it would leak into--oh, _me_ +again. _Me_ is getting "irksome," as Robin said. Remember to tell me +the boy's name. + +Yours gratefully if unsatisfactorily, + AUGUST FIRST. + +P. S.--Robert Halarkenden isn't his real name. It's his grandmother's +father's name, and Welsh. I don't know the real one. + +P. S. No. 2. If it isn't inconsistent, and if you think I'm worth +while, you might pray just a scrap too. That I may get to be like you +and Robin. + +P. S. No. 3. But you know it's the truth that I'm balky at giving up +everything in sight. I'd hate myself in bad clothes. _Can't_ I have +good ones and yet be worth while? Oh, I see. It doesn't matter if +they're good or bad so long as I don't care too much. But I do care. +Then they hamper me--eh? Is that the idea? This is the last +postscript to this letter. Write a quick one--I'm needing it. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + Sept. 23d. + +I don't think it matters what his real name is. I'd been thinking all +along, that he was just a convenient fiction, useful for an address, +and now he turns out about the realest person going. Sometimes I +imagine perhaps it will be like that when we get through with this +world and wake up into what's after--that the things we've passed over +pretty much here and been vague about will blaze out as the eternal +verities. A miracle happened that day in your September garden. +You've surely read "_Sur la Branche_"--that book written around a +woman's belief in the Providence of God? Well, that's what I mean. +Why did Halarkenden come down out of the woods into your uncle's +garden? Why did you tell him, of all people? Why was it you who got +through to the truth about him? Why did it all happen just the minute +you most needed it? Of course I believe it--every word, exactly as you +wrote it. It's impossible things like that which do happen and help us +to bear the flatly ordinary. It's the incredible things that shout +with reality. Miracles ought to be ordinary affairs--we don't believe +in them because we're always straining every nerve to keep them from +happening. We get so confused in the continual muddle of our own +mistakes that when something does come straight through, as it was +intended to do, we're like those men who heard the voice of God that +day and told one another anxiously that it thundered. + +Just think what went to make up those five minutes which gave you the +lift you had to have--that young Scotchman, beating back his devils up +in the lonely mountains all those years ago--that's when it started. +And then fetch it down to now; his leaving home forever--and his exile +in the woods--considerably different from a camping trip--the silent +days, worse--the nights. And all the time his mind going back and back +to what he'd left behind--his home, seeing every little corner of +it--you know the tortures of imagination--his friends--the girl--always +the girl--wondering why, and why, and why. Think of the days and +months without seeing one of your own kind. He had to have books; his +wild garden had to blossom. That man wasn't "coddling" his soul--he +was ripping and tearing it into shreds and then pounding it together +again with a hammer and with nails. All alone. That's the hardest, I +suppose. And then, when it was all done and the worst of the pain and +the torment passed, away up there in the forests, Robert +Halarkenden--it _is_ true, isn't it?--he rose from the dead, and being +risen, he took a hand in the big business of the world. And his latest +job is you. Has that occurred to you? I don't mean to say that he +went through all that just to be a help to you. But I do say that if +he hadn't gone through it he wouldn't have been a help to anybody. He +did it. You needed to find out about it. He told you. It got +through. Things sometimes do. + +Suppose he hadn't come down from the mountains that day--that they'd +found him there--that he hadn't had the nerve to face it? Who would +have cured the tuberculosis lad--who would have sent the children +south--who would have brushed through your uncle's garden hedge in +Forest Gate, Illinois, and told you what you needed to be told? If +_you_ should turn out not to have the nerve--if, some day you--? Then +what about _your_ job? Nobody can ever do another person's real work, +and, if it isn't done, I think it's likely we'll have to keep company +with our undone, unattempted jobs forever. Mostly rather little jobs +they are, too--so much the more shame for having dodged them. You say +that you haven't got one. Maybe not, just now. But how do you know it +isn't right around the corner? Did Halarkenden have you in mind those +years he fought with beasts? No--not you--it was the girl back in +Scotland. But here you are, getting the benefit of it. It's a small +place, the world, and we're tied and tangled together--it won't do to +cut loose. That spoils things, and it's all to come right at the last, +if we'll only let it. + +Possibly you'll think it's silly or childish, but I believe maybe this +life with its queer tasks and happenings is just the great, typical +Fairy Story, with Heaven at the last. They're true--that's why +unspoiled children love fairy stories. They begin, they march with +incident, best of all, one finds always at the end that "'They' lived +happily ever afterward." "They," is you, and I hope it's me. The +trouble with people mainly is that they're too grown up. Who knows +what children see and hear in the summer twilights, on the way home +from play? There's the big, round moon, tangled in the tree-tops--one +remembers that--and there's the night wind, idling down the dusty +street. Surely, though, more than that, but we've forgotten. Isn't +growing up largely a process of forgetting, rather than of getting, +knowledge? Of course there's cube-root and partial payments and fear +and pain and love--one does acquire that sort of thing--but doesn't it +maybe cost the losing of the right point of view? And that's too +expensive. Naturally, or, perhaps, unnaturally, we can't afford to be +caught sailing wash-tub boats across the troubled seas of orchard +grass, or watching for fairies in the moonlight, but can't we somehow +continue to want to give ourselves to similar adventure? There's a +good deal of difference, first and last, between childishness and +childlikeness--enough to make the one plain foolishness, and the other +the qualification for entrance into the Kingdom of God. I'd rather +have let cube-root go and have kept more of my imagination. The other +day, in the middle of a catechism I was holding in the parish school, a +small youngster rose to his feet and solemnly assured the company +present that "the pickshers of God in the church" were "all wrong." +Naturally we argued, which was a mistake. He got me. "God," said he, +"is a Spirit, and spirits don't look like those colored pickshers in +the windows." You see, he knew. He still remembers. But the higher +mathematics and a few brisk sins will assist him to forget. Too bad. +Still, when we get back home again surely it will all "come back" like +a forgotten language. + +Meantime there are two hundred dollar frocks to consider, as well as +miracles in gardens. And that's all right, so long as the frocks are +worthy the background, which I venture to suppose, of course, they are. +The subject of clothes interests me a good deal just now, as I'm +engaged in living on my salary. It's all a question of what one can +afford, financially and spiritually. I gather you're not a bankrupt +either way. I don't recall anything in Holy Writ that seems to require +dowdiness as necessary to salvation. If one's got money it's +fortunate--if money's got one--that's different. Which is my +platitudinous way of agreeing with the last postscript of your letter. +I know you're getting to look at things properly again. To lose one's +life certainly does not mean to kill it, and to give it away one +needn't fling it to the dogs. And when you do connect with your job +you'll recognize it and you'll know how to do it. I'd like to watch +you. Once get your imagination going properly again and the days are +rose and gold. Oh, not all of them--but a good many--enough. + +I nearly forgot about Theodore. There's humor for you--Theodore, "The +Gift of God"--that's the name they gave him sixteen good years ago +somewhere over in Scotland as you'd have guessed from the rest of it, +which is Alan McGregor. He is an orphan, is Theodore, but he doesn't +wear the uniform of the Orphans' Home--far from it! He wears soft +raiment and lives in kings' houses, or what amounts to the same thing. +I am engaged in exorcising the devil out of him and in teaching him +enough Latin to get into a decent school at the earliest instant. The +Latin goes well--three nights a week from eight to half-past nine. But +the devil takes advantage of every one of those nine points of law +which possession is said to give, and doesn't go at all. I am the only +living person who knows how to define "charm." Charm is the most +conspicuous attribute of the devil, and young McGregor has got it. +Likewise other qualities, the ones, for instance, which make his name +so rather awfully funny. You'd have to know Theodore to appreciate +just how funny. + +It was the rector who "wished" him on to me. The rector is one of his +guardians, and being Theodore's guardian is a business which requires +at least one undersecretary, and I'm that. Theodore and hot water have +the strongest affinity known to psychological chemistry. So I'm kept +busy. But it's all the keenest sport you can imagine, and it's going +to be tremendously worth while if I can make a success of it. He's the +right kind of bad, and he's getting ready to grow into a great, big, +straight out-and-outer, with a mind like lightning and a heart like one +of the sons of God. But that kind is always the worst risk. He has +the weapons to get him through the fight with splendor, only they're +every one two-edged, and you have to be careful with swords that cut +both ways. His father was an inventor genius and there are bales of +money and already it has begun to press down on him a little. Still, +that may be the exact right thing. He has talked about it once or +twice as a nice boy would. There's a place on the other side which +comes to him, with factories and such things. He wanted to know +wouldn't it be his business to see that the working people were +properly looked after; I gathered he's been reading books, trying to +find out. And then he got suddenly shy and very bright red as to the +face, and cleared out. So far, so good, but it isn't far enough. Not +yet. + +That's my present job. You'll get yours. + +Wasn't it wonderful--I mean Halarkenden! When I think of him and then +of myself it gives me a good deal of a jounce. It surprises me that I +ever had the conceit to think I could handle this parson proposition. +Lately I've not been over-cheerful about it. That's one reason why +your letter did me good. + +I hear the Gift of God coming up the stairs, and I've neglected to look +up the Future Periphrastic Conjugation and that ticklish difference +between the Gerund and the Gerundive, which is vital. + +One thing more--your second postscript. You didn't suppose that I +don't, did you? Only, not like me! + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +The man took the letter down the three flights to the post-box at the +entrance of the Parish House and dropped it, with a certain +deliberation, as if he were speaking to someone whom he cared for, with +a certain hesitation, as if he were not sure that he had spoken well, +into the box. As he mounted the stairs again his springing gait was +slower than usual. It was very late, but he drew a long chair close +and poked the hard-coal fire till it glowed to him like a bed of +jewels, all alive and stirred to their hot hearts; opals and topazes +and rubies and cairngorms and the souls of blue sapphires and purple +amethysts playing ghostly over the rest. He dropped into the chair and +the tall, black-clothed figure fell into lax lines; his long fingers, +the fingers of an artist, a musician, lay on the arms of the chair +limply as if disconnected from any central power; there was surely +despair, hopelessness, in the man's attitude. His gray eyes glowed +from under the straight black brows with much of the hidden flame, the +smouldering intensity of the coals at which he gazed. He sat so +perhaps half an hour, staring moodily at the orange heart of the fire. +Then suddenly, with a smothered half-syllable, with a hand thrown out +impatiently, he was on his feet with a bound, and with that his arms +were against the tall mantel and his head dropped in them, and he was +gazing down so and talking aloud, rapidly, disjointedly, out of his +loneliness, to his friend, the red fire. "How can I--how dare I? A +square peg in a round hole--and the extra corners all weakness and +wickedness. Selfishness--incompetence--I to set up to do the Lord's +special work! I to preach to others--If it were not blasphemy it would +be a joke--a ghastly joke. I can't go on--I have to pull out. +Yet--how can I? They'll think--people will think--oh what _does_ it +matter what people will think? Only--if it hurt the rector--if it hurt +the work? And Theodore--but--someone else would do him--more good than +I can. There ought to be--an older man--to belong. Surely God will +look after His gift--His gift!" The quick lightning of the brilliant +eyes, which in this man often took the place of a smile, flashed; then +the changing face was suddenly grim with a wrenching feeling, yet +bright with a wind of tenderness not to be held back. The soul came +out of hiding and wrote itself on the muscles of the face. +"She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am. To think--to +dream--to dare to hope. But I _don't_ hope," he brought out savagely, +and flung his shoulders straight and caught the wooden shelf with a +grip. "I don't hope--I just"--the voice dropped, and his head fell on +his arms again. "I won't say it. I'm not utterly mad yet." He picked +up the poker and stirred the fire, and put on coal from a scuttle, and +went and sat down again in the chair. "Something has got to be +decided," he spoke again to the coals in the grate. "I've got to know +if I ought to stay at this job, or if it's an impertinence." For +minutes then he was silent, intent, it seemed, on the fire. Then again +he spoke in the low, clear voice whose simplicity, whose purity +reached, though he did not know it, the inmost hearts of the people to +whom he preached. "I will make a test of her," he said, telling the +fire his decision. "If she is safe and wins through to the real +things, I'll believe that I've been let do that, and that I'm fit for +work. If she doesn't--if I can't pull off that one job which is so +distinctly put up to me--I'll leave." With a swing he had put out the +lights in the big, bare living-room and gone into the bedroom beyond. +He tried to sleep, but the tortured nerves, the nerves of a high-bred +race-horse, eager, ever ready for action, would not be quiet. The +great, rich city, the great poverty-stricken masses seething through +it, the rushing, grinding work of the huge parish, had eaten into his +youth and strength enormously already in six months. He had given +himself right and left, suffered with the suffering, as no human being +can and keep balance, till now he was, unknowingly, at the edge of a +breakdown. And the distrust of his own fitness, the forgetfulness +that, under one's own limitations, is an unlimited reserve which is the +only hope of any of us in any real work; this was the form of the +retort of his overwrought nerves. Yet at last he slept. + +Meantime as he slept the hours crept away and it was morning and an +early postman came and opened the box with a rattling key and took out +three letters which the deaconess had sent to her scattered family, and +one, oddly written, which the janitor had executed for his mother in +Italy, and the letter to the girl. From hand to hand it sped, and +away, and was hidden in a sack in a long mail-train, and at last, +Robert Halarkenden, on the 25th of September, came down the garden +path, and the girl, reading in the wild garden, laid aside her book and +watched him as he came, and thought how familiar and pleasant a sight +was the gaunt, tall figure, pausing on the gravelled walk to touch a +blossom, to lift a fallen branch, as lovingly as a father would care +for his children. "A letter, lassie," Robert Halarkenden said, and +held out the thick envelope; and then did an extraordinary thing for +Robert Halarkenden. He looked at the address in the unmistakable, big, +black writing and looked at the girl and stood a moment, with a +question in his eyes. The girl flushed. "Checkmate in six moves" was +quite enough to say to this girl; one did not have to play the game +brutally to a finish. + +She laughed then. "I knew you must have wondered," she said, and with +that she told the story of the letters. + +"It's no wrong," Robert Halarkenden considered. + +The girl jumped to her answer. "Wrong!" she cried, "I should say not. +It's salvation--hope--life. Maybe all that; at the least it's the +powers of good, fighting for me. Something of the sort--I don't know," +she finished lamely. With that she was deep in her letter and Robert +Halarkenden had moved a few yards and was tending a shrub that seemed +to need nursing. + + +October the Sixth. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +"The night wind idling down the dusty street"--You do make patterns out +of the dictionary which please me. But I know that irritates you, for +words are not what you are paying attention to--of course--if they +were, yours wouldn't be so wonderful. It's the wind of the spirit that +blows them into beautiful shapes for you, I suppose. To let that go, +for it's immaterial--you think I might have a job? I? That I might do +a real thing for anybody ever? If you only knew me. If you only could +see the mountains of whipped cream and Maraschino cherries, the cliffs +of French clothes and automobiles, the morasses of afternoon teas and +dances and calls and luxury in general that lie between me and any +usefulness. It's the maddest dream that I, with my bones and my money +and my bringing up, all my crippling ailments, could ever, _ever_ climb +those mountains and cliffs and wade through those bogs. It's mad, I +say, you visionary, you man on the other side of all that, who are +living, who are doing things. I never can--I never can. And yet, it's +so terrible, it's so horrible, so frightening, so desperate, sometimes, +to be drowning in luxury. I woke in the night last night and before my +eyes had opened I had flung out my hand and cried out loud in the dark: +"What shall I do with my life--Oh what shall I do with my life?" And +it isn't just me--though that's the burning, close question to my +simple selfishness. But it's a lot of women--a lot. We're waking all +over the world. We want to help, to be worth while; to help, to count. +It won't do much longer to know French and Italian and play middling +tennis and be on the Altar Society. You know what I mean. All +that--yes--but beyond that the power which a real person carries into +all that to make it big. The stronger you are the better your work is. +I want to be strong, to be useful, to touch things with a personality +which will move them, make them go, widen them. How? How can I? What +can I do, ever? Oh what _can_ I do--_what_ can I do--with my life! I +thought that day in August that it was only my illness, and my tie to +an unloved man, but it's more than that. You have broadened the field +of my longing, my restlessness, till it covers--everything. Help me +then, for you have waked me to this want, question, agony. It's not +only if I may kill my life--it's what I can do if I don't kill it. +What can I do? Do you feel how that's a sharp, vital question to me? +It's out of the deep I'm calling to you--do you know that? And it's my +voice, but it's the voice of thousands--_now_ you're in trouble. Now +you wish you'd let me alone, for here we are at the woman question! I +can see you shy at that. But I'm not going to pin you, for you only +contracted to help me; I'll shake off the other thousands for the +present. And, anyhow, can you help me? Oh, you have--you've delayed +my--crime, I suppose it is. You've given me glimpses of vistas; you've +set me reading books; widened every sort of horizon; you've even made +me dream of a vague, possible work, for me. Yes, I've been dreaming +that; a specific thing which I might do, even I, if I could cancel some +house-parties, and a trip to France, and the hunting. But even if I +could possibly give up those things, there's Uncle Ted. He's not well, +and my dream would involve leaving him. And I'm all he has. We two +are startlingly alone. After all, you see, it's a dream; I'm not big +enough to do more than that--dream idly. Robin has a queer scheme just +now. There's a bone-ologist here, the most famous one of the planet, +exported from France, to cure the small son of one of the trillionaires +with which this place reeks, and Robin insists that I see that +bone-ologist about my bones. It's unpleasant, and I hate doctors and I +don't know if I will. But Robin is very firm and insists on my telling +Uncle Ted otherwise. I can't bother Uncle Ted. So I may do it. Yet, +if the great man pronounced, as he would, that the other doctors were +right, it would be almost going through the first hideous shock over +again. So I may _not_ do it. I must stop writing. I have a guest and +must do a party for her. She's a California heiress--oh fabulously +rich--much richer than I. With splendid bones. I gave her a dance +last night and this morning she's off on my best hunter with my +fiancé--save the mark! He admires her, and she certainly is a nice +girl, and lovely to look at, with eyes like those young mediaeval, +brainless Madonnas. I'm so glad to have someone else play with +him--with Alec. I dread him so. I hate, I _hate_ to let him--kiss me. +There. If you were a real man I couldn't have exploded into that. +You're only the spirit of a thunder-storm, you know; I'll never see you +again on earth; I can say anything. I do say anything, don't I? I can +say--I do say--that you have dragged me from the bottomless pit; that +if any good comes of me it is your good--that you--being a shadow, a +memory, an incident--are yet the central figure of this world to me. +If I fall back into the pit, that is not your affair--mine, mine only. +The light that shines around you for me is the only kindly light that +may save me. But it may not. I may fall back. I have the toy in the +drawer yet--covered with letters. Good-by--I am yours always, + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + October 8th. + +You'll never see me again? You'll see me in three days unless you stop +me with a telegram. + +I have a curious feeling that all this has happened before--my sitting +here in front of the fire writing to you at one o'clock in the morning. +They say it's one part of the brain working a shade ahead of the rest. +I don't believe that. I do not believe my brain is working at all. +It's spinning around. For days I've been living in the Fourth +Dimension--something like that. It changes the values to have a new +universe whirl up around one. New heavens and a new earth--that's it. +I have given up trying to analyze it. Even if I didn't want to tell +you I couldn't help it. I'm beyond that now, and--helpless. I never +dreamed of its being like this. I never thought much about it, except +vaguely, as anybody does, and here it's come and snatched away the +world. + +I don't know how this is going to get itself said. But I can't stop +it. That frightens me, rather; I've been used to ordering myself about +or, at least, to feeling that I could. But that seems to be over. I +don't pretend that I didn't foresee it, or rather that I didn't +recognize it right at the beginning. What I did was to put off +reckoning with it. + +I see that I'm going to say things wrong. You have got to overlook +that; I can't help it. I told you my brain wasn't working. For days +I've been in a maze. Then your letter came, late this afternoon, and +that settled it. Do you know what you said? Do you? You said: "If +you were a real man, I wouldn't have exploded like this." A real +man--what do you _think_ I am? That's what I want to know. You'll +find out I'm real enough before you and I are done. Do you suppose +that I have been reading your letters all these weeks--those letters in +which you said yourself you put your soul--as though they were stock +quotations? Did you think you were a numbered "case," that I was +keeping notes about you in that neat filing-cabinet down in the office? +Well, it hasn't been exactly that way. + +Do you remember that day you were here? How it rained--how dark it +was? Why, I've never seen you, really. I'm always trying to imagine +your face. + +I've got to talk to you--some things can't be written. You won't stop +me. Do you suppose you can? You've got to give me a chance to +talk--that's only square. No, I don't mean all that. I don't quite +know what I'm saying. I mean, you will let me come, won't you? I'll +go away again after; you needn't be afraid. That's fair, isn't it? + +You see, it's been strange from the start, and so quick. You, in the +middle of the storm that day--the things you said--the fearful tangle +you were in. And then the letters--the wonderful letters! And we +thought we were keeping it all impersonal. You, with your blazing +individuality--you, impersonal! I can't imagine your face, but you've +stripped the masks and conventions off your soul for me--I've looked at +that. I couldn't help it, could I? I couldn't stop. I can't now. I +can't look at anything else. There isn't anything else--it fills my +world--it's blotted out what used to be reality. + +You're hundreds of miles away--what are you doing? Sitting, with your +white dress a rosy blur in the lamplight, reading, thinking, +afraid--frightened at the doctors--shrinking at the thought of that +damned, pawing beast? We'll drop that last--this isn't the time for +that--not yet. Miles away you are--and yet you're here--the real you +that you've sent me in the letters. Always you are here. I listen to +your voice--I've got that--your voice, singing through my days--here in +the silence and the firelight, outside in the night under the stars, +always, everywhere, I hear you--calling me. + +You see, my head's gone. Don't think though, that I don't know the +risk this is. But there isn't any other way. Those four weeks you +didn't write, when I thought you had gone under--that was when I began +to see how it was with me. Since then I've gone on, living on your +letters, until now I can't imagine living without them--and more. And +yet I know this may be the end. That's the risk. But I can't go on +like that any more. It's everything now, or nothing. I want to know +what you are going to do about it. What are you thinking--what must +you think--what will you say to me when I see you in your still garden +of miracles? I've got to know. If you meant it--you said I was the +centre of your world--it can't be true that you meant that. I the +centre of your great, clean, wind-swept world of hill-tops and of +visions? I, who haven't got the decent strength to hold my tongue, and +keep my hands. But you did say that--you did! When I come, will you +say it to me again, out loud, that? I can't imagine it--such a thing +couldn't happen to me. But if you shouldn't--if you should tell me not +to come--no, I can't face that. Where is the solution? I see +perfectly that you can't care--why should you?--I see also that you +must be made to. That's just it. I know what I must have and that I +can never have it. No, that isn't so. I know that I shall come and +take you away from what you fear and hate, out of the world we both +know is not real, into reality. I shall tell you why I want you, why +you must come. You will listen and you will answer. You will say why +it's madness and insanity. I shall have to hear all your obvious +reasons, but I shall know that you know they are lies--Do you think--do +you dream, that they can stand between me and you? You can't stop me. +Because I have seen your soul--you said so--you've held it out, in your +two hands, for me to look at. You can't keep me away from you. I know +how you'll fight against it. You won't win--don't count on it. + +This isn't insolence--it's the thing that's got me. I can't help it. +A man is that way. I don't half know what I've said; I don't dare read +it. You have got to make it out yourself, somehow. + +You've asked me questions. You're troubled, frightened--I know, +it's--hell. Do you think I can sit here any longer and let you go +through that alone? I've been over the whole thing--I've done nothing +else, and out of the maze of it all I'm forced to come to this. It's +the old way and the only one--the answer to it all. What can you do +with your life--your life that is going to be, that is now, all +glorious with loveliness and light? Give it away--that's it--give it +to me, and then we two will set it to music and send it singing through +the world. The old way. You to come home to when the day is +done--your face, your hands, your eyes---- + +You'll have to overlook this. It's mad to go on. It's mad anyway. If +you knew how I've lied to myself, how I've struggled and fought and +twisted to keep this back from you! And here it is, confused and +grotesque and contradictory and wrong. If I could look at you and say +it, I could get it right. If I could look at you--if I could see you. +Give me a chance. Then I'll go away again--if you say so. I had to +give you warning--it didn't seem square not. And I've bungled it like +this! I tell you I can't help it. It's what you've done to me. I +tried to spare you this, but I waited too long--now it's almighty. + +Give me my man's chance--Oh I know I'm not worth it--who is? +Afterwards-- + +G. McB. + + +_October 10th_. + +Telegram received by the Reverend Geoffrey McBirney, St. Andrews Parish +House, Warchester: + +You must not come. Leaving Forest Gate. Sailing for Germany Saturday. +Letter. + + AUGUST FIRST. + + +The son of the under-gardener was a steady ten-year-old three hundred +and sixty-four days of the year, and his Scottish blood commended him +to Robert Halarkenden and inspired a confidence not justified on the +three hundred and sixty-fifth day. + +"Angus," said Halarkenden, regarding the boy with a blue glance like a +blow, "the young mistress wishes this letter posted to catch the noon +train. The master has sent for me and I canna take it. You will"--the +bony hand fished in the deep pocket and brought out a nickel--"you will +hurry with this letter and post it immediately." "Yes, sir," said +Angus, and Robert Halarkenden turned to go to the master of the great +house, ill in his great room, with no doubt about the United States +mails. While Angus, being in the power of the three hundred and +sixty-fifth day, trotted demurely into the meshes of Fate. + +Fate was posing as another lad, a lad of charm and adventure. "C'm on, +Ang," proposed Fate in nasal American; "Evans's chauffeur's havin' a +rooster-fight in the garage. Hurry up--c'm on--lots of fun." And +while Angus, stirred by the prospect, struggled with a Scotch +conscience, the footman from next door sauntered up, a good-natured +youth, and, stopping, caught the question. + +"Get along to your chicken-fight," he adjured Angus, and took the +letter from his hand. "I'm on my way to the post-office now. I'll +mail it as good as you, ain't it?" And Angus fled up the street along +with Fate. While Tom Mullins thrust the letter casually into a +coat-pocket and dropped in to see his best girl, and, in a bit of +horse-play with that lady, lost the letter. "Sure, I mailed it," he +answered Angus's inquiries that afternoon, and Angus passed along the +assurance, not going into details, and every one concerned was +satisfied. + +While, in a Parish House many miles down the railed roads that measure +the country, a man waited. And waited, ever with a sicker +restlessness, a more unendurable longing. Saturday came, and the man +hoped, till the hour for any boat's sailing was long past, for a +letter, another telegram. Then, "She has had it mailed after she +left," he reasoned, and all of Monday and Tuesday he waited and watched +and invented reasons why it might come to-morrow or even later--even +from the other side--from Germany. Two weeks, three, and then four, he +held to varying fictions about the letter, which Arline Baker, the lady +of Tom Mullins's heart, had picked up from the floor that day in +October and tucked into a bureau drawer to give to Tom--tucked under a +summer blouse. And the weather had turned chilly, helping along Fate +as weather will at times, and the summer blouse had not been worn, and +the letter had been forgotten. + +Then there came a day when he took measures with himself, because +suspense and misery were eating his strength. He faced the situation; +he had poured his heart, keeping back nothing, at her feet. And she +had not answered, except with a few words of a telegram. He knew, by +that, that she had got his letter, the first love-letter of his life. +But she had not cared enough to answer it. Or else, his faith in her +argued, something had happened, there had been some unimaginable reason +to prevent her answering. That the letter had been lost was so +commonplace a solution that it did not occur to him. One does not +think of mice setting off gunpowder magazines. At all events he was +facing a stone wall; there was no further step to take; she must be in +Germany; he did not know her address; if he did, how could he write +again? A man may not hound a woman with his love. Yet he was all but +mad with anxiety about her, beyond this other suffering. Why had she +suddenly gone to Germany? What did that mean? In his black struggles +for enlightenment, he believed sometimes that, in a fantastic attack of +_noblesse oblige_, she had married the other man and gone to Germany +with him. That thought drove him near insanity. So he gathered up, +alone before his fire, all these imaginings and doubts, and sat with +them into the night, and made a packet of them, and locked them away, +as well as he might, into a chamber of his memory. And the next day he +flung himself into his work as he had not been able ever to do before; +he made it his world, and resolutely shut out the buoyant voice and the +personality so intimately known, so unknown. He tried to be so tired, +at night, that he could not think of her; and he succeeded far enough +to make living a possibility, which is all that any of us can do +sometimes. Often the thought of her, of her words, of her letters, of +the gay voice telling of a hideous future, stabbed him suddenly in the +night, in the crowded day. But he put it aside with a mighty effort +each time, and each time gained control. + +And then it was May, and in June he was to have his vacation. And once +more the doubt of his fitness for his work was upon him. The stress of +the tremendous gait of the big parish, and the way he had thrown his +strength by handfuls into the work, had told. If a healthy and happy +man uses brain and heart and body carefully it is perhaps true that he +cannot overwork. But if a high-strung man gives himself out all day +long, every day, recklessly, and is at the same time under a mental +strain, he is likely to be ill. Geoffrey McBirney was close to an +illness; his attitude toward life was warped; he was reasoning that he +had made the girl a test case and that the case had failed; that it was +now his duty to stand by the test and give up his work. And then, one +day, the letter came. The weather had turned warm in Forest Gate and +Arline Baker had got out her summer blouses. + + +October 10th [it was dated]. + +This morning, after I had read your letter it was as if I were being +beaten to earth by alternate blows, like thunder, like lightning, +fierce and beautiful and terrible, of joy and of grief. + +For I care--I care--I can't wait to tell you--I'm so glad, so +triumphant, so wretched that I care--that it's in me to care, +desperately, as much as any woman or man since the foundation of the +world. It's in me--once you said it wasn't--and you have brought it to +life, and I care--I love you. I want to let you come so that it left +me blind and shaking to send that telegram. But there isn't any +question. If I let you come I would be wicked. I, with my handful of +broken life, to let you manacle your splendid years to a lump of stone? +Could you think I would do that? Don't you see that, because I care, +I'm so much more eager not to let you? I'm selfish and my first answer +to that letter was a rush of happiness. I forgot there was anything in +time or space except the flood which carried me out on a sea of just +you--the sweeping, overwhelming many waters of--you. I wonder if you'd +think me brazen if I told you how it seemed? As if your arms were +around me, and the world reeling. Some of those clever psychologists, +James or Lodge, I can't remember who, have a theory that to higher +beings the past and present and future are all one; no divisions in +eternity. It seemed like that. Questions and life and right and wrong +all dissolved in the white heat of one fact. I didn't see or hear or +know. I put my head on the table, on your writing, in my locked room, +and simply felt--your arms. + +If this were to be a happy love-affair I couldn't write this; I would +have decent reserve--I hope; I would wait, maybe, and let you find out +things slowly. But there isn't time--oh, there isn't any time. I have +to tell you now because this is the last. You can't write again; I +won't let you throw away your life; I'm not worth much, generally +speaking, but I'm worth your salvation just now if I have the strength +to give it to you. And I'm staggering under the effort, but I'm going +to give it to you. I'm going to keep you away. + +It was realizing that I must do this which beat me to earth with those +terrible, bright, sharp swords. You see I'm starting off suddenly with +Uncle Ted. He is very ill, with heart trouble, and the doctors think +his chance is to get to Nauheim at once. It was decided last night, +and we had passage engaged for Saturday within an hour, and then this +morning the letter came. As soon as I could pull myself together a +little I began to see how things were, and it looked to me as if +somebody--God maybe--had put down a specific hand to punish my useless +life and arrange your salvation. My going away is the means He is +using. + +For you are such a headstrong unknown quantity, that if I had seen you, +I couldn't have held you, and how could I have fought the exquisite +sweetness and glamour that is through even your written words, that +would make me wax in your hands, if you had been here and I had heard +your voice and seen your eyes and felt your touch; oh, I would have +done it--I _must_ do it--but it would have killed me I think. It's +more possible this way. + +For I'm going indefinitely and all I have to do is to suppress my +address. Just that. You can't find it out, for Robin is going away +too; he is to do some work of mine while I am gone; and you can't come +here and inquire for "August First," can you, now? So this is all--the +end. Suddenly I feel inadequate and leaden. It is all over--the one +chance for real happiness which I have had in my butterfly days--over. +But you have changed earth and heaven--I want you to know it. I can't +even now say that if Uncle Ted shouldn't need me; if the hideous, +creeping monster should begin its work visibly on me, that I might not +some day use the pistol. But I do say that because of you I will try +to make any living that I may do count for something, for somebody. I +am trying. You are to know about that in time. + +And now the color is going out of my life--you are going. Some day you +will care for some one else more than you think now you care for me. +I'm leaving you free for that--but it's all I can do. Why must my life +be wreck and suffering? Why may I not have the common happinesses? +Why may I not love you--be there for you "at the end of the day"? The +blows are raining hard; I'm beaten close to earth. Has God forsaken +me? I can only cling tight to the thin line of my duty to Uncle Ted; I +can't see any further than that. Good-by. + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +The man shook as if in an ague. He laid the letter on a table and +fastened it open with weights so that the May breeze, frolicking +through the top of the Parish House, might not blow it away. Standing +over it, bending to it, sitting down, he read it and re-read it, and +paced the room and came back and bent over it. He groaned as he looked +at the date. Seven months ago if he had had it--what could have held +him? She loved him--what on earth could have kept him from her, +knowing that? Not illness nor oceans or her will. No, not her will, +if she cared; and she had said it. He would have swept down her will +like a tidal wave, knowing that. + +Seven months ago! He would have followed her to Germany. He laughed +at the thought that she believed herself hidden from him. The world +was not big enough to hide her. What was a trip to Germany--to +Madagascar? But now--where might she not be--what might not have +happened? She might be dead. Worse--and this thought stopped his +pulse--she might be married. + +That was the big, underlying terror of his mind. In his restless +pacing he stopped suddenly as if frozen. His brain was working this +way and that, searching for light. In a moment he knew what he would +do. He dashed down the familiar steep stairs; in four minutes more he +had raced across the street to the rectory, and brought up, breathless, +in the rector's study. + +"What's the matter--a train to catch?" the rector demanded, regarding +him. + +"Just that, doctor. Could I be spared for three days?" + +The rector had not failed to have his theories about this brilliant, +hard-working, unaccountable, highly useful subaltern of his. His heart +had one of its warmest spots for McBirney. Something was wrong with +him, it had been evident for months; one must help him in the dark if +better could not be done. + +"Surely," said the rector. + +There was a fast train west in an hour; the man and his bag were on it, +and twenty-four hours later he was stumbling off a car at the solid, +vine-covered, red brick station at Forest Gate. An inquiry or two, and +then he had crossed the wide, short street, the single business street +of the rich suburb, facing the railway and the station, and was in the +post-office. He asked about one Robert Halarkenden. The postmaster +regarded him suspiciously. His affair was to sort letters, not to +answer questions. He did the first badly; he did not mean to do the +other at all. + +"No such person ever been in town," he answered coldly, after a +moment's staring. The man who had hurried a thousand miles to ask the +question, set his bag on the floor and faced the postmaster grimly. + +"He must have been," he stated. "I sent a lot of letters to him last +year, and they reached him." + +"Oh--last year," the official answered stonily. "He might 'a' been +here last year. I only came January." And he turned with insulted +gloom to his labors. + +McBirney leaned as far as he might into the little window. "Look +here," he adjured the man inside, "do be a Christian about this. I've +come from the East, a thousand miles, to find Halarkenden, and I know +he was here seven months ago. It's awfully important. Won't you treat +me like a white man and help me a little?" + +Few people ever resisted Geoffrey McBirney when he pleaded with them. +The stolid potentate turned back wondering, and did not know that what +he felt stirring the dried veins within him was charm. "Why, sure," he +answered slowly, astonished at his own words, "I'll help you if I can. +Glad t' help anybody." + +There was a cock-sure assistant in the back of the dirty sanctum, and +to him the friend of mankind applied. + +"Halarkenden--Robert," the assistant snapped out. "'Course. I +remember. Gardener up to the Edward Reidses," and McBirney thrilled as +if an event had happened. "Uncle Ted" was "the Edward Reidses." It +might be her name--Reid. + +"He went away six or seven months ago, I think," McBirney suggested, +breathing a bit fast. "I thought he might be back by now." + +"Nawp," said the cock-sure one. "I remember. 'Course. Family broke +Up. Old man died." + +"No, he didn't," the parson interrupted tartly. "He went to Germany." + +"Aw well, then, 'f you know mor'n I do, maybe he did go to Germany. +Anyhow, the girl got married. And Halarkenden, he ain't been around +since. Leastaways, ain't had no letters for him." There was an undue +silence, it appeared to the officials inside the window. "That all?" +demanded Cocksure, thirsting to get back to work. + +"What 'girl' do you speak of--who was married?" McBirney asked slowly. + +"Old man's niece. Miss----" + +But the name never got out. McBirney cut across the nasal speech. He +would not learn that name in this way. "That's all," he said quickly. +"Thank you. Good-by." + +So Geoffrey McBirney went back to St. Andrews. And the last state of +him was worse than the first. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + May 26th. + +RICHARD MARSTON, ESQ. + C/r Marston & Brooks, Consulting Engineers, + Boston. + +DEAR DICK-- + +Of course I'll go, unless something happens, as per usual. I've got +the last three weeks of June, and nowhere in particular to waste them +at. Shall I come to Boston, or where do we meet? Let me know when +we're to start; likewise what I am to bring. Do you take a trunk, or +do we send the things ahead by express? I've never been on a long +motor trip before. I'm mighty glad to go; it's just what I would have +wanted to do, if I'd wanted to do anything. Doesn't sound eager, does +it? What I mean is, it will be out-of-doors and I need that a good +deal; and it will be with you, which I need more. + +The chances are you won't find me gay. It's been a rotten winter, +mostly, and it's left me not up to much. Not up to anything, in fact. +Things have happened, and the bottom dropped out last autumn. + +The fact is, I'm going to clear out. Try something else. I want to +talk to you about that--I mean about the new job. I'd thought, maybe, +of a school up in the country. I like youngsters. You remember that +Scotch lad--the one with the money? I wrote you--I tutored him in +Latin. That's where I got the notion. I had luck with him, And I've +missed him a lot since. So maybe that's the thing. I don't know. +We'll talk. Anyhow, this is ended. + +I never let out what I thought about your being so decent, that night +at college, when I said I was going to be a parson; the chances are I +never will. But that's largely why I'm telling you this. I'm flunking +my job--I have flunked it; the letter to the rector is written--he's to +get it at the end of his holiday. I think I've stopped caring what +other people will say, but I hate to hurt him. But you see, I thought +it through, and it's the only thing to do--just to get out. I picked +one definite job, for a sort of test, and it fell through. That +settled it. + +I wanted to tell you for old sake's sake. Besides, I somehow needed to +have you know. And so now I'm going motoring with you. Write me about +the trunk, and about when and where. + +As ever, + MAC. + +P. S. We needn't see people, need we? + + +The automobile with the two young men in the front seat sped smoothly +over June roads. For a week they had been covering ground day after +day; to-night they were due at Dick Marston's cousin's country house to +stop for three days before the return trip through the mountains. + +"Dick," reflected Geoffrey McBirney aloud, "consider again about +dropping me in Boston. I'll be as much good at a house-party as a +crape veil at a dance. You're an awful ass to take me." + +"That's up to me," remarked Dick. "Get your feet out of the gears, +will you? The Emorys are keen for you and I said I'd bring you, and I +will if I have to do it by the scruff of the neck. Don Emory is away +but will be back to-morrow." + +"Splendid!" said McBirney, and then, "I won't kick and scream, you +know. I'll merely whine and sulk," he went on consideringly. "I'll +hate it, and I'll be ugly-tempered, and they'll detest me. Up to you, +however." + +"It is," responded Marston, and no more was said. So that at twilight +they were speeding down the long, empty ocean drive with good salt air +in their faces, and lights of cottages spotting the opal night with +orange blurs. It was a large, gay house-party, and the person who had +been called, it was told from one to another, "the young Phillips +Brooks," a person who brought among them certain piquant qualities, was +a lion ready to their hand. With the general friendliness of a good +man of the world, there was something beyond; there was reality in the +friendliness, yet impersonality--a detached attitude; the man had no +axes to grind for himself; one felt at every turn that this important +universe of the _haute monde_ was unimportant to him. Through his +civility there was an outcropping of savage honesty which made the +house-party sit up straight, more than once. Emerson says, in a +better-made sentence, that the world is at the feet of him who does not +want it. Geoffrey McBirney had taken a long jump, years back, and +cleared the childishness, lifelong in most of us, of wanting the world. +There is an attraction in a person who has done this and yet has kept a +love of humanity. Witness St. Francis of Assisi and other notables of +his ilk. + +The people at Sea-Acres felt the attraction and tried to lionize the +dark, tall parson with the glowing, indifferent eyes. But the lion +would not roar and gambol; the lion was a reserved beast, it seemed, +with a suggestion of unbelievable, yet genuine, distaste under +attentions. That point was alluring. One tried harder to soften a +brute so worth while, so difficult. Three or four girls tried. The +lion was outwardly a gentle lion, pleasant when cornered, but seldom +cornered. He managed to get off on a long walk alone when Angela, of +nineteen, meant him to have played tennis, on the second day. + +The June afternoon was softening to a rosy dimness as he came in, very +tired physically, hot and grimy, and sick of soul. "Glory be, +tea-time's over, and they'll be dressing for dinner," he murmured, and +turned a corner on eight of "them." A glance at the gay group showed +two or three new faces. More guests! McBirney set his teeth. But he +had no space to take note of the arrivals, for Angela spoke. + +"Just in time, Mr. McBirney," Angela greeted him. "Don Emory's +coming--see!" A car was spinning up the drive. + +"Is he?" he answered perfunctorily. And the two words were clipped +from history even as they were spoken, by a cry that rang from the +group of people. Tod Winthrop ought to have been in bed. It was +six-thirty, and he was four years old, but his mother had forgotten +him, and his nurse had a weakness for the Emorys' second man; it was +also certain that if a storm-centre could be found, he would be its +nucleus. Out he tumbled from the shrubbery, exactly in front of the +incoming automobile, as unpleasant a spoiled infant as could be +imagined, yet a human being with a life to save. McBirney, standing in +the drive, whirled, saw the small figure, ten feet down the drive, the +machine close upon it; there was time for a man to spring aside; there +was no time to rescue a child. A lightning wave of repulsion flooded +him. "Have I got to throw myself down there and get maimed--for a fool +child whom everybody detests?" Without words the thought flooded him, +and then in a strong defiance, the utter honesty of his soul caught +him. "I won't! I won't!" he shouted, and was conscious of the clamor +of many voices, of a rushing movement, of a man's scream across the +tumult: "It's too late--for God's sake _don't_!" + +It was a day later when he opened his eyes. Dick Marston sat there. + +"Shut up," ordered Dick. + +"I haven't----" + +"No, and you won't--you're not to talk. Shut up. That's what you're +to do." + +The eyes closed; he was inadequate to argument. In five minutes they +opened again. + +"None of your eloquence now," warned Dick. + +"One thing----" + +"No," firmly. + +"But, Dick, it's torturing me. Was the child killed?" + +Dick Marston's face looked curious. "Great Scott! don't you know what +you----" + +McBirney groaned inwardly. "Yes, I know. I was a coward. But I've +got to know if--the kid--was killed." + +"Coward!" gasped Dick--and Geoffrey put out his shaking hand. + +"In mercy, Dick"--he was catching his breath, flushing, laboring with +each word--"don't--talk about--Was the boy--killed?" + +"Killed, no, sound as a nut--but you----" + +"That's all," said McBirney, and his eyes closed, and he turned his +face to the wall. But he did not go to sleep. He was trying to meet +life with self-respect gone. The last thing he remembered was that +second of utter rebellion against wrecking his strength, his good +muscles--he had not thought of his life--to save the child. There had +been no time to choose; his past, his character, had chosen for him, +and they had branded him as that impossible thing, a coward. He put up +his hand and felt bandages on his head; he must have got a whack after +all in saving his precious skin. He remembered now. "Didn't jump +quick enough, I suppose," he thought, with a sneer at the man in whose +body he lived, the man who was himself, the man who was a coward. +After a while he heard Dick Marston stir. He was bending over him. + +"Got to go to dinner, old man," Dick said. "I wish you'd let me tell +you what they all think about you." + +McBirney shook his head impatiently, and Dick sighed heavily, and then +in a moment the door shut softly. + +Things were vague to him for hours longer, and a sleeping powder kept +the next morning drowsy, but in the afternoon, when Marston came for +his hourly look at the patient, "Dick," said the patient, "I want to +talk to you." + +"All right, old man," Dick answered, "but first just a word. I hate to +bother you, but somebody's after you on long-distance. The fellow has +telephoned three times--I was here the last time. He says----" + +The man with the bandages on his head groaned. "Don't," he begged and +tossed his hand out. "I know what he's wanting. I can't talk to him. +I don't want to hear. It's no use. Shut him off, Dick, can't you?" + +"Sure, old man," Marston agreed soothingly. "Only, he says----" + +"Oh, don't--I know what it is--don't let him say it," pleaded the +invalid, quite unreasonable, entirely obstinate. + +A committee from the vestry of a city church had, unknown to him at the +moment, come to Warchester to hear him preach the Sunday before he had +left on his trip. A letter from the rector since had warned him that +they were full of enthusiasm about his sermon and himself and that a +call to the rectorship of the church was imminent. This was a +preliminary of the call; there was no doubt in his mind about that. +And knowing as he did how he was going to give up his work, writhing as +he was under the last proof, as he felt it, of his unfitness, the +thought of facing suave vestrymen even over a telephone, was a horror +not to be borne. + +"Tell 'em I'm dead, Dick, there's a good boy. I _won't_ talk to +anybody--to-day or to-morrow, anyhow." + +"All right," Dick agreed. The patient was flushed and excited--it +would not do to go on. "But the chap said he might run down here," he +added, thinking aloud. + +The patient started up on his elbow and glared. "Great Scott--don't +let him do that; you won't let him get at me, Dick? I'm sorry to be +such a poor fool, but--just now--to-day--two or three days--Dick, I +_can't_"--he stammered out, his hands shaking, his face twisting. And +Dick Marston, as gently as a woman might, took in charge this friend +whom he loved. + +"Don't you worry, Geoffie; the bears shan't eat you this trip. I'll +settle the chap next time he calls up." + +And McBirney fell back, with closed eyelids, relieved, secure in Dick's +strength. He lay, breathing quickly, a moment or two, and then opened +his eyes. + +"When can I get away, Dick?" + +"We'll start to-morrow if you're strong enough." + +"You needn't go, Dicky. I'll get a train. I'm----" + +"None of that," said Marston. "Whither thou goest, for the present, +I'll trot. But--Hope Stuart's anxious to--meet you." + +"Who's Hope Stuart?" + +Dick Marston hesitated, looked embarrassed. "Why--just a girl," he +said. "But an uncommon sort of girl. She's done some--big things. +Cousin of Don Emory's, you know. Came yesterday--just before your +party. She--she's--well, she's different from the ruck of 'em--and +she--said she'd like to meet you. I half promised she could." + +McBirney flushed. "I _can't_ see people, Dick," he threw back +nervously. "They're kind--it's decent of them. I suppose, as long as +the boy wasn't killed--" he stopped. + +"Geoff, you've got some bizarre idea in your head about this episode, +and I can't fathom it," spoke Dick Marston. "What do you think +happened anyway?" he demanded. And stopped, horrified at the look on +the other's face. + +"Dick, you mean to be kind, but you're being cruel--as death," +whispered Geoffrey McBirney. "I simply--can't bear any +conversation--about that. I've got to cut loose and get off somewhere +and--and--arrange." + +His voice broke. Dick Marston's big hand was on his. "Old man," Dick +said, "you're all wrong, but if you won't let me talk about it I +won't--now. Look here--we'll sneak to-morrow. Everybody's going off +in cars for an all-day drive, and I'll start, and pull out half-way on +some excuse, and come back here, and you'll be packed, and we'll get +out. I'll square it with Nanny Emory. She'll understand. I'll tell +her you're crazy in the head, and won't be hero-worshipped." + +"Hero-worshipped!" McBirney laughed bitterly to himself when Dick was +gone. These good people, because he was a parson, because the child's +blood, by some accident, was not on his head, were banded to keep his +self-respect for him, to cover over his cowardice with some distorted +theory of courage. Perhaps they did not know, but he knew, about that +last thought of determined egotism, that shout of "I won't! I won't!" +before the car caught him. He knew, and never as long as he lived +could he look the world in the eyes again, with that shame in his soul. +What would _she_ have thought, had she been there to see? She would +not have been deceived; her clear eyes would have seen the truth. + +So he felt; so he went over and over the five minutes of the accident +till all covering seemed to be stripped from his strained nerves. + +"You'd better dress now and go down in the garden and sit there," +suggested Dick the next morning. "Take a book, and wait for me there. +The place will be empty in twenty minutes. I'll be along before lunch." + + +The garden rioted with color. The listless black figure strayed +through the sunshine down a walk between a mass of scarlet Oriental +poppies on one side and a border of swaying white lilies on the other. + +Ranks of tall larkspur lifted blue spires beyond. The air was heavy +with sweet smells, mignonette and alyssum and the fragrance of a +thousand of roses, white and pink and red, over by the hedge. The +hedge ran on four sides of the garden, giving a comforting sense of +privacy. In spite of the suffering he had gone through, the raw nerves +of the man felt a healing pressure settling over them, resting on them, +out of the scented stillness. There were no voices from the house; +bees were humming somewhere near the rose-bushes; the first cricket of +summer sang his sudden, drowsy song and was as suddenly quiet. + +The black figure strayed on, down the long walk between the flowers, to +a rustic summer-house, deep in vines, at the end of the path. There +were seats there, and a table. He sat down in the coolness and stared +out at the bright garden. He tried manfully to pull himself together; +he reminded himself that he could still work, could still serve the +world, and that, after all, was what he was in the world for. There +was a reason for living, then; there was hope, he reasoned. And then, +the hopelessness, the helplessness of under-vitality, which is often +the real name for despair, had caught him again. His arms were thrown +out on the rough table and his head lay on them. + +There was a sound in the vine-darkened little summer-house. McBirney +lifted his head sharply; a girl stood there, a slim figure in black +clothes. McBirney sprang to his feet astonished, angry. Then the girl +put out her hand and held to the upright of the opening as if to hold +herself steady, and began talking in a hurried tone, as if she were +reciting. + +"I had to come to tell you that you were not a coward, but a hero, and +that you saved Toddy Winthrop's life, and it's so, and Dick Marston +says you don't know it and won't let him tell you and I've got to have +you know it, and it's so and you have to believe it, for it's so." The +girl was gasping, clutching the side of the summer-house with her face +turned away, frightened yet determined. + +"Who are you?" demanded McBirney, sternly, staring at her. There was +something surging up inside of him, unknown, unreasonable; heart's +blood was rushing about his system inconveniently; his pulse was +hammering--why? He knew why; this sudden vision of a girl reminded +him--took him back--he cut through that idea swiftly; he was ill, +unbalanced, obsessed with one memory, but he would not allow himself to +go mad. + +"Who are you?" he repeated sternly. And the girl turned and faced him +and looked up into his grim, tortured face, half shy, half laughing, +all glad. + +She spoke softly. "Hope," she said. "You needed me"--she said, "and I +came." + +With that, with the unreasonable certainty that happens at times in +affairs which go beyond reason, he was certain. Yet he did not dare to +be certain. + +"Who are you?" he threw at her for the third time, and his eyes flamed +down into the changing face, the face which he had never known, which +he seemed to have known since time began. The laughter left it then +and she gazed at him with a look which he had not seen in a woman's +eyes before. "I think you know," she said. "Toddy Winthrop isn't the +only one. You saved me--Oh, you've saved me too." Every inflection of +the voice brought certainty to him; the buoyant, soft voice which he +remembered. "I am Hope Stuart," she said. "I am August First." + +"Ah!" He caught her hands, but she drew them away. "Not yet," she +said, and the promise in the denial thrilled him. "You've got to +know--things." + +"Don't think, don't dream that I'll let you go, if you still care," he +threw at her hotly. And with that the thought of two days before +stabbed into him. "Ah!" he cried, and stood before his happiness +miserably. + +"What?" asked the girl. + +"I'm not fit to speak to you. I'm disgraced; I'm a coward; you don't +know, but I let--that child be killed as much as if he had not been +saved by a miracle. It wasn't my fault he was saved. I didn't mean to +save him. I meant to save myself," he went on with savage accusation. + +"Tell me," commanded the girl, and he told her. + +"It's what I thought," she answered him then. "I told the doctor what +Dick said, this morning. The doctor said it was the commonest thing in +the world, after a blow on the head, to forget the last minutes before. +You'll never remember them. You did save him. Your past--your +character decided for you"--here was his own bitter thought turned to +heavenly sweetness!--"You did the brave thing whether you would or not. +You've got to take my word--all of our words--that you were a hero. +Just that. You jumped straight down and threw Toddy into the bushes +and then fell, and the chauffeur couldn't turn fast enough and he hit +you--and your head was hurt." + +She spoke, and looked into his eyes. + +"Is that the truth?" he shot at her. It was vital to know where he +stood, whether with decent men or with cowards. + +"So help me God," the girl said quietly. + +As when a gate is opened into a lock the water begins to pour in with a +steady rush and covers the slimy walls and ugly fissures, so peace +poured into the discolored emptiness of his mind. Suddenly the gate +was shut again. What difference did anything make--anything? + +"You are married," he stated miserably, and stood before her. The +moments had rushed upon his strained consciousness so overladen, the +joy of seeing her had been so intense, that there had been no place for +another thought. He had forgotten. The thought which meant the +failure of happiness had been crowded out. "You are married," he +repeated, and the old grayness shadowed again a universe without hope. + +And then the girl whose name was Hope smiled up at him through a +rainbow, for there were tears in her eyes. "No," she answered, "no." +And with that he caught her in his arms: her smile, her slim shoulders, +her head, they were all there, close, crushed against him. The bees +hummed over the roses in the sunshiny garden; the locust sang his +staccato song and stopped suddenly; petals of a rose floated against +the black dress; but the two figures did not appear to breathe. Time +and space, as the girl had said once, were fused. Then she stirred, +pushed away his arms, and stood erect and looked at him with a flushed, +radiant face. + +"Do you think I'd let you--marry--a cripple, a lump of stone?" she +demanded, and something in the buoyant tone made him laugh unreasonably. + +"I think--you've got to," he answered, his head swimming a bit. + +"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," and she shook her finger at him +triumphantly. "I'm--going--to--get--well." + +"I knew it all along," the man said, smiling. + +"That's a lie!" she announced, so prettily, in the soft, buoyant voice, +that he laughed with sheer pleasure. "You never knew. Do you know +where I've been?" + +"In Germany." + +"I haven't been in Germany a minute." The bright face grew grave and +again the quick, rainbow tears flashed. "You never heard," she said. +"Uncle Ted died, the day before we were to sail." She stopped a +moment. "It left me alone and--and pretty desperate. I--I almost +telegraphed you." + +"_Why_ didn't you?" he groaned. + +"Because--what I said. I wouldn't sacrifice you." She paid no +attention to the look in his eyes. "Robin was going to my place in +Georgia--I told you I had a place? My father's old shooting-box. I'd +arranged for him to do that. With some people who needed it. So--I +went too. I took two trained nurses and some old souls--old sick +people. Yes, I did. Wasn't it queer of me? I'm always sorrier for +old people than for children. They realize, the old people. So I +scraped up a few astonished old parties, and they groaned and wheezed +and found fault, but had a wonderful winter. The first time I was ever +any good to anybody in my life. I thought I might as well do one job +before I petrified. And all winter Robin was talking about that +bone-ologist from France who had been in Forest Gate, and whom I +wouldn't see. Till at last he got me inspired, and I said I'd go to +France and see him. And I've just been. And he says--" suddenly the +bright, changing face was buried in her hands and she was sobbing as if +her heart would break. + +McBirney's pulse stopped; he was terrified. "What?" he demanded. +"Never mind what he said, dear. I'll take care of you. Don't trouble, +my own--" And then again the sunshine flashed through the storm and +she looked up, all tears and laughter. + +"He said I'd get well," she threw at him. "In time. With care. And +if you don't understand that I've got to cry when I'm glad, then we can +never be happy together." + +"I'll get to understand," he promised, with a thrill as he thought how +the lesson would be learned. And went on: "There's another conundrum. +Of course--that man--he's not on earth--but how did you--kill him?" + +The girl looked bewildered a moment. "Who? Oh! Alec. My dear--" and +she slid her hand into his as if they had lived together for +years--"the most glorious thing--he jilted me. He eloped with Natalie +Minturn--the California girl--the heiress. She had"--the girl laughed +again--"more money than I. And unimpeachable bones. She's a nice +thing," she went on regretfully. "I'm afraid she's too good for Alec. +But she liked him; I hope she'll go on liking him. It was a great +thing for me to get jilted. Any more questions in the Catechism? Will +the High-Mightiness take me now? Or have I got to beg and explain a +little more?" + +"You're a very untruthful character," said "the High-Mightiness" +unsteadily. "It wasn't I who hid away, and turned last winter into +hell for a well-meaning parson. Will--I take you? Come." + +Again eternal things brooded over the bright, quiet garden and the +larkspur spires swayed unnoticed and the bees droned casually about +them and dived into deep cups of the lilies, and peace and sunshine and +lovely things growing were everywhere. But the two did not notice. + +After a time: "What about Halarkenden?" asked the man, holding a slim +hand tight as if he held to a life-preserver. + +"That's the last question in the Catechism," said Hope Stuart. "And +the answer is the longest. One of your letters did it." + +"One of my letters?" + +"Just the other day. I went to Forest Gate, as soon as I came home +from France--to tell Robin that I was going to get well. I was in the +garden. With--I hate to tell you--but with--all your letters." The +man flushed. "And--and Robin came and--and I talked a little to him +about you, and then, to show him what you were like, I read him--some." + +"You did?" McBirney looked troubled. + +"Oh, I selected. I read about the boy, Theodore--'the Gift.'" + +Then she went on to tell how, as she sat in a deep chair at the end of +a long pergola where small, juicy leaves of Dorothy Perkins rose-vines +and of crimson ramblers made a green May mist over the line of arches, +Halarkenden had come down under them to her. + +"I believe I shall never be in a garden without expecting to see him +stalk down a path," she said. She told him how she had read to him +about the boy Theodore with his charm and his naughtiness and his +Scotch name. How there had been no word from Robert Halarkenden when +she finished, and how, suddenly, she had been aware of a quality in the +silence which startled her, and she had looked up sharply. How, as she +looked, the high-featured, lean, grave face was transformed with a +color which she had never seen there before, a painful, slow-coming +color; how the muscles about his mouth were twisting. How she had +cried out, frightened, and Robert Halarkenden, who had not fought with +the beasts for nothing, had controlled himself once again and, after a +moment, had spoken steadily. "It was the boy's name, lassie," he had +said. "He comes of folk whom I knew--back home." How at that, with +his big clippers in his hand, he had turned quietly and gone working +again among his flowers. + +"But is that all?" demanded McBirney, interested. "Didn't he tell you +any more? Could Theodore be any kin to him, do you suppose? It would +be wonderful to have a man like that who took an interest. I'll write +the young devil. He's been away all winter, but he should be back by +now. I wonder just where he is." + +And with that, as cues are taken on the stage, there was a scurrying +down the gravel and out of the sunshine a bare-headed, tall lad was +leaping toward them. + +"By all that's uncanny!" gasped McBirney. + +"Yes, me," agreed the apparition. "I trailed you. Why"--he +interrupted himself--"didn't you get my telephones? Why, somebody took +the message--twice. Cost three dollars--had to pawn stuff to pay it. +Then I trailed you. The rector had your address. We're going to +Scotland bang off and I had to see you. We're sailing from Boston. +To-morrow." + +"Who's 'we'?" demanded McBirney. + +"My family and--oh gosh, you don't know!" He threw back his handsome +head and broke into a great shout of young laughter. With that he +whirled and flung out an arm. "There he comes. My family." The pride +and joy in the boy's voice were so charged with years of loneliness +past that the two who listened felt an answering thrill. + +They looked. Down the gravel, through the sunshine, strayed, between +flower borders, a gaunt and grizzled man who bent, here and there, over +a blossom, and touched it with tender, wise fingers and gazed this way +and that, scrutinizing, absorbed, across the masses of living color. + +"I told you," the girl said, as if out of a dream, and her arm, too, +was stretched and her hand pointed out the figure to her lover. "I +told you there never would be a garden but he would be in it. It's +Robin." + + +SATURDAY NIGHT LATE. + WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House. + +There wasn't time to leave you a note even. I barely caught the train. +Dick was to tell you. I wonder if he got it straight. He motored me +to the station, early this morning--a thousand years ago. You see the +rector suddenly wired for me to come back for over Sunday. It's Sunday +morning now--at least by the clock. + +There's still such a lot to tell you. There always will be. One +really can't say much in only eight or nine hours, and I don't believe +we talked a minute longer. That's why I didn't want to catch trains. +Well, there were other reasons too, now I go into it. + +Do you know, I keep thinking of Dick Marston's face when he poked it in +at the door of that summer-house yesterday on you and "Robin" and +Theodore and me. I think likely Dick's brain is sprained. + +Curious, isn't it--this being knocked back into the necessity of +writing letters--and so soon. But I can say anything now, can't I? It +doesn't seem true, but it is--it is! When I think of that other +letter, that last one, and all the months that I didn't know even where +you were! And now here's the world transfigured. It _is_ true, isn't +it? I won't wake up into that awful emptiness again? So many times +I've done that. I'd made up my mind nothing was any use. I told Dick, +just before we started on the motor trip. The stellar system had gone +to pieces. But to-night I tore up the letter I'd got ready to send to +the rector. All those preparations, and then to walk down a gravel +path into heaven. It isn't the slightest trouble for you to rebuild +people's worlds, is it? As for instance, Theodore's. I must tell you +that some incoherences have come in from that Gift of God, by way of +the pilot, after they'd sailed. Mostly regarding Cousin Robin. Even +that has worked out. And there's Halarkenden--mustn't I say McGregor, +though?--going back home to wander at large in paradise. Three new +worlds you set up in half an hour. I think you said once that you'd +never done anything for anybody? Well, you've begun your job; didn't I +tell you it might be just around the corner? Besides "Cousin Robin," +two things stuck out in Theodore's epistle; he's going to turn himself +loose for the benefit of those working people in his factories, and +he's going to have "The Cairns" swept and garnished for you and me +when--when we get there. + + +This is all true. I am sitting here, writing to her. She is going to +be there when I get back. I am to have her for my own, to look at and +to listen to and to love. She has said that she wanted it like that--I +heard her say it. Oh my dear darling, there aren't any words to tell +you--you are like listening to music--you are the spirit of all the +exquisite wonders that have ever been--you are the fragrant silence of +shut gardens sleeping in the moonlight. What if I had missed you? +What if I'd never found you? You _will_ be there when I come back--you +won't vanish--you _are_ real? Think of the life opening out for you +and me; this world now; afterwards the next. Oh my very dear, suppose +you hadn't waited--suppose you'd cut into God's big pattern because +some dark threads had to be woven into it! We shall look at the whole +of it some day--all that mighty, living tapestry of His weaving, and we +shall understand, then, and smile as we remember and know that no one +can have a sense of light without the shadows. Suppose you hadn't +waited? But you did wait--you did--to let me love you. + + +SEA-ACRES, + MONDAY, June 24th. + +YOUR REVERENCE. + +I can't say but three words. Don Emory is waiting to post this in +town. I do just want to tell you that if you write any more letters +like that I am _not_ going to break the engagement. You'll get the +rest of this to-morrow. I thought I'd warn you. I am, for sure, yours, + + AUGUST FIRST. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST*** + + +******* This file should be named 18529-8.txt or 18529-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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I. Keller</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: August First</p> +<p>Author: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews and Roy Irving Murray</p> +<p>Release Date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18529]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST***</p> +<br><br><center><h3>E-text prepared by Al Haines</h3></center><br><br> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT=""She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am."" BORDER="2" WIDTH="377" HEIGHT="629"> +<H4> +[Frontispiece: "She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am."] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +AUGUST FIRST +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +AND +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ROY IRVING MURRAY +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +ILLUSTRATED BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A. I. KELLER +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +NEW YORK +<BR> +CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS +<BR> +1915 +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons +<BR> +Published March, 1915 +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +AUGUST FIRST +</H1> + +<P> +"Whee!" +</P> + +<P> +The long fingers pulled at the clerical collar as if they might tear it +away. The alert figure swung across the room to the one window not +wide open and the man pushed up the three inches possible. "Whee!" he +brought out again, boyishly, and thrust away the dusty vines that hung +against the opening from the stone walls of the parish house close by. +He gasped; looked about as if in desperate need of relief; struck back +the damp hair from his face. The heat was insufferable. In the west +black-gray clouds rolled up like blankets, shutting out heaven and air; +low thunder growled; at five o'clock of a midsummer afternoon it was +almost dark; a storm was coming fast, and coolness would come with it, +but in the meantime it was hard for a man who felt heat intensely just +to get breath. His eyes stared at the open door of the room, down the +corridor which led to the room, which turned and led by another open +door to the street. +</P> + +<P> +"If they're coming, why don't they come and get it over?" he murmured +to himself; he was stifling—it was actual suffering. +</P> + +<P> +He was troubled to-day, beyond this affliction of heat. He was the new +curate of St. Andrew's, Geoffrey McBirney, only two months in the +place—only two months, and here was the rector gone off for his summer +vacation and McBirney left at the helm of the great city parish. +Moreover, before the rector was gone a half-hour, here was the worst +business of the day upon him, the hour between four and five when the +rector was supposed to be found in the office, to receive any one who +chose to come, for advice, for godly counsel, for "any old reason," as +the man, only a few years out of college, put it to himself. He +dreaded it; he dreaded it more than he did getting up into the pulpit +of a Sunday and laying down the law—preaching. And he seriously +wished that if any one was coming they would come now, and let him do +his best, doggedly, as he meant to, and get them out of the way. Then +he might go to work at things he understood. There was a funeral at +seven; old Mrs. Harrow at the Home wanted to see him; and David +Sterling had half promised to help him with St. Agnes's Mission School, +and must be encouraged; a man in the worst tenement of the south city +had raided his wife with a knife and there was trouble, physical and +moral, and he must see to that; also Tommy Smith was dying at the +Tuberculosis Hospital and had clung to his hands yesterday, and would +not let him go—he must manage to get to little Tommy to-night. There +was plenty of real work doing, so it did seem a pity to waste Lime +waiting here for people who didn't come and who had, when they did +come, only emotional troubles to air. And the heat—the unspeakable +heat! "I can't stand it another second!" he burst out, aloud. "I'll +die—I shall die!" He flung himself across the window-sill, with his +head far out, trying to catch a breath of air that was alive. +</P> + +<P> +As he stretched into the dim light, so, gasping, pulling again at the +stiff collar, he was aware of a sound; he came back into the room with +a spring; somebody was rapping at the open door. A young woman, in +white clothes, with roses in her hat, stood there—refreshing as a cool +breeze, he thought; with that, as if the thought, as if she, perhaps, +had brought it, all at once there was a breeze; a heavenly, light touch +on his forehead, a glorious, chilled current rushing about him. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank Heaven!" he brought out involuntarily, and the girl, standing, +facing him, looked surprised and, hesitating, stared at him. By that +his dignity was on top. +</P> + +<P> +"You wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. The girl flushed. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she said, and stopped. He waited. "I didn't expect—" she +began, and then he saw that she was very nervous. "I didn't +expect—you." +</P> + +<P> +He understood now. "You expected to find the rector. I'm sorry. He +went off to-day for his vacation. I'm left in his place. Can I help +you in any way?" +</P> + +<P> +The girl stood uncertain, nervous, and said nothing. And looked at +him, frightened, not knowing what to do. Then: "I wanted to see +him—and now—it's you!" she stammered, and the man felt contrite that +it was indubitably just himself. Contrite, then amused. But his look +was steadily serious. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry," he said again. "If I would possibly do, I should be glad." +</P> + +<P> +The girl burst into tears. That was bad. She dropped into a chair and +sobbed uncontrollably, and he stood before her, and waited, and was +uncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat with +roses was still plunged into the two bare hands—it was too hot for +gloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; the +room was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man in +his black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chair +and the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again. +</P> + +<P> +"Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in the +detached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything for +you unless you tell me." +</P> + +<P> +The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowers +stopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I—know. +I beg—your pardon. It was—such a shock to see—you." And then, most +unexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with a +gasp—but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that—it wasn't +you I expected. I was in church—ten days ago. And the rector +said—people might come—here—and—he'd try to help them. It seemed +to me I could talk to him. He was—fatherly. But you're"—the voice +trailed into a sob—"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, but +none came. "I mean—it's harder." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. And +there's no one like the rector—one could tell him anything. I know +that. But if I can help you—I'm here for that, you know. That's all +there is to consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instant +effect. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herself +together, and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inward +indecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap +close by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the +two in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As +the rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the +rector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your +kindness—and patience. I am—I am—in a good deal of trouble—" and +her voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly—"I'm going to tell +you," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be so +good. You are here for the rector, aren't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do +all I can for—any one." +</P> + +<P> +She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good—that's what I want," +she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a +chair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now +in sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress +and the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and +patter of the rain the girl's voice went on—a low voice with a note of +pleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she +said. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man +widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after. +They tell you that it's everlasting torment—but I don't believe it. +Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So +when I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be +honest—and as if he might know—as much as any one can know. He +seemed real to me, and clever—I thought it would help if I could talk +to him—and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly—in +confidence, you know—if he really and truly thought it was wrong for a +person to kill herself. I can't see why." She glanced at the +attentive, quiet figure at the window. "Do you think so?" she asked. +He looked at her, but did not speak. She went on. "Why is it wrong? +They say God gives life and only God should take it away. Why? It's +given—we don't ask for it, and no conditions come with it. Why should +one, if it gets unendurable, keep an unasked, unwanted gift? If +somebody put a ball of bright metal into your hands and it was pretty +at first and nice to play with, and then turned red-hot, and hurt, +wouldn't it be silly to go on holding it? I don't know much about God, +anyway," she went on a bit forlornly; not irreverently, but as if pain +had burned off the shell of conventions and reserves of every day, and +actual facts lay bare. "I don't feel as if He were especially +real—and the case I'm in is awfully real. I don't know if He would +mind my killing myself—and if He would, wouldn't He understand I just +have to? If He's really good? But then, if He was angry, might He +punish me forever, afterward?" She drew her shoulders together with a +frightened, childish movement. "I'm afraid of forever," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The rain beat in noisily against the parish house wall; the wet vines +flung about wildly; a floating end blew in at the window and the young +man lifted it carefully and put it outside again. Then, "Can you tell +me why you want to kill yourself?" he asked, and his manner, free from +criticism or disapproval, seemed to quiet her. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I want to tell you. I came here to tell the rector." The grave +eyes of the man, eyes whose clearness and youth seemed to be such an +age-old youth and clearness as one sees in the eyes of the sibyls in +the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel—eyes empty of a thought of self, +impersonal, serene with the serenity of a large atmosphere—the +unflinching eyes of the man gazed at the girl as she talked. +</P> + +<P> +She talked rapidly, eagerly, as if each word lifted pressure. "It's +this way—I'm ill—hopelessly ill. Yes—it's absolutely so. I've got +to die. Two doctors said so. But I'll live—maybe five +years—possibly ten. I'm twenty-three now—and I may live ten years. +But if I do that—if I live five years even—most of it will be as a +helpless invalid—I'll have to get stiff, you know." There was a +rather dreadful levity in the way she put it. "Stiffer and +stiffer—till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down, +immovable. I'll have to go on living that way—years, you see. I'll +have to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on living +that way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seems +particularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I ride +and play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. I +care about them—a lot." One could see it in the vivid pose of the +figure. "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I <I>won't</I> +stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!" The sliding, clear voice was +low, but the "no" meant itself. +</P> + +<P> +From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl could +see the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light; +receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain came +in soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearness +over the details of the room and left them vaguer. +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him. "What do you +think? Say it." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" she +gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, I +suppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to help +you better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much." +</P> + +<P> +There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and the +muttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dress +was motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal—he could see only the +blurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream, +a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds; +unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancy +came the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, there's more. A love story, of course—there's always that. +Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it." She stopped +again. "I don't know why I should tell you this part." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly. +He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would much +prefer to "cut it out," as he would have expressed it to himself. +</P> + +<P> +"I <I>do</I> want to—now. I didn't mean to. But it's a relief." And it +came to him sharply that if he was to be a surgeon of souls, what +business had he to shrink from blood? +</P> + +<P> +"I am here to relieve you if I can. It's what I most wish to do—for +any one," he said gently then. And the girl suddenly laughed again. +</P> + +<P> +"For any one," she repeated. "I like it that way." Her eyes, +wandering a moment about the dim, bare office, rested on a calendar in +huge lettering hanging on the wall, rested on the figures of the date +of the day. "I want to be just a number, a date—August first—I'm +that, and that's all. I'll never see you again, I hope. But you are +good and I'll be grateful. Here's the way things are. Three years ago +I got engaged to a man. I suppose I thought I cared about him. I'm a +fool. I get—fads." A short, soft laugh cut the words. "I got about +that over the man. He fascinated me. I thought it was—more. So I +got engaged to him. He was a lot of things he oughtn't to be; my +people objected. Then, later, my father was ill—dying. He asked me +to break it off, and I did—he'd been father and mother both to me, you +see. But I still thought I cared. I hadn't seen the man much. My +father died, and then I heard about the man, that he had lost money and +been ill and that everybody was down on him; he drank, you know, and +got into trouble. So I just felt desperate; I felt it was my fault, +and that there was nobody to stand by him. I felt as if I could pull +him up and make his life over—pretty conceited of me, I expect—but I +felt that. So I wrote him a letter, six months ago, out of a blue sky, +and told him that if he wanted me still he could have me. And he did. +And then I went out to live with my uncle, and this man lives in that +town too, and I've seen him ever since, all the time. I know him now. +And—" Out of the dimness the clergyman felt, rather than saw, a smile +widen—child-like, sardonic—a curious, contagious smile, which +bewildered him, almost made him smile back. "You'll think me a pitiful +person," she went on, "and I am. But I—almost—hate him. I've +promised to marry him and I can't bear to have his fingers touch me." +</P> + +<P> +In Geoffrey McBirney's short experience there had been nothing which +threw a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. He +was keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. At +all events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might. +</P> + +<P> +"When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light in +the blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurried +to do it. But he wouldn't. He—" A sound came, half laugh, half sob. +"He's certainly faithful. But—I've got a lot of money. It's +frightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt even +his sincerity. And I may be wrong—he may care for me. He says so. I +think my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quite +cold when he says so. I <I>can't</I> marry him! So I might as well kill +myself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold water +on the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening, +realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mind +seemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-hearted +voice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell me +I'd certainly go to hell forever." +</P> + +<P> +Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't do +that," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runaway +horse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed—is +that as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horse +ran into a wall and killed him? I think not. And besides, any second, +his pull on the reins may tell, and the horse may slow down, and his +life may be saved. It's better riding and it's better living not to +give in till you're thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, but +doctors have been wrong plenty of times; diseases take unexpected +turns; you may get well." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'd have to marry <I>him</I>," she interrupted swiftly. +</P> + +<P> +"You ought not to marry him if you dislike him"—and the young parson +felt himself flush hotly, and was thankful for the darkness; what a +fool a fellow felt, giving advice about a love-affair! +</P> + +<P> +"I <I>have</I> to. You see—he's pathetic. He'd go back into the depths if +I let go, and—and I'm fond of him, in a way." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!"—the masculine mind was bewildered. "I understood that +you—disliked him." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, I do. But I'm just fond of him." Then she laughed again. "Any +woman would know how I mean it. I mean—I am fond of him—I'd do +anything for him. But I don't believe in him, and the thought of—of +marrying him makes me desperate." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you should not." +</P> + +<P> +"I have to, if I live. So I'm going to kill myself to-night. You have +nothing to say against it. You've said nothing—that counts. If you +said I'd certainly go to hell, I might not—but you don't say that. I +think you can't say it." She stood up. "Thank you for listening +patiently. At least you have helped me to come to my decision. I'm +going to. To-night." +</P> + +<P> +This was too awful. He had helped her to decide to kill herself. He +could not let her go that way. He stood before her and talked with all +his might. "You cannot do that. You must not. You are overstrained +and excited, and it is no time to do an irrevocable thing. You must +wait till you see things calmly, at least. Taking your own life is not +a thing to decide on as you might decide on going to a ball. How do +you know that you will not be bitterly sorry to-morrow if you do that +to-night? It's throwing away the one chance a person has to make the +world better and happier. That's what you're here for—not to enjoy +yourself." +</P> + +<P> +She put a quiet sentence, in that oddly buoyant voice, into the stream +of his words. "Still, you don't say I'd go to hell forever," she +commented. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that your only thought?" he demanded indignantly. "Can't you think +of what's brave and worth while—of what's decent for a big thing like +a soul? A soul that's going on living to eternity—do you want to +blacken that at the start? Can't you forget your little moods and your +despair of the moment?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I can't." The roses bobbed as she shook her head. The man, in +his heart, knew how it was, and did not wonder. But he must somehow +stop this determination which he had—she said—helped to form. A +thought came to him; he hesitated a moment, and then broke out +impetuously: "Let me do this—let me write to you; I'm not saying +things straight. It's hard. I think I could write more clearly. And +it's unfair not to give me a hearing. Will you promise only this, not +to do it till you've read my letter?" +</P> + +<P> +Slowly the youth, the indomitable brightness in the girl forged to the +front. She looked at him with the dawn of a smile in her eyes, and he +saw all at once, with a passing vision, that her eyes were very blue +and that her hair was bright and light—a face vivid and responsive. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes. There's no particular reason for to-night. I can wait. +But I'm going home to-morrow, to my uncle's place at Forest Gate. I'll +never be here again. The people I'm with are going away to live next +month. I'll never see you again. You don't know my name." She +considered a moment. "I'd rather not have you know it. You may write +to—" She laughed. "I said I was just a date—you may write to August +First, Forest Gate, Illinois. Say care of, care of—" Again she +laughed. "Oh, well, care of Robert Halarkenden. That will reach me." +</P> + +<P> +Quite gravely the man wrote down the fantastic address. "Thank you. I +will write at once. You promised?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." She put out her hand. "You've been very good to me. I shall +never see you again. Good-by." +</P> + +<P> +"Good-by," he said, and the room was suddenly so still, so empty, so +dark that it oppressed him. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + August 5th.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +This is to redeem my promise. When we talked that afternoon, it seemed +to me that I should be able to write the words I could not say. Every +day since then I have said "Tomorrow I shall be able to tell her +clearly." The clearness has not come—that's why I have put it off. +It hasn't yet come. Sometimes—twice, I think—I have seen it all +plainly. Just for a second—in a sort of flash. And then it dropped +back into this confusion. +</P> + +<P> +I won't insult you by attempting to discount your difficulties. You +have worked out for yourself a calculation made, at one time or +another, by many more people than you would imagine. And your answer +is wrong. I know that. You know it too. When you say that you are +afraid of what may come after, you admit that what you intend to do is +impossible. If you were not convinced of something after, you would go +on and do what you propose. Which shows that there is an error in your +mathematics. Do you at all know what I mean? +</P> + +<P> +I must make you understand. I can see why you find the prospect +unendurable. You don't look far enough, that is all. Why do people +shut themselves up in the air-tight box of a possible three score years +and ten, and call it life? How can you, who are so alive, do so? It +seems that you have fallen into the strangely popular error of thinking +that clocks measure life. That is not what they are for. A clock is +the contrivance of springs and wheels whereby the ambitious, early of a +summer's day when sane people are asleep or hunting flowers on the +hill-side, keep tally of the sun. Those early on the hill-side see the +gray lighten and watch it flush to rose—the advent of the +day-spring—and go on picking flowers. They of the clocks are one day +older—these have seen a sunrise. There is the difference. +</P> + +<P> +If you really thought that all there is to life is that part of it we +have here in this world—if you believed that—then what you +contemplate doing would be nothing worse than unsportsmanlike. But you +do not believe that. You are afraid of what might come—after. You +came to me—or you came to the rector—in the hope of being assured +that your fear was groundless. You had a human desire for the advice +of a "professional." You still wish that assurance—that is why you +promised to wait for this letter. You told me your case; you wanted +expert testimony. Here it is: You need not be afraid. God will not be +angry—God will not punish you. You said that you did not know much +about God. Surely you know this much—anger can never be one of His +attributes. God is never angry. Men would be angry if they were +treated as they treat Him—that is all. In mathematics, certain +letters represent certain unknown quantities. So words are only the +symbols for imperfectly realized ideas. If by "hell" you understand +what that word means to me—the endlessness of life with nothing in it +that makes life worth while—then, if you still want my opinion, I +think that you will most certainly go there. God will not be angry. +God will not send you there, you will have sent yourself—it will not +be God's punishment laid on you, it will be your punishment laid by you +on yourself. But it is not in you to let that come to pass. +</P> + +<P> +All of the "philosophies of life," as they are called, are, I think, +varieties of two. I suppose Materialism and Idealism cover them. +Those who hold with the first are in the air-tight box of years and +call it life. The others are in the box, too, but they call it time. +And they know that, after all, the box is really not air-tight; each of +them remembers the day when he first discovered that there were cracks +in the box, and the day he learned that one could best see through +those narrow openings by coming up resolutely to the hard necessary +walls that hold one in. Then came the astounding enlightenment that +only a shred of reality was within the cramped prison of the box—just +a darkened, dusty bit—that all the beautiful rest of it lay outside. +These are the ones who, pressing up against the rough walls of the box, +see, through their chinks, the splendor of what lies outside—see it +and know that, one day, they shall have it. +</P> + +<P> +The others, the Materialists, never come near the walls of the box, +except to bang their heads. Their reality is inside. These call life +a thing. The Idealists know that it is a process, and there is not a +tree or a flower or a blade of grass or a road-side weed but proves +them right. It is a process, and the end of it is perfection—nothing +less. The perfection of the physical is approximated to here in this +world, and, after that, the tired hands are folded, and the worn-out +body laid away. But even the very saints of God barely touch, here, +the edges of the possible perfection of the soul. Why, it is that that +lifts us—that possibility of going on and on—out of imaginable +bounds, into glory after glory—until the wisdom of the ages is +foolishness and time has no meaning where, in the reaches of eternity, +the climbing soul thinks with the mind of God. +</P> + +<P> +You were going to cut yourself off from that! At the very start, you +were going to fling away your single glorious chance—you, who told me +that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be +allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your +soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if +you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But, +if you do that—if you treat your single opportunity like that—can you +believe that another will be given you? +</P> + +<P> +You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the +box. Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't +life—only the smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a +question of God—it is not a question of punishment. It is this—what +are <I>you</I> going to do with your soul? +</P> + +<P> +I wonder if you have read as far as this. I wonder if I have been at +all intelligible? +</P> + +<P> +Will Robert Halarkenden see that you get this thick letter? There is +only one way by which I can know that it found you. +</P> + +<P> +I know that I have been hopelessly inadequate—perhaps grotesque. To +see it and be unable to tell you—imagine the awfulness! Give me +another chance. I was not going to ask that, but I must. Can't you +see I've got to show you? I mean—about another chance—will you not +renew that promise? Will you not send a word in answer to this letter, +and promise once more not to do anything decisive until you have heard +from me again? I am +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Sincerely yours,<BR> + GEOFFREY McBIRNEY.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +FOREST GATE, August 8th. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY— +</P> + +<P> +Robert Halarkenden saw that I got it. You don't know who Robert +Halarkenden is, do you? He's interesting, and likely you never will +know about him—but it doesn't matter. Your letter left me with a +curious feeling, a feeling which I think I used to have as a child when +I was just waking from one of the strong dreams of childhood which +"trail clouds of glory." It was a feeling that I had been swept off my +feet and made to use my wings—only I haven't much in the line of +wings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where I +gasped—and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and +I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the +ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the +gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in +the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that +I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing this +game with you very fairly, you see—which sounds conceited and as if +the game meant anything to you, a stranger. But because you are good, +and saving souls is your job, and because you think my soul might get +wrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think. +</P> + +<P> +About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about it +that way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that if +I'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn't +interested me very much—what I've heard has sounded rather dull—the +people supposed to be on the express trains there have, many of them, +been people I didn't want to play with. I've cared to be straight and +broad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks and +catty people—not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful idea +of yours, that my only life—as I've regarded it—is just about five +minutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength. +You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe you +believe it. Excuse me—I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadly +real. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead, +whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquettically +about things like this. And I won't, whatever you may think of me. +Your letter didn't convince me. It inspired me; it made me feel that +maybe—just maybe—it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or more +painfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out—all of us poor +things would come out—into gloriousness some time. I would hate to +have queered myself, you know, by going off at half-cock. But would it +queer me? What do you know about it? How can you tell? I might be +put back a few laps—I'm not being flippant, I simply don't know how to +say it—and then, anyhow, I'd be outside the "box," wouldn't I? And in +the freedom—and I could catch up, maybe. Yet, it might be the other +way; I might have shown an "unforgiveable contempt" for my life. +Unforgiveable—by whom? You say God forgives forever—well, I know He +must, if He's a God worth worshipping. So I don't know what you mean +by "unforgiveable." And you don't know if it's my "single, glorious +chance" at life. How can you know? On the other hand, I don't know +but that it is—that's the risk, I suppose—and it is a hideous risk. +I suppose likely you mean that. You see, when it gets down below +Sunday-school lessons and tradition, I don't know much what I do +believe. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly to +pieces in an uncomfortable way if one doesn't. But is that any belief? +As to "faith," that sounds rather nonsense to me. What on earth is +faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what you +really don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot—I suspect that—but I'd +gladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point and +arguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much less +handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'm +taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till I +get your next letter—I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise +because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the +breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I +stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or +is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines +through you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to +know that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English +about clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. That +irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with +sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go +along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go +and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence. +</P> + +<P> +Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional +letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to +me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot +even remember how you look. Your voice—I'd recognize that. It has a +quality of—what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness—no, +I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent, +I may be personal, because I am not a person, only +<BR> + Yours gratefully,<BR> + AUGUST FIRST.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +FOREST GATE, August 10th. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY— +</P> + +<P> +This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or +I might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a +hideous evening. Alec was here—the man I'm to marry if nothing saves +me—and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word +unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I +think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will, +almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. And +your letter guarded it. My first personality <I>couldn't</I> lift your +letter off to get the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like the +queer things one reads in psychological books. I <I>couldn't</I> get past +that letter. Of course, I'm in some strained, abnormal condition, and +that's all, but send me another letter, for if one is a barricade two +should be a fortress. And I nearly broke down the barricade; Number +Two did, that is. +</P> + +<P> +Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that I +wish I could send you a slice of it—coolness and birds singing and +trees rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs in +the heat—and I know you hate heat—I took that in. This house stands +in big grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roars +up on the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me, +please—and you so busy! I am a selfish person. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> + AUGUST FIRST.<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + August 12th.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Yesterday it rained. And then the telephone rang, and some incoherent +person mumbled an address out in the furthest suburb. It was North +Baxter Court. You never saw that—a row of yellow houses with the +door-sills level to the mud and ashes of the alley, and swarms of +children who stare and whisper, "Here's the 'Father.'" Number 7 1/2 +was marked with a membraneous croup sign—the usual lie to avoid strict +quarantine and still get anti-toxin at the free dispensary; the room +was unspeakable—shut windows and a crowd of people. A woman, young, +sat rocking back and forth, half smothering a baby in her arms. Nobody +spoke. It took time to get the windows open and persuade the woman to +lay the child on the bed in the corner. There wasn't anything else to +use, so I fanned the baby with my straw hat—until, finally, it got +away from North Baxter Court forever. Which was as it should be. Then +tumult. Probably you are not in a position to know that few spectacles +are more hideous than the unrestrained grief of the poor. The things +they said and did—it was unhuman, indecent. I can't describe it. As +I was leaving, after a pretty bad half hour, I met the doctor at the +door—one of these half-drunken quacks who live on the ignorant. That +child died of diphtheria. I knew it, and he admitted it. The funeral +was this breathless morning, with details that may not be written down. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +LATER. +</P> + +<P> +Somebody interrupted. And now it's long past midnight. I must try to +send you some answer to your letter. I have been thinking—the +combination may strike you as odd—of North Baxter Court and you. Not +that the happenings of yesterday were unusual. That is just it—they +come almost every day, things like that. And you, with your birds and +rustling trees and your lake—you keep a shiny pistol in the drawer of +your dressing-table, and write me the sort of letter that came from you +this morning. When all these people need <I>you</I>—these blind, dumb +animals, stumbling through the sordid, hopeless years—need you, +because, in spite of everything, you are still so much further along +than they, because you are capable of seeing where their eyes are shut, +because you and your kind can help them, and put the germ of life into +the deadness of their days, because of all that makes you what you are, +and gives you the chance to become infinitely more—you, in the face of +all that, can sit down in the fragrance of a garden-scented breeze and +write as you have done about God and the things that matter. +</P> + +<P> +You said that it was not flippancy. Your whole point of view is wrong. +Do not ask me how I "know"—some conclusions do not need to be +analyzed. I wonder if you realize, for instance, what you said about +faith? I haven't the charity to call it even childish. Have you ever +got below the surface of anything at all? Do you want to know what it +is that has brought you to the verge of suicide? It is not your horror +of illness, nor your oddly concluded determination to marry a man whom +you do not love. Suicide is an ugly word—I notice that you avoid +it—and love is a big word; I am using them understandingly and +soberly. You came to the edge of this thing for the reason that there +is not an element of bigness in your life, and there never has been. +You lack the balance of large ideas. This man of whom you tell me—of +course you do not love him—you have not yet the capacity for +understanding the meaning of the word. You like to ride and you like +to dance and you are fond of the things that please, but you do not +love anybody or even any thing. You are living, yes, but you are +asleep. And it is because you are ignorant. +</P> + +<P> +If your letter had been designedly flippant, it would merely have +annoyed. It is the unconscious flippancy in it that is so +discouraging. You do not know what you believe because you believe +nothing. Your most coherent conception of God is likely a hazy vision +of a majestic figure seated on a cloud—a long-bearded patriarch, +wearing a golden crown—the composite of famous pictures that you have +seen. You have been taught to believe in a personal God, and you have +never taken the trouble to get beyond the notion that +personality—God's or anybody's—is mainly a matter of the possession +of such things as hands and feet. What can be the meaning to one like +you of the truth that we are made in the image of God? The Kingdom of +Heaven—that whole whirling activity of the commonwealth of God—the +citizenship towards which you might be pointing Baxter Court—you have +not even imagined it. I am not being sentimental. Don't +misunderstand. Don't fancy, for instance, that I am exhorting you to +go slumming. Deliberately or not, you took a wrong impression from my +first letter. You can't mistake this. Reach after a few of the +realities. Why not shut your questioning mind a while and open your +soul? <I>Live</I> a little—begin to realize that there is a world outside +yourself. Try to get beyond the view-point of a child. And, if I have +not angered you beyond words, let me know how you get on. +</P> + +<P> +The unconventionality of this correspondence, you see, is not all on +one side. If you found English to your taste in what I wrote before, +this time you have plain truths, perhaps less satisfactory. You are +not in a position to decide some matters. I do not ask you to let me +decide them for you. I have only tried to indicate some reasons why +you must wait before you act. And I think it has made you angry. One +has to risk that. Yesterday I could not have imagined sending a letter +like this to anybody. But it goes—and to you. I ask you to answer +it. I think you owe me that. It hasn't been exactly easy to write. +</P> + +<P> +One more thing—don't trust letters to stand between you and the toy in +the dressing-table drawer. Any barrier there, to be in the least +effective, will have to be of your own building. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +About a month after the above letter had been received, on September +10th, Geoffrey McBirney, dashing down the three flights of stairs in +the Parish House from his quarters on the top floor, peered into the +letter-box on the way to morning service. He peered eagerly. There +had been no answer to his letter; it was a month; he was surprisingly +uneasy. But there was nothing in the mail-box, so he swept along to +the vestry-room, and got into his cassock and read service to the +handful of people in the chapel, with a sense of sick depression which +he manfully choked down at every upheaval, but which was distinctly +there quite the same. Service over, there were things to be done for +three hours; also there was to be a meeting in his rooms at twelve +o'clock to consider the establishment of a new mission, his special +interest, in the rough country at the west of the city; the rector and +the bishop and two others were coming. He hurried home and up to his +place, at eleven-forty-five, and gave a hasty look about to see if +things were fairly proper for august people. Not that the bishop would +notice. He dusted off the library table with his handkerchief, put one +book discreetly on the back side of the table instead of in front, +swept an untidy box of cigarettes into a drawer, and gathered up the +fresh pile of wash from a chair and put it on the bed in his +sleeping-room and shut the door hard. Then he gazed about with the air +of a satisfied housekeeper. He lifted up a loudly ticking clock which +would not go except lying on its face, and regarded it. Five minutes +to twelve, and they were sure to be late. He extracted a cigarette +from the drawer and lighted it; his thoughts, loosened from immediate +pressure, came back slowly, surely, to the empty mailbox, his last +letter, the girl whom he knew grotesquely as "August First." Why had +she not written for four weeks? He had considered that question from +many angles for about three weeks, and the question rose and confronted +him, always new, at each leisure moment. It was disproportionate, it +showed lack of balance, that it should loom so large on the horizon, +with the hundred other interests, tragedies, which were there for him; +but it loomed. +</P> + +<P> +Why had he written her that hammer-and-tongs answer? he demanded of +himself, not for the first time. Of course, it was true, but when one +is drowning, one does not want reams of truth, one wants a rope. He +had stood on the shore and lectured the girl, ordered her to strike out +and swim for it, and not be so criminally selfish as to drop into the +ocean; that was what he had done. And the girl—what had she done? +Heaven only knew. Probably gone under. It looked more so each day. +Why could he not have been gentler, even if she was undeveloped, +narrow, asleep? Because she was rich—he answered his own question to +himself—because he had no belief in rich people; only a hard distrust +of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of +smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same, +they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed +himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden +memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle +child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept +darkness, of roses bobbing. +</P> + +<P> +McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted +the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve. +He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged +again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly, +he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle—it was from +the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector +and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust +the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and +turned to meet his guests. +</P> + +<P> +When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting +meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop +off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then +hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore +untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the +luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he +spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room +and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get +personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally +interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her +again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble. +And—that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has +got—to—stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table +and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he +saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his +pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with +elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story +about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing +they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and +went through evolutions, and finally, with thunder and energy, trained +a huge Krupp gun—or something—on a chipmunk? If there is such a +story, and you've heard it, doesn't it remind you of your last letter +at me? Not to me, I mean <I>at</I> me. It was a wonderful letter again, +but when I got through I had a feeling that what I needed was not +suicide—I do dare say the word, you see—but execution. Maybe +shooting is too good for me. And you know I appreciate every minute +how unnecessary it is for you to bother with me, and to put your time +and your strength, both of which mean much to many people, into +hammering me. And how good you are to do that. I am worthless, as you +say between every two lines. Yet I'm a soul—you say that too, and so +on a par with those tragic souls in North Baxter Court. Only, I feel +that you have no patience with me for getting underfoot when you're on +your way to big issues. But do have patience, please—it means as much +to me as to anybody in your tenements. I'm far down, and I'm +struggling for breath, and there seems to be no land in sight, nothing +to hold to except you. I'm sorry if you dislike to have it so, but it +is so; your letters mean anchorage. I'd blow out to sea if I didn't +have them to hope for. You ought to be glad of that; you're doing +good, even if it is only to a flippant, shallow, undeveloped doll. I +can call myself names—oh yes. +</P> + +<P> +I have been slow answering, though likely you haven't noticed [McBirney +smiled queerly], because I have been doing a thing. You said you +didn't advise me to go slumming—though I think you did—what else? +You said I ought to get beyond the view-point of a child; to realize +the world outside myself. +</P> + +<P> +I sat down, and in my limited way—I mean that, sincerely, humbly—I +considered what I could do. No slumming—and, in any case, there's +none to be done in Forest Gate. So I thought I'd better clear my +vision with great books. I went to Robert Halarkenden, the only +bookish person in my surroundings, and asked him about it—about what +would open up a larger horizon for me. And he, not understanding much +what I was at, recommended two or three things which I have been and am +reading. I thought I'd try to be a little more intelligent at least +before I answered your letter. Don't thunder at me—I'm stumbling +about, trying to get somewhere. I've read some William James and some +John Fiske, and I realize this—that I did more or less think God was a +very large, stately old man. An "anthropomorphic deity." Fiske says +that is the God of the lower peoples; that was my God. Also I realize +this—that, somehow, some God, <I>the</I> God if I can get to Him, might +help might be my only chance. What do you think? Is this any better? +Is it any step? If it is, it's a very precarious one, for though it +thrills me to my bones sometimes to think that a real power might lift +me and bring me through, if I just ask Him, yet sometimes all that hope +goes and I drop in a heap mentally with no starch in me, no grip to try +to hold to any idea—just a heap of tired, dull mind and nerves, and +for my only desire that subtle, pushing desire to end it all quickly. +Once an odd thing happened. When I was collapsed like that, just +existing, suddenly there was a feeling, a brand-new feeling of letting +go of the old rubbish that was and somebody else pervading it through +and through and taking all the responsibility. And I held on tight, +something as I do to your letters, and the first thing, I was believing +that help was coming—and help came. That was the best day I've had +since I saw those devil doctors. Do you suppose that was faith? Where +did it come from? I'd been praying—but awfully queer prayers; I said +"Oh just put me through somehow; give me what I need; <I>I</I> don't know +what it is; how can you expect me to—I'm a worm." I suppose that was +irreverent, but I can't help it. It was all I could say. And that +came, whatever it was. Do you suppose it was an answer to my blind, +gasping prayer? +</P> + +<P> +Now I'm going to ask you to do a thing—but don't if it's the least +bother. I don't want you to talk to me about myself just now, any +more. And I want to hear more about North Baxter Court and such. You +don't know how that stirred me. What a worth-while life you lead, +doing actual, life-and-death things for people who bitterly need things +done. It seems to me glorious. I could give up everything to feel a +stream of genuine living through me such as you have, all your rushing +days. Yes—I could—but yet, maybe I wouldn't make good. But I do +care for "life, and life more abundantly," and the only way of getting +it that I've known has been higher fences to jump, and more dances and +better tennis and such. I never once realized the way you get it—my! +what a big way. And how heavenly it must be to give hope and health +and help to people. I adore sending the maids out in the car, or +giving them my clothes. I just selfishly like pleasing people, and I +think giving is the best amusement extant—and you give your very self +from morning to night. You lucky person! How could I do that? Could +I? Would I balk, do you think? You say I'm not capable of loving +anything or anybody. I think you are wrong. I think I could, some +day, love somebody as hard as any woman or man has, ever. Not Alec. +What will happen if I marry Alec and then do that—if the somebody +comes? That would be a mess; the worst mess yet. The end of the +world; but I forget; my world ends anyhow. I'll be a stone image in a +chair—a cold, unloveable stone image with a hot, boiling heart. I +won't—I <I>won't</I>. This world is just five minutes, maybe—but me—in a +chair—ten years. Oh—I <I>won't</I>. +</P> + +<P> +What I want you to do is to write me just about the things you're +doing, and the people—the poor people, and the pitiful things and the +funny things—the atmosphere of it. Could you forget that you don't +know me, and write as you would to a cousin or an old friend? That +would be good. That would help. Only, anyhow, write, for without your +letters I can't tell what bomb may burst. Don't thunder next time. +But even if you thunder, write. The letters do guard the pistol—I +can't help it if you say not. It has to be so now, anyway. They guard +it. Always— +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +AUGUST FIRST. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + Sept. 12th.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +You're right. It's idiotic to leap on people like that. I knew I was +all wrong the moment after the letter went. And when nothing came from +you—it wasn't pleasant. I nearly wrote—I more nearly telegraphed +your Robert Halarkenden. Do you mind if I say that for two days, just +lately—in fact, they were yesterday and the day before—I was on the +edge of asking for leave of absence to go west? You see, if you had +done it, it was so plainly my fault. And I had to know. Then I +argued—it's ghastly, but I argued that it would be in the papers. And +it wasn't. Of course, it might possibly have been kept out. But +generally it isn't. My knowledge of happenings in Chicago and +thereabouts, since my last letter, would probably surprise you a +little. Yes, I "noticed" that you didn't write—more than I noticed +the heat, which, now I think, has been bad. But when you're pretty +sure you've blundered in a matter of life and death, you don't pray for +rain. +</P> + +<P> +You've turned a corner. <I>A</I> corner. <I>The</I> corner—the big one, is +further along, and then there's the hill and the hot sun on the dusty +road. You'll need your sporting instincts. But you've got them. So +had St. Paul and those others who furnished the groundwork for that +oft-mentioned Roman holiday. That's religion, as I see it. That's +what <I>they</I> did; pushed on—faced things down—went out +smiling—"gentlemen unafraid." It's like swimming—you can't go under +if you make the least effort. That's the law—of physics and, +therefore, of God. The experience you tell of is exactly what you have +the right to expect. The prayer you said; that's the only way to come +at it, yourself—talking—with that Other. There's a poem—you +know—the man who "caught at God's skirts and prayed." +</P> + +<P> +But you said not to write about you. All right then, I've been to the +theatre, the one at the end of our block. That may strike you as tame. +But you don't know Mrs. Jameson. She's the relict of the late senior +warden. A disapproving party, trimmed with jet beads and a lorgnette. +A few days after the rector left me in charge she triumphed into the +office, rattled the beads and got behind the lorgnette. She presumed I +was the new curate. No loop-hole out of that. I had been seen at the +theatre—not once nor twice. I could well believe it. The late +Colonel Jameson, it appeared, had not approved of clergymen attending +playhouses. She did not approve of it herself. She presumed I +realized the standing of this parish in the diocese? She dwelt on the +force of example to the young. Of course, the opera—but that was +widely different. She would suggest—she did suggest—not in the least +vaguely. Sometime, perhaps, I would come to luncheon? She had really +rather interested herself in the sermon yesterday—a little abrupt, +possibly, at the close—still, of course, a young man, and not very +experienced—besides, the Doctor had spoiled them for almost anybody +else. Naturally. +</P> + +<P> +The room widened after she had gone. You know these ladies with the +thick atmosphere. +</P> + +<P> +That night I went to the theatre. There's a stock company there for +the summer and I have come to know one of the actors. He belongs to +us—was married in the church last summer. The place was +packed—always is—it's a good company. And Everett—he's the +one—kept the house shouting. He's the regular funny man. The play +that week was very funny anyhow—one of those things the billboards +call a "scream." It was just that. Everett was the play. He stormed +and galloped through his scenes until everybody was helpless. People +like him; it's his third summer here. Well, at the end, nobody went. +A lot of lads in the gallery began calling for Everett. We're common +here; and not many of the quality patronize stock. Soon he pushed out +from behind the curtain and made one of those fool speeches which +generally fall flat. Only this one didn't. +</P> + +<P> +Then I went "behind." The dressing rooms at the Alhambra are not +home-like. Bare walls with a row of pegs along one side—a couple of +chairs—a table piled with make-up stuff and over it a mirror flanked +by electric lights with wire netting around them. Not gay. And grease +paint, at close range, is not attractive. A man shouldn't cry after +he's made up—that's a theatrical commandment, or ought to be. +Probably a man shouldn't anyhow. But some do. I imagined Everett had, +and that he'd done it with his head in his arms and his arms in the +litter of the big table. I think I shook hands with him—one does +inane things sometimes—but I don't know what I said. I had something +like your experience—I just wasn't there for a minute or two. +</P> + +<P> +Afterward, I went home with him—a long half-hour on the trolley, then +up three flights into "light housekeeping" rooms in the back. There +was cold meat on the table, and bread. The janitor's wife, good soul, +had made a pot of coffee. "Light housekeeping" is a literal +expression, let me tell you, and doctor's bills make it lighter. I +followed him into the last room of the three. It looked different from +the way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gas +higher I saw why—the bed was gone—one of those stretcher things takes +less room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was—all that +he had left of all that he had had—the girl he'd been mad about and +married in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when she +died; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn't +let him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." She +didn't wait. +</P> + +<P> +And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did—and +was funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front of +hundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, and +all the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in the +last room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, but +I doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it was +very simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it was +too late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if they +closed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he said +nothing—and was funny. +</P> + +<P> +I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told it +to you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one's +job—isn't that the big thing, after all? +</P> + +<P> +Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He has +laid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and for +the last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd like +him—he's so alive. +</P> + +<P> +Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that I +know you'll—but you said not to write about you. +</P> + +<P> +The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing all +night just because, or, for the reason that." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It's night now—big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes I +stay up late to realize that I'm alive. The days are so crammed with +happenings. And late at night seems so wide and everlasting. You've +got the idea that I do things. Well, I don't. There are whole rows of +days when it seems just a muddle of half-started attempts—a manner of +hopeless confusion. There's a good deal of futility in it, first and +last. That boy tonight for instance. And, sometimes, I get to +wondering if, after all, one has the right to meddle in other people's +lives. It's curious, but with you I've been quite sure. Always it has +been as clear as light to me that you must come through this—that it +will be right. I don't know how. Even that day you came, I was sure. +As soon as <I>you</I> are sure, the thing is done. That man isn't to be +worried about—or the doctors. Easy for me to say, isn't it? +</P> + +<P> +Are you interested to know that I'm to have my building on the West +Side? There was a meeting today. It's the best thing that's happened +yet, that is, parochially. Maybe she's human after all. I mean Mrs. +Jameson. She's going to pay for it. +</P> + +<P> +I think that's all. You can't say I've tried to thunder at you this +time. I really didn't last time. I've known all along that you +wouldn't be impressed by thunder. The answer to that young devil's +question seems to be: I'm writing "for the reason that," and not, "just +because." Every time I think of that boy's name I have to laugh. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +September 17th. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY— +</P> + +<P> +What <I>is</I> the boy's name? It must be queer if you laugh every time you +think of it. Don't forget to tell me. +</P> + +<P> +Your letters leave me breathless with things to say back. I suppose +that's inspiration, to make people feel full of new ideas, and that +you're crammed with it. In the first place I'm in a terrible hurry to +tell you that something really big has touched the edge of my anaemic +life, and that I have recognized it; I'm pleased that I recognized it. +Listen—please—this is it. Robert Halarkenden; I must tell you who he +is. Thirteen years ago my uncle was on a camping trip in Canada and +one of the guides was a silent Scotchman, mixed in with French-Canadian +habitants and half-breed Indians. My uncle was interested in him—he +was picturesque and conspicuous—but he would not talk about himself. +Another guide told Uncle Ted all that anyone has ever known about him, +till yesterday. He was a guardian of the club and lived alone in a +camp in the wildest part of it, and in summer he guided one or two +parties, by special permission of the club secretary. This other guide +had been to his cabin and told my uncle that it was full of books; the +guide found the number astounding—"<I>effrayant</I>." Also he had a garden +of forest flowers, and he knew everything about every wild thing that +grew in the woods. Well, Uncle Ted was so taken with the man that he +asked the secretary about him, and the secretary shook his head. All +that he could tell was that he was a remarkable woodsman and a perfect +guide and that he had been recommended to him in the first place by Sir +Archibald Graye of Toronto, who had refused to give reasons but asked +as a personal favor that the man should be given any job he wished. +This is getting rather a long story. Of course you know that the man +was Halarkenden and you are now to know that my uncle brought him to +Forest Gate as his gardener. He thought over it a day when Uncle Ted +asked him and then said that he had lived fifteen years in the forest +and that now he would like to live in a garden; he would come if Uncle +Ted would let him make a garden as beautiful as he wished. Uncle Ted +said yes, and he has done it. You have never seen such a garden—no +one ever has. It is four acres and it lies on the bluff above the +lake; that was a good beginning. If you had seen the rows of lilies +last June, with pink roses blossoming through them, you would have +known that Robert Halarkenden is a poet and no common man. Of course +we have known it all along, but in thirteen years one gets to take +miracles for granted. Yesterday I went down into the wild garden which +lies between the woods and the flowers—this is a large place—and I +got into the corner under the pines, and lay flat on the pink-brown +needles, all warm with splashes of September sunlight, and looked at +the goldenrod and purple asters swinging in the breeze and wondered if +I could forget my blessed bones and live in the beauty and joy of just +things, just the lovely world. Or whether it wouldn't be simpler to +pull a trigger when I went back to my room, instead of kicking and +struggling day after day to be and feel some other way. I get so sick +and tired of fighting myself—you don't know. Anyhow, suddenly there +was a rustle in the gold and purple hedge, and there was Robert +Halarkenden. I wish I could make you see him as he stood there, in his +blue working blouse, a pair of big clippers in his hand, his thick, +half-gray, silvery thatch of hair bare and blowing around his scholar's +forehead, his bony Scotch face solemn and quiet. His deep-set eyes +were fixed with such a gentle gaze on me. We are good friends, Robin +and I. I call him Robin; he taught me to when I was ten, so I always +have. "You're no feeling well, lassie?" he asked; he has known me a +long time, you see. And I suddenly sat up and told him about my old +bones. I didn't mean to; I have told no one but you; not Uncle Ted +even. But I did. And "Get up, lassie, and sit on the bench. I will +talk to you," said Robin. So we both sat down on the rustic bench +under the blowy pines, and I cried like a spring torrent, and Robin +patted my hand steadily, which seems an odd thing for one's uncle's +gardener to do, till I got through. Then I laughed and said, "Maybe +I'll shoot myself." And he answered calmly, "I hope not, lassie." +Then I said nothing and he said nothing for quite a bit, and then he +began talking gently about how everybody who counted had to go through +things. "A character has to be hammered into the likeness of God," he +said. "A soul doesn't grow beautiful by sunlight and rich earth," and +he looked out at his scarlet and blue and gold September garden and +smiled a little. "We're no like the flowers." Then he considered +again, and then he asked if it would interest me at all to hear a +little tale, and I told him yes, of course. "Maybe it will seem +companionable to know that other people have faced a bit of trouble," +he said. And then he told me. I don't know if you will believe it; it +seems too much of a drama to be credible to me, if I had not heard +Robert Halarkenden tell it in his entirely simple way, sitting in his +workingman's blouse, with the big clippers in his right hand. Thirty +years before he had been laird of a small property in Scotland, and +about to marry the girl whom he cared for. Then suddenly he found that +she was in love with his cousin—with whom he had been brought up, and +who was as dear as a brother—and his cousin with her. In almost no +more words than I am using he told me of the crisis he lived through +and how he had gone off on the mountains and made his decision. He +could not marry the girl if she did not love him. His cousin was heir +to his property; he decided to disappear and let them think he was +dead, and so leave the two people whom he loved to be happy and +prosperous without him. He did that. Two or three people had to know +to arrange things, and Sir Archibald Graye, of Toronto, was one, but +otherwise he simply dropped out of life and buried himself in Canadian +forests, and then, just as he was growing hungry for some things he +could not get in the forest, my uncle came along and offered him what +he wanted. +</P> + +<P> +"But how could you?" I asked him. "You're a gentleman; how could you +make yourself a servant, and build a wall between yourself and nice +people?" +</P> + +<P> +Robin smiled at me in a shadowy, gentle way he has. "Those walls are a +small matter of dust, lassie," he said. "A real man blows on them and +they're tumbling. And service is what we're here for. And all people +are nice people, you'll find." And when, still unresigned, I said +more, he went on, very kindly, a little amused it seemed. "Why should +it be more important for me to be happy than for those two? I hope +they're happy," he spoke wistfully. "The lad was a genius, but a wild +lad too," and he looked thoughtful. "Anyhow, it was for me to decide, +you see, and a man couldn't decide ungenerously. That would be to tie +one's self to a gnawing beast, which is what is like the memory of your +own evil deed. Take my word for it, lassie, there was no other way." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems all exaggerated," I threw at him; "there was no sense in your +giving up your home and traditions and associations—it was +unreasonable, fantastic! And to those two who had taken away your +happiness anyhow." +</P> + +<P> +I wish you could have heard how quietly and naturally Robert +Halarkenden answered me. He considered a moment first, in his Scotch +way, and then he said: "Do not you see, lassie, that's where it was +simple, verra simple. Houses and lands and a place in the world are +small affairs after love, and mine was come to shipwreck. So it seemed +to me I'd try living free of the care of possessions. I'd try the old +rule, that a man to find his life must lay it down. It was verra +simple, as I'm telling you, once I'd got the fancy for it. Laying down +a life is not such a hard business; it's only to make up your mind. +And I did indeed find life in doing it, I was care-free as few are in +those forest years." +</P> + +<P> +I think you would have agreed with me, Mr. McBirney, that the +middle-aged, lined face of my uncle's gardener was beautiful as he said +those things. "Why did you leave the forest?" I asked him then; you +may believe I'd forgotten about my bones by now. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you'll find it grows irksome to be coddling one's own soul +indefinitely," he confided to me with the pretty gentleness which +breaks through his Scotch manner once in a while. "One gets tired of +one's self, the spoiled body. I hungered to do something for somebody +besides Robert Halarkenden. I'd taken charge of a lad with +tuberculosis one summer up there, and I'd cured him, and I had a +thought I could do the same for other lads. I wanted to get near a +city to have that chance. I've been doing it here," and then he drew +back into his Scotchness and was suddenly cold and reserved. But I +knew that was shyness, and because he had spoken of his secret good +deeds and was uncomfortable. +</P> + +<P> +So I was not frozen. "You have!" I pounced on him. And I made him +tell me how, besides his unending gardening, besides his limitless +reading, he has been, all these years, working in the city in his few +spare hours, spending himself and his wages—wages!—and helping, +healing, giving all the time—like you—— +</P> + +<P> +I felt the most torturing envy of my life as I listened to that. <I>I</I> +wanted to be generous and wonderful and self-forgetting, and have a +great, free heart "of spirit, fire, and dew." <I>I</I> wanted the something +in me that made that still radiance of Robert Halarkenden's eyes. You +see? "I"—always "I." That's the way I'm made. Utterly selfish. I +can't even see heavenliness but I want to snatch it for myself. Robin +never thought once that he was getting heavenliness—he only thought +that he was giving help. Different from me. And all these years that +I have been prancing around his garden of delight in two hundred dollar +frocks—oh lots of them, for I'm rich and extravagant and I buy things +because they're pretty and not because I need them—all these years he +has been saving most of his seventy-five dollars a month, and getting +sick children sent south, and never mentioning it. Why, I own a place +south. I'm not such a beast but that—well, very likely I am a +beast—I don't know. Anyhow, I've consistently lived the life of a +selfish butterfly. And I cling to it. Despise me if you will. I do. +I like my pretty clothes and my car, and how I do love my two +saddle-horses! And I like dancing, too—I turn into a bird in the +tree-tops when I dance, with not a care, not a responsibility. I don't +want to give all that up. Have I got to? Have I <I>got</I> to "lay down my +life" to find it? For, somehow, cling as I will to all these things, +something is pushing, pushing back of them, stronger than them. You +started it. I want the big things now—I want to be worth while. But +yet clothes and gayety and horses and automobiles—I'm glued tight in +that round. I don't believe I can tear loose. I don't believe I want +to. Do you see—I'm in torment. And—silly idiot that I am—it's not +for me to decide anything. I'm turning into a ton of stone—I'll be a +horrible unhuman monster and have to give it all up and have nothing in +return. Soon I'll lay down my life and <I>not</I> find it. I won't. I'll +pull the trigger. Will I? Do you see how I vacillate and shiver and +boil? This is my soul I'm pouring out to you. I hope you don't mind +hot liquids. What you wrote about the actor made me sit still a whole +half-hour without stirring a finger, with your letter in my hands. It +was glorious—there's no question. You meant it to inspire me. But he +had a job. I haven't. Back to me again, you see—unending me. Do you +know about the man who used to say "Now let's go into the garden and +talk about me"? +</P> + +<P> +In any case, thank you for telling me that story. I'm glad to know +that there are people like that—several of them. I know you and Robin +anyhow, but the actor makes the world seem fuller of courage and +worth-whileness. I wish a little of it would leak into—oh, <I>me</I> +again. <I>Me</I> is getting "irksome," as Robin said. Remember to tell me +the boy's name. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Yours gratefully if unsatisfactorily,<BR> + AUGUST FIRST.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +P. S.—Robert Halarkenden isn't his real name. It's his grandmother's +father's name, and Welsh. I don't know the real one. +</P> + +<P> +P. S. No. 2. If it isn't inconsistent, and if you think I'm worth +while, you might pray just a scrap too. That I may get to be like you +and Robin. +</P> + +<P> +P. S. No. 3. But you know it's the truth that I'm balky at giving up +everything in sight. I'd hate myself in bad clothes. <I>Can't</I> I have +good ones and yet be worth while? Oh, I see. It doesn't matter if +they're good or bad so long as I don't care too much. But I do care. +Then they hamper me—eh? Is that the idea? This is the last +postscript to this letter. Write a quick one—I'm needing it. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + Sept. 23d.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +I don't think it matters what his real name is. I'd been thinking all +along, that he was just a convenient fiction, useful for an address, +and now he turns out about the realest person going. Sometimes I +imagine perhaps it will be like that when we get through with this +world and wake up into what's after—that the things we've passed over +pretty much here and been vague about will blaze out as the eternal +verities. A miracle happened that day in your September garden. +You've surely read "<I>Sur la Branche</I>"—that book written around a +woman's belief in the Providence of God? Well, that's what I mean. +Why did Halarkenden come down out of the woods into your uncle's +garden? Why did you tell him, of all people? Why was it you who got +through to the truth about him? Why did it all happen just the minute +you most needed it? Of course I believe it—every word, exactly as you +wrote it. It's impossible things like that which do happen and help us +to bear the flatly ordinary. It's the incredible things that shout +with reality. Miracles ought to be ordinary affairs—we don't believe +in them because we're always straining every nerve to keep them from +happening. We get so confused in the continual muddle of our own +mistakes that when something does come straight through, as it was +intended to do, we're like those men who heard the voice of God that +day and told one another anxiously that it thundered. +</P> + +<P> +Just think what went to make up those five minutes which gave you the +lift you had to have—that young Scotchman, beating back his devils up +in the lonely mountains all those years ago—that's when it started. +And then fetch it down to now; his leaving home forever—and his exile +in the woods—considerably different from a camping trip—the silent +days, worse—the nights. And all the time his mind going back and back +to what he'd left behind—his home, seeing every little corner of +it—you know the tortures of imagination—his friends—the girl—always +the girl—wondering why, and why, and why. Think of the days and +months without seeing one of your own kind. He had to have books; his +wild garden had to blossom. That man wasn't "coddling" his soul—he +was ripping and tearing it into shreds and then pounding it together +again with a hammer and with nails. All alone. That's the hardest, I +suppose. And then, when it was all done and the worst of the pain and +the torment passed, away up there in the forests, Robert +Halarkenden—it <I>is</I> true, isn't it?—he rose from the dead, and being +risen, he took a hand in the big business of the world. And his latest +job is you. Has that occurred to you? I don't mean to say that he +went through all that just to be a help to you. But I do say that if +he hadn't gone through it he wouldn't have been a help to anybody. He +did it. You needed to find out about it. He told you. It got +through. Things sometimes do. +</P> + +<P> +Suppose he hadn't come down from the mountains that day—that they'd +found him there—that he hadn't had the nerve to face it? Who would +have cured the tuberculosis lad—who would have sent the children +south—who would have brushed through your uncle's garden hedge in +Forest Gate, Illinois, and told you what you needed to be told? If +<I>you</I> should turn out not to have the nerve—if, some day you—? Then +what about <I>your</I> job? Nobody can ever do another person's real work, +and, if it isn't done, I think it's likely we'll have to keep company +with our undone, unattempted jobs forever. Mostly rather little jobs +they are, too—so much the more shame for having dodged them. You say +that you haven't got one. Maybe not, just now. But how do you know it +isn't right around the corner? Did Halarkenden have you in mind those +years he fought with beasts? No—not you—it was the girl back in +Scotland. But here you are, getting the benefit of it. It's a small +place, the world, and we're tied and tangled together—it won't do to +cut loose. That spoils things, and it's all to come right at the last, +if we'll only let it. +</P> + +<P> +Possibly you'll think it's silly or childish, but I believe maybe this +life with its queer tasks and happenings is just the great, typical +Fairy Story, with Heaven at the last. They're true—that's why +unspoiled children love fairy stories. They begin, they march with +incident, best of all, one finds always at the end that "'They' lived +happily ever afterward." "They," is you, and I hope it's me. The +trouble with people mainly is that they're too grown up. Who knows +what children see and hear in the summer twilights, on the way home +from play? There's the big, round moon, tangled in the tree-tops—one +remembers that—and there's the night wind, idling down the dusty +street. Surely, though, more than that, but we've forgotten. Isn't +growing up largely a process of forgetting, rather than of getting, +knowledge? Of course there's cube-root and partial payments and fear +and pain and love—one does acquire that sort of thing—but doesn't it +maybe cost the losing of the right point of view? And that's too +expensive. Naturally, or, perhaps, unnaturally, we can't afford to be +caught sailing wash-tub boats across the troubled seas of orchard +grass, or watching for fairies in the moonlight, but can't we somehow +continue to want to give ourselves to similar adventure? There's a +good deal of difference, first and last, between childishness and +childlikeness—enough to make the one plain foolishness, and the other +the qualification for entrance into the Kingdom of God. I'd rather +have let cube-root go and have kept more of my imagination. The other +day, in the middle of a catechism I was holding in the parish school, a +small youngster rose to his feet and solemnly assured the company +present that "the pickshers of God in the church" were "all wrong." +Naturally we argued, which was a mistake. He got me. "God," said he, +"is a Spirit, and spirits don't look like those colored pickshers in +the windows." You see, he knew. He still remembers. But the higher +mathematics and a few brisk sins will assist him to forget. Too bad. +Still, when we get back home again surely it will all "come back" like +a forgotten language. +</P> + +<P> +Meantime there are two hundred dollar frocks to consider, as well as +miracles in gardens. And that's all right, so long as the frocks are +worthy the background, which I venture to suppose, of course, they are. +The subject of clothes interests me a good deal just now, as I'm +engaged in living on my salary. It's all a question of what one can +afford, financially and spiritually. I gather you're not a bankrupt +either way. I don't recall anything in Holy Writ that seems to require +dowdiness as necessary to salvation. If one's got money it's +fortunate—if money's got one—that's different. Which is my +platitudinous way of agreeing with the last postscript of your letter. +I know you're getting to look at things properly again. To lose one's +life certainly does not mean to kill it, and to give it away one +needn't fling it to the dogs. And when you do connect with your job +you'll recognize it and you'll know how to do it. I'd like to watch +you. Once get your imagination going properly again and the days are +rose and gold. Oh, not all of them—but a good many—enough. +</P> + +<P> +I nearly forgot about Theodore. There's humor for you—Theodore, "The +Gift of God"—that's the name they gave him sixteen good years ago +somewhere over in Scotland as you'd have guessed from the rest of it, +which is Alan McGregor. He is an orphan, is Theodore, but he doesn't +wear the uniform of the Orphans' Home—far from it! He wears soft +raiment and lives in kings' houses, or what amounts to the same thing. +I am engaged in exorcising the devil out of him and in teaching him +enough Latin to get into a decent school at the earliest instant. The +Latin goes well—three nights a week from eight to half-past nine. But +the devil takes advantage of every one of those nine points of law +which possession is said to give, and doesn't go at all. I am the only +living person who knows how to define "charm." Charm is the most +conspicuous attribute of the devil, and young McGregor has got it. +Likewise other qualities, the ones, for instance, which make his name +so rather awfully funny. You'd have to know Theodore to appreciate +just how funny. +</P> + +<P> +It was the rector who "wished" him on to me. The rector is one of his +guardians, and being Theodore's guardian is a business which requires +at least one undersecretary, and I'm that. Theodore and hot water have +the strongest affinity known to psychological chemistry. So I'm kept +busy. But it's all the keenest sport you can imagine, and it's going +to be tremendously worth while if I can make a success of it. He's the +right kind of bad, and he's getting ready to grow into a great, big, +straight out-and-outer, with a mind like lightning and a heart like one +of the sons of God. But that kind is always the worst risk. He has +the weapons to get him through the fight with splendor, only they're +every one two-edged, and you have to be careful with swords that cut +both ways. His father was an inventor genius and there are bales of +money and already it has begun to press down on him a little. Still, +that may be the exact right thing. He has talked about it once or +twice as a nice boy would. There's a place on the other side which +comes to him, with factories and such things. He wanted to know +wouldn't it be his business to see that the working people were +properly looked after; I gathered he's been reading books, trying to +find out. And then he got suddenly shy and very bright red as to the +face, and cleared out. So far, so good, but it isn't far enough. Not +yet. +</P> + +<P> +That's my present job. You'll get yours. +</P> + +<P> +Wasn't it wonderful—I mean Halarkenden! When I think of him and then +of myself it gives me a good deal of a jounce. It surprises me that I +ever had the conceit to think I could handle this parson proposition. +Lately I've not been over-cheerful about it. That's one reason why +your letter did me good. +</P> + +<P> +I hear the Gift of God coming up the stairs, and I've neglected to look +up the Future Periphrastic Conjugation and that ticklish difference +between the Gerund and the Gerundive, which is vital. +</P> + +<P> +One thing more—your second postscript. You didn't suppose that I +don't, did you? Only, not like me! +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The man took the letter down the three flights to the post-box at the +entrance of the Parish House and dropped it, with a certain +deliberation, as if he were speaking to someone whom he cared for, with +a certain hesitation, as if he were not sure that he had spoken well, +into the box. As he mounted the stairs again his springing gait was +slower than usual. It was very late, but he drew a long chair close +and poked the hard-coal fire till it glowed to him like a bed of +jewels, all alive and stirred to their hot hearts; opals and topazes +and rubies and cairngorms and the souls of blue sapphires and purple +amethysts playing ghostly over the rest. He dropped into the chair and +the tall, black-clothed figure fell into lax lines; his long fingers, +the fingers of an artist, a musician, lay on the arms of the chair +limply as if disconnected from any central power; there was surely +despair, hopelessness, in the man's attitude. His gray eyes glowed +from under the straight black brows with much of the hidden flame, the +smouldering intensity of the coals at which he gazed. He sat so +perhaps half an hour, staring moodily at the orange heart of the fire. +Then suddenly, with a smothered half-syllable, with a hand thrown out +impatiently, he was on his feet with a bound, and with that his arms +were against the tall mantel and his head dropped in them, and he was +gazing down so and talking aloud, rapidly, disjointedly, out of his +loneliness, to his friend, the red fire. "How can I—how dare I? A +square peg in a round hole—and the extra corners all weakness and +wickedness. Selfishness—incompetence—I to set up to do the Lord's +special work! I to preach to others—If it were not blasphemy it would +be a joke—a ghastly joke. I can't go on—I have to pull out. +Yet—how can I? They'll think—people will think—oh what <I>does</I> it +matter what people will think? Only—if it hurt the rector—if it hurt +the work? And Theodore—but—someone else would do him—more good than +I can. There ought to be—an older man—to belong. Surely God will +look after His gift—His gift!" The quick lightning of the brilliant +eyes, which in this man often took the place of a smile, flashed; then +the changing face was suddenly grim with a wrenching feeling, yet +bright with a wind of tenderness not to be held back. The soul came +out of hiding and wrote itself on the muscles of the face. +"She—that's it—that's the gist of it—fool that I am. To think—to +dream—to dare to hope. But I <I>don't</I> hope," he brought out savagely, +and flung his shoulders straight and caught the wooden shelf with a +grip. "I don't hope—I just"—the voice dropped, and his head fell on +his arms again. "I won't say it. I'm not utterly mad yet." He picked +up the poker and stirred the fire, and put on coal from a scuttle, and +went and sat down again in the chair. "Something has got to be +decided," he spoke again to the coals in the grate. "I've got to know +if I ought to stay at this job, or if it's an impertinence." For +minutes then he was silent, intent, it seemed, on the fire. Then again +he spoke in the low, clear voice whose simplicity, whose purity +reached, though he did not know it, the inmost hearts of the people to +whom he preached. "I will make a test of her," he said, telling the +fire his decision. "If she is safe and wins through to the real +things, I'll believe that I've been let do that, and that I'm fit for +work. If she doesn't—if I can't pull off that one job which is so +distinctly put up to me—I'll leave." With a swing he had put out the +lights in the big, bare living-room and gone into the bedroom beyond. +He tried to sleep, but the tortured nerves, the nerves of a high-bred +race-horse, eager, ever ready for action, would not be quiet. The +great, rich city, the great poverty-stricken masses seething through +it, the rushing, grinding work of the huge parish, had eaten into his +youth and strength enormously already in six months. He had given +himself right and left, suffered with the suffering, as no human being +can and keep balance, till now he was, unknowingly, at the edge of a +breakdown. And the distrust of his own fitness, the forgetfulness +that, under one's own limitations, is an unlimited reserve which is the +only hope of any of us in any real work; this was the form of the +retort of his overwrought nerves. Yet at last he slept. +</P> + +<P> +Meantime as he slept the hours crept away and it was morning and an +early postman came and opened the box with a rattling key and took out +three letters which the deaconess had sent to her scattered family, and +one, oddly written, which the janitor had executed for his mother in +Italy, and the letter to the girl. From hand to hand it sped, and +away, and was hidden in a sack in a long mail-train, and at last, +Robert Halarkenden, on the 25th of September, came down the garden +path, and the girl, reading in the wild garden, laid aside her book and +watched him as he came, and thought how familiar and pleasant a sight +was the gaunt, tall figure, pausing on the gravelled walk to touch a +blossom, to lift a fallen branch, as lovingly as a father would care +for his children. "A letter, lassie," Robert Halarkenden said, and +held out the thick envelope; and then did an extraordinary thing for +Robert Halarkenden. He looked at the address in the unmistakable, big, +black writing and looked at the girl and stood a moment, with a +question in his eyes. The girl flushed. "Checkmate in six moves" was +quite enough to say to this girl; one did not have to play the game +brutally to a finish. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed then. "I knew you must have wondered," she said, and with +that she told the story of the letters. +</P> + +<P> +"It's no wrong," Robert Halarkenden considered. +</P> + +<P> +The girl jumped to her answer. "Wrong!" she cried, "I should say not. +It's salvation—hope—life. Maybe all that; at the least it's the +powers of good, fighting for me. Something of the sort—I don't know," +she finished lamely. With that she was deep in her letter and Robert +Halarkenden had moved a few yards and was tending a shrub that seemed +to need nursing. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +October the Sixth. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY— +</P> + +<P> +"The night wind idling down the dusty street"—You do make patterns out +of the dictionary which please me. But I know that irritates you, for +words are not what you are paying attention to—of course—if they +were, yours wouldn't be so wonderful. It's the wind of the spirit that +blows them into beautiful shapes for you, I suppose. To let that go, +for it's immaterial—you think I might have a job? I? That I might do +a real thing for anybody ever? If you only knew me. If you only could +see the mountains of whipped cream and Maraschino cherries, the cliffs +of French clothes and automobiles, the morasses of afternoon teas and +dances and calls and luxury in general that lie between me and any +usefulness. It's the maddest dream that I, with my bones and my money +and my bringing up, all my crippling ailments, could ever, <I>ever</I> climb +those mountains and cliffs and wade through those bogs. It's mad, I +say, you visionary, you man on the other side of all that, who are +living, who are doing things. I never can—I never can. And yet, it's +so terrible, it's so horrible, so frightening, so desperate, sometimes, +to be drowning in luxury. I woke in the night last night and before my +eyes had opened I had flung out my hand and cried out loud in the dark: +"What shall I do with my life—Oh what shall I do with my life?" And +it isn't just me—though that's the burning, close question to my +simple selfishness. But it's a lot of women—a lot. We're waking all +over the world. We want to help, to be worth while; to help, to count. +It won't do much longer to know French and Italian and play middling +tennis and be on the Altar Society. You know what I mean. All +that—yes—but beyond that the power which a real person carries into +all that to make it big. The stronger you are the better your work is. +I want to be strong, to be useful, to touch things with a personality +which will move them, make them go, widen them. How? How can I? What +can I do, ever? Oh what <I>can</I> I do—<I>what</I> can I do—with my life! I +thought that day in August that it was only my illness, and my tie to +an unloved man, but it's more than that. You have broadened the field +of my longing, my restlessness, till it covers—everything. Help me +then, for you have waked me to this want, question, agony. It's not +only if I may kill my life—it's what I can do if I don't kill it. +What can I do? Do you feel how that's a sharp, vital question to me? +It's out of the deep I'm calling to you—do you know that? And it's my +voice, but it's the voice of thousands—<I>now</I> you're in trouble. Now +you wish you'd let me alone, for here we are at the woman question! I +can see you shy at that. But I'm not going to pin you, for you only +contracted to help me; I'll shake off the other thousands for the +present. And, anyhow, can you help me? Oh, you have—you've delayed +my—crime, I suppose it is. You've given me glimpses of vistas; you've +set me reading books; widened every sort of horizon; you've even made +me dream of a vague, possible work, for me. Yes, I've been dreaming +that; a specific thing which I might do, even I, if I could cancel some +house-parties, and a trip to France, and the hunting. But even if I +could possibly give up those things, there's Uncle Ted. He's not well, +and my dream would involve leaving him. And I'm all he has. We two +are startlingly alone. After all, you see, it's a dream; I'm not big +enough to do more than that—dream idly. Robin has a queer scheme just +now. There's a bone-ologist here, the most famous one of the planet, +exported from France, to cure the small son of one of the trillionaires +with which this place reeks, and Robin insists that I see that +bone-ologist about my bones. It's unpleasant, and I hate doctors and I +don't know if I will. But Robin is very firm and insists on my telling +Uncle Ted otherwise. I can't bother Uncle Ted. So I may do it. Yet, +if the great man pronounced, as he would, that the other doctors were +right, it would be almost going through the first hideous shock over +again. So I may <I>not</I> do it. I must stop writing. I have a guest and +must do a party for her. She's a California heiress—oh fabulously +rich—much richer than I. With splendid bones. I gave her a dance +last night and this morning she's off on my best hunter with my +fiancé—save the mark! He admires her, and she certainly is a nice +girl, and lovely to look at, with eyes like those young mediaeval, +brainless Madonnas. I'm so glad to have someone else play with +him—with Alec. I dread him so. I hate, I <I>hate</I> to let him—kiss me. +There. If you were a real man I couldn't have exploded into that. +You're only the spirit of a thunder-storm, you know; I'll never see you +again on earth; I can say anything. I do say anything, don't I? I can +say—I do say—that you have dragged me from the bottomless pit; that +if any good comes of me it is your good—that you—being a shadow, a +memory, an incident—are yet the central figure of this world to me. +If I fall back into the pit, that is not your affair—mine, mine only. +The light that shines around you for me is the only kindly light that +may save me. But it may not. I may fall back. I have the toy in the +drawer yet—covered with letters. Good-by—I am yours always, +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +AUGUST FIRST. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + October 8th.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +You'll never see me again? You'll see me in three days unless you stop +me with a telegram. +</P> + +<P> +I have a curious feeling that all this has happened before—my sitting +here in front of the fire writing to you at one o'clock in the morning. +They say it's one part of the brain working a shade ahead of the rest. +I don't believe that. I do not believe my brain is working at all. +It's spinning around. For days I've been living in the Fourth +Dimension—something like that. It changes the values to have a new +universe whirl up around one. New heavens and a new earth—that's it. +I have given up trying to analyze it. Even if I didn't want to tell +you I couldn't help it. I'm beyond that now, and—helpless. I never +dreamed of its being like this. I never thought much about it, except +vaguely, as anybody does, and here it's come and snatched away the +world. +</P> + +<P> +I don't know how this is going to get itself said. But I can't stop +it. That frightens me, rather; I've been used to ordering myself about +or, at least, to feeling that I could. But that seems to be over. I +don't pretend that I didn't foresee it, or rather that I didn't +recognize it right at the beginning. What I did was to put off +reckoning with it. +</P> + +<P> +I see that I'm going to say things wrong. You have got to overlook +that; I can't help it. I told you my brain wasn't working. For days +I've been in a maze. Then your letter came, late this afternoon, and +that settled it. Do you know what you said? Do you? You said: "If +you were a real man, I wouldn't have exploded like this." A real +man—what do you <I>think</I> I am? That's what I want to know. You'll +find out I'm real enough before you and I are done. Do you suppose +that I have been reading your letters all these weeks—those letters in +which you said yourself you put your soul—as though they were stock +quotations? Did you think you were a numbered "case," that I was +keeping notes about you in that neat filing-cabinet down in the office? +Well, it hasn't been exactly that way. +</P> + +<P> +Do you remember that day you were here? How it rained—how dark it +was? Why, I've never seen you, really. I'm always trying to imagine +your face. +</P> + +<P> +I've got to talk to you—some things can't be written. You won't stop +me. Do you suppose you can? You've got to give me a chance to +talk—that's only square. No, I don't mean all that. I don't quite +know what I'm saying. I mean, you will let me come, won't you? I'll +go away again after; you needn't be afraid. That's fair, isn't it? +</P> + +<P> +You see, it's been strange from the start, and so quick. You, in the +middle of the storm that day—the things you said—the fearful tangle +you were in. And then the letters—the wonderful letters! And we +thought we were keeping it all impersonal. You, with your blazing +individuality—you, impersonal! I can't imagine your face, but you've +stripped the masks and conventions off your soul for me—I've looked at +that. I couldn't help it, could I? I couldn't stop. I can't now. I +can't look at anything else. There isn't anything else—it fills my +world—it's blotted out what used to be reality. +</P> + +<P> +You're hundreds of miles away—what are you doing? Sitting, with your +white dress a rosy blur in the lamplight, reading, thinking, +afraid—frightened at the doctors—shrinking at the thought of that +damned, pawing beast? We'll drop that last—this isn't the time for +that—not yet. Miles away you are—and yet you're here—the real you +that you've sent me in the letters. Always you are here. I listen to +your voice—I've got that—your voice, singing through my days—here in +the silence and the firelight, outside in the night under the stars, +always, everywhere, I hear you—calling me. +</P> + +<P> +You see, my head's gone. Don't think though, that I don't know the +risk this is. But there isn't any other way. Those four weeks you +didn't write, when I thought you had gone under—that was when I began +to see how it was with me. Since then I've gone on, living on your +letters, until now I can't imagine living without them—and more. And +yet I know this may be the end. That's the risk. But I can't go on +like that any more. It's everything now, or nothing. I want to know +what you are going to do about it. What are you thinking—what must +you think—what will you say to me when I see you in your still garden +of miracles? I've got to know. If you meant it—you said I was the +centre of your world—it can't be true that you meant that. I the +centre of your great, clean, wind-swept world of hill-tops and of +visions? I, who haven't got the decent strength to hold my tongue, and +keep my hands. But you did say that—you did! When I come, will you +say it to me again, out loud, that? I can't imagine it—such a thing +couldn't happen to me. But if you shouldn't—if you should tell me not +to come—no, I can't face that. Where is the solution? I see +perfectly that you can't care—why should you?—I see also that you +must be made to. That's just it. I know what I must have and that I +can never have it. No, that isn't so. I know that I shall come and +take you away from what you fear and hate, out of the world we both +know is not real, into reality. I shall tell you why I want you, why +you must come. You will listen and you will answer. You will say why +it's madness and insanity. I shall have to hear all your obvious +reasons, but I shall know that you know they are lies—Do you think—do +you dream, that they can stand between me and you? You can't stop me. +Because I have seen your soul—you said so—you've held it out, in your +two hands, for me to look at. You can't keep me away from you. I know +how you'll fight against it. You won't win—don't count on it. +</P> + +<P> +This isn't insolence—it's the thing that's got me. I can't help it. +A man is that way. I don't half know what I've said; I don't dare read +it. You have got to make it out yourself, somehow. +</P> + +<P> +You've asked me questions. You're troubled, frightened—I know, +it's—hell. Do you think I can sit here any longer and let you go +through that alone? I've been over the whole thing—I've done nothing +else, and out of the maze of it all I'm forced to come to this. It's +the old way and the only one—the answer to it all. What can you do +with your life—your life that is going to be, that is now, all +glorious with loveliness and light? Give it away—that's it—give it +to me, and then we two will set it to music and send it singing through +the world. The old way. You to come home to when the day is +done—your face, your hands, your eyes—— +</P> + +<P> +You'll have to overlook this. It's mad to go on. It's mad anyway. If +you knew how I've lied to myself, how I've struggled and fought and +twisted to keep this back from you! And here it is, confused and +grotesque and contradictory and wrong. If I could look at you and say +it, I could get it right. If I could look at you—if I could see you. +Give me a chance. Then I'll go away again—if you say so. I had to +give you warning—it didn't seem square not. And I've bungled it like +this! I tell you I can't help it. It's what you've done to me. I +tried to spare you this, but I waited too long—now it's almighty. +</P> + +<P> +Give me my man's chance—Oh I know I'm not worth it—who is? +Afterwards— +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +G. McB. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +<I>October 10th</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Telegram received by the Reverend Geoffrey McBirney, St. Andrews Parish +House, Warchester: +</P> + +<P> +You must not come. Leaving Forest Gate. Sailing for Germany Saturday. +Letter. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +AUGUST FIRST. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The son of the under-gardener was a steady ten-year-old three hundred +and sixty-four days of the year, and his Scottish blood commended him +to Robert Halarkenden and inspired a confidence not justified on the +three hundred and sixty-fifth day. +</P> + +<P> +"Angus," said Halarkenden, regarding the boy with a blue glance like a +blow, "the young mistress wishes this letter posted to catch the noon +train. The master has sent for me and I canna take it. You will"—the +bony hand fished in the deep pocket and brought out a nickel—"you will +hurry with this letter and post it immediately." "Yes, sir," said +Angus, and Robert Halarkenden turned to go to the master of the great +house, ill in his great room, with no doubt about the United States +mails. While Angus, being in the power of the three hundred and +sixty-fifth day, trotted demurely into the meshes of Fate. +</P> + +<P> +Fate was posing as another lad, a lad of charm and adventure. "C'm on, +Ang," proposed Fate in nasal American; "Evans's chauffeur's havin' a +rooster-fight in the garage. Hurry up—c'm on—lots of fun." And +while Angus, stirred by the prospect, struggled with a Scotch +conscience, the footman from next door sauntered up, a good-natured +youth, and, stopping, caught the question. +</P> + +<P> +"Get along to your chicken-fight," he adjured Angus, and took the +letter from his hand. "I'm on my way to the post-office now. I'll +mail it as good as you, ain't it?" And Angus fled up the street along +with Fate. While Tom Mullins thrust the letter casually into a +coat-pocket and dropped in to see his best girl, and, in a bit of +horse-play with that lady, lost the letter. "Sure, I mailed it," he +answered Angus's inquiries that afternoon, and Angus passed along the +assurance, not going into details, and every one concerned was +satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +While, in a Parish House many miles down the railed roads that measure +the country, a man waited. And waited, ever with a sicker +restlessness, a more unendurable longing. Saturday came, and the man +hoped, till the hour for any boat's sailing was long past, for a +letter, another telegram. Then, "She has had it mailed after she +left," he reasoned, and all of Monday and Tuesday he waited and watched +and invented reasons why it might come to-morrow or even later—even +from the other side—from Germany. Two weeks, three, and then four, he +held to varying fictions about the letter, which Arline Baker, the lady +of Tom Mullins's heart, had picked up from the floor that day in +October and tucked into a bureau drawer to give to Tom—tucked under a +summer blouse. And the weather had turned chilly, helping along Fate +as weather will at times, and the summer blouse had not been worn, and +the letter had been forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +Then there came a day when he took measures with himself, because +suspense and misery were eating his strength. He faced the situation; +he had poured his heart, keeping back nothing, at her feet. And she +had not answered, except with a few words of a telegram. He knew, by +that, that she had got his letter, the first love-letter of his life. +But she had not cared enough to answer it. Or else, his faith in her +argued, something had happened, there had been some unimaginable reason +to prevent her answering. That the letter had been lost was so +commonplace a solution that it did not occur to him. One does not +think of mice setting off gunpowder magazines. At all events he was +facing a stone wall; there was no further step to take; she must be in +Germany; he did not know her address; if he did, how could he write +again? A man may not hound a woman with his love. Yet he was all but +mad with anxiety about her, beyond this other suffering. Why had she +suddenly gone to Germany? What did that mean? In his black struggles +for enlightenment, he believed sometimes that, in a fantastic attack of +<I>noblesse oblige</I>, she had married the other man and gone to Germany +with him. That thought drove him near insanity. So he gathered up, +alone before his fire, all these imaginings and doubts, and sat with +them into the night, and made a packet of them, and locked them away, +as well as he might, into a chamber of his memory. And the next day he +flung himself into his work as he had not been able ever to do before; +he made it his world, and resolutely shut out the buoyant voice and the +personality so intimately known, so unknown. He tried to be so tired, +at night, that he could not think of her; and he succeeded far enough +to make living a possibility, which is all that any of us can do +sometimes. Often the thought of her, of her words, of her letters, of +the gay voice telling of a hideous future, stabbed him suddenly in the +night, in the crowded day. But he put it aside with a mighty effort +each time, and each time gained control. +</P> + +<P> +And then it was May, and in June he was to have his vacation. And once +more the doubt of his fitness for his work was upon him. The stress of +the tremendous gait of the big parish, and the way he had thrown his +strength by handfuls into the work, had told. If a healthy and happy +man uses brain and heart and body carefully it is perhaps true that he +cannot overwork. But if a high-strung man gives himself out all day +long, every day, recklessly, and is at the same time under a mental +strain, he is likely to be ill. Geoffrey McBirney was close to an +illness; his attitude toward life was warped; he was reasoning that he +had made the girl a test case and that the case had failed; that it was +now his duty to stand by the test and give up his work. And then, one +day, the letter came. The weather had turned warm in Forest Gate and +Arline Baker had got out her summer blouses. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +October 10th [it was dated]. +</P> + +<P> +This morning, after I had read your letter it was as if I were being +beaten to earth by alternate blows, like thunder, like lightning, +fierce and beautiful and terrible, of joy and of grief. +</P> + +<P> +For I care—I care—I can't wait to tell you—I'm so glad, so +triumphant, so wretched that I care—that it's in me to care, +desperately, as much as any woman or man since the foundation of the +world. It's in me—once you said it wasn't—and you have brought it to +life, and I care—I love you. I want to let you come so that it left +me blind and shaking to send that telegram. But there isn't any +question. If I let you come I would be wicked. I, with my handful of +broken life, to let you manacle your splendid years to a lump of stone? +Could you think I would do that? Don't you see that, because I care, +I'm so much more eager not to let you? I'm selfish and my first answer +to that letter was a rush of happiness. I forgot there was anything in +time or space except the flood which carried me out on a sea of just +you—the sweeping, overwhelming many waters of—you. I wonder if you'd +think me brazen if I told you how it seemed? As if your arms were +around me, and the world reeling. Some of those clever psychologists, +James or Lodge, I can't remember who, have a theory that to higher +beings the past and present and future are all one; no divisions in +eternity. It seemed like that. Questions and life and right and wrong +all dissolved in the white heat of one fact. I didn't see or hear or +know. I put my head on the table, on your writing, in my locked room, +and simply felt—your arms. +</P> + +<P> +If this were to be a happy love-affair I couldn't write this; I would +have decent reserve—I hope; I would wait, maybe, and let you find out +things slowly. But there isn't time—oh, there isn't any time. I have +to tell you now because this is the last. You can't write again; I +won't let you throw away your life; I'm not worth much, generally +speaking, but I'm worth your salvation just now if I have the strength +to give it to you. And I'm staggering under the effort, but I'm going +to give it to you. I'm going to keep you away. +</P> + +<P> +It was realizing that I must do this which beat me to earth with those +terrible, bright, sharp swords. You see I'm starting off suddenly with +Uncle Ted. He is very ill, with heart trouble, and the doctors think +his chance is to get to Nauheim at once. It was decided last night, +and we had passage engaged for Saturday within an hour, and then this +morning the letter came. As soon as I could pull myself together a +little I began to see how things were, and it looked to me as if +somebody—God maybe—had put down a specific hand to punish my useless +life and arrange your salvation. My going away is the means He is +using. +</P> + +<P> +For you are such a headstrong unknown quantity, that if I had seen you, +I couldn't have held you, and how could I have fought the exquisite +sweetness and glamour that is through even your written words, that +would make me wax in your hands, if you had been here and I had heard +your voice and seen your eyes and felt your touch; oh, I would have +done it—I <I>must</I> do it—but it would have killed me I think. It's +more possible this way. +</P> + +<P> +For I'm going indefinitely and all I have to do is to suppress my +address. Just that. You can't find it out, for Robin is going away +too; he is to do some work of mine while I am gone; and you can't come +here and inquire for "August First," can you, now? So this is all—the +end. Suddenly I feel inadequate and leaden. It is all over—the one +chance for real happiness which I have had in my butterfly days—over. +But you have changed earth and heaven—I want you to know it. I can't +even now say that if Uncle Ted shouldn't need me; if the hideous, +creeping monster should begin its work visibly on me, that I might not +some day use the pistol. But I do say that because of you I will try +to make any living that I may do count for something, for somebody. I +am trying. You are to know about that in time. +</P> + +<P> +And now the color is going out of my life—you are going. Some day you +will care for some one else more than you think now you care for me. +I'm leaving you free for that—but it's all I can do. Why must my life +be wreck and suffering? Why may I not have the common happinesses? +Why may I not love you—be there for you "at the end of the day"? The +blows are raining hard; I'm beaten close to earth. Has God forsaken +me? I can only cling tight to the thin line of my duty to Uncle Ted; I +can't see any further than that. Good-by. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +AUGUST FIRST. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The man shook as if in an ague. He laid the letter on a table and +fastened it open with weights so that the May breeze, frolicking +through the top of the Parish House, might not blow it away. Standing +over it, bending to it, sitting down, he read it and re-read it, and +paced the room and came back and bent over it. He groaned as he looked +at the date. Seven months ago if he had had it—what could have held +him? She loved him—what on earth could have kept him from her, +knowing that? Not illness nor oceans or her will. No, not her will, +if she cared; and she had said it. He would have swept down her will +like a tidal wave, knowing that. +</P> + +<P> +Seven months ago! He would have followed her to Germany. He laughed +at the thought that she believed herself hidden from him. The world +was not big enough to hide her. What was a trip to Germany—to +Madagascar? But now—where might she not be—what might not have +happened? She might be dead. Worse—and this thought stopped his +pulse—she might be married. +</P> + +<P> +That was the big, underlying terror of his mind. In his restless +pacing he stopped suddenly as if frozen. His brain was working this +way and that, searching for light. In a moment he knew what he would +do. He dashed down the familiar steep stairs; in four minutes more he +had raced across the street to the rectory, and brought up, breathless, +in the rector's study. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter—a train to catch?" the rector demanded, regarding +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Just that, doctor. Could I be spared for three days?" +</P> + +<P> +The rector had not failed to have his theories about this brilliant, +hard-working, unaccountable, highly useful subaltern of his. His heart +had one of its warmest spots for McBirney. Something was wrong with +him, it had been evident for months; one must help him in the dark if +better could not be done. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely," said the rector. +</P> + +<P> +There was a fast train west in an hour; the man and his bag were on it, +and twenty-four hours later he was stumbling off a car at the solid, +vine-covered, red brick station at Forest Gate. An inquiry or two, and +then he had crossed the wide, short street, the single business street +of the rich suburb, facing the railway and the station, and was in the +post-office. He asked about one Robert Halarkenden. The postmaster +regarded him suspiciously. His affair was to sort letters, not to +answer questions. He did the first badly; he did not mean to do the +other at all. +</P> + +<P> +"No such person ever been in town," he answered coldly, after a +moment's staring. The man who had hurried a thousand miles to ask the +question, set his bag on the floor and faced the postmaster grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"He must have been," he stated. "I sent a lot of letters to him last +year, and they reached him." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—last year," the official answered stonily. "He might 'a' been +here last year. I only came January." And he turned with insulted +gloom to his labors. +</P> + +<P> +McBirney leaned as far as he might into the little window. "Look +here," he adjured the man inside, "do be a Christian about this. I've +come from the East, a thousand miles, to find Halarkenden, and I know +he was here seven months ago. It's awfully important. Won't you treat +me like a white man and help me a little?" +</P> + +<P> +Few people ever resisted Geoffrey McBirney when he pleaded with them. +The stolid potentate turned back wondering, and did not know that what +he felt stirring the dried veins within him was charm. "Why, sure," he +answered slowly, astonished at his own words, "I'll help you if I can. +Glad t' help anybody." +</P> + +<P> +There was a cock-sure assistant in the back of the dirty sanctum, and +to him the friend of mankind applied. +</P> + +<P> +"Halarkenden—Robert," the assistant snapped out. "'Course. I +remember. Gardener up to the Edward Reidses," and McBirney thrilled as +if an event had happened. "Uncle Ted" was "the Edward Reidses." It +might be her name—Reid. +</P> + +<P> +"He went away six or seven months ago, I think," McBirney suggested, +breathing a bit fast. "I thought he might be back by now." +</P> + +<P> +"Nawp," said the cock-sure one. "I remember. 'Course. Family broke +Up. Old man died." +</P> + +<P> +"No, he didn't," the parson interrupted tartly. "He went to Germany." +</P> + +<P> +"Aw well, then, 'f you know mor'n I do, maybe he did go to Germany. +Anyhow, the girl got married. And Halarkenden, he ain't been around +since. Leastaways, ain't had no letters for him." There was an undue +silence, it appeared to the officials inside the window. "That all?" +demanded Cocksure, thirsting to get back to work. +</P> + +<P> +"What 'girl' do you speak of—who was married?" McBirney asked slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Old man's niece. Miss——" +</P> + +<P> +But the name never got out. McBirney cut across the nasal speech. He +would not learn that name in this way. "That's all," he said quickly. +"Thank you. Good-by." +</P> + +<P> +So Geoffrey McBirney went back to St. Andrews. And the last state of +him was worse than the first. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House,<BR> + May 26th.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +RICHARD MARSTON, ESQ.<BR> + C/r Marston & Brooks, Consulting Engineers,<BR> + Boston.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +DEAR DICK— +</P> + +<P> +Of course I'll go, unless something happens, as per usual. I've got +the last three weeks of June, and nowhere in particular to waste them +at. Shall I come to Boston, or where do we meet? Let me know when +we're to start; likewise what I am to bring. Do you take a trunk, or +do we send the things ahead by express? I've never been on a long +motor trip before. I'm mighty glad to go; it's just what I would have +wanted to do, if I'd wanted to do anything. Doesn't sound eager, does +it? What I mean is, it will be out-of-doors and I need that a good +deal; and it will be with you, which I need more. +</P> + +<P> +The chances are you won't find me gay. It's been a rotten winter, +mostly, and it's left me not up to much. Not up to anything, in fact. +Things have happened, and the bottom dropped out last autumn. +</P> + +<P> +The fact is, I'm going to clear out. Try something else. I want to +talk to you about that—I mean about the new job. I'd thought, maybe, +of a school up in the country. I like youngsters. You remember that +Scotch lad—the one with the money? I wrote you—I tutored him in +Latin. That's where I got the notion. I had luck with him, And I've +missed him a lot since. So maybe that's the thing. I don't know. +We'll talk. Anyhow, this is ended. +</P> + +<P> +I never let out what I thought about your being so decent, that night +at college, when I said I was going to be a parson; the chances are I +never will. But that's largely why I'm telling you this. I'm flunking +my job—I have flunked it; the letter to the rector is written—he's to +get it at the end of his holiday. I think I've stopped caring what +other people will say, but I hate to hurt him. But you see, I thought +it through, and it's the only thing to do—just to get out. I picked +one definite job, for a sort of test, and it fell through. That +settled it. +</P> + +<P> +I wanted to tell you for old sake's sake. Besides, I somehow needed to +have you know. And so now I'm going motoring with you. Write me about +the trunk, and about when and where. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +As ever,<BR> +MAC.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +P. S. We needn't see people, need we? +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The automobile with the two young men in the front seat sped smoothly +over June roads. For a week they had been covering ground day after +day; to-night they were due at Dick Marston's cousin's country house to +stop for three days before the return trip through the mountains. +</P> + +<P> +"Dick," reflected Geoffrey McBirney aloud, "consider again about +dropping me in Boston. I'll be as much good at a house-party as a +crape veil at a dance. You're an awful ass to take me." +</P> + +<P> +"That's up to me," remarked Dick. "Get your feet out of the gears, +will you? The Emorys are keen for you and I said I'd bring you, and I +will if I have to do it by the scruff of the neck. Don Emory is away +but will be back to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Splendid!" said McBirney, and then, "I won't kick and scream, you +know. I'll merely whine and sulk," he went on consideringly. "I'll +hate it, and I'll be ugly-tempered, and they'll detest me. Up to you, +however." +</P> + +<P> +"It is," responded Marston, and no more was said. So that at twilight +they were speeding down the long, empty ocean drive with good salt air +in their faces, and lights of cottages spotting the opal night with +orange blurs. It was a large, gay house-party, and the person who had +been called, it was told from one to another, "the young Phillips +Brooks," a person who brought among them certain piquant qualities, was +a lion ready to their hand. With the general friendliness of a good +man of the world, there was something beyond; there was reality in the +friendliness, yet impersonality—a detached attitude; the man had no +axes to grind for himself; one felt at every turn that this important +universe of the <I>haute monde</I> was unimportant to him. Through his +civility there was an outcropping of savage honesty which made the +house-party sit up straight, more than once. Emerson says, in a +better-made sentence, that the world is at the feet of him who does not +want it. Geoffrey McBirney had taken a long jump, years back, and +cleared the childishness, lifelong in most of us, of wanting the world. +There is an attraction in a person who has done this and yet has kept a +love of humanity. Witness St. Francis of Assisi and other notables of +his ilk. +</P> + +<P> +The people at Sea-Acres felt the attraction and tried to lionize the +dark, tall parson with the glowing, indifferent eyes. But the lion +would not roar and gambol; the lion was a reserved beast, it seemed, +with a suggestion of unbelievable, yet genuine, distaste under +attentions. That point was alluring. One tried harder to soften a +brute so worth while, so difficult. Three or four girls tried. The +lion was outwardly a gentle lion, pleasant when cornered, but seldom +cornered. He managed to get off on a long walk alone when Angela, of +nineteen, meant him to have played tennis, on the second day. +</P> + +<P> +The June afternoon was softening to a rosy dimness as he came in, very +tired physically, hot and grimy, and sick of soul. "Glory be, +tea-time's over, and they'll be dressing for dinner," he murmured, and +turned a corner on eight of "them." A glance at the gay group showed +two or three new faces. More guests! McBirney set his teeth. But he +had no space to take note of the arrivals, for Angela spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Just in time, Mr. McBirney," Angela greeted him. "Don Emory's +coming—see!" A car was spinning up the drive. +</P> + +<P> +"Is he?" he answered perfunctorily. And the two words were clipped +from history even as they were spoken, by a cry that rang from the +group of people. Tod Winthrop ought to have been in bed. It was +six-thirty, and he was four years old, but his mother had forgotten +him, and his nurse had a weakness for the Emorys' second man; it was +also certain that if a storm-centre could be found, he would be its +nucleus. Out he tumbled from the shrubbery, exactly in front of the +incoming automobile, as unpleasant a spoiled infant as could be +imagined, yet a human being with a life to save. McBirney, standing in +the drive, whirled, saw the small figure, ten feet down the drive, the +machine close upon it; there was time for a man to spring aside; there +was no time to rescue a child. A lightning wave of repulsion flooded +him. "Have I got to throw myself down there and get maimed—for a fool +child whom everybody detests?" Without words the thought flooded him, +and then in a strong defiance, the utter honesty of his soul caught +him. "I won't! I won't!" he shouted, and was conscious of the clamor +of many voices, of a rushing movement, of a man's scream across the +tumult: "It's too late—for God's sake <I>don't</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +It was a day later when he opened his eyes. Dick Marston sat there. +</P> + +<P> +"Shut up," ordered Dick. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't——" +</P> + +<P> +"No, and you won't—you're not to talk. Shut up. That's what you're +to do." +</P> + +<P> +The eyes closed; he was inadequate to argument. In five minutes they +opened again. +</P> + +<P> +"None of your eloquence now," warned Dick. +</P> + +<P> +"One thing——" +</P> + +<P> +"No," firmly. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Dick, it's torturing me. Was the child killed?" +</P> + +<P> +Dick Marston's face looked curious. "Great Scott! don't you know what +you——" +</P> + +<P> +McBirney groaned inwardly. "Yes, I know. I was a coward. But I've +got to know if—the kid—was killed." +</P> + +<P> +"Coward!" gasped Dick—and Geoffrey put out his shaking hand. +</P> + +<P> +"In mercy, Dick"—he was catching his breath, flushing, laboring with +each word—"don't—talk about—Was the boy—killed?" +</P> + +<P> +"Killed, no, sound as a nut—but you——" +</P> + +<P> +"That's all," said McBirney, and his eyes closed, and he turned his +face to the wall. But he did not go to sleep. He was trying to meet +life with self-respect gone. The last thing he remembered was that +second of utter rebellion against wrecking his strength, his good +muscles—he had not thought of his life—to save the child. There had +been no time to choose; his past, his character, had chosen for him, +and they had branded him as that impossible thing, a coward. He put up +his hand and felt bandages on his head; he must have got a whack after +all in saving his precious skin. He remembered now. "Didn't jump +quick enough, I suppose," he thought, with a sneer at the man in whose +body he lived, the man who was himself, the man who was a coward. +After a while he heard Dick Marston stir. He was bending over him. +</P> + +<P> +"Got to go to dinner, old man," Dick said. "I wish you'd let me tell +you what they all think about you." +</P> + +<P> +McBirney shook his head impatiently, and Dick sighed heavily, and then +in a moment the door shut softly. +</P> + +<P> +Things were vague to him for hours longer, and a sleeping powder kept +the next morning drowsy, but in the afternoon, when Marston came for +his hourly look at the patient, "Dick," said the patient, "I want to +talk to you." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, old man," Dick answered, "but first just a word. I hate to +bother you, but somebody's after you on long-distance. The fellow has +telephoned three times—I was here the last time. He says——" +</P> + +<P> +The man with the bandages on his head groaned. "Don't," he begged and +tossed his hand out. "I know what he's wanting. I can't talk to him. +I don't want to hear. It's no use. Shut him off, Dick, can't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, old man," Marston agreed soothingly. "Only, he says——" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, don't—I know what it is—don't let him say it," pleaded the +invalid, quite unreasonable, entirely obstinate. +</P> + +<P> +A committee from the vestry of a city church had, unknown to him at the +moment, come to Warchester to hear him preach the Sunday before he had +left on his trip. A letter from the rector since had warned him that +they were full of enthusiasm about his sermon and himself and that a +call to the rectorship of the church was imminent. This was a +preliminary of the call; there was no doubt in his mind about that. +And knowing as he did how he was going to give up his work, writhing as +he was under the last proof, as he felt it, of his unfitness, the +thought of facing suave vestrymen even over a telephone, was a horror +not to be borne. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell 'em I'm dead, Dick, there's a good boy. I <I>won't</I> talk to +anybody—to-day or to-morrow, anyhow." +</P> + +<P> +"All right," Dick agreed. The patient was flushed and excited—it +would not do to go on. "But the chap said he might run down here," he +added, thinking aloud. +</P> + +<P> +The patient started up on his elbow and glared. "Great Scott—don't +let him do that; you won't let him get at me, Dick? I'm sorry to be +such a poor fool, but—just now—to-day—two or three days—Dick, I +<I>can't</I>"—he stammered out, his hands shaking, his face twisting. And +Dick Marston, as gently as a woman might, took in charge this friend +whom he loved. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you worry, Geoffie; the bears shan't eat you this trip. I'll +settle the chap next time he calls up." +</P> + +<P> +And McBirney fell back, with closed eyelids, relieved, secure in Dick's +strength. He lay, breathing quickly, a moment or two, and then opened +his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"When can I get away, Dick?" +</P> + +<P> +"We'll start to-morrow if you're strong enough." +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't go, Dicky. I'll get a train. I'm——" +</P> + +<P> +"None of that," said Marston. "Whither thou goest, for the present, +I'll trot. But—Hope Stuart's anxious to—meet you." +</P> + +<P> +"Who's Hope Stuart?" +</P> + +<P> +Dick Marston hesitated, looked embarrassed. "Why—just a girl," he +said. "But an uncommon sort of girl. She's done some—big things. +Cousin of Don Emory's, you know. Came yesterday—just before your +party. She—she's—well, she's different from the ruck of 'em—and +she—said she'd like to meet you. I half promised she could." +</P> + +<P> +McBirney flushed. "I <I>can't</I> see people, Dick," he threw back +nervously. "They're kind—it's decent of them. I suppose, as long as +the boy wasn't killed—" he stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"Geoff, you've got some bizarre idea in your head about this episode, +and I can't fathom it," spoke Dick Marston. "What do you think +happened anyway?" he demanded. And stopped, horrified at the look on +the other's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Dick, you mean to be kind, but you're being cruel—as death," +whispered Geoffrey McBirney. "I simply—can't bear any +conversation—about that. I've got to cut loose and get off somewhere +and—and—arrange." +</P> + +<P> +His voice broke. Dick Marston's big hand was on his. "Old man," Dick +said, "you're all wrong, but if you won't let me talk about it I +won't—now. Look here—we'll sneak to-morrow. Everybody's going off +in cars for an all-day drive, and I'll start, and pull out half-way on +some excuse, and come back here, and you'll be packed, and we'll get +out. I'll square it with Nanny Emory. She'll understand. I'll tell +her you're crazy in the head, and won't be hero-worshipped." +</P> + +<P> +"Hero-worshipped!" McBirney laughed bitterly to himself when Dick was +gone. These good people, because he was a parson, because the child's +blood, by some accident, was not on his head, were banded to keep his +self-respect for him, to cover over his cowardice with some distorted +theory of courage. Perhaps they did not know, but he knew, about that +last thought of determined egotism, that shout of "I won't! I won't!" +before the car caught him. He knew, and never as long as he lived +could he look the world in the eyes again, with that shame in his soul. +What would <I>she</I> have thought, had she been there to see? She would +not have been deceived; her clear eyes would have seen the truth. +</P> + +<P> +So he felt; so he went over and over the five minutes of the accident +till all covering seemed to be stripped from his strained nerves. +</P> + +<P> +"You'd better dress now and go down in the garden and sit there," +suggested Dick the next morning. "Take a book, and wait for me there. +The place will be empty in twenty minutes. I'll be along before lunch." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The garden rioted with color. The listless black figure strayed +through the sunshine down a walk between a mass of scarlet Oriental +poppies on one side and a border of swaying white lilies on the other. +</P> + +<P> +Ranks of tall larkspur lifted blue spires beyond. The air was heavy +with sweet smells, mignonette and alyssum and the fragrance of a +thousand of roses, white and pink and red, over by the hedge. The +hedge ran on four sides of the garden, giving a comforting sense of +privacy. In spite of the suffering he had gone through, the raw nerves +of the man felt a healing pressure settling over them, resting on them, +out of the scented stillness. There were no voices from the house; +bees were humming somewhere near the rose-bushes; the first cricket of +summer sang his sudden, drowsy song and was as suddenly quiet. +</P> + +<P> +The black figure strayed on, down the long walk between the flowers, to +a rustic summer-house, deep in vines, at the end of the path. There +were seats there, and a table. He sat down in the coolness and stared +out at the bright garden. He tried manfully to pull himself together; +he reminded himself that he could still work, could still serve the +world, and that, after all, was what he was in the world for. There +was a reason for living, then; there was hope, he reasoned. And then, +the hopelessness, the helplessness of under-vitality, which is often +the real name for despair, had caught him again. His arms were thrown +out on the rough table and his head lay on them. +</P> + +<P> +There was a sound in the vine-darkened little summer-house. McBirney +lifted his head sharply; a girl stood there, a slim figure in black +clothes. McBirney sprang to his feet astonished, angry. Then the girl +put out her hand and held to the upright of the opening as if to hold +herself steady, and began talking in a hurried tone, as if she were +reciting. +</P> + +<P> +"I had to come to tell you that you were not a coward, but a hero, and +that you saved Toddy Winthrop's life, and it's so, and Dick Marston +says you don't know it and won't let him tell you and I've got to have +you know it, and it's so and you have to believe it, for it's so." The +girl was gasping, clutching the side of the summer-house with her face +turned away, frightened yet determined. +</P> + +<P> +"Who are you?" demanded McBirney, sternly, staring at her. There was +something surging up inside of him, unknown, unreasonable; heart's +blood was rushing about his system inconveniently; his pulse was +hammering—why? He knew why; this sudden vision of a girl reminded +him—took him back—he cut through that idea swiftly; he was ill, +unbalanced, obsessed with one memory, but he would not allow himself to +go mad. +</P> + +<P> +"Who are you?" he repeated sternly. And the girl turned and faced him +and looked up into his grim, tortured face, half shy, half laughing, +all glad. +</P> + +<P> +She spoke softly. "Hope," she said. "You needed me"—she said, "and I +came." +</P> + +<P> +With that, with the unreasonable certainty that happens at times in +affairs which go beyond reason, he was certain. Yet he did not dare to +be certain. +</P> + +<P> +"Who are you?" he threw at her for the third time, and his eyes flamed +down into the changing face, the face which he had never known, which +he seemed to have known since time began. The laughter left it then +and she gazed at him with a look which he had not seen in a woman's +eyes before. "I think you know," she said. "Toddy Winthrop isn't the +only one. You saved me—Oh, you've saved me too." Every inflection of +the voice brought certainty to him; the buoyant, soft voice which he +remembered. "I am Hope Stuart," she said. "I am August First." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" He caught her hands, but she drew them away. "Not yet," she +said, and the promise in the denial thrilled him. "You've got to +know—things." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't think, don't dream that I'll let you go, if you still care," he +threw at her hotly. And with that the thought of two days before +stabbed into him. "Ah!" he cried, and stood before his happiness +miserably. +</P> + +<P> +"What?" asked the girl. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not fit to speak to you. I'm disgraced; I'm a coward; you don't +know, but I let—that child be killed as much as if he had not been +saved by a miracle. It wasn't my fault he was saved. I didn't mean to +save him. I meant to save myself," he went on with savage accusation. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me," commanded the girl, and he told her. +</P> + +<P> +"It's what I thought," she answered him then. "I told the doctor what +Dick said, this morning. The doctor said it was the commonest thing in +the world, after a blow on the head, to forget the last minutes before. +You'll never remember them. You did save him. Your past—your +character decided for you"—here was his own bitter thought turned to +heavenly sweetness!—"You did the brave thing whether you would or not. +You've got to take my word—all of our words—that you were a hero. +Just that. You jumped straight down and threw Toddy into the bushes +and then fell, and the chauffeur couldn't turn fast enough and he hit +you—and your head was hurt." +</P> + +<P> +She spoke, and looked into his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that the truth?" he shot at her. It was vital to know where he +stood, whether with decent men or with cowards. +</P> + +<P> +"So help me God," the girl said quietly. +</P> + +<P> +As when a gate is opened into a lock the water begins to pour in with a +steady rush and covers the slimy walls and ugly fissures, so peace +poured into the discolored emptiness of his mind. Suddenly the gate +was shut again. What difference did anything make—anything? +</P> + +<P> +"You are married," he stated miserably, and stood before her. The +moments had rushed upon his strained consciousness so overladen, the +joy of seeing her had been so intense, that there had been no place for +another thought. He had forgotten. The thought which meant the +failure of happiness had been crowded out. "You are married," he +repeated, and the old grayness shadowed again a universe without hope. +</P> + +<P> +And then the girl whose name was Hope smiled up at him through a +rainbow, for there were tears in her eyes. "No," she answered, "no." +And with that he caught her in his arms: her smile, her slim shoulders, +her head, they were all there, close, crushed against him. The bees +hummed over the roses in the sunshiny garden; the locust sang his +staccato song and stopped suddenly; petals of a rose floated against +the black dress; but the two figures did not appear to breathe. Time +and space, as the girl had said once, were fused. Then she stirred, +pushed away his arms, and stood erect and looked at him with a flushed, +radiant face. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I'd let you—marry—a cripple, a lump of stone?" she +demanded, and something in the buoyant tone made him laugh unreasonably. +</P> + +<P> +"I think—you've got to," he answered, his head swimming a bit. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," and she shook her finger at him +triumphantly. "I'm—going—to—get—well." +</P> + +<P> +"I knew it all along," the man said, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"That's a lie!" she announced, so prettily, in the soft, buoyant voice, +that he laughed with sheer pleasure. "You never knew. Do you know +where I've been?" +</P> + +<P> +"In Germany." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't been in Germany a minute." The bright face grew grave and +again the quick, rainbow tears flashed. "You never heard," she said. +"Uncle Ted died, the day before we were to sail." She stopped a +moment. "It left me alone and—and pretty desperate. I—I almost +telegraphed you." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Why</I> didn't you?" he groaned. +</P> + +<P> +"Because—what I said. I wouldn't sacrifice you." She paid no +attention to the look in his eyes. "Robin was going to my place in +Georgia—I told you I had a place? My father's old shooting-box. I'd +arranged for him to do that. With some people who needed it. So—I +went too. I took two trained nurses and some old souls—old sick +people. Yes, I did. Wasn't it queer of me? I'm always sorrier for +old people than for children. They realize, the old people. So I +scraped up a few astonished old parties, and they groaned and wheezed +and found fault, but had a wonderful winter. The first time I was ever +any good to anybody in my life. I thought I might as well do one job +before I petrified. And all winter Robin was talking about that +bone-ologist from France who had been in Forest Gate, and whom I +wouldn't see. Till at last he got me inspired, and I said I'd go to +France and see him. And I've just been. And he says—" suddenly the +bright, changing face was buried in her hands and she was sobbing as if +her heart would break. +</P> + +<P> +McBirney's pulse stopped; he was terrified. "What?" he demanded. +"Never mind what he said, dear. I'll take care of you. Don't trouble, +my own—" And then again the sunshine flashed through the storm and +she looked up, all tears and laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"He said I'd get well," she threw at him. "In time. With care. And +if you don't understand that I've got to cry when I'm glad, then we can +never be happy together." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll get to understand," he promised, with a thrill as he thought how +the lesson would be learned. And went on: "There's another conundrum. +Of course—that man—he's not on earth—but how did you—kill him?" +</P> + +<P> +The girl looked bewildered a moment. "Who? Oh! Alec. My dear—" and +she slid her hand into his as if they had lived together for +years—"the most glorious thing—he jilted me. He eloped with Natalie +Minturn—the California girl—the heiress. She had"—the girl laughed +again—"more money than I. And unimpeachable bones. She's a nice +thing," she went on regretfully. "I'm afraid she's too good for Alec. +But she liked him; I hope she'll go on liking him. It was a great +thing for me to get jilted. Any more questions in the Catechism? Will +the High-Mightiness take me now? Or have I got to beg and explain a +little more?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're a very untruthful character," said "the High-Mightiness" +unsteadily. "It wasn't I who hid away, and turned last winter into +hell for a well-meaning parson. Will—I take you? Come." +</P> + +<P> +Again eternal things brooded over the bright, quiet garden and the +larkspur spires swayed unnoticed and the bees droned casually about +them and dived into deep cups of the lilies, and peace and sunshine and +lovely things growing were everywhere. But the two did not notice. +</P> + +<P> +After a time: "What about Halarkenden?" asked the man, holding a slim +hand tight as if he held to a life-preserver. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the last question in the Catechism," said Hope Stuart. "And +the answer is the longest. One of your letters did it." +</P> + +<P> +"One of my letters?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just the other day. I went to Forest Gate, as soon as I came home +from France—to tell Robin that I was going to get well. I was in the +garden. With—I hate to tell you—but with—all your letters." The +man flushed. "And—and Robin came and—and I talked a little to him +about you, and then, to show him what you were like, I read him—some." +</P> + +<P> +"You did?" McBirney looked troubled. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I selected. I read about the boy, Theodore—'the Gift.'" +</P> + +<P> +Then she went on to tell how, as she sat in a deep chair at the end of +a long pergola where small, juicy leaves of Dorothy Perkins rose-vines +and of crimson ramblers made a green May mist over the line of arches, +Halarkenden had come down under them to her. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe I shall never be in a garden without expecting to see him +stalk down a path," she said. She told him how she had read to him +about the boy Theodore with his charm and his naughtiness and his +Scotch name. How there had been no word from Robert Halarkenden when +she finished, and how, suddenly, she had been aware of a quality in the +silence which startled her, and she had looked up sharply. How, as she +looked, the high-featured, lean, grave face was transformed with a +color which she had never seen there before, a painful, slow-coming +color; how the muscles about his mouth were twisting. How she had +cried out, frightened, and Robert Halarkenden, who had not fought with +the beasts for nothing, had controlled himself once again and, after a +moment, had spoken steadily. "It was the boy's name, lassie," he had +said. "He comes of folk whom I knew—back home." How at that, with +his big clippers in his hand, he had turned quietly and gone working +again among his flowers. +</P> + +<P> +"But is that all?" demanded McBirney, interested. "Didn't he tell you +any more? Could Theodore be any kin to him, do you suppose? It would +be wonderful to have a man like that who took an interest. I'll write +the young devil. He's been away all winter, but he should be back by +now. I wonder just where he is." +</P> + +<P> +And with that, as cues are taken on the stage, there was a scurrying +down the gravel and out of the sunshine a bare-headed, tall lad was +leaping toward them. +</P> + +<P> +"By all that's uncanny!" gasped McBirney. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, me," agreed the apparition. "I trailed you. Why"—he +interrupted himself—"didn't you get my telephones? Why, somebody took +the message—twice. Cost three dollars—had to pawn stuff to pay it. +Then I trailed you. The rector had your address. We're going to +Scotland bang off and I had to see you. We're sailing from Boston. +To-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Who's 'we'?" demanded McBirney. +</P> + +<P> +"My family and—oh gosh, you don't know!" He threw back his handsome +head and broke into a great shout of young laughter. With that he +whirled and flung out an arm. "There he comes. My family." The pride +and joy in the boy's voice were so charged with years of loneliness +past that the two who listened felt an answering thrill. +</P> + +<P> +They looked. Down the gravel, through the sunshine, strayed, between +flower borders, a gaunt and grizzled man who bent, here and there, over +a blossom, and touched it with tender, wise fingers and gazed this way +and that, scrutinizing, absorbed, across the masses of living color. +</P> + +<P> +"I told you," the girl said, as if out of a dream, and her arm, too, +was stretched and her hand pointed out the figure to her lover. "I +told you there never would be a garden but he would be in it. It's +Robin." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +SATURDAY NIGHT LATE.<BR> + WARCHESTER,<BR> + St. Andrew's Parish House.<BR> +</P> + +<P> +There wasn't time to leave you a note even. I barely caught the train. +Dick was to tell you. I wonder if he got it straight. He motored me +to the station, early this morning—a thousand years ago. You see the +rector suddenly wired for me to come back for over Sunday. It's Sunday +morning now—at least by the clock. +</P> + +<P> +There's still such a lot to tell you. There always will be. One +really can't say much in only eight or nine hours, and I don't believe +we talked a minute longer. That's why I didn't want to catch trains. +Well, there were other reasons too, now I go into it. +</P> + +<P> +Do you know, I keep thinking of Dick Marston's face when he poked it in +at the door of that summer-house yesterday on you and "Robin" and +Theodore and me. I think likely Dick's brain is sprained. +</P> + +<P> +Curious, isn't it—this being knocked back into the necessity of +writing letters—and so soon. But I can say anything now, can't I? It +doesn't seem true, but it is—it is! When I think of that other +letter, that last one, and all the months that I didn't know even where +you were! And now here's the world transfigured. It <I>is</I> true, isn't +it? I won't wake up into that awful emptiness again? So many times +I've done that. I'd made up my mind nothing was any use. I told Dick, +just before we started on the motor trip. The stellar system had gone +to pieces. But to-night I tore up the letter I'd got ready to send to +the rector. All those preparations, and then to walk down a gravel +path into heaven. It isn't the slightest trouble for you to rebuild +people's worlds, is it? As for instance, Theodore's. I must tell you +that some incoherences have come in from that Gift of God, by way of +the pilot, after they'd sailed. Mostly regarding Cousin Robin. Even +that has worked out. And there's Halarkenden—mustn't I say McGregor, +though?—going back home to wander at large in paradise. Three new +worlds you set up in half an hour. I think you said once that you'd +never done anything for anybody? Well, you've begun your job; didn't I +tell you it might be just around the corner? Besides "Cousin Robin," +two things stuck out in Theodore's epistle; he's going to turn himself +loose for the benefit of those working people in his factories, and +he's going to have "The Cairns" swept and garnished for you and me +when—when we get there. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +This is all true. I am sitting here, writing to her. She is going to +be there when I get back. I am to have her for my own, to look at and +to listen to and to love. She has said that she wanted it like that—I +heard her say it. Oh my dear darling, there aren't any words to tell +you—you are like listening to music—you are the spirit of all the +exquisite wonders that have ever been—you are the fragrant silence of +shut gardens sleeping in the moonlight. What if I had missed you? +What if I'd never found you? You <I>will</I> be there when I come back—you +won't vanish—you <I>are</I> real? Think of the life opening out for you +and me; this world now; afterwards the next. Oh my very dear, suppose +you hadn't waited—suppose you'd cut into God's big pattern because +some dark threads had to be woven into it! We shall look at the whole +of it some day—all that mighty, living tapestry of His weaving, and we +shall understand, then, and smile as we remember and know that no one +can have a sense of light without the shadows. Suppose you hadn't +waited? But you did wait—you did—to let me love you. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +SEA-ACRES,<BR> +MONDAY, June 24th.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +YOUR REVERENCE. +</P> + +<P> +I can't say but three words. Don Emory is waiting to post this in +town. I do just want to tell you that if you write any more letters +like that I am <I>not</I> going to break the engagement. You'll get the +rest of this to-morrow. I thought I'd warn you. I am, for sure, yours, +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +AUGUST FIRST.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<hr class="full" noshade> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 18529-h.txt or 18529-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529">http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/5/2/18529</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: August First + + +Author: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews and Roy Irving Murray + + + +Release Date: June 7, 2006 [eBook #18529] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustration. + See 18529-h.htm or 18529-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529/18529-h/18529-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529/18529-h.zip) + + + + + +AUGUST FIRST + +by + +MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS and ROY IRVING MURRAY + +Illustrated by A. I. Keller + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: "She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am."] + + + + +New York +Charles Scribner's Sons +1915 +Copyright, 1915, by Charles Scribner's Sons +Published March, 1915 + + + + +AUGUST FIRST + +"Whee!" + +The long fingers pulled at the clerical collar as if they might tear it +away. The alert figure swung across the room to the one window not +wide open and the man pushed up the three inches possible. "Whee!" he +brought out again, boyishly, and thrust away the dusty vines that hung +against the opening from the stone walls of the parish house close by. +He gasped; looked about as if in desperate need of relief; struck back +the damp hair from his face. The heat was insufferable. In the west +black-gray clouds rolled up like blankets, shutting out heaven and air; +low thunder growled; at five o'clock of a midsummer afternoon it was +almost dark; a storm was coming fast, and coolness would come with it, +but in the meantime it was hard for a man who felt heat intensely just +to get breath. His eyes stared at the open door of the room, down the +corridor which led to the room, which turned and led by another open +door to the street. + +"If they're coming, why don't they come and get it over?" he murmured +to himself; he was stifling--it was actual suffering. + +He was troubled to-day, beyond this affliction of heat. He was the new +curate of St. Andrew's, Geoffrey McBirney, only two months in the +place--only two months, and here was the rector gone off for his summer +vacation and McBirney left at the helm of the great city parish. +Moreover, before the rector was gone a half-hour, here was the worst +business of the day upon him, the hour between four and five when the +rector was supposed to be found in the office, to receive any one who +chose to come, for advice, for godly counsel, for "any old reason," as +the man, only a few years out of college, put it to himself. He +dreaded it; he dreaded it more than he did getting up into the pulpit +of a Sunday and laying down the law--preaching. And he seriously +wished that if any one was coming they would come now, and let him do +his best, doggedly, as he meant to, and get them out of the way. Then +he might go to work at things he understood. There was a funeral at +seven; old Mrs. Harrow at the Home wanted to see him; and David +Sterling had half promised to help him with St. Agnes's Mission School, +and must be encouraged; a man in the worst tenement of the south city +had raided his wife with a knife and there was trouble, physical and +moral, and he must see to that; also Tommy Smith was dying at the +Tuberculosis Hospital and had clung to his hands yesterday, and would +not let him go--he must manage to get to little Tommy to-night. There +was plenty of real work doing, so it did seem a pity to waste Lime +waiting here for people who didn't come and who had, when they did +come, only emotional troubles to air. And the heat--the unspeakable +heat! "I can't stand it another second!" he burst out, aloud. "I'll +die--I shall die!" He flung himself across the window-sill, with his +head far out, trying to catch a breath of air that was alive. + +As he stretched into the dim light, so, gasping, pulling again at the +stiff collar, he was aware of a sound; he came back into the room with +a spring; somebody was rapping at the open door. A young woman, in +white clothes, with roses in her hat, stood there--refreshing as a cool +breeze, he thought; with that, as if the thought, as if she, perhaps, +had brought it, all at once there was a breeze; a heavenly, light touch +on his forehead, a glorious, chilled current rushing about him. + +"Thank Heaven!" he brought out involuntarily, and the girl, standing, +facing him, looked surprised and, hesitating, stared at him. By that +his dignity was on top. + +"You wanted to see me?" he asked gravely. The girl flushed. + +"No," she said, and stopped. He waited. "I didn't expect--" she +began, and then he saw that she was very nervous. "I didn't +expect--you." + +He understood now. "You expected to find the rector. I'm sorry. He +went off to-day for his vacation. I'm left in his place. Can I help +you in any way?" + +The girl stood uncertain, nervous, and said nothing. And looked at +him, frightened, not knowing what to do. Then: "I wanted to see +him--and now--it's you!" she stammered, and the man felt contrite that +it was indubitably just himself. Contrite, then amused. But his look +was steadily serious. + +"I'm sorry," he said again. "If I would possibly do, I should be glad." + +The girl burst into tears. That was bad. She dropped into a chair and +sobbed uncontrollably, and he stood before her, and waited, and was +uncomfortable. The sobbing stopped, and he had hopes, but the hat with +roses was still plunged into the two bare hands--it was too hot for +gloves. The thunder was nearer, muttering instant threatenings; the +room was black; the air was heavy and cool like a wet cloth; the man in +his black clothes stood before the white, collapsed figure in the chair +and the girl began sobbing softly, wearily again. + +"Please try to tell me." The young clergyman spoke quietly, in the +detached voice which he had learned was best. "I can't do anything for +you unless you tell me." + +The top of the hat with roses seemed to pay attention; the flowers +stopped bobbing; the sobs halted; in a minute a voice came. "I--know. +I beg--your pardon. It was--such a shock to see--you." And then, most +unexpectedly, she laughed. A wavering laugh that ended with a +gasp--but laughter. "I'm not very civil. I meant just that--it wasn't +you I expected. I was in church--ten days ago. And the rector +said--people might come--here--and--he'd try to help them. It seemed +to me I could talk to him. He was--fatherly. But you're"--the voice +trailed into a sob--"young." A laugh was due here, he thought, but +none came. "I mean--it's harder." + +"I understand," he spoke quietly. "You would feel that way. And +there's no one like the rector--one could tell him anything. I know +that. But if I can help you--I'm here for that, you know. That's all +there is to consider." The impersonal, gentle interest had instant +effect. + +"Thank you," she said, and with a visible effort pulled herself +together, and rose and stood a moment, swaying, as it an inward +indecision blew her this way and that. With that a great thunder-clap +close by shook heaven and earth and drowned small human voices, and the +two in the dark office faced each other waiting Nature's good time. As +the rolling echoes died away, "I think I had better wait to see the +rector," she said, and held out her hand. "Thank you for your +kindness--and patience. I am--I am--in a good deal of trouble--" and +her voice shook, in spite of her effort. Suddenly--"I'm going to tell +you," she said. "I'm going to ask you to help me, if you will be so +good. You are here for the rector, aren't you?" + +"I am here for the rector," McBirney answered gravely. "I wish to do +all I can for--any one." + +She drew a long sigh of comfort. "That's good--that's what I want," +she considered aloud, and sat down once more. And the man lifted a +chair to the window where the breeze reached him. Rain was falling now +in sheets and the steely light played on his dark face and sombre dress +and the sharp white note of his collar. Through the constant rush and +patter of the rain the girl's voice went on--a low voice with a note of +pleasure and laughter in it which muted with the tragedy of what she +said. + +"I'm thinking of killing myself," she began, and the eyes of the man +widened, but he did not speak. "But I'm afraid of what comes after. +They tell you that it's everlasting torment--but I don't believe it. +Parsons mostly tell you that. The fear has kept me from doing it. So +when I heard the rector in church two weeks ago, I felt as if he'd be +honest--and as if he might know--as much as any one can know. He +seemed real to me, and clever--I thought it would help if I could talk +to him--and I thought maybe I could trust him to tell me honestly--in +confidence, you know--if he really and truly thought it was wrong for a +person to kill herself. I can't see why." She glanced at the +attentive, quiet figure at the window. "Do you think so?" she asked. +He looked at her, but did not speak. She went on. "Why is it wrong? +They say God gives life and only God should take it away. Why? It's +given--we don't ask for it, and no conditions come with it. Why should +one, if it gets unendurable, keep an unasked, unwanted gift? If +somebody put a ball of bright metal into your hands and it was pretty +at first and nice to play with, and then turned red-hot, and hurt, +wouldn't it be silly to go on holding it? I don't know much about God, +anyway," she went on a bit forlornly; not irreverently, but as if pain +had burned off the shell of conventions and reserves of every day, and +actual facts lay bare. "I don't feel as if He were especially +real--and the case I'm in is awfully real. I don't know if He would +mind my killing myself--and if He would, wouldn't He understand I just +have to? If He's really good? But then, if He was angry, might He +punish me forever, afterward?" She drew her shoulders together with a +frightened, childish movement. "I'm afraid of forever," she said. + +The rain beat in noisily against the parish house wall; the wet vines +flung about wildly; a floating end blew in at the window and the young +man lifted it carefully and put it outside again. Then, "Can you tell +me why you want to kill yourself?" he asked, and his manner, free from +criticism or disapproval, seemed to quiet her. + +"Yes. I want to tell you. I came here to tell the rector." The grave +eyes of the man, eyes whose clearness and youth seemed to be such an +age-old youth and clearness as one sees in the eyes of the sibyls in +the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel--eyes empty of a thought of self, +impersonal, serene with the serenity of a large atmosphere--the +unflinching eyes of the man gazed at the girl as she talked. + +She talked rapidly, eagerly, as if each word lifted pressure. "It's +this way--I'm ill--hopelessly ill. Yes--it's absolutely so. I've got +to die. Two doctors said so. But I'll live--maybe five +years--possibly ten. I'm twenty-three now--and I may live ten years. +But if I do that--if I live five years even--most of it will be as a +helpless invalid--I'll have to get stiff, you know." There was a +rather dreadful levity in the way she put it. "Stiffer and +stiffer--till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down, +immovable. I'll have to go on living that way--years, you see. I'll +have to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on living +that way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seems +particularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I ride +and play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. I +care about them--a lot." One could see it in the vivid pose of the +figure. "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I _won't_ +stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!" The sliding, clear voice was +low, but the "no" meant itself. + +From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl could +see the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light; +receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain came +in soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearness +over the details of the room and left them vaguer. + +"Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him. "What do you +think? Say it." + +"Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly. + +"The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" she +gasped. + +"I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, I +suppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to help +you better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much." + +There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and the +muttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dress +was motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal--he could see only the +blurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream, +a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds; +unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancy +came the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words. + +"Yes, there's more. A love story, of course--there's always that. +Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it." She stopped +again. "I don't know why I should tell you this part." + +"Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly. +He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would much +prefer to "cut it out," as he would have expressed it to himself. + +"I _do_ want to--now. I didn't mean to. But it's a relief." And it +came to him sharply that if he was to be a surgeon of souls, what +business had he to shrink from blood? + +"I am here to relieve you if I can. It's what I most wish to do--for +any one," he said gently then. And the girl suddenly laughed again. + +"For any one," she repeated. "I like it that way." Her eyes, +wandering a moment about the dim, bare office, rested on a calendar in +huge lettering hanging on the wall, rested on the figures of the date +of the day. "I want to be just a number, a date--August first--I'm +that, and that's all. I'll never see you again, I hope. But you are +good and I'll be grateful. Here's the way things are. Three years ago +I got engaged to a man. I suppose I thought I cared about him. I'm a +fool. I get--fads." A short, soft laugh cut the words. "I got about +that over the man. He fascinated me. I thought it was--more. So I +got engaged to him. He was a lot of things he oughtn't to be; my +people objected. Then, later, my father was ill--dying. He asked me +to break it off, and I did--he'd been father and mother both to me, you +see. But I still thought I cared. I hadn't seen the man much. My +father died, and then I heard about the man, that he had lost money and +been ill and that everybody was down on him; he drank, you know, and +got into trouble. So I just felt desperate; I felt it was my fault, +and that there was nobody to stand by him. I felt as if I could pull +him up and make his life over--pretty conceited of me, I expect--but I +felt that. So I wrote him a letter, six months ago, out of a blue sky, +and told him that if he wanted me still he could have me. And he did. +And then I went out to live with my uncle, and this man lives in that +town too, and I've seen him ever since, all the time. I know him now. +And--" Out of the dimness the clergyman felt, rather than saw, a smile +widen--child-like, sardonic--a curious, contagious smile, which +bewildered him, almost made him smile back. "You'll think me a pitiful +person," she went on, "and I am. But I--almost--hate him. I've +promised to marry him and I can't bear to have his fingers touch me." + +In Geoffrey McBirney's short experience there had been nothing which +threw a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. He +was keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. At +all events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might. + +"When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light in +the blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurried +to do it. But he wouldn't. He--" A sound came, half laugh, half sob. +"He's certainly faithful. But--I've got a lot of money. It's +frightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt even +his sincerity. And I may be wrong--he may care for me. He says so. I +think my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quite +cold when he says so. I _can't_ marry him! So I might as well kill +myself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold water +on the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening, +realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mind +seemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-hearted +voice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell me +I'd certainly go to hell forever." + +Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't do +that," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runaway +horse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed--is +that as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horse +ran into a wall and killed him? I think not. And besides, any second, +his pull on the reins may tell, and the horse may slow down, and his +life may be saved. It's better riding and it's better living not to +give in till you're thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, but +doctors have been wrong plenty of times; diseases take unexpected +turns; you may get well." + +"Then I'd have to marry _him_," she interrupted swiftly. + +"You ought not to marry him if you dislike him"--and the young parson +felt himself flush hotly, and was thankful for the darkness; what a +fool a fellow felt, giving advice about a love-affair! + +"I _have_ to. You see--he's pathetic. He'd go back into the depths if +I let go, and--and I'm fond of him, in a way." + +"Oh!"--the masculine mind was bewildered. "I understood that +you--disliked him." + +"Why, I do. But I'm just fond of him." Then she laughed again. "Any +woman would know how I mean it. I mean--I am fond of him--I'd do +anything for him. But I don't believe in him, and the thought of--of +marrying him makes me desperate." + +"Then you should not." + +"I have to, if I live. So I'm going to kill myself to-night. You have +nothing to say against it. You've said nothing--that counts. If you +said I'd certainly go to hell, I might not--but you don't say that. I +think you can't say it." She stood up. "Thank you for listening +patiently. At least you have helped me to come to my decision. I'm +going to. To-night." + +This was too awful. He had helped her to decide to kill herself. He +could not let her go that way. He stood before her and talked with all +his might. "You cannot do that. You must not. You are overstrained +and excited, and it is no time to do an irrevocable thing. You must +wait till you see things calmly, at least. Taking your own life is not +a thing to decide on as you might decide on going to a ball. How do +you know that you will not be bitterly sorry to-morrow if you do that +to-night? It's throwing away the one chance a person has to make the +world better and happier. That's what you're here for--not to enjoy +yourself." + +She put a quiet sentence, in that oddly buoyant voice, into the stream +of his words. "Still, you don't say I'd go to hell forever," she +commented. + +"Is that your only thought?" he demanded indignantly. "Can't you think +of what's brave and worth while--of what's decent for a big thing like +a soul? A soul that's going on living to eternity--do you want to +blacken that at the start? Can't you forget your little moods and your +despair of the moment?" + +"No, I can't." The roses bobbed as she shook her head. The man, in +his heart, knew how it was, and did not wonder. But he must somehow +stop this determination which he had--she said--helped to form. A +thought came to him; he hesitated a moment, and then broke out +impetuously: "Let me do this--let me write to you; I'm not saying +things straight. It's hard. I think I could write more clearly. And +it's unfair not to give me a hearing. Will you promise only this, not +to do it till you've read my letter?" + +Slowly the youth, the indomitable brightness in the girl forged to the +front. She looked at him with the dawn of a smile in her eyes, and he +saw all at once, with a passing vision, that her eyes were very blue +and that her hair was bright and light--a face vivid and responsive. + +"Why, yes. There's no particular reason for to-night. I can wait. +But I'm going home to-morrow, to my uncle's place at Forest Gate. I'll +never be here again. The people I'm with are going away to live next +month. I'll never see you again. You don't know my name." She +considered a moment. "I'd rather not have you know it. You may write +to--" She laughed. "I said I was just a date--you may write to August +First, Forest Gate, Illinois. Say care of, care of--" Again she +laughed. "Oh, well, care of Robert Halarkenden. That will reach me." + +Quite gravely the man wrote down the fantastic address. "Thank you. I +will write at once. You promised?" + +"Yes." She put out her hand. "You've been very good to me. I shall +never see you again. Good-by." + +"Good-by," he said, and the room was suddenly so still, so empty, so +dark that it oppressed him. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + August 5th. + +This is to redeem my promise. When we talked that afternoon, it seemed +to me that I should be able to write the words I could not say. Every +day since then I have said "Tomorrow I shall be able to tell her +clearly." The clearness has not come--that's why I have put it off. +It hasn't yet come. Sometimes--twice, I think--I have seen it all +plainly. Just for a second--in a sort of flash. And then it dropped +back into this confusion. + +I won't insult you by attempting to discount your difficulties. You +have worked out for yourself a calculation made, at one time or +another, by many more people than you would imagine. And your answer +is wrong. I know that. You know it too. When you say that you are +afraid of what may come after, you admit that what you intend to do is +impossible. If you were not convinced of something after, you would go +on and do what you propose. Which shows that there is an error in your +mathematics. Do you at all know what I mean? + +I must make you understand. I can see why you find the prospect +unendurable. You don't look far enough, that is all. Why do people +shut themselves up in the air-tight box of a possible three score years +and ten, and call it life? How can you, who are so alive, do so? It +seems that you have fallen into the strangely popular error of thinking +that clocks measure life. That is not what they are for. A clock is +the contrivance of springs and wheels whereby the ambitious, early of a +summer's day when sane people are asleep or hunting flowers on the +hill-side, keep tally of the sun. Those early on the hill-side see the +gray lighten and watch it flush to rose--the advent of the +day-spring--and go on picking flowers. They of the clocks are one day +older--these have seen a sunrise. There is the difference. + +If you really thought that all there is to life is that part of it we +have here in this world--if you believed that--then what you +contemplate doing would be nothing worse than unsportsmanlike. But you +do not believe that. You are afraid of what might come--after. You +came to me--or you came to the rector--in the hope of being assured +that your fear was groundless. You had a human desire for the advice +of a "professional." You still wish that assurance--that is why you +promised to wait for this letter. You told me your case; you wanted +expert testimony. Here it is: You need not be afraid. God will not be +angry--God will not punish you. You said that you did not know much +about God. Surely you know this much--anger can never be one of His +attributes. God is never angry. Men would be angry if they were +treated as they treat Him--that is all. In mathematics, certain +letters represent certain unknown quantities. So words are only the +symbols for imperfectly realized ideas. If by "hell" you understand +what that word means to me--the endlessness of life with nothing in it +that makes life worth while--then, if you still want my opinion, I +think that you will most certainly go there. God will not be angry. +God will not send you there, you will have sent yourself--it will not +be God's punishment laid on you, it will be your punishment laid by you +on yourself. But it is not in you to let that come to pass. + +All of the "philosophies of life," as they are called, are, I think, +varieties of two. I suppose Materialism and Idealism cover them. +Those who hold with the first are in the air-tight box of years and +call it life. The others are in the box, too, but they call it time. +And they know that, after all, the box is really not air-tight; each of +them remembers the day when he first discovered that there were cracks +in the box, and the day he learned that one could best see through +those narrow openings by coming up resolutely to the hard necessary +walls that hold one in. Then came the astounding enlightenment that +only a shred of reality was within the cramped prison of the box--just +a darkened, dusty bit--that all the beautiful rest of it lay outside. +These are the ones who, pressing up against the rough walls of the box, +see, through their chinks, the splendor of what lies outside--see it +and know that, one day, they shall have it. + +The others, the Materialists, never come near the walls of the box, +except to bang their heads. Their reality is inside. These call life +a thing. The Idealists know that it is a process, and there is not a +tree or a flower or a blade of grass or a road-side weed but proves +them right. It is a process, and the end of it is perfection--nothing +less. The perfection of the physical is approximated to here in this +world, and, after that, the tired hands are folded, and the worn-out +body laid away. But even the very saints of God barely touch, here, +the edges of the possible perfection of the soul. Why, it is that that +lifts us--that possibility of going on and on--out of imaginable +bounds, into glory after glory--until the wisdom of the ages is +foolishness and time has no meaning where, in the reaches of eternity, +the climbing soul thinks with the mind of God. + +You were going to cut yourself off from that! At the very start, you +were going to fling away your single glorious chance--you, who told me +that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be +allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your +soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if +you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But, +if you do that--if you treat your single opportunity like that--can you +believe that another will be given you? + +You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the +box. Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't +life--only the smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a +question of God--it is not a question of punishment. It is this--what +are _you_ going to do with your soul? + +I wonder if you have read as far as this. I wonder if I have been at +all intelligible? + +Will Robert Halarkenden see that you get this thick letter? There is +only one way by which I can know that it found you. + +I know that I have been hopelessly inadequate--perhaps grotesque. To +see it and be unable to tell you--imagine the awfulness! Give me +another chance. I was not going to ask that, but I must. Can't you +see I've got to show you? I mean--about another chance--will you not +renew that promise? Will you not send a word in answer to this letter, +and promise once more not to do anything decisive until you have heard +from me again? I am + +Sincerely yours, + GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +FOREST GATE, August 8th. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +Robert Halarkenden saw that I got it. You don't know who Robert +Halarkenden is, do you? He's interesting, and likely you never will +know about him--but it doesn't matter. Your letter left me with a +curious feeling, a feeling which I think I used to have as a child when +I was just waking from one of the strong dreams of childhood which +"trail clouds of glory." It was a feeling that I had been swept off my +feet and made to use my wings--only I haven't much in the line of +wings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where I +gasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and +I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the +ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the +gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in +the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that +I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing this +game with you very fairly, you see--which sounds conceited and as if +the game meant anything to you, a stranger. But because you are good, +and saving souls is your job, and because you think my soul might get +wrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think. + +About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about it +that way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that if +I'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn't +interested me very much--what I've heard has sounded rather dull--the +people supposed to be on the express trains there have, many of them, +been people I didn't want to play with. I've cared to be straight and +broad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks and +catty people--not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful idea +of yours, that my only life--as I've regarded it--is just about five +minutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength. +You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe you +believe it. Excuse me--I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadly +real. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead, +whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquettically +about things like this. And I won't, whatever you may think of me. +Your letter didn't convince me. It inspired me; it made me feel that +maybe--just maybe--it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or more +painfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out--all of us poor +things would come out--into gloriousness some time. I would hate to +have queered myself, you know, by going off at half-cock. But would it +queer me? What do you know about it? How can you tell? I might be +put back a few laps--I'm not being flippant, I simply don't know how to +say it--and then, anyhow, I'd be outside the "box," wouldn't I? And in +the freedom--and I could catch up, maybe. Yet, it might be the other +way; I might have shown an "unforgiveable contempt" for my life. +Unforgiveable--by whom? You say God forgives forever--well, I know He +must, if He's a God worth worshipping. So I don't know what you mean +by "unforgiveable." And you don't know if it's my "single, glorious +chance" at life. How can you know? On the other hand, I don't know +but that it is--that's the risk, I suppose--and it is a hideous risk. +I suppose likely you mean that. You see, when it gets down below +Sunday-school lessons and tradition, I don't know much what I do +believe. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly to +pieces in an uncomfortable way if one doesn't. But is that any belief? +As to "faith," that sounds rather nonsense to me. What on earth is +faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what you +really don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot--I suspect that--but I'd +gladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point and +arguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much less +handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'm +taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till I +get your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise +because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the +breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I +stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or +is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines +through you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to +know that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English +about clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. That +irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with +sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go +along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go +and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence. + +Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional +letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to +me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot +even remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a +quality of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no, +I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent, +I may be personal, because I am not a person, only + Yours gratefully, + AUGUST FIRST. + + +FOREST GATE, August 10th. + +MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY-- + +This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or +I might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a +hideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing saves +me--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word +unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I +think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will, +almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. And +your letter guarded it. My first personality _couldn't_ lift your +letter off to get the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like the +queer things one reads in psychological books. I _couldn't_ get past +that letter. Of course, I'm in some strained, abnormal condition, and +that's all, but send me another letter, for if one is a barricade two +should be a fortress. And I nearly broke down the barricade; Number +Two did, that is. + +Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that I +wish I could send you a slice of it--coolness and birds singing and +trees rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs in +the heat--and I know you hate heat--I took that in. This house stands +in big grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roars +up on the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me, +please--and you so busy! I am a selfish person. + + AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + August 12th. + +Yesterday it rained. And then the telephone rang, and some incoherent +person mumbled an address out in the furthest suburb. It was North +Baxter Court. You never saw that--a row of yellow houses with the +door-sills level to the mud and ashes of the alley, and swarms of +children who stare and whisper, "Here's the 'Father.'" Number 7 1/2 +was marked with a membraneous croup sign--the usual lie to avoid strict +quarantine and still get anti-toxin at the free dispensary; the room +was unspeakable--shut windows and a crowd of people. A woman, young, +sat rocking back and forth, half smothering a baby in her arms. Nobody +spoke. It took time to get the windows open and persuade the woman to +lay the child on the bed in the corner. There wasn't anything else to +use, so I fanned the baby with my straw hat--until, finally, it got +away from North Baxter Court forever. Which was as it should be. Then +tumult. Probably you are not in a position to know that few spectacles +are more hideous than the unrestrained grief of the poor. The things +they said and did--it was unhuman, indecent. I can't describe it. As +I was leaving, after a pretty bad half hour, I met the doctor at the +door--one of these half-drunken quacks who live on the ignorant. That +child died of diphtheria. I knew it, and he admitted it. The funeral +was this breathless morning, with details that may not be written down. + +LATER. + +Somebody interrupted. And now it's long past midnight. I must try to +send you some answer to your letter. I have been thinking--the +combination may strike you as odd--of North Baxter Court and you. Not +that the happenings of yesterday were unusual. That is just it--they +come almost every day, things like that. And you, with your birds and +rustling trees and your lake--you keep a shiny pistol in the drawer of +your dressing-table, and write me the sort of letter that came from you +this morning. When all these people need _you_--these blind, dumb +animals, stumbling through the sordid, hopeless years--need you, +because, in spite of everything, you are still so much further along +than they, because you are capable of seeing where their eyes are shut, +because you and your kind can help them, and put the germ of life into +the deadness of their days, because of all that makes you what you are, +and gives you the chance to become infinitely more--you, in the face of +all that, can sit down in the fragrance of a garden-scented breeze and +write as you have done about God and the things that matter. + +You said that it was not flippancy. Your whole point of view is wrong. +Do not ask me how I "know"--some conclusions do not need to be +analyzed. I wonder if you realize, for instance, what you said about +faith? I haven't the charity to call it even childish. Have you ever +got below the surface of anything at all? Do you want to know what it +is that has brought you to the verge of suicide? It is not your horror +of illness, nor your oddly concluded determination to marry a man whom +you do not love. Suicide is an ugly word--I notice that you avoid +it--and love is a big word; I am using them understandingly and +soberly. You came to the edge of this thing for the reason that there +is not an element of bigness in your life, and there never has been. +You lack the balance of large ideas. This man of whom you tell me--of +course you do not love him--you have not yet the capacity for +understanding the meaning of the word. You like to ride and you like +to dance and you are fond of the things that please, but you do not +love anybody or even any thing. You are living, yes, but you are +asleep. And it is because you are ignorant. + +If your letter had been designedly flippant, it would merely have +annoyed. It is the unconscious flippancy in it that is so +discouraging. You do not know what you believe because you believe +nothing. Your most coherent conception of God is likely a hazy vision +of a majestic figure seated on a cloud--a long-bearded patriarch, +wearing a golden crown--the composite of famous pictures that you +have seen. You have been taught to believe in a personal God, +and you have never taken the trouble to get beyond the notion that +personality--God's or anybody's--is mainly a matter of the possession +of such things as hands and feet. What can be the meaning to one like +you of the truth that we are made in the image of God? The Kingdom of +Heaven--that whole whirling activity of the commonwealth of God--the +citizenship towards which you might be pointing Baxter Court--you +have not even imagined it. I am not being sentimental. Don't +misunderstand. Don't fancy, for instance, that I am exhorting you to +go slumming. Deliberately or not, you took a wrong impression from my +first letter. You can't mistake this. Reach after a few of the +realities. Why not shut your questioning mind a while and open your +soul? _Live_ a little--begin to realize that there is a world outside +yourself. Try to get beyond the view-point of a child. And, if I have +not angered you beyond words, let me know how you get on. + +The unconventionality of this correspondence, you see, is not all on +one side. If you found English to your taste in what I wrote before, +this time you have plain truths, perhaps less satisfactory. You are +not in a position to decide some matters. I do not ask you to let me +decide them for you. I have only tried to indicate some reasons why +you must wait before you act. And I think it has made you angry. One +has to risk that. Yesterday I could not have imagined sending a letter +like this to anybody. But it goes--and to you. I ask you to answer +it. I think you owe me that. It hasn't been exactly easy to write. + +One more thing--don't trust letters to stand between you and the toy in +the dressing-table drawer. Any barrier there, to be in the least +effective, will have to be of your own building. + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +About a month after the above letter had been received, on September +10th, Geoffrey McBirney, dashing down the three flights of stairs in +the Parish House from his quarters on the top floor, peered into the +letter-box on the way to morning service. He peered eagerly. There +had been no answer to his letter; it was a month; he was surprisingly +uneasy. But there was nothing in the mail-box, so he swept along to +the vestry-room, and got into his cassock and read service to the +handful of people in the chapel, with a sense of sick depression which +he manfully choked down at every upheaval, but which was distinctly +there quite the same. Service over, there were things to be done for +three hours; also there was to be a meeting in his rooms at twelve +o'clock to consider the establishment of a new mission, his special +interest, in the rough country at the west of the city; the rector and +the bishop and two others were coming. He hurried home and up to his +place, at eleven-forty-five, and gave a hasty look about to see if +things were fairly proper for august people. Not that the bishop would +notice. He dusted off the library table with his handkerchief, put one +book discreetly on the back side of the table instead of in front, +swept an untidy box of cigarettes into a drawer, and gathered up the +fresh pile of wash from a chair and put it on the bed in his +sleeping-room and shut the door hard. Then he gazed about with the air +of a satisfied housekeeper. He lifted up a loudly ticking clock which +would not go except lying on its face, and regarded it. Five minutes +to twelve, and they were sure to be late. He extracted a cigarette +from the drawer and lighted it; his thoughts, loosened from immediate +pressure, came back slowly, surely, to the empty mailbox, his last +letter, the girl whom he knew grotesquely as "August First." Why had +she not written for four weeks? He had considered that question from +many angles for about three weeks, and the question rose and confronted +him, always new, at each leisure moment. It was disproportionate, it +showed lack of balance, that it should loom so large on the horizon, +with the hundred other interests, tragedies, which were there for him; +but it loomed. + +Why had he written her that hammer-and-tongs answer? he demanded of +himself, not for the first time. Of course, it was true, but when one +is drowning, one does not want reams of truth, one wants a rope. He +had stood on the shore and lectured the girl, ordered her to strike out +and swim for it, and not be so criminally selfish as to drop into the +ocean; that was what he had done. And the girl--what had she done? +Heaven only knew. Probably gone under. It looked more so each day. +Why could he not have been gentler, even if she was undeveloped, +narrow, asleep? Because she was rich--he answered his own question to +himself--because he had no belief in rich people; only a hard distrust +of whatever they did. That was wrong; he knew it. He blew a cloud of +smoke to the ceiling and spoke aloud, impatiently. "All the same, +they're none of them any good," said Geoffrey McBirney, and directed +himself to stop worrying about this thing. And with that came a sudden +memory of a buoyant, fresh voice saying tremendous words like a gentle +child, of the blue flash of eyes only half seen in a storm-swept +darkness, of roses bobbing. + +McBirney flung the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and lifted +the neurotic clock: twelve-twenty. The postman came again at twelve. +He would risk the rector and the bishop. Down the stairs he plunged +again and brought up at the mail-box. There was a letter. Hurriedly, +he snatched it out and turned the address up; a miracle--it was from +the girl. The street door darkened; McBirney looked up. The rector +and the bishop were coming in, the others at their heels. He thrust +the envelope into his pocket, his pulse beating distinctly faster, and +turned to meet his guests. + +When at three o'clock he got back to his quarters, after an exciting +meeting of an hour, after lunch at the rectory, after seeing the bishop +off on the 2.45 to New York, he locked his door first, and then +hurriedly drew out the letter lying all this time unread. He tore +untidily at the flap, and with that suddenly he stopped, and the +luminous eyes took on an odd, sarcastic expression. "What a fool!" he +spoke, half aloud, and put the letter down and strolled across the room +and gazed out of the window. "What an ass! I'm allowing myself to get +personally interested in this case; or to imagine that I'm personally +interested. Folly. The girl is nothing to me. I'll never see her +again. I care about her as I would about anybody in trouble. +And--that's all. This lunacy of restlessness over the situation has +got--to--stop." He was firm with himself. He sat down at his table +and wrote a business note before he touched the letter again; but he +saw the letter out of the tail of his eye all the time and he knew his +pulse was going harder as, finally, he lifted the torn envelope with +elaborate carelessness, and drew out the sheets of writing. + + +My dear Mr. McBirney [the girl began], did anybody ever tell a story +about a big general who limbered up his artillery, if that's the thing +they do, and shouted orders, and cracked whips and rattled wheels and +went through evolutions, and finally, with thunder and energy, trained +a huge Krupp gun--or something--on a chipmunk? If there is such a +story, and you've heard it, doesn't it remind you of your last letter +at me? Not to me, I mean _at_ me. It was a wonderful letter again, +but when I got through I had a feeling that what I needed was not +suicide--I do dare say the word, you see--but execution. Maybe +shooting is too good for me. And you know I appreciate every minute +how unnecessary it is for you to bother with me, and to put your time +and your strength, both of which mean much to many people, into +hammering me. And how good you are to do that. I am worthless, as you +say between every two lines. Yet I'm a soul--you say that too, and so +on a par with those tragic souls in North Baxter Court. Only, I feel +that you have no patience with me for getting underfoot when you're on +your way to big issues. But do have patience, please--it means as much +to me as to anybody in your tenements. I'm far down, and I'm +struggling for breath, and there seems to be no land in sight, nothing +to hold to except you. I'm sorry if you dislike to have it so, but it +is so; your letters mean anchorage. I'd blow out to sea if I didn't +have them to hope for. You ought to be glad of that; you're doing +good, even if it is only to a flippant, shallow, undeveloped doll. I +can call myself names--oh yes. + +I have been slow answering, though likely you haven't noticed [McBirney +smiled queerly], because I have been doing a thing. You said you +didn't advise me to go slumming--though I think you did--what else? +You said I ought to get beyond the view-point of a child; to realize +the world outside myself. + +I sat down, and in my limited way--I mean that, sincerely, humbly--I +considered what I could do. No slumming--and, in any case, there's +none to be done in Forest Gate. So I thought I'd better clear my +vision with great books. I went to Robert Halarkenden, the only +bookish person in my surroundings, and asked him about it--about what +would open up a larger horizon for me. And he, not understanding much +what I was at, recommended two or three things which I have been and am +reading. I thought I'd try to be a little more intelligent at least +before I answered your letter. Don't thunder at me--I'm stumbling +about, trying to get somewhere. I've read some William James and some +John Fiske, and I realize this--that I did more or less think God was a +very large, stately old man. An "anthropomorphic deity." Fiske says +that is the God of the lower peoples; that was my God. Also I realize +this--that, somehow, some God, _the_ God if I can get to Him, might +help might be my only chance. What do you think? Is this any better? +Is it any step? If it is, it's a very precarious one, for though it +thrills me to my bones sometimes to think that a real power might lift +me and bring me through, if I just ask Him, yet sometimes all that hope +goes and I drop in a heap mentally with no starch in me, no grip to try +to hold to any idea--just a heap of tired, dull mind and nerves, and +for my only desire that subtle, pushing desire to end it all quickly. +Once an odd thing happened. When I was collapsed like that, just +existing, suddenly there was a feeling, a brand-new feeling of letting +go of the old rubbish that was and somebody else pervading it through +and through and taking all the responsibility. And I held on tight, +something as I do to your letters, and the first thing, I was believing +that help was coming--and help came. That was the best day I've had +since I saw those devil doctors. Do you suppose that was faith? Where +did it come from? I'd been praying--but awfully queer prayers; I said +"Oh just put me through somehow; give me what I need; _I_ don't know +what it is; how can you expect me to--I'm a worm." I suppose that was +irreverent, but I can't help it. It was all I could say. And that +came, whatever it was. Do you suppose it was an answer to my blind, +gasping prayer? + +Now I'm going to ask you to do a thing--but don't if it's the least +bother. I don't want you to talk to me about myself just now, any +more. And I want to hear more about North Baxter Court and such. You +don't know how that stirred me. What a worth-while life you lead, +doing actual, life-and-death things for people who bitterly need things +done. It seems to me glorious. I could give up everything to feel a +stream of genuine living through me such as you have, all your rushing +days. Yes--I could--but yet, maybe I wouldn't make good. But I do +care for "life, and life more abundantly," and the only way of getting +it that I've known has been higher fences to jump, and more dances and +better tennis and such. I never once realized the way you get it--my! +what a big way. And how heavenly it must be to give hope and health +and help to people. I adore sending the maids out in the car, or +giving them my clothes. I just selfishly like pleasing people, and I +think giving is the best amusement extant--and you give your very self +from morning to night. You lucky person! How could I do that? Could +I? Would I balk, do you think? You say I'm not capable of loving +anything or anybody. I think you are wrong. I think I could, some +day, love somebody as hard as any woman or man has, ever. Not Alec. +What will happen if I marry Alec and then do that--if the somebody +comes? That would be a mess; the worst mess yet. The end of the +world; but I forget; my world ends anyhow. I'll be a stone image in a +chair--a cold, unloveable stone image with a hot, boiling heart. I +won't--I _won't_. This world is just five minutes, maybe--but me--in a +chair--ten years. Oh--I _won't_. + +What I want you to do is to write me just about the things you're +doing, and the people--the poor people, and the pitiful things and the +funny things--the atmosphere of it. Could you forget that you don't +know me, and write as you would to a cousin or an old friend? That +would be good. That would help. Only, anyhow, write, for without your +letters I can't tell what bomb may burst. Don't thunder next time. +But even if you thunder, write. The letters do guard the pistol--I +can't help it if you say not. It has to be so now, anyway. They guard +it. Always-- + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + Sept. 12th. + +You're right. It's idiotic to leap on people like that. I knew I was +all wrong the moment after the letter went. And when nothing came from +you--it wasn't pleasant. I nearly wrote--I more nearly telegraphed +your Robert Halarkenden. Do you mind if I say that for two days, just +lately--in fact, they were yesterday and the day before--I was on the +edge of asking for leave of absence to go west? You see, if you had +done it, it was so plainly my fault. And I had to know. Then I +argued--it's ghastly, but I argued that it would be in the papers. And +it wasn't. Of course, it might possibly have been kept out. But +generally it isn't. My knowledge of happenings in Chicago and +thereabouts, since my last letter, would probably surprise you a +little. Yes, I "noticed" that you didn't write--more than I noticed +the heat, which, now I think, has been bad. But when you're pretty +sure you've blundered in a matter of life and death, you don't pray for +rain. + +You've turned a corner. _A_ corner. _The_ corner--the big one, is +further along, and then there's the hill and the hot sun on the dusty +road. You'll need your sporting instincts. But you've got them. So +had St. Paul and those others who furnished the groundwork for that +oft-mentioned Roman holiday. That's religion, as I see it. That's +what _they_ did; pushed on--faced things down--went out +smiling--"gentlemen unafraid." It's like swimming--you can't go under +if you make the least effort. That's the law--of physics and, +therefore, of God. The experience you tell of is exactly what you have +the right to expect. The prayer you said; that's the only way to come +at it, yourself--talking--with that Other. There's a poem--you +know--the man who "caught at God's skirts and prayed." + +But you said not to write about you. All right then, I've been to the +theatre, the one at the end of our block. That may strike you as tame. +But you don't know Mrs. Jameson. She's the relict of the late senior +warden. A disapproving party, trimmed with jet beads and a lorgnette. +A few days after the rector left me in charge she triumphed into the +office, rattled the beads and got behind the lorgnette. She presumed I +was the new curate. No loop-hole out of that. I had been seen at the +theatre--not once nor twice. I could well believe it. The late +Colonel Jameson, it appeared, had not approved of clergymen attending +playhouses. She did not approve of it herself. She presumed I +realized the standing of this parish in the diocese? She dwelt on the +force of example to the young. Of course, the opera--but that was +widely different. She would suggest--she did suggest--not in the least +vaguely. Sometime, perhaps, I would come to luncheon? She had really +rather interested herself in the sermon yesterday--a little abrupt, +possibly, at the close--still, of course, a young man, and not very +experienced--besides, the Doctor had spoiled them for almost anybody +else. Naturally. + +The room widened after she had gone. You know these ladies with the +thick atmosphere. + +That night I went to the theatre. There's a stock company there for +the summer and I have come to know one of the actors. He belongs to +us--was married in the church last summer. The place was +packed--always is--it's a good company. And Everett--he's the +one--kept the house shouting. He's the regular funny man. The play +that week was very funny anyhow--one of those things the billboards +call a "scream." It was just that. Everett was the play. He stormed +and galloped through his scenes until everybody was helpless. People +like him; it's his third summer here. Well, at the end, nobody went. +A lot of lads in the gallery began calling for Everett. We're common +here; and not many of the quality patronize stock. Soon he pushed out +from behind the curtain and made one of those fool speeches which +generally fall flat. Only this one didn't. + +Then I went "behind." The dressing rooms at the Alhambra are not +home-like. Bare walls with a row of pegs along one side--a couple of +chairs--a table piled with make-up stuff and over it a mirror flanked +by electric lights with wire netting around them. Not gay. And grease +paint, at close range, is not attractive. A man shouldn't cry after +he's made up--that's a theatrical commandment, or ought to be. +Probably a man shouldn't anyhow. But some do. I imagined Everett had, +and that he'd done it with his head in his arms and his arms in the +litter of the big table. I think I shook hands with him--one does +inane things sometimes--but I don't know what I said. I had something +like your experience--I just wasn't there for a minute or two. + +Afterward, I went home with him--a long half-hour on the trolley, then +up three flights into "light housekeeping" rooms in the back. There +was cold meat on the table, and bread. The janitor's wife, good soul, +had made a pot of coffee. "Light housekeeping" is a literal +expression, let me tell you, and doctor's bills make it lighter. I +followed him into the last room of the three. It looked different from +the way I remembered it the afternoon before. When he turned the gas +higher I saw why--the bed was gone--one of those stretcher things takes +less room. Besides, they say it's better. So there she was--all that +he had left of all that he had had--the girl he'd been mad about and +married in our church a year ago. He wasn't even with her when she +died; there was the Sunday afternoon rehearsal to attend. She wouldn't +let him miss that. "Go on," she told him. "I'll wait for you." She +didn't wait. + +And he faced it down, he jammed it through, that young chap did--and +was funny, oh, as funny as you can think, for hours, in front of +hundreds of people. He never missed a cue, never bungled a line, and +all the time seeing, up there in the light-housekeeping rooms, in the +last room of them all, how she lay, in the utter silence. + +Perhaps I shall come across a braver thing than that before I die, but +I doubt it. I tried, of course, to get him not to do it. But it was +very simple to him. It was his job. Nobody else knew the part; it was +too late to substitute. The rest would lose their salaries if they +closed down for the week, and God knew they needed them. So he said +nothing--and was funny. + +I don't know what you'd call it, but I think you know why I've told it +to you. There's a splendor about it and a glory. To do one's +job--isn't that the big thing, after all? + +Meantime, mine's waiting for me on the other side of this desk. He has +laid hands on every article in the room at least three times, and for +the last few minutes has been groaning very loud. I think you'd like +him--he's so alive. + +Your letter saves me the cost of the western papers, and now that I +know you'll--but you said not to write about you. + +The Job has stopped groaning, and wants to know if I'm "writing all +night just because, or, for the reason that." + + +It's night now--big night, and so still down-town here. Sometimes I +stay up late to realize that I'm alive. The days are so crammed with +happenings. And late at night seems so wide and everlasting. You've +got the idea that I do things. Well, I don't. There are whole rows of +days when it seems just a muddle of half-started attempts--a manner of +hopeless confusion. There's a good deal of futility in it, first and +last. That boy tonight for instance. And, sometimes, I get to +wondering if, after all, one has the right to meddle in other people's +lives. It's curious, but with you I've been quite sure. Always it has +been as clear as light to me that you must come through this--that it +will be right. I don't know how. Even that day you came, I was sure. +As soon as _you_ are sure, the thing is done. That man isn't to be +worried about--or the doctors. Easy for me to say, isn't it? + +Are you interested to know that I'm to have my building on the West +Side? There was a meeting today. It's the best thing that's happened +yet, that is, parochially. Maybe she's human after all. I mean Mrs. +Jameson. She's going to pay for it. + +I think that's all. You can't say I've tried to thunder at you this +time. I really didn't last time. I've known all along that you +wouldn't be impressed by thunder. The answer to that young devil's +question seems to be: I'm writing "for the reason that," and not, "just +because." Every time I think of that boy's name I have to laugh. + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +September 17th. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +What _is_ the boy's name? It must be queer if you laugh every time you +think of it. Don't forget to tell me. + +Your letters leave me breathless with things to say back. I suppose +that's inspiration, to make people feel full of new ideas, and that +you're crammed with it. In the first place I'm in a terrible hurry to +tell you that something really big has touched the edge of my anaemic +life, and that I have recognized it; I'm pleased that I recognized it. +Listen--please--this is it. Robert Halarkenden; I must tell you who he +is. Thirteen years ago my uncle was on a camping trip in Canada and +one of the guides was a silent Scotchman, mixed in with French-Canadian +habitants and half-breed Indians. My uncle was interested in him--he +was picturesque and conspicuous--but he would not talk about himself. +Another guide told Uncle Ted all that anyone has ever known about him, +till yesterday. He was a guardian of the club and lived alone in a +camp in the wildest part of it, and in summer he guided one or two +parties, by special permission of the club secretary. This other guide +had been to his cabin and told my uncle that it was full of books; the +guide found the number astounding--"_effrayant_." Also he had a garden +of forest flowers, and he knew everything about every wild thing that +grew in the woods. Well, Uncle Ted was so taken with the man that he +asked the secretary about him, and the secretary shook his head. All +that he could tell was that he was a remarkable woodsman and a perfect +guide and that he had been recommended to him in the first place by Sir +Archibald Graye of Toronto, who had refused to give reasons but asked +as a personal favor that the man should be given any job he wished. +This is getting rather a long story. Of course you know that the man +was Halarkenden and you are now to know that my uncle brought him to +Forest Gate as his gardener. He thought over it a day when Uncle Ted +asked him and then said that he had lived fifteen years in the forest +and that now he would like to live in a garden; he would come if Uncle +Ted would let him make a garden as beautiful as he wished. Uncle Ted +said yes, and he has done it. You have never seen such a garden--no +one ever has. It is four acres and it lies on the bluff above the +lake; that was a good beginning. If you had seen the rows of lilies +last June, with pink roses blossoming through them, you would have +known that Robert Halarkenden is a poet and no common man. Of course +we have known it all along, but in thirteen years one gets to take +miracles for granted. Yesterday I went down into the wild garden which +lies between the woods and the flowers--this is a large place--and I +got into the corner under the pines, and lay flat on the pink-brown +needles, all warm with splashes of September sunlight, and looked at +the goldenrod and purple asters swinging in the breeze and wondered if +I could forget my blessed bones and live in the beauty and joy of just +things, just the lovely world. Or whether it wouldn't be simpler to +pull a trigger when I went back to my room, instead of kicking and +struggling day after day to be and feel some other way. I get so sick +and tired of fighting myself--you don't know. Anyhow, suddenly there +was a rustle in the gold and purple hedge, and there was Robert +Halarkenden. I wish I could make you see him as he stood there, in his +blue working blouse, a pair of big clippers in his hand, his thick, +half-gray, silvery thatch of hair bare and blowing around his scholar's +forehead, his bony Scotch face solemn and quiet. His deep-set eyes +were fixed with such a gentle gaze on me. We are good friends, Robin +and I. I call him Robin; he taught me to when I was ten, so I always +have. "You're no feeling well, lassie?" he asked; he has known me a +long time, you see. And I suddenly sat up and told him about my old +bones. I didn't mean to; I have told no one but you; not Uncle Ted +even. But I did. And "Get up, lassie, and sit on the bench. I will +talk to you," said Robin. So we both sat down on the rustic bench +under the blowy pines, and I cried like a spring torrent, and Robin +patted my hand steadily, which seems an odd thing for one's uncle's +gardener to do, till I got through. Then I laughed and said, "Maybe +I'll shoot myself." And he answered calmly, "I hope not, lassie." +Then I said nothing and he said nothing for quite a bit, and then he +began talking gently about how everybody who counted had to go through +things. "A character has to be hammered into the likeness of God," he +said. "A soul doesn't grow beautiful by sunlight and rich earth," and +he looked out at his scarlet and blue and gold September garden and +smiled a little. "We're no like the flowers." Then he considered +again, and then he asked if it would interest me at all to hear a +little tale, and I told him yes, of course. "Maybe it will seem +companionable to know that other people have faced a bit of trouble," +he said. And then he told me. I don't know if you will believe it; it +seems too much of a drama to be credible to me, if I had not heard +Robert Halarkenden tell it in his entirely simple way, sitting in his +workingman's blouse, with the big clippers in his right hand. Thirty +years before he had been laird of a small property in Scotland, and +about to marry the girl whom he cared for. Then suddenly he found that +she was in love with his cousin--with whom he had been brought up, and +who was as dear as a brother--and his cousin with her. In almost no +more words than I am using he told me of the crisis he lived through +and how he had gone off on the mountains and made his decision. He +could not marry the girl if she did not love him. His cousin was heir +to his property; he decided to disappear and let them think he was +dead, and so leave the two people whom he loved to be happy and +prosperous without him. He did that. Two or three people had to know +to arrange things, and Sir Archibald Graye, of Toronto, was one, but +otherwise he simply dropped out of life and buried himself in Canadian +forests, and then, just as he was growing hungry for some things he +could not get in the forest, my uncle came along and offered him what +he wanted. + +"But how could you?" I asked him. "You're a gentleman; how could you +make yourself a servant, and build a wall between yourself and nice +people?" + +Robin smiled at me in a shadowy, gentle way he has. "Those walls are a +small matter of dust, lassie," he said. "A real man blows on them and +they're tumbling. And service is what we're here for. And all people +are nice people, you'll find." And when, still unresigned, I said +more, he went on, very kindly, a little amused it seemed. "Why should +it be more important for me to be happy than for those two? I hope +they're happy," he spoke wistfully. "The lad was a genius, but a wild +lad too," and he looked thoughtful. "Anyhow, it was for me to decide, +you see, and a man couldn't decide ungenerously. That would be to tie +one's self to a gnawing beast, which is what is like the memory of your +own evil deed. Take my word for it, lassie, there was no other way." + +"It seems all exaggerated," I threw at him; "there was no sense in your +giving up your home and traditions and associations--it was +unreasonable, fantastic! And to those two who had taken away your +happiness anyhow." + +I wish you could have heard how quietly and naturally Robert +Halarkenden answered me. He considered a moment first, in his Scotch +way, and then he said: "Do not you see, lassie, that's where it was +simple, verra simple. Houses and lands and a place in the world are +small affairs after love, and mine was come to shipwreck. So it seemed +to me I'd try living free of the care of possessions. I'd try the old +rule, that a man to find his life must lay it down. It was verra +simple, as I'm telling you, once I'd got the fancy for it. Laying down +a life is not such a hard business; it's only to make up your mind. +And I did indeed find life in doing it, I was care-free as few are in +those forest years." + +I think you would have agreed with me, Mr. McBirney, that the +middle-aged, lined face of my uncle's gardener was beautiful as he said +those things. "Why did you leave the forest?" I asked him then; you +may believe I'd forgotten about my bones by now. + +"Ah, you'll find it grows irksome to be coddling one's own soul +indefinitely," he confided to me with the pretty gentleness which +breaks through his Scotch manner once in a while. "One gets tired of +one's self, the spoiled body. I hungered to do something for somebody +besides Robert Halarkenden. I'd taken charge of a lad with +tuberculosis one summer up there, and I'd cured him, and I had a +thought I could do the same for other lads. I wanted to get near a +city to have that chance. I've been doing it here," and then he drew +back into his Scotchness and was suddenly cold and reserved. But I +knew that was shyness, and because he had spoken of his secret good +deeds and was uncomfortable. + +So I was not frozen. "You have!" I pounced on him. And I made him +tell me how, besides his unending gardening, besides his limitless +reading, he has been, all these years, working in the city in his few +spare hours, spending himself and his wages--wages!--and helping, +healing, giving all the time--like you---- + +I felt the most torturing envy of my life as I listened to that. _I_ +wanted to be generous and wonderful and self-forgetting, and have a +great, free heart "of spirit, fire, and dew." _I_ wanted the something +in me that made that still radiance of Robert Halarkenden's eyes. You +see? "I"--always "I." That's the way I'm made. Utterly selfish. I +can't even see heavenliness but I want to snatch it for myself. Robin +never thought once that he was getting heavenliness--he only thought +that he was giving help. Different from me. And all these years that +I have been prancing around his garden of delight in two hundred dollar +frocks--oh lots of them, for I'm rich and extravagant and I buy things +because they're pretty and not because I need them--all these years he +has been saving most of his seventy-five dollars a month, and getting +sick children sent south, and never mentioning it. Why, I own a place +south. I'm not such a beast but that--well, very likely I am a +beast--I don't know. Anyhow, I've consistently lived the life of a +selfish butterfly. And I cling to it. Despise me if you will. I do. +I like my pretty clothes and my car, and how I do love my two +saddle-horses! And I like dancing, too--I turn into a bird in the +tree-tops when I dance, with not a care, not a responsibility. I don't +want to give all that up. Have I got to? Have I _got_ to "lay down my +life" to find it? For, somehow, cling as I will to all these things, +something is pushing, pushing back of them, stronger than them. You +started it. I want the big things now--I want to be worth while. But +yet clothes and gayety and horses and automobiles--I'm glued tight in +that round. I don't believe I can tear loose. I don't believe I want +to. Do you see--I'm in torment. And--silly idiot that I am--it's not +for me to decide anything. I'm turning into a ton of stone--I'll be a +horrible unhuman monster and have to give it all up and have nothing in +return. Soon I'll lay down my life and _not_ find it. I won't. I'll +pull the trigger. Will I? Do you see how I vacillate and shiver and +boil? This is my soul I'm pouring out to you. I hope you don't mind +hot liquids. What you wrote about the actor made me sit still a whole +half-hour without stirring a finger, with your letter in my hands. It +was glorious--there's no question. You meant it to inspire me. But he +had a job. I haven't. Back to me again, you see--unending me. Do you +know about the man who used to say "Now let's go into the garden and +talk about me"? + +In any case, thank you for telling me that story. I'm glad to know +that there are people like that--several of them. I know you and Robin +anyhow, but the actor makes the world seem fuller of courage and +worth-whileness. I wish a little of it would leak into--oh, _me_ +again. _Me_ is getting "irksome," as Robin said. Remember to tell me +the boy's name. + +Yours gratefully if unsatisfactorily, + AUGUST FIRST. + +P. S.--Robert Halarkenden isn't his real name. It's his grandmother's +father's name, and Welsh. I don't know the real one. + +P. S. No. 2. If it isn't inconsistent, and if you think I'm worth +while, you might pray just a scrap too. That I may get to be like you +and Robin. + +P. S. No. 3. But you know it's the truth that I'm balky at giving up +everything in sight. I'd hate myself in bad clothes. _Can't_ I have +good ones and yet be worth while? Oh, I see. It doesn't matter if +they're good or bad so long as I don't care too much. But I do care. +Then they hamper me--eh? Is that the idea? This is the last +postscript to this letter. Write a quick one--I'm needing it. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + Sept. 23d. + +I don't think it matters what his real name is. I'd been thinking all +along, that he was just a convenient fiction, useful for an address, +and now he turns out about the realest person going. Sometimes I +imagine perhaps it will be like that when we get through with this +world and wake up into what's after--that the things we've passed over +pretty much here and been vague about will blaze out as the eternal +verities. A miracle happened that day in your September garden. +You've surely read "_Sur la Branche_"--that book written around a +woman's belief in the Providence of God? Well, that's what I mean. +Why did Halarkenden come down out of the woods into your uncle's +garden? Why did you tell him, of all people? Why was it you who got +through to the truth about him? Why did it all happen just the minute +you most needed it? Of course I believe it--every word, exactly as you +wrote it. It's impossible things like that which do happen and help us +to bear the flatly ordinary. It's the incredible things that shout +with reality. Miracles ought to be ordinary affairs--we don't believe +in them because we're always straining every nerve to keep them from +happening. We get so confused in the continual muddle of our own +mistakes that when something does come straight through, as it was +intended to do, we're like those men who heard the voice of God that +day and told one another anxiously that it thundered. + +Just think what went to make up those five minutes which gave you the +lift you had to have--that young Scotchman, beating back his devils up +in the lonely mountains all those years ago--that's when it started. +And then fetch it down to now; his leaving home forever--and his exile +in the woods--considerably different from a camping trip--the silent +days, worse--the nights. And all the time his mind going back and back +to what he'd left behind--his home, seeing every little corner of +it--you know the tortures of imagination--his friends--the girl--always +the girl--wondering why, and why, and why. Think of the days and +months without seeing one of your own kind. He had to have books; his +wild garden had to blossom. That man wasn't "coddling" his soul--he +was ripping and tearing it into shreds and then pounding it together +again with a hammer and with nails. All alone. That's the hardest, I +suppose. And then, when it was all done and the worst of the pain and +the torment passed, away up there in the forests, Robert +Halarkenden--it _is_ true, isn't it?--he rose from the dead, and being +risen, he took a hand in the big business of the world. And his latest +job is you. Has that occurred to you? I don't mean to say that he +went through all that just to be a help to you. But I do say that if +he hadn't gone through it he wouldn't have been a help to anybody. He +did it. You needed to find out about it. He told you. It got +through. Things sometimes do. + +Suppose he hadn't come down from the mountains that day--that they'd +found him there--that he hadn't had the nerve to face it? Who would +have cured the tuberculosis lad--who would have sent the children +south--who would have brushed through your uncle's garden hedge in +Forest Gate, Illinois, and told you what you needed to be told? If +_you_ should turn out not to have the nerve--if, some day you--? Then +what about _your_ job? Nobody can ever do another person's real work, +and, if it isn't done, I think it's likely we'll have to keep company +with our undone, unattempted jobs forever. Mostly rather little jobs +they are, too--so much the more shame for having dodged them. You say +that you haven't got one. Maybe not, just now. But how do you know it +isn't right around the corner? Did Halarkenden have you in mind those +years he fought with beasts? No--not you--it was the girl back in +Scotland. But here you are, getting the benefit of it. It's a small +place, the world, and we're tied and tangled together--it won't do to +cut loose. That spoils things, and it's all to come right at the last, +if we'll only let it. + +Possibly you'll think it's silly or childish, but I believe maybe this +life with its queer tasks and happenings is just the great, typical +Fairy Story, with Heaven at the last. They're true--that's why +unspoiled children love fairy stories. They begin, they march with +incident, best of all, one finds always at the end that "'They' lived +happily ever afterward." "They," is you, and I hope it's me. The +trouble with people mainly is that they're too grown up. Who knows +what children see and hear in the summer twilights, on the way home +from play? There's the big, round moon, tangled in the tree-tops--one +remembers that--and there's the night wind, idling down the dusty +street. Surely, though, more than that, but we've forgotten. Isn't +growing up largely a process of forgetting, rather than of getting, +knowledge? Of course there's cube-root and partial payments and fear +and pain and love--one does acquire that sort of thing--but doesn't it +maybe cost the losing of the right point of view? And that's too +expensive. Naturally, or, perhaps, unnaturally, we can't afford to be +caught sailing wash-tub boats across the troubled seas of orchard +grass, or watching for fairies in the moonlight, but can't we somehow +continue to want to give ourselves to similar adventure? There's a +good deal of difference, first and last, between childishness and +childlikeness--enough to make the one plain foolishness, and the other +the qualification for entrance into the Kingdom of God. I'd rather +have let cube-root go and have kept more of my imagination. The other +day, in the middle of a catechism I was holding in the parish school, a +small youngster rose to his feet and solemnly assured the company +present that "the pickshers of God in the church" were "all wrong." +Naturally we argued, which was a mistake. He got me. "God," said he, +"is a Spirit, and spirits don't look like those colored pickshers in +the windows." You see, he knew. He still remembers. But the higher +mathematics and a few brisk sins will assist him to forget. Too bad. +Still, when we get back home again surely it will all "come back" like +a forgotten language. + +Meantime there are two hundred dollar frocks to consider, as well as +miracles in gardens. And that's all right, so long as the frocks are +worthy the background, which I venture to suppose, of course, they are. +The subject of clothes interests me a good deal just now, as I'm +engaged in living on my salary. It's all a question of what one can +afford, financially and spiritually. I gather you're not a bankrupt +either way. I don't recall anything in Holy Writ that seems to require +dowdiness as necessary to salvation. If one's got money it's +fortunate--if money's got one--that's different. Which is my +platitudinous way of agreeing with the last postscript of your letter. +I know you're getting to look at things properly again. To lose one's +life certainly does not mean to kill it, and to give it away one +needn't fling it to the dogs. And when you do connect with your job +you'll recognize it and you'll know how to do it. I'd like to watch +you. Once get your imagination going properly again and the days are +rose and gold. Oh, not all of them--but a good many--enough. + +I nearly forgot about Theodore. There's humor for you--Theodore, "The +Gift of God"--that's the name they gave him sixteen good years ago +somewhere over in Scotland as you'd have guessed from the rest of it, +which is Alan McGregor. He is an orphan, is Theodore, but he doesn't +wear the uniform of the Orphans' Home--far from it! He wears soft +raiment and lives in kings' houses, or what amounts to the same thing. +I am engaged in exorcising the devil out of him and in teaching him +enough Latin to get into a decent school at the earliest instant. The +Latin goes well--three nights a week from eight to half-past nine. But +the devil takes advantage of every one of those nine points of law +which possession is said to give, and doesn't go at all. I am the only +living person who knows how to define "charm." Charm is the most +conspicuous attribute of the devil, and young McGregor has got it. +Likewise other qualities, the ones, for instance, which make his name +so rather awfully funny. You'd have to know Theodore to appreciate +just how funny. + +It was the rector who "wished" him on to me. The rector is one of his +guardians, and being Theodore's guardian is a business which requires +at least one undersecretary, and I'm that. Theodore and hot water have +the strongest affinity known to psychological chemistry. So I'm kept +busy. But it's all the keenest sport you can imagine, and it's going +to be tremendously worth while if I can make a success of it. He's the +right kind of bad, and he's getting ready to grow into a great, big, +straight out-and-outer, with a mind like lightning and a heart like one +of the sons of God. But that kind is always the worst risk. He has +the weapons to get him through the fight with splendor, only they're +every one two-edged, and you have to be careful with swords that cut +both ways. His father was an inventor genius and there are bales of +money and already it has begun to press down on him a little. Still, +that may be the exact right thing. He has talked about it once or +twice as a nice boy would. There's a place on the other side which +comes to him, with factories and such things. He wanted to know +wouldn't it be his business to see that the working people were +properly looked after; I gathered he's been reading books, trying to +find out. And then he got suddenly shy and very bright red as to the +face, and cleared out. So far, so good, but it isn't far enough. Not +yet. + +That's my present job. You'll get yours. + +Wasn't it wonderful--I mean Halarkenden! When I think of him and then +of myself it gives me a good deal of a jounce. It surprises me that I +ever had the conceit to think I could handle this parson proposition. +Lately I've not been over-cheerful about it. That's one reason why +your letter did me good. + +I hear the Gift of God coming up the stairs, and I've neglected to look +up the Future Periphrastic Conjugation and that ticklish difference +between the Gerund and the Gerundive, which is vital. + +One thing more--your second postscript. You didn't suppose that I +don't, did you? Only, not like me! + +GEOFFREY McBIRNEY. + + +The man took the letter down the three flights to the post-box at the +entrance of the Parish House and dropped it, with a certain +deliberation, as if he were speaking to someone whom he cared for, with +a certain hesitation, as if he were not sure that he had spoken well, +into the box. As he mounted the stairs again his springing gait was +slower than usual. It was very late, but he drew a long chair close +and poked the hard-coal fire till it glowed to him like a bed of +jewels, all alive and stirred to their hot hearts; opals and topazes +and rubies and cairngorms and the souls of blue sapphires and purple +amethysts playing ghostly over the rest. He dropped into the chair and +the tall, black-clothed figure fell into lax lines; his long fingers, +the fingers of an artist, a musician, lay on the arms of the chair +limply as if disconnected from any central power; there was surely +despair, hopelessness, in the man's attitude. His gray eyes glowed +from under the straight black brows with much of the hidden flame, the +smouldering intensity of the coals at which he gazed. He sat so +perhaps half an hour, staring moodily at the orange heart of the fire. +Then suddenly, with a smothered half-syllable, with a hand thrown out +impatiently, he was on his feet with a bound, and with that his arms +were against the tall mantel and his head dropped in them, and he was +gazing down so and talking aloud, rapidly, disjointedly, out of his +loneliness, to his friend, the red fire. "How can I--how dare I? A +square peg in a round hole--and the extra corners all weakness and +wickedness. Selfishness--incompetence--I to set up to do the Lord's +special work! I to preach to others--If it were not blasphemy it would +be a joke--a ghastly joke. I can't go on--I have to pull out. +Yet--how can I? They'll think--people will think--oh what _does_ it +matter what people will think? Only--if it hurt the rector--if it hurt +the work? And Theodore--but--someone else would do him--more good than +I can. There ought to be--an older man--to belong. Surely God will +look after His gift--His gift!" The quick lightning of the brilliant +eyes, which in this man often took the place of a smile, flashed; then +the changing face was suddenly grim with a wrenching feeling, yet +bright with a wind of tenderness not to be held back. The soul came +out of hiding and wrote itself on the muscles of the face. +"She--that's it--that's the gist of it--fool that I am. To think--to +dream--to dare to hope. But I _don't_ hope," he brought out savagely, +and flung his shoulders straight and caught the wooden shelf with a +grip. "I don't hope--I just"--the voice dropped, and his head fell on +his arms again. "I won't say it. I'm not utterly mad yet." He picked +up the poker and stirred the fire, and put on coal from a scuttle, and +went and sat down again in the chair. "Something has got to be +decided," he spoke again to the coals in the grate. "I've got to know +if I ought to stay at this job, or if it's an impertinence." For +minutes then he was silent, intent, it seemed, on the fire. Then again +he spoke in the low, clear voice whose simplicity, whose purity +reached, though he did not know it, the inmost hearts of the people to +whom he preached. "I will make a test of her," he said, telling the +fire his decision. "If she is safe and wins through to the real +things, I'll believe that I've been let do that, and that I'm fit for +work. If she doesn't--if I can't pull off that one job which is so +distinctly put up to me--I'll leave." With a swing he had put out the +lights in the big, bare living-room and gone into the bedroom beyond. +He tried to sleep, but the tortured nerves, the nerves of a high-bred +race-horse, eager, ever ready for action, would not be quiet. The +great, rich city, the great poverty-stricken masses seething through +it, the rushing, grinding work of the huge parish, had eaten into his +youth and strength enormously already in six months. He had given +himself right and left, suffered with the suffering, as no human being +can and keep balance, till now he was, unknowingly, at the edge of a +breakdown. And the distrust of his own fitness, the forgetfulness +that, under one's own limitations, is an unlimited reserve which is the +only hope of any of us in any real work; this was the form of the +retort of his overwrought nerves. Yet at last he slept. + +Meantime as he slept the hours crept away and it was morning and an +early postman came and opened the box with a rattling key and took out +three letters which the deaconess had sent to her scattered family, and +one, oddly written, which the janitor had executed for his mother in +Italy, and the letter to the girl. From hand to hand it sped, and +away, and was hidden in a sack in a long mail-train, and at last, +Robert Halarkenden, on the 25th of September, came down the garden +path, and the girl, reading in the wild garden, laid aside her book and +watched him as he came, and thought how familiar and pleasant a sight +was the gaunt, tall figure, pausing on the gravelled walk to touch a +blossom, to lift a fallen branch, as lovingly as a father would care +for his children. "A letter, lassie," Robert Halarkenden said, and +held out the thick envelope; and then did an extraordinary thing for +Robert Halarkenden. He looked at the address in the unmistakable, big, +black writing and looked at the girl and stood a moment, with a +question in his eyes. The girl flushed. "Checkmate in six moves" was +quite enough to say to this girl; one did not have to play the game +brutally to a finish. + +She laughed then. "I knew you must have wondered," she said, and with +that she told the story of the letters. + +"It's no wrong," Robert Halarkenden considered. + +The girl jumped to her answer. "Wrong!" she cried, "I should say not. +It's salvation--hope--life. Maybe all that; at the least it's the +powers of good, fighting for me. Something of the sort--I don't know," +she finished lamely. With that she was deep in her letter and Robert +Halarkenden had moved a few yards and was tending a shrub that seemed +to need nursing. + + +October the Sixth. + +MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY-- + +"The night wind idling down the dusty street"--You do make patterns out +of the dictionary which please me. But I know that irritates you, for +words are not what you are paying attention to--of course--if they +were, yours wouldn't be so wonderful. It's the wind of the spirit that +blows them into beautiful shapes for you, I suppose. To let that go, +for it's immaterial--you think I might have a job? I? That I might do +a real thing for anybody ever? If you only knew me. If you only could +see the mountains of whipped cream and Maraschino cherries, the cliffs +of French clothes and automobiles, the morasses of afternoon teas and +dances and calls and luxury in general that lie between me and any +usefulness. It's the maddest dream that I, with my bones and my money +and my bringing up, all my crippling ailments, could ever, _ever_ climb +those mountains and cliffs and wade through those bogs. It's mad, I +say, you visionary, you man on the other side of all that, who are +living, who are doing things. I never can--I never can. And yet, it's +so terrible, it's so horrible, so frightening, so desperate, sometimes, +to be drowning in luxury. I woke in the night last night and before my +eyes had opened I had flung out my hand and cried out loud in the dark: +"What shall I do with my life--Oh what shall I do with my life?" And +it isn't just me--though that's the burning, close question to my +simple selfishness. But it's a lot of women--a lot. We're waking all +over the world. We want to help, to be worth while; to help, to count. +It won't do much longer to know French and Italian and play middling +tennis and be on the Altar Society. You know what I mean. All +that--yes--but beyond that the power which a real person carries into +all that to make it big. The stronger you are the better your work is. +I want to be strong, to be useful, to touch things with a personality +which will move them, make them go, widen them. How? How can I? What +can I do, ever? Oh what _can_ I do--_what_ can I do--with my life! I +thought that day in August that it was only my illness, and my tie to +an unloved man, but it's more than that. You have broadened the field +of my longing, my restlessness, till it covers--everything. Help me +then, for you have waked me to this want, question, agony. It's not +only if I may kill my life--it's what I can do if I don't kill it. +What can I do? Do you feel how that's a sharp, vital question to me? +It's out of the deep I'm calling to you--do you know that? And it's my +voice, but it's the voice of thousands--_now_ you're in trouble. Now +you wish you'd let me alone, for here we are at the woman question! I +can see you shy at that. But I'm not going to pin you, for you only +contracted to help me; I'll shake off the other thousands for the +present. And, anyhow, can you help me? Oh, you have--you've delayed +my--crime, I suppose it is. You've given me glimpses of vistas; you've +set me reading books; widened every sort of horizon; you've even made +me dream of a vague, possible work, for me. Yes, I've been dreaming +that; a specific thing which I might do, even I, if I could cancel some +house-parties, and a trip to France, and the hunting. But even if I +could possibly give up those things, there's Uncle Ted. He's not well, +and my dream would involve leaving him. And I'm all he has. We two +are startlingly alone. After all, you see, it's a dream; I'm not big +enough to do more than that--dream idly. Robin has a queer scheme just +now. There's a bone-ologist here, the most famous one of the planet, +exported from France, to cure the small son of one of the trillionaires +with which this place reeks, and Robin insists that I see that +bone-ologist about my bones. It's unpleasant, and I hate doctors and I +don't know if I will. But Robin is very firm and insists on my telling +Uncle Ted otherwise. I can't bother Uncle Ted. So I may do it. Yet, +if the great man pronounced, as he would, that the other doctors were +right, it would be almost going through the first hideous shock over +again. So I may _not_ do it. I must stop writing. I have a guest and +must do a party for her. She's a California heiress--oh fabulously +rich--much richer than I. With splendid bones. I gave her a dance +last night and this morning she's off on my best hunter with my +fiance--save the mark! He admires her, and she certainly is a nice +girl, and lovely to look at, with eyes like those young mediaeval, +brainless Madonnas. I'm so glad to have someone else play with +him--with Alec. I dread him so. I hate, I _hate_ to let him--kiss me. +There. If you were a real man I couldn't have exploded into that. +You're only the spirit of a thunder-storm, you know; I'll never see you +again on earth; I can say anything. I do say anything, don't I? I can +say--I do say--that you have dragged me from the bottomless pit; that +if any good comes of me it is your good--that you--being a shadow, a +memory, an incident--are yet the central figure of this world to me. +If I fall back into the pit, that is not your affair--mine, mine only. +The light that shines around you for me is the only kindly light that +may save me. But it may not. I may fall back. I have the toy in the +drawer yet--covered with letters. Good-by--I am yours always, + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + October 8th. + +You'll never see me again? You'll see me in three days unless you stop +me with a telegram. + +I have a curious feeling that all this has happened before--my sitting +here in front of the fire writing to you at one o'clock in the morning. +They say it's one part of the brain working a shade ahead of the rest. +I don't believe that. I do not believe my brain is working at all. +It's spinning around. For days I've been living in the Fourth +Dimension--something like that. It changes the values to have a new +universe whirl up around one. New heavens and a new earth--that's it. +I have given up trying to analyze it. Even if I didn't want to tell +you I couldn't help it. I'm beyond that now, and--helpless. I never +dreamed of its being like this. I never thought much about it, except +vaguely, as anybody does, and here it's come and snatched away the +world. + +I don't know how this is going to get itself said. But I can't stop +it. That frightens me, rather; I've been used to ordering myself about +or, at least, to feeling that I could. But that seems to be over. I +don't pretend that I didn't foresee it, or rather that I didn't +recognize it right at the beginning. What I did was to put off +reckoning with it. + +I see that I'm going to say things wrong. You have got to overlook +that; I can't help it. I told you my brain wasn't working. For days +I've been in a maze. Then your letter came, late this afternoon, and +that settled it. Do you know what you said? Do you? You said: "If +you were a real man, I wouldn't have exploded like this." A real +man--what do you _think_ I am? That's what I want to know. You'll +find out I'm real enough before you and I are done. Do you suppose +that I have been reading your letters all these weeks--those letters in +which you said yourself you put your soul--as though they were stock +quotations? Did you think you were a numbered "case," that I was +keeping notes about you in that neat filing-cabinet down in the office? +Well, it hasn't been exactly that way. + +Do you remember that day you were here? How it rained--how dark it +was? Why, I've never seen you, really. I'm always trying to imagine +your face. + +I've got to talk to you--some things can't be written. You won't stop +me. Do you suppose you can? You've got to give me a chance to +talk--that's only square. No, I don't mean all that. I don't quite +know what I'm saying. I mean, you will let me come, won't you? I'll +go away again after; you needn't be afraid. That's fair, isn't it? + +You see, it's been strange from the start, and so quick. You, in the +middle of the storm that day--the things you said--the fearful tangle +you were in. And then the letters--the wonderful letters! And we +thought we were keeping it all impersonal. You, with your blazing +individuality--you, impersonal! I can't imagine your face, but you've +stripped the masks and conventions off your soul for me--I've looked at +that. I couldn't help it, could I? I couldn't stop. I can't now. I +can't look at anything else. There isn't anything else--it fills my +world--it's blotted out what used to be reality. + +You're hundreds of miles away--what are you doing? Sitting, with your +white dress a rosy blur in the lamplight, reading, thinking, +afraid--frightened at the doctors--shrinking at the thought of that +damned, pawing beast? We'll drop that last--this isn't the time for +that--not yet. Miles away you are--and yet you're here--the real you +that you've sent me in the letters. Always you are here. I listen to +your voice--I've got that--your voice, singing through my days--here in +the silence and the firelight, outside in the night under the stars, +always, everywhere, I hear you--calling me. + +You see, my head's gone. Don't think though, that I don't know the +risk this is. But there isn't any other way. Those four weeks you +didn't write, when I thought you had gone under--that was when I began +to see how it was with me. Since then I've gone on, living on your +letters, until now I can't imagine living without them--and more. And +yet I know this may be the end. That's the risk. But I can't go on +like that any more. It's everything now, or nothing. I want to know +what you are going to do about it. What are you thinking--what must +you think--what will you say to me when I see you in your still garden +of miracles? I've got to know. If you meant it--you said I was the +centre of your world--it can't be true that you meant that. I the +centre of your great, clean, wind-swept world of hill-tops and of +visions? I, who haven't got the decent strength to hold my tongue, and +keep my hands. But you did say that--you did! When I come, will you +say it to me again, out loud, that? I can't imagine it--such a thing +couldn't happen to me. But if you shouldn't--if you should tell me not +to come--no, I can't face that. Where is the solution? I see +perfectly that you can't care--why should you?--I see also that you +must be made to. That's just it. I know what I must have and that I +can never have it. No, that isn't so. I know that I shall come and +take you away from what you fear and hate, out of the world we both +know is not real, into reality. I shall tell you why I want you, why +you must come. You will listen and you will answer. You will say why +it's madness and insanity. I shall have to hear all your obvious +reasons, but I shall know that you know they are lies--Do you think--do +you dream, that they can stand between me and you? You can't stop me. +Because I have seen your soul--you said so--you've held it out, in your +two hands, for me to look at. You can't keep me away from you. I know +how you'll fight against it. You won't win--don't count on it. + +This isn't insolence--it's the thing that's got me. I can't help it. +A man is that way. I don't half know what I've said; I don't dare read +it. You have got to make it out yourself, somehow. + +You've asked me questions. You're troubled, frightened--I know, +it's--hell. Do you think I can sit here any longer and let you go +through that alone? I've been over the whole thing--I've done nothing +else, and out of the maze of it all I'm forced to come to this. It's +the old way and the only one--the answer to it all. What can you do +with your life--your life that is going to be, that is now, all +glorious with loveliness and light? Give it away--that's it--give it +to me, and then we two will set it to music and send it singing through +the world. The old way. You to come home to when the day is +done--your face, your hands, your eyes---- + +You'll have to overlook this. It's mad to go on. It's mad anyway. If +you knew how I've lied to myself, how I've struggled and fought and +twisted to keep this back from you! And here it is, confused and +grotesque and contradictory and wrong. If I could look at you and say +it, I could get it right. If I could look at you--if I could see you. +Give me a chance. Then I'll go away again--if you say so. I had to +give you warning--it didn't seem square not. And I've bungled it like +this! I tell you I can't help it. It's what you've done to me. I +tried to spare you this, but I waited too long--now it's almighty. + +Give me my man's chance--Oh I know I'm not worth it--who is? +Afterwards-- + +G. McB. + + +_October 10th_. + +Telegram received by the Reverend Geoffrey McBirney, St. Andrews Parish +House, Warchester: + +You must not come. Leaving Forest Gate. Sailing for Germany Saturday. +Letter. + + AUGUST FIRST. + + +The son of the under-gardener was a steady ten-year-old three hundred +and sixty-four days of the year, and his Scottish blood commended him +to Robert Halarkenden and inspired a confidence not justified on the +three hundred and sixty-fifth day. + +"Angus," said Halarkenden, regarding the boy with a blue glance like a +blow, "the young mistress wishes this letter posted to catch the noon +train. The master has sent for me and I canna take it. You will"--the +bony hand fished in the deep pocket and brought out a nickel--"you will +hurry with this letter and post it immediately." "Yes, sir," said +Angus, and Robert Halarkenden turned to go to the master of the great +house, ill in his great room, with no doubt about the United States +mails. While Angus, being in the power of the three hundred and +sixty-fifth day, trotted demurely into the meshes of Fate. + +Fate was posing as another lad, a lad of charm and adventure. "C'm on, +Ang," proposed Fate in nasal American; "Evans's chauffeur's havin' a +rooster-fight in the garage. Hurry up--c'm on--lots of fun." And +while Angus, stirred by the prospect, struggled with a Scotch +conscience, the footman from next door sauntered up, a good-natured +youth, and, stopping, caught the question. + +"Get along to your chicken-fight," he adjured Angus, and took the +letter from his hand. "I'm on my way to the post-office now. I'll +mail it as good as you, ain't it?" And Angus fled up the street along +with Fate. While Tom Mullins thrust the letter casually into a +coat-pocket and dropped in to see his best girl, and, in a bit of +horse-play with that lady, lost the letter. "Sure, I mailed it," he +answered Angus's inquiries that afternoon, and Angus passed along the +assurance, not going into details, and every one concerned was +satisfied. + +While, in a Parish House many miles down the railed roads that measure +the country, a man waited. And waited, ever with a sicker +restlessness, a more unendurable longing. Saturday came, and the man +hoped, till the hour for any boat's sailing was long past, for a +letter, another telegram. Then, "She has had it mailed after she +left," he reasoned, and all of Monday and Tuesday he waited and watched +and invented reasons why it might come to-morrow or even later--even +from the other side--from Germany. Two weeks, three, and then four, he +held to varying fictions about the letter, which Arline Baker, the lady +of Tom Mullins's heart, had picked up from the floor that day in +October and tucked into a bureau drawer to give to Tom--tucked under a +summer blouse. And the weather had turned chilly, helping along Fate +as weather will at times, and the summer blouse had not been worn, and +the letter had been forgotten. + +Then there came a day when he took measures with himself, because +suspense and misery were eating his strength. He faced the situation; +he had poured his heart, keeping back nothing, at her feet. And she +had not answered, except with a few words of a telegram. He knew, by +that, that she had got his letter, the first love-letter of his life. +But she had not cared enough to answer it. Or else, his faith in her +argued, something had happened, there had been some unimaginable reason +to prevent her answering. That the letter had been lost was so +commonplace a solution that it did not occur to him. One does not +think of mice setting off gunpowder magazines. At all events he was +facing a stone wall; there was no further step to take; she must be in +Germany; he did not know her address; if he did, how could he write +again? A man may not hound a woman with his love. Yet he was all but +mad with anxiety about her, beyond this other suffering. Why had she +suddenly gone to Germany? What did that mean? In his black struggles +for enlightenment, he believed sometimes that, in a fantastic attack of +_noblesse oblige_, she had married the other man and gone to Germany +with him. That thought drove him near insanity. So he gathered up, +alone before his fire, all these imaginings and doubts, and sat with +them into the night, and made a packet of them, and locked them away, +as well as he might, into a chamber of his memory. And the next day he +flung himself into his work as he had not been able ever to do before; +he made it his world, and resolutely shut out the buoyant voice and the +personality so intimately known, so unknown. He tried to be so tired, +at night, that he could not think of her; and he succeeded far enough +to make living a possibility, which is all that any of us can do +sometimes. Often the thought of her, of her words, of her letters, of +the gay voice telling of a hideous future, stabbed him suddenly in the +night, in the crowded day. But he put it aside with a mighty effort +each time, and each time gained control. + +And then it was May, and in June he was to have his vacation. And once +more the doubt of his fitness for his work was upon him. The stress of +the tremendous gait of the big parish, and the way he had thrown his +strength by handfuls into the work, had told. If a healthy and happy +man uses brain and heart and body carefully it is perhaps true that he +cannot overwork. But if a high-strung man gives himself out all day +long, every day, recklessly, and is at the same time under a mental +strain, he is likely to be ill. Geoffrey McBirney was close to an +illness; his attitude toward life was warped; he was reasoning that he +had made the girl a test case and that the case had failed; that it was +now his duty to stand by the test and give up his work. And then, one +day, the letter came. The weather had turned warm in Forest Gate and +Arline Baker had got out her summer blouses. + + +October 10th [it was dated]. + +This morning, after I had read your letter it was as if I were being +beaten to earth by alternate blows, like thunder, like lightning, +fierce and beautiful and terrible, of joy and of grief. + +For I care--I care--I can't wait to tell you--I'm so glad, so +triumphant, so wretched that I care--that it's in me to care, +desperately, as much as any woman or man since the foundation of the +world. It's in me--once you said it wasn't--and you have brought it to +life, and I care--I love you. I want to let you come so that it left +me blind and shaking to send that telegram. But there isn't any +question. If I let you come I would be wicked. I, with my handful of +broken life, to let you manacle your splendid years to a lump of stone? +Could you think I would do that? Don't you see that, because I care, +I'm so much more eager not to let you? I'm selfish and my first answer +to that letter was a rush of happiness. I forgot there was anything in +time or space except the flood which carried me out on a sea of just +you--the sweeping, overwhelming many waters of--you. I wonder if you'd +think me brazen if I told you how it seemed? As if your arms were +around me, and the world reeling. Some of those clever psychologists, +James or Lodge, I can't remember who, have a theory that to higher +beings the past and present and future are all one; no divisions in +eternity. It seemed like that. Questions and life and right and wrong +all dissolved in the white heat of one fact. I didn't see or hear or +know. I put my head on the table, on your writing, in my locked room, +and simply felt--your arms. + +If this were to be a happy love-affair I couldn't write this; I would +have decent reserve--I hope; I would wait, maybe, and let you find out +things slowly. But there isn't time--oh, there isn't any time. I have +to tell you now because this is the last. You can't write again; I +won't let you throw away your life; I'm not worth much, generally +speaking, but I'm worth your salvation just now if I have the strength +to give it to you. And I'm staggering under the effort, but I'm going +to give it to you. I'm going to keep you away. + +It was realizing that I must do this which beat me to earth with those +terrible, bright, sharp swords. You see I'm starting off suddenly with +Uncle Ted. He is very ill, with heart trouble, and the doctors think +his chance is to get to Nauheim at once. It was decided last night, +and we had passage engaged for Saturday within an hour, and then this +morning the letter came. As soon as I could pull myself together a +little I began to see how things were, and it looked to me as if +somebody--God maybe--had put down a specific hand to punish my useless +life and arrange your salvation. My going away is the means He is +using. + +For you are such a headstrong unknown quantity, that if I had seen you, +I couldn't have held you, and how could I have fought the exquisite +sweetness and glamour that is through even your written words, that +would make me wax in your hands, if you had been here and I had heard +your voice and seen your eyes and felt your touch; oh, I would have +done it--I _must_ do it--but it would have killed me I think. It's +more possible this way. + +For I'm going indefinitely and all I have to do is to suppress my +address. Just that. You can't find it out, for Robin is going away +too; he is to do some work of mine while I am gone; and you can't come +here and inquire for "August First," can you, now? So this is all--the +end. Suddenly I feel inadequate and leaden. It is all over--the one +chance for real happiness which I have had in my butterfly days--over. +But you have changed earth and heaven--I want you to know it. I can't +even now say that if Uncle Ted shouldn't need me; if the hideous, +creeping monster should begin its work visibly on me, that I might not +some day use the pistol. But I do say that because of you I will try +to make any living that I may do count for something, for somebody. I +am trying. You are to know about that in time. + +And now the color is going out of my life--you are going. Some day you +will care for some one else more than you think now you care for me. +I'm leaving you free for that--but it's all I can do. Why must my life +be wreck and suffering? Why may I not have the common happinesses? +Why may I not love you--be there for you "at the end of the day"? The +blows are raining hard; I'm beaten close to earth. Has God forsaken +me? I can only cling tight to the thin line of my duty to Uncle Ted; I +can't see any further than that. Good-by. + +AUGUST FIRST. + + +The man shook as if in an ague. He laid the letter on a table and +fastened it open with weights so that the May breeze, frolicking +through the top of the Parish House, might not blow it away. Standing +over it, bending to it, sitting down, he read it and re-read it, and +paced the room and came back and bent over it. He groaned as he looked +at the date. Seven months ago if he had had it--what could have held +him? She loved him--what on earth could have kept him from her, +knowing that? Not illness nor oceans or her will. No, not her will, +if she cared; and she had said it. He would have swept down her will +like a tidal wave, knowing that. + +Seven months ago! He would have followed her to Germany. He laughed +at the thought that she believed herself hidden from him. The world +was not big enough to hide her. What was a trip to Germany--to +Madagascar? But now--where might she not be--what might not have +happened? She might be dead. Worse--and this thought stopped his +pulse--she might be married. + +That was the big, underlying terror of his mind. In his restless +pacing he stopped suddenly as if frozen. His brain was working this +way and that, searching for light. In a moment he knew what he would +do. He dashed down the familiar steep stairs; in four minutes more he +had raced across the street to the rectory, and brought up, breathless, +in the rector's study. + +"What's the matter--a train to catch?" the rector demanded, regarding +him. + +"Just that, doctor. Could I be spared for three days?" + +The rector had not failed to have his theories about this brilliant, +hard-working, unaccountable, highly useful subaltern of his. His heart +had one of its warmest spots for McBirney. Something was wrong with +him, it had been evident for months; one must help him in the dark if +better could not be done. + +"Surely," said the rector. + +There was a fast train west in an hour; the man and his bag were on it, +and twenty-four hours later he was stumbling off a car at the solid, +vine-covered, red brick station at Forest Gate. An inquiry or two, and +then he had crossed the wide, short street, the single business street +of the rich suburb, facing the railway and the station, and was in the +post-office. He asked about one Robert Halarkenden. The postmaster +regarded him suspiciously. His affair was to sort letters, not to +answer questions. He did the first badly; he did not mean to do the +other at all. + +"No such person ever been in town," he answered coldly, after a +moment's staring. The man who had hurried a thousand miles to ask the +question, set his bag on the floor and faced the postmaster grimly. + +"He must have been," he stated. "I sent a lot of letters to him last +year, and they reached him." + +"Oh--last year," the official answered stonily. "He might 'a' been +here last year. I only came January." And he turned with insulted +gloom to his labors. + +McBirney leaned as far as he might into the little window. "Look +here," he adjured the man inside, "do be a Christian about this. I've +come from the East, a thousand miles, to find Halarkenden, and I know +he was here seven months ago. It's awfully important. Won't you treat +me like a white man and help me a little?" + +Few people ever resisted Geoffrey McBirney when he pleaded with them. +The stolid potentate turned back wondering, and did not know that what +he felt stirring the dried veins within him was charm. "Why, sure," he +answered slowly, astonished at his own words, "I'll help you if I can. +Glad t' help anybody." + +There was a cock-sure assistant in the back of the dirty sanctum, and +to him the friend of mankind applied. + +"Halarkenden--Robert," the assistant snapped out. "'Course. I +remember. Gardener up to the Edward Reidses," and McBirney thrilled as +if an event had happened. "Uncle Ted" was "the Edward Reidses." It +might be her name--Reid. + +"He went away six or seven months ago, I think," McBirney suggested, +breathing a bit fast. "I thought he might be back by now." + +"Nawp," said the cock-sure one. "I remember. 'Course. Family broke +Up. Old man died." + +"No, he didn't," the parson interrupted tartly. "He went to Germany." + +"Aw well, then, 'f you know mor'n I do, maybe he did go to Germany. +Anyhow, the girl got married. And Halarkenden, he ain't been around +since. Leastaways, ain't had no letters for him." There was an undue +silence, it appeared to the officials inside the window. "That all?" +demanded Cocksure, thirsting to get back to work. + +"What 'girl' do you speak of--who was married?" McBirney asked slowly. + +"Old man's niece. Miss----" + +But the name never got out. McBirney cut across the nasal speech. He +would not learn that name in this way. "That's all," he said quickly. +"Thank you. Good-by." + +So Geoffrey McBirney went back to St. Andrews. And the last state of +him was worse than the first. + + +WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House, + May 26th. + +RICHARD MARSTON, ESQ. + C/r Marston & Brooks, Consulting Engineers, + Boston. + +DEAR DICK-- + +Of course I'll go, unless something happens, as per usual. I've got +the last three weeks of June, and nowhere in particular to waste them +at. Shall I come to Boston, or where do we meet? Let me know when +we're to start; likewise what I am to bring. Do you take a trunk, or +do we send the things ahead by express? I've never been on a long +motor trip before. I'm mighty glad to go; it's just what I would have +wanted to do, if I'd wanted to do anything. Doesn't sound eager, does +it? What I mean is, it will be out-of-doors and I need that a good +deal; and it will be with you, which I need more. + +The chances are you won't find me gay. It's been a rotten winter, +mostly, and it's left me not up to much. Not up to anything, in fact. +Things have happened, and the bottom dropped out last autumn. + +The fact is, I'm going to clear out. Try something else. I want to +talk to you about that--I mean about the new job. I'd thought, maybe, +of a school up in the country. I like youngsters. You remember that +Scotch lad--the one with the money? I wrote you--I tutored him in +Latin. That's where I got the notion. I had luck with him, And I've +missed him a lot since. So maybe that's the thing. I don't know. +We'll talk. Anyhow, this is ended. + +I never let out what I thought about your being so decent, that night +at college, when I said I was going to be a parson; the chances are I +never will. But that's largely why I'm telling you this. I'm flunking +my job--I have flunked it; the letter to the rector is written--he's to +get it at the end of his holiday. I think I've stopped caring what +other people will say, but I hate to hurt him. But you see, I thought +it through, and it's the only thing to do--just to get out. I picked +one definite job, for a sort of test, and it fell through. That +settled it. + +I wanted to tell you for old sake's sake. Besides, I somehow needed to +have you know. And so now I'm going motoring with you. Write me about +the trunk, and about when and where. + +As ever, + MAC. + +P. S. We needn't see people, need we? + + +The automobile with the two young men in the front seat sped smoothly +over June roads. For a week they had been covering ground day after +day; to-night they were due at Dick Marston's cousin's country house to +stop for three days before the return trip through the mountains. + +"Dick," reflected Geoffrey McBirney aloud, "consider again about +dropping me in Boston. I'll be as much good at a house-party as a +crape veil at a dance. You're an awful ass to take me." + +"That's up to me," remarked Dick. "Get your feet out of the gears, +will you? The Emorys are keen for you and I said I'd bring you, and I +will if I have to do it by the scruff of the neck. Don Emory is away +but will be back to-morrow." + +"Splendid!" said McBirney, and then, "I won't kick and scream, you +know. I'll merely whine and sulk," he went on consideringly. "I'll +hate it, and I'll be ugly-tempered, and they'll detest me. Up to you, +however." + +"It is," responded Marston, and no more was said. So that at twilight +they were speeding down the long, empty ocean drive with good salt air +in their faces, and lights of cottages spotting the opal night with +orange blurs. It was a large, gay house-party, and the person who had +been called, it was told from one to another, "the young Phillips +Brooks," a person who brought among them certain piquant qualities, was +a lion ready to their hand. With the general friendliness of a good +man of the world, there was something beyond; there was reality in the +friendliness, yet impersonality--a detached attitude; the man had no +axes to grind for himself; one felt at every turn that this important +universe of the _haute monde_ was unimportant to him. Through his +civility there was an outcropping of savage honesty which made the +house-party sit up straight, more than once. Emerson says, in a +better-made sentence, that the world is at the feet of him who does not +want it. Geoffrey McBirney had taken a long jump, years back, and +cleared the childishness, lifelong in most of us, of wanting the world. +There is an attraction in a person who has done this and yet has kept a +love of humanity. Witness St. Francis of Assisi and other notables of +his ilk. + +The people at Sea-Acres felt the attraction and tried to lionize the +dark, tall parson with the glowing, indifferent eyes. But the lion +would not roar and gambol; the lion was a reserved beast, it seemed, +with a suggestion of unbelievable, yet genuine, distaste under +attentions. That point was alluring. One tried harder to soften a +brute so worth while, so difficult. Three or four girls tried. The +lion was outwardly a gentle lion, pleasant when cornered, but seldom +cornered. He managed to get off on a long walk alone when Angela, of +nineteen, meant him to have played tennis, on the second day. + +The June afternoon was softening to a rosy dimness as he came in, very +tired physically, hot and grimy, and sick of soul. "Glory be, +tea-time's over, and they'll be dressing for dinner," he murmured, and +turned a corner on eight of "them." A glance at the gay group showed +two or three new faces. More guests! McBirney set his teeth. But he +had no space to take note of the arrivals, for Angela spoke. + +"Just in time, Mr. McBirney," Angela greeted him. "Don Emory's +coming--see!" A car was spinning up the drive. + +"Is he?" he answered perfunctorily. And the two words were clipped +from history even as they were spoken, by a cry that rang from the +group of people. Tod Winthrop ought to have been in bed. It was +six-thirty, and he was four years old, but his mother had forgotten +him, and his nurse had a weakness for the Emorys' second man; it was +also certain that if a storm-centre could be found, he would be its +nucleus. Out he tumbled from the shrubbery, exactly in front of the +incoming automobile, as unpleasant a spoiled infant as could be +imagined, yet a human being with a life to save. McBirney, standing in +the drive, whirled, saw the small figure, ten feet down the drive, the +machine close upon it; there was time for a man to spring aside; there +was no time to rescue a child. A lightning wave of repulsion flooded +him. "Have I got to throw myself down there and get maimed--for a fool +child whom everybody detests?" Without words the thought flooded him, +and then in a strong defiance, the utter honesty of his soul caught +him. "I won't! I won't!" he shouted, and was conscious of the clamor +of many voices, of a rushing movement, of a man's scream across the +tumult: "It's too late--for God's sake _don't_!" + +It was a day later when he opened his eyes. Dick Marston sat there. + +"Shut up," ordered Dick. + +"I haven't----" + +"No, and you won't--you're not to talk. Shut up. That's what you're +to do." + +The eyes closed; he was inadequate to argument. In five minutes they +opened again. + +"None of your eloquence now," warned Dick. + +"One thing----" + +"No," firmly. + +"But, Dick, it's torturing me. Was the child killed?" + +Dick Marston's face looked curious. "Great Scott! don't you know what +you----" + +McBirney groaned inwardly. "Yes, I know. I was a coward. But I've +got to know if--the kid--was killed." + +"Coward!" gasped Dick--and Geoffrey put out his shaking hand. + +"In mercy, Dick"--he was catching his breath, flushing, laboring with +each word--"don't--talk about--Was the boy--killed?" + +"Killed, no, sound as a nut--but you----" + +"That's all," said McBirney, and his eyes closed, and he turned his +face to the wall. But he did not go to sleep. He was trying to meet +life with self-respect gone. The last thing he remembered was that +second of utter rebellion against wrecking his strength, his good +muscles--he had not thought of his life--to save the child. There had +been no time to choose; his past, his character, had chosen for him, +and they had branded him as that impossible thing, a coward. He put up +his hand and felt bandages on his head; he must have got a whack after +all in saving his precious skin. He remembered now. "Didn't jump +quick enough, I suppose," he thought, with a sneer at the man in whose +body he lived, the man who was himself, the man who was a coward. +After a while he heard Dick Marston stir. He was bending over him. + +"Got to go to dinner, old man," Dick said. "I wish you'd let me tell +you what they all think about you." + +McBirney shook his head impatiently, and Dick sighed heavily, and then +in a moment the door shut softly. + +Things were vague to him for hours longer, and a sleeping powder kept +the next morning drowsy, but in the afternoon, when Marston came for +his hourly look at the patient, "Dick," said the patient, "I want to +talk to you." + +"All right, old man," Dick answered, "but first just a word. I hate to +bother you, but somebody's after you on long-distance. The fellow has +telephoned three times--I was here the last time. He says----" + +The man with the bandages on his head groaned. "Don't," he begged and +tossed his hand out. "I know what he's wanting. I can't talk to him. +I don't want to hear. It's no use. Shut him off, Dick, can't you?" + +"Sure, old man," Marston agreed soothingly. "Only, he says----" + +"Oh, don't--I know what it is--don't let him say it," pleaded the +invalid, quite unreasonable, entirely obstinate. + +A committee from the vestry of a city church had, unknown to him at the +moment, come to Warchester to hear him preach the Sunday before he had +left on his trip. A letter from the rector since had warned him that +they were full of enthusiasm about his sermon and himself and that a +call to the rectorship of the church was imminent. This was a +preliminary of the call; there was no doubt in his mind about that. +And knowing as he did how he was going to give up his work, writhing as +he was under the last proof, as he felt it, of his unfitness, the +thought of facing suave vestrymen even over a telephone, was a horror +not to be borne. + +"Tell 'em I'm dead, Dick, there's a good boy. I _won't_ talk to +anybody--to-day or to-morrow, anyhow." + +"All right," Dick agreed. The patient was flushed and excited--it +would not do to go on. "But the chap said he might run down here," he +added, thinking aloud. + +The patient started up on his elbow and glared. "Great Scott--don't +let him do that; you won't let him get at me, Dick? I'm sorry to be +such a poor fool, but--just now--to-day--two or three days--Dick, I +_can't_"--he stammered out, his hands shaking, his face twisting. And +Dick Marston, as gently as a woman might, took in charge this friend +whom he loved. + +"Don't you worry, Geoffie; the bears shan't eat you this trip. I'll +settle the chap next time he calls up." + +And McBirney fell back, with closed eyelids, relieved, secure in Dick's +strength. He lay, breathing quickly, a moment or two, and then opened +his eyes. + +"When can I get away, Dick?" + +"We'll start to-morrow if you're strong enough." + +"You needn't go, Dicky. I'll get a train. I'm----" + +"None of that," said Marston. "Whither thou goest, for the present, +I'll trot. But--Hope Stuart's anxious to--meet you." + +"Who's Hope Stuart?" + +Dick Marston hesitated, looked embarrassed. "Why--just a girl," he +said. "But an uncommon sort of girl. She's done some--big things. +Cousin of Don Emory's, you know. Came yesterday--just before your +party. She--she's--well, she's different from the ruck of 'em--and +she--said she'd like to meet you. I half promised she could." + +McBirney flushed. "I _can't_ see people, Dick," he threw back +nervously. "They're kind--it's decent of them. I suppose, as long as +the boy wasn't killed--" he stopped. + +"Geoff, you've got some bizarre idea in your head about this episode, +and I can't fathom it," spoke Dick Marston. "What do you think +happened anyway?" he demanded. And stopped, horrified at the look on +the other's face. + +"Dick, you mean to be kind, but you're being cruel--as death," +whispered Geoffrey McBirney. "I simply--can't bear any +conversation--about that. I've got to cut loose and get off somewhere +and--and--arrange." + +His voice broke. Dick Marston's big hand was on his. "Old man," Dick +said, "you're all wrong, but if you won't let me talk about it I +won't--now. Look here--we'll sneak to-morrow. Everybody's going off +in cars for an all-day drive, and I'll start, and pull out half-way on +some excuse, and come back here, and you'll be packed, and we'll get +out. I'll square it with Nanny Emory. She'll understand. I'll tell +her you're crazy in the head, and won't be hero-worshipped." + +"Hero-worshipped!" McBirney laughed bitterly to himself when Dick was +gone. These good people, because he was a parson, because the child's +blood, by some accident, was not on his head, were banded to keep his +self-respect for him, to cover over his cowardice with some distorted +theory of courage. Perhaps they did not know, but he knew, about that +last thought of determined egotism, that shout of "I won't! I won't!" +before the car caught him. He knew, and never as long as he lived +could he look the world in the eyes again, with that shame in his soul. +What would _she_ have thought, had she been there to see? She would +not have been deceived; her clear eyes would have seen the truth. + +So he felt; so he went over and over the five minutes of the accident +till all covering seemed to be stripped from his strained nerves. + +"You'd better dress now and go down in the garden and sit there," +suggested Dick the next morning. "Take a book, and wait for me there. +The place will be empty in twenty minutes. I'll be along before lunch." + + +The garden rioted with color. The listless black figure strayed +through the sunshine down a walk between a mass of scarlet Oriental +poppies on one side and a border of swaying white lilies on the other. + +Ranks of tall larkspur lifted blue spires beyond. The air was heavy +with sweet smells, mignonette and alyssum and the fragrance of a +thousand of roses, white and pink and red, over by the hedge. The +hedge ran on four sides of the garden, giving a comforting sense of +privacy. In spite of the suffering he had gone through, the raw nerves +of the man felt a healing pressure settling over them, resting on them, +out of the scented stillness. There were no voices from the house; +bees were humming somewhere near the rose-bushes; the first cricket of +summer sang his sudden, drowsy song and was as suddenly quiet. + +The black figure strayed on, down the long walk between the flowers, to +a rustic summer-house, deep in vines, at the end of the path. There +were seats there, and a table. He sat down in the coolness and stared +out at the bright garden. He tried manfully to pull himself together; +he reminded himself that he could still work, could still serve the +world, and that, after all, was what he was in the world for. There +was a reason for living, then; there was hope, he reasoned. And then, +the hopelessness, the helplessness of under-vitality, which is often +the real name for despair, had caught him again. His arms were thrown +out on the rough table and his head lay on them. + +There was a sound in the vine-darkened little summer-house. McBirney +lifted his head sharply; a girl stood there, a slim figure in black +clothes. McBirney sprang to his feet astonished, angry. Then the girl +put out her hand and held to the upright of the opening as if to hold +herself steady, and began talking in a hurried tone, as if she were +reciting. + +"I had to come to tell you that you were not a coward, but a hero, and +that you saved Toddy Winthrop's life, and it's so, and Dick Marston +says you don't know it and won't let him tell you and I've got to have +you know it, and it's so and you have to believe it, for it's so." The +girl was gasping, clutching the side of the summer-house with her face +turned away, frightened yet determined. + +"Who are you?" demanded McBirney, sternly, staring at her. There was +something surging up inside of him, unknown, unreasonable; heart's +blood was rushing about his system inconveniently; his pulse was +hammering--why? He knew why; this sudden vision of a girl reminded +him--took him back--he cut through that idea swiftly; he was ill, +unbalanced, obsessed with one memory, but he would not allow himself to +go mad. + +"Who are you?" he repeated sternly. And the girl turned and faced him +and looked up into his grim, tortured face, half shy, half laughing, +all glad. + +She spoke softly. "Hope," she said. "You needed me"--she said, "and I +came." + +With that, with the unreasonable certainty that happens at times in +affairs which go beyond reason, he was certain. Yet he did not dare to +be certain. + +"Who are you?" he threw at her for the third time, and his eyes flamed +down into the changing face, the face which he had never known, which +he seemed to have known since time began. The laughter left it then +and she gazed at him with a look which he had not seen in a woman's +eyes before. "I think you know," she said. "Toddy Winthrop isn't the +only one. You saved me--Oh, you've saved me too." Every inflection of +the voice brought certainty to him; the buoyant, soft voice which he +remembered. "I am Hope Stuart," she said. "I am August First." + +"Ah!" He caught her hands, but she drew them away. "Not yet," she +said, and the promise in the denial thrilled him. "You've got to +know--things." + +"Don't think, don't dream that I'll let you go, if you still care," he +threw at her hotly. And with that the thought of two days before +stabbed into him. "Ah!" he cried, and stood before his happiness +miserably. + +"What?" asked the girl. + +"I'm not fit to speak to you. I'm disgraced; I'm a coward; you don't +know, but I let--that child be killed as much as if he had not been +saved by a miracle. It wasn't my fault he was saved. I didn't mean to +save him. I meant to save myself," he went on with savage accusation. + +"Tell me," commanded the girl, and he told her. + +"It's what I thought," she answered him then. "I told the doctor what +Dick said, this morning. The doctor said it was the commonest thing in +the world, after a blow on the head, to forget the last minutes before. +You'll never remember them. You did save him. Your past--your +character decided for you"--here was his own bitter thought turned to +heavenly sweetness!--"You did the brave thing whether you would or not. +You've got to take my word--all of our words--that you were a hero. +Just that. You jumped straight down and threw Toddy into the bushes +and then fell, and the chauffeur couldn't turn fast enough and he hit +you--and your head was hurt." + +She spoke, and looked into his eyes. + +"Is that the truth?" he shot at her. It was vital to know where he +stood, whether with decent men or with cowards. + +"So help me God," the girl said quietly. + +As when a gate is opened into a lock the water begins to pour in with a +steady rush and covers the slimy walls and ugly fissures, so peace +poured into the discolored emptiness of his mind. Suddenly the gate +was shut again. What difference did anything make--anything? + +"You are married," he stated miserably, and stood before her. The +moments had rushed upon his strained consciousness so overladen, the +joy of seeing her had been so intense, that there had been no place for +another thought. He had forgotten. The thought which meant the +failure of happiness had been crowded out. "You are married," he +repeated, and the old grayness shadowed again a universe without hope. + +And then the girl whose name was Hope smiled up at him through a +rainbow, for there were tears in her eyes. "No," she answered, "no." +And with that he caught her in his arms: her smile, her slim shoulders, +her head, they were all there, close, crushed against him. The bees +hummed over the roses in the sunshiny garden; the locust sang his +staccato song and stopped suddenly; petals of a rose floated against +the black dress; but the two figures did not appear to breathe. Time +and space, as the girl had said once, were fused. Then she stirred, +pushed away his arms, and stood erect and looked at him with a flushed, +radiant face. + +"Do you think I'd let you--marry--a cripple, a lump of stone?" she +demanded, and something in the buoyant tone made him laugh unreasonably. + +"I think--you've got to," he answered, his head swimming a bit. + +"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," and she shook her finger at him +triumphantly. "I'm--going--to--get--well." + +"I knew it all along," the man said, smiling. + +"That's a lie!" she announced, so prettily, in the soft, buoyant voice, +that he laughed with sheer pleasure. "You never knew. Do you know +where I've been?" + +"In Germany." + +"I haven't been in Germany a minute." The bright face grew grave and +again the quick, rainbow tears flashed. "You never heard," she said. +"Uncle Ted died, the day before we were to sail." She stopped a +moment. "It left me alone and--and pretty desperate. I--I almost +telegraphed you." + +"_Why_ didn't you?" he groaned. + +"Because--what I said. I wouldn't sacrifice you." She paid no +attention to the look in his eyes. "Robin was going to my place in +Georgia--I told you I had a place? My father's old shooting-box. I'd +arranged for him to do that. With some people who needed it. So--I +went too. I took two trained nurses and some old souls--old sick +people. Yes, I did. Wasn't it queer of me? I'm always sorrier for +old people than for children. They realize, the old people. So I +scraped up a few astonished old parties, and they groaned and wheezed +and found fault, but had a wonderful winter. The first time I was ever +any good to anybody in my life. I thought I might as well do one job +before I petrified. And all winter Robin was talking about that +bone-ologist from France who had been in Forest Gate, and whom I +wouldn't see. Till at last he got me inspired, and I said I'd go to +France and see him. And I've just been. And he says--" suddenly the +bright, changing face was buried in her hands and she was sobbing as if +her heart would break. + +McBirney's pulse stopped; he was terrified. "What?" he demanded. +"Never mind what he said, dear. I'll take care of you. Don't trouble, +my own--" And then again the sunshine flashed through the storm and +she looked up, all tears and laughter. + +"He said I'd get well," she threw at him. "In time. With care. And +if you don't understand that I've got to cry when I'm glad, then we can +never be happy together." + +"I'll get to understand," he promised, with a thrill as he thought how +the lesson would be learned. And went on: "There's another conundrum. +Of course--that man--he's not on earth--but how did you--kill him?" + +The girl looked bewildered a moment. "Who? Oh! Alec. My dear--" and +she slid her hand into his as if they had lived together for +years--"the most glorious thing--he jilted me. He eloped with Natalie +Minturn--the California girl--the heiress. She had"--the girl laughed +again--"more money than I. And unimpeachable bones. She's a nice +thing," she went on regretfully. "I'm afraid she's too good for Alec. +But she liked him; I hope she'll go on liking him. It was a great +thing for me to get jilted. Any more questions in the Catechism? Will +the High-Mightiness take me now? Or have I got to beg and explain a +little more?" + +"You're a very untruthful character," said "the High-Mightiness" +unsteadily. "It wasn't I who hid away, and turned last winter into +hell for a well-meaning parson. Will--I take you? Come." + +Again eternal things brooded over the bright, quiet garden and the +larkspur spires swayed unnoticed and the bees droned casually about +them and dived into deep cups of the lilies, and peace and sunshine and +lovely things growing were everywhere. But the two did not notice. + +After a time: "What about Halarkenden?" asked the man, holding a slim +hand tight as if he held to a life-preserver. + +"That's the last question in the Catechism," said Hope Stuart. "And +the answer is the longest. One of your letters did it." + +"One of my letters?" + +"Just the other day. I went to Forest Gate, as soon as I came home +from France--to tell Robin that I was going to get well. I was in the +garden. With--I hate to tell you--but with--all your letters." The +man flushed. "And--and Robin came and--and I talked a little to him +about you, and then, to show him what you were like, I read him--some." + +"You did?" McBirney looked troubled. + +"Oh, I selected. I read about the boy, Theodore--'the Gift.'" + +Then she went on to tell how, as she sat in a deep chair at the end of +a long pergola where small, juicy leaves of Dorothy Perkins rose-vines +and of crimson ramblers made a green May mist over the line of arches, +Halarkenden had come down under them to her. + +"I believe I shall never be in a garden without expecting to see him +stalk down a path," she said. She told him how she had read to him +about the boy Theodore with his charm and his naughtiness and his +Scotch name. How there had been no word from Robert Halarkenden when +she finished, and how, suddenly, she had been aware of a quality in the +silence which startled her, and she had looked up sharply. How, as she +looked, the high-featured, lean, grave face was transformed with a +color which she had never seen there before, a painful, slow-coming +color; how the muscles about his mouth were twisting. How she had +cried out, frightened, and Robert Halarkenden, who had not fought with +the beasts for nothing, had controlled himself once again and, after a +moment, had spoken steadily. "It was the boy's name, lassie," he had +said. "He comes of folk whom I knew--back home." How at that, with +his big clippers in his hand, he had turned quietly and gone working +again among his flowers. + +"But is that all?" demanded McBirney, interested. "Didn't he tell you +any more? Could Theodore be any kin to him, do you suppose? It would +be wonderful to have a man like that who took an interest. I'll write +the young devil. He's been away all winter, but he should be back by +now. I wonder just where he is." + +And with that, as cues are taken on the stage, there was a scurrying +down the gravel and out of the sunshine a bare-headed, tall lad was +leaping toward them. + +"By all that's uncanny!" gasped McBirney. + +"Yes, me," agreed the apparition. "I trailed you. Why"--he +interrupted himself--"didn't you get my telephones? Why, somebody took +the message--twice. Cost three dollars--had to pawn stuff to pay it. +Then I trailed you. The rector had your address. We're going to +Scotland bang off and I had to see you. We're sailing from Boston. +To-morrow." + +"Who's 'we'?" demanded McBirney. + +"My family and--oh gosh, you don't know!" He threw back his handsome +head and broke into a great shout of young laughter. With that he +whirled and flung out an arm. "There he comes. My family." The pride +and joy in the boy's voice were so charged with years of loneliness +past that the two who listened felt an answering thrill. + +They looked. Down the gravel, through the sunshine, strayed, between +flower borders, a gaunt and grizzled man who bent, here and there, over +a blossom, and touched it with tender, wise fingers and gazed this way +and that, scrutinizing, absorbed, across the masses of living color. + +"I told you," the girl said, as if out of a dream, and her arm, too, +was stretched and her hand pointed out the figure to her lover. "I +told you there never would be a garden but he would be in it. It's +Robin." + + +SATURDAY NIGHT LATE. + WARCHESTER, + St. Andrew's Parish House. + +There wasn't time to leave you a note even. I barely caught the train. +Dick was to tell you. I wonder if he got it straight. He motored me +to the station, early this morning--a thousand years ago. You see the +rector suddenly wired for me to come back for over Sunday. It's Sunday +morning now--at least by the clock. + +There's still such a lot to tell you. There always will be. One +really can't say much in only eight or nine hours, and I don't believe +we talked a minute longer. That's why I didn't want to catch trains. +Well, there were other reasons too, now I go into it. + +Do you know, I keep thinking of Dick Marston's face when he poked it in +at the door of that summer-house yesterday on you and "Robin" and +Theodore and me. I think likely Dick's brain is sprained. + +Curious, isn't it--this being knocked back into the necessity of +writing letters--and so soon. But I can say anything now, can't I? It +doesn't seem true, but it is--it is! When I think of that other +letter, that last one, and all the months that I didn't know even where +you were! And now here's the world transfigured. It _is_ true, isn't +it? I won't wake up into that awful emptiness again? So many times +I've done that. I'd made up my mind nothing was any use. I told Dick, +just before we started on the motor trip. The stellar system had gone +to pieces. But to-night I tore up the letter I'd got ready to send to +the rector. All those preparations, and then to walk down a gravel +path into heaven. It isn't the slightest trouble for you to rebuild +people's worlds, is it? As for instance, Theodore's. I must tell you +that some incoherences have come in from that Gift of God, by way of +the pilot, after they'd sailed. Mostly regarding Cousin Robin. Even +that has worked out. And there's Halarkenden--mustn't I say McGregor, +though?--going back home to wander at large in paradise. Three new +worlds you set up in half an hour. I think you said once that you'd +never done anything for anybody? Well, you've begun your job; didn't I +tell you it might be just around the corner? Besides "Cousin Robin," +two things stuck out in Theodore's epistle; he's going to turn himself +loose for the benefit of those working people in his factories, and +he's going to have "The Cairns" swept and garnished for you and me +when--when we get there. + + +This is all true. I am sitting here, writing to her. She is going to +be there when I get back. I am to have her for my own, to look at and +to listen to and to love. She has said that she wanted it like that--I +heard her say it. Oh my dear darling, there aren't any words to tell +you--you are like listening to music--you are the spirit of all the +exquisite wonders that have ever been--you are the fragrant silence of +shut gardens sleeping in the moonlight. What if I had missed you? +What if I'd never found you? You _will_ be there when I come back--you +won't vanish--you _are_ real? Think of the life opening out for you +and me; this world now; afterwards the next. Oh my very dear, suppose +you hadn't waited--suppose you'd cut into God's big pattern because +some dark threads had to be woven into it! We shall look at the whole +of it some day--all that mighty, living tapestry of His weaving, and we +shall understand, then, and smile as we remember and know that no one +can have a sense of light without the shadows. Suppose you hadn't +waited? But you did wait--you did--to let me love you. + + +SEA-ACRES, + MONDAY, June 24th. + +YOUR REVERENCE. + +I can't say but three words. Don Emory is waiting to post this in +town. I do just want to tell you that if you write any more letters +like that I am _not_ going to break the engagement. You'll get the +rest of this to-morrow. I thought I'd warn you. I am, for sure, yours, + + AUGUST FIRST. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUGUST FIRST*** + + +******* This file should be named 18529.txt or 18529.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/2/18529 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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