As Selwyn and David Guard shook hands, eagerness of desire must have
been in my face, for Selwyn, turning, seemed puzzled by what he saw.
Going into the room adjoining my sitting-room, I left them alone for
a few moments, and when I came back I was careful to keep out of my
eyes that which as yet it was not wise that they should tell. I have
long since learned a man must not be hurried. Certainly not a man of
Selwyn's type.
Sitting down in a corner of the sofa, I nodded to the men to sit down
also, but that which they had been discussing while I was out of the
room still held, and, returning to it, they stood awhile longer, one
on either side of the mantelpiece, and, hands in my lap, I watched
them with hope in my heart of which they did not dream.
They are strangely contrasting--Selwyn and David Guard. That is, so
far as outward and physical appearance is concerned. But of certain
inward sympathies, certain personal standards of life, certain
intellectual acceptances and rejections, they have far more in common
than they imagine, and to find this basis upon which friendship might
take root is a desire that sprang into life upon seeing them
together. Should they ever be friends, they would be forever
friends. Of that I am very sure.
By Selwyn's side David Guard seemed smaller, frailer, less robust
than ever, yet about him was no hint of feebleness, and his radiation
of quiet force was not lessened by Selwyn's strength. His clothes
were shabbier than ever, his cravat even less secure than usual, and
the long lock of hair that fell at times across his forehead was
grayer than formerly, I thought, but no externals could dim the
consciousness that he was a man to be reckoned with.
Opposite him Selwyn seemed the embodiment of all he lacked. The
well-being of his body, the quiet excellence of his clothes, the
unconscious confidence, born of ability and abundance, the security
of established position, marked him a man to whom the gods have been
good. But the gods mock all men. In Selwyn's eyes was search for
something not yet found. In David Guard's the peace that comes of
finding. I had hardly thought of their knowing each other.
To-night, quite by accident, they had met. Selwyn had come according
to agreement. David Guard, to tell me of a case in which he was
interested. He had come before Selwyn, and at the latter's entrance
had started to go. I would not let him go. If they could be made
friends--God!--what a power they could be!
They were discussing the war. The afternoon's reports had been
somewhat more ghastly than usual.
"The twentieth century obviously doesn't propose to be outdone by any
other period of history, recorded or unrecorded." One hand in his
pocket, an elbow on the mantel-shelf, Selwyn looked at David Guard.
"In the quarter of a million years in which man, or what we term man,
has presumably lived on this particular planet, nothing so far has
been discovered, I believe, which tells of such abominations as are
taking place to-day. It's an interesting epoch from the standpoint
of man's advance in scientific barbarism."
"It deepens, certainly, our respect for our primeval ancestors."
David Guard smiled grimly. "I understand there are still
tree-dwellers in certain parts of Australia who knock one another in
the head when it so pleases them to do. For the settlement of
difficulties their methods require much less effort and trouble than
ours. On the whole, I prefer their manner of fighting. Each side
can see what the other's about."
"So do I." Curled up in the corner of the sofa, I had not intended
to speak. A woman's opinions on war don't interest men. "The
fundamental instinct in man to fight may require a few thousand more
years to yield to the advisability of settling differences around a
table in a council-chamber, but one can't tell. Much less time may
be necessary. The tree-dwellers and the cave-dwellers and the
tent-dwellers spent most of their time scrapping. We do have
intervals of peace in which to get ready to fight again."
"So did they, though their intervals were shorter, perhaps, owing to
their simpler methods of attack." Selwyn laughed. "In their day,
warfare being largely a personal or tribal affair, little time was
necessary for preparation. With us the whole machinery of government
is needed to murder and maim and devastate and ruin. Civilization
and science and education have complicated pretty hopelessly the
adjustments of disputes, the taking of territory, and the acceptance
of opposing ideals. The biggest artillery and the best brains for
butchery at present are having their day. Humanity in the making has
its discouraging side."
"It has!" David Guard's voice was emphatic, though he, too, laughed.
"If humanity made claim to being a finished product, there'd be
justification for more than discouragement. It makes no such claim.
Fists and clubs, and slingshots and battle-axes, are handier weapons
than guns and cannon, and armored air-ships and under-sea craft, but
in the days of the former using, but one kind of army was sent out to
fight. To-day we send out two."
"Two?" Selwyn looked puzzled. "What two?"
"One to undo, as far as possible, the work of the other. The second
army, not the first, is the test of humanity's advance; the army that
tries to keep life in the man the other army has tried to kill, to
give back what has been taken away, to help what has been hurt, to
feed what has been starved, to clothe what is made naked, to build up
what has been broken down. Each country that to-day gives fight,
equips and trains and sends out two contrasting armies. They work
together, but with opposing purposes. The second army--"
"Has a good many women in it. But it's so stupid, so wicked and
wasteful, to fight over things that are rarely finally settled by
fighting. It's bad business!" My hands twisted shiveringly in my
lap. "Do you suppose the time will ever come when man will see it's
the animal's way of getting what he wants, of keeping others from
getting what he's got, of settling difficulties and defending points
of view? Do you think he'll ever find a better way?"
"In a few thousand years--yes," Selwyn again smiled and, changing his
position, stood with his back to the fire. "When we have the same
code for nations as for individuals, the same insistence that what's
wrong in and punishable for a man is wrong in and punishable for his
country, or when we cease to think of ourselves as group people and
remember we are but parts of a whole, we may cease to be fighting
animals. Not until then, perhaps. Personally, I think war is a good
thing every now and then. That is, in the present state of our
undevelopment."
"So do I." David Guard's shoulders made energetic movement. "War
brings out every evil passion of which man is possessed, but it has
its redemptive side. It clears away befogging sophistries, delivers
from deadening indulgences and indifferences; enables us to see
ourselves, our manner of life, our methods of government, our
obligations and our injustices, in perspective that reveals what
could, perhaps, be grasped in no other way. It brings about
readjustments and reaccountings, and puts into operation new forces
of life, new conceptions of duty. It's a frightful way of making man
get a firmer grip on certain essential realizations, of taking in
more definitely the high purpose of his destiny, but at times there
seems no other way. I pray God we may keep out of this, but if it
means a stand for human rights--"
"We'll all enlist!" The faces of the men before me were sober, and
quick fear made my voice unsteady. "War may have its redemptive
side; it may at times be necessary for the preservation of honor and
the maintenance of principle, but that's because, I imagine, of our
unpreparedness as human beings to--to be the right sort of human
beings. When we are there'll be no time to kill one another. We'll
need it all to help each other. I hate war as few hate it, perhaps,
but should it come to us I'm as ready to join my army as you to join
yours." I got up and took the hand David Guard was holding out to
me. "I wish you didn't have to go. Must you?"
"Must. Got an engagement at nine-fifteen. I'll see you before the
week is out about Clara Rudd. Good night." He turned to Selwyn,
shook hands, and was gone.
In the corner of the sofa I again sat down, and Selwyn, turning off
the light in the lamp behind me, took a chair and drew it close to
me. Anxiety he made no effort to control was in his eyes.
"Well--have you anything to tell me?"
"Not as much as I hoped. Mrs. Mundy hasn't been able to find Etta
Blake yet. Until--"
"Etta Blake?" Selwyn's tone was groping. "Oh, the little
cashier-girl. I didn't expect you to tell anything of her. I wish
you'd put her out of your mind." His face darkened.
"I can't. She seems to be in no one else's. But we won't talk of
her to-night. I saw the Swinks this afternoon."
"I know you did. Mrs. Swink telephoned Harrie to-night. Did my
appraisement approach correctness?"
"Of Mrs. Swink, yes. She's impossible. Most fat fools are. They're
like feather beds. You could stamp on them, but you couldn't get rid
of the fool-ness. It would just be in another place. She told me
she was manicured on Mondays, massaged on Tuesdays, marcelled
Wednesdays, and chiropodized on Thursdays, and one couldn't expect
much of a daughter with that sort of a mother; still, the girl
interested me. I feel sorry for her. She mustn't marry Harrie."
"But who's going to tell her?" Selwyn's voice was querulously eager.
"I thought perhaps you might find--find--"
"I did." I nodded in his flushed face. "I don't think it will be
necessary to tell her anything. She's very much in love, but not
with Harrie."
Selwyn sat upright. A certain rigidity of which he is capable
stiffened him. He looked much, but said nothing.
"I've had an interesting time this afternoon. I never wanted to be a
detective person, but I can understand the fascination of the
profession. Luck was with me, and in less than thirty minutes after
meeting her I was pretty sure Madeleine Swink was not in love with
Harrie and was in love with some one else. A few minutes later I
found out who she was in love with, found he was equally in love with
her; that they were once engaged and still want to get married. Our
job's to help them do it."
Selwyn's seriousness is a heritage. Frowningly he looked at me.
"This is hardly a thing to jest about. I may be very dense, but I
fail to understand--"
For an hour we talked of Madeleine Swink and Mrs. Swink, of Harrie
and Tom Cressy, and in terms which even a man could understand I told
how my discoveries had been made, of how I had managed to see Tom and
Madeleine together, and of my frank questioning of the former. But
what I did not tell him was that my thought was not of them alone.
By my side the little girl with the baby in her arms had seemed
clinging to my skirt.
"What sort of a girl is she?" In Selwyn's voice was relief and
anxiety. "Has she courage enough to take things in her own hands?
I've no conscience so far as her mother is concerned. She deserves
no consideration, but, being an interested party, I--"
"You needn't have anything to do with it. I'm not sure what sort she
is, or how much courage she's got, but worms have been known to turn.
If a hundred years before they were born somebody had begun to train
her parents to be proper parents she might have been a better
product, still there seems to be something to her. For Tom's sake I
hope so."
"He's a nice chap." Selwyn's voice was unqualifiedly emphatic. "And
his father is as honest a man as ever lived. His mother, I believe,
comes of pretty plain people."
"I don't know where she comes from, but she's made a success of her
son, which is what a good many well-born women fail to do. People
aren't responsible for their ancestors, but they are for their
descendants to a great extent, and Mrs. Cressy seems to understand
this more clearly than certain ancestrally dependent persons I have
met. I'd like to know her."
"You're looking at me as if I didn't agree with you. Some day I hope
there may be deeper understanding of, and better training for, the
supreme profession of life; but to get out of generalizations into a
concrete case, what can I do in the way of service to Miss Swink and
Mr. Thomas Cressy? Being, as I said before, an interested party, I
hardly--"
A knock on the door behind him made Selwyn start as if struck; gave
evidence of strain and nervousness of which he was unconscious, and,
jumping up, he went toward the door and opened it. In the hall
Bettina and Jimmy Gibbons were standing. The latter was twisting his
cap round and round in his hand, his big, brown eyes looking first at
Bettina and then at me and then at Selwyn, but to my "Come in," he
paid no attention.
Getting up, I went toward him, put my hand on his shoulder. "What is
it, Jimmy? Why don't you come in?"
"My shoes ain't fitten. I wiped them, but the mud wouldn't come
off." His eyes looked down on his feet. "I could tell you out here
if you wouldn't mind listening."
"I told him I'd take the message or call you down-stairs, but he
wouldn't let me do either one." Bettina, hands behind her, nodded in
my face. "His mother says her boarder is dying and she wants to tell
you something before she dies, and she told Jimmy he must see you
himself. Grannie's gone to prayer-meeting with Mrs. Crimm, and
afterward to see about a sick person. I'm awful sorry to interrupt
you, and if the lady hadn't been dying--"
"You're not interrupting." I drew the boy inside. Bettina came
also. From the fire to which I led him, Jimmy drew back, however,
and blew upon his stiff little fingers until it was safe to put them
closer to the blazing coals. Looking down at his feet, I saw a large
and ragged hole on the side of his right shoe from which a tiny bit
of blood was slowly oozing upon the rug.
"What's the matter with your foot, Jimmy? Have you cut it, stuck
something in it? You must take your shoe off and see what's the
matter." I pointed to the floor.
"I didn't know I'd done it." Craning his neck to its fullest
extending. Jimmy peered down at the bleeding foot, then looked up at
me. "I'm awful sorry it got on the rug. I'll wipe it up in a
minute." Imperishable merriment struggled with abashed regret, and,
holding out the offending foot, he laughed wistfully. "It ain't got
no feeling in it, though it's coming. I guess it's kinder froze.
They're regular flip-flops, them shoes are."
Under his breath I heard a smothered exclamation from Selwyn. He was
standing in front of the boy, hands in his pockets, and staring at
him. He knew, of course, there were countless ill-fed, ill-clothed,
unprotected children in every city of every land, but personally he
had come in contact with but few of them, and the bit of flesh and
blood before him stabbed with sharp realization. Helplessly he
turned to me. "The boy's half frozen. Where did he come from? What
does he want you to do?"
Jimmy looked up at me. "Mother told me to hurry. The doctor's done
gone and Mrs. Cotter says she's bound to see you before she dies.
She's got something to tell you. She says please, 'm, come quick."
Hesitating, I looked at the boy, who had come closer to the fire.
"Did the doctor say she was dying? I saw her yesterday and she
seemed better. Miss White was to see her to-day."
"Miss White is there now." Jimmy lifted his right foot and held it
from the ground. The warmth of the room was bringing pain to the
benumbed member into which something had been stuck. "She told me to
tell you please, 'm, to come if you could. Mrs. Cotter says she
can't die until she sees you, and she's so tired trying to hold out.
She won't have breath left to talk, mother says, if you don't hurry."
Perplexed, uncertain, I waited a half-minute longer. Mrs. Cotter,
the renter of Mrs. Gibbons's middle room, and sometime boarder, I had
seen frequently of late. Nothing human could have stood what she had
been forcing herself to do for some weeks past, and that resistance
should have yielded to relentless exaction was not to be wondered at.
Ten hours a day she sewed in the carpet department of one of the
city's big stores, and for some time past she had been one of the
office-cleaning force of the Metropolitan Building, which at night
made ready for the day's occupants the rooms which were swept and
dusted and scrubbed while others slept or played, or rested or made
plans for coming times. The extra work had been undertaken in order
to get nourishment and medicine needed for her little girl, who had
developed tuberculosis. There was nowhere for the child to go. The
insufficient sanatorium provided by the city for its diseased and
germ-disseminating poor was over-crowded. To save her child she had
fought valiantly, but her life was the forfeit of her fight. I
wondered what she wanted to tell me.
I looked at Selwyn, in my eyes questioning. Mrs. Mundy was out. I
could not leave Bettina alone in the house. What must I do?
"Do you think she is really dying? People like that are often
hysterical, often nervously imaginative." Selwyn's voice was
worried. "You ought not to be sent for like this. It isn't right."
"She wouldn't have sent as late as this, but the doctor says she
won't last till daybreak." Jimmy twisted his cap into a round, rough
ball. "I'll get Mrs. Mundy for Bettina if you'll tell me where she
is."
"You can't get her. She's out the prayer-meeting by now and gone to
see somebody who sent for her. I don't know who it is, and I ain't
by myself. Miss Sallie Jenks is sitting with me while grannie's
out." Bettina's tones were energetic. She turned to me. "You
needn't stay back on my account, Miss Danny. Aren't you going?"
"Yes--I'm going." I walked toward my bedroom. At its door I
stopped. "I'm sorry, Selwyn, but I'll have to go. The woman is
dying."
Selwyn's teeth came together sharply and in his eyes were disapproval
and protest. For a half-minute he did not speak, then he faced me.
"If you insist, there's nothing to be said except that I am going
with you. Where's your telephone? I'll get a cab."
"Oh no! You must not go." Back to the door, I leaned against it.
"You've never seen things of this kind. They're--they're--"
"No pleasanter for you than for me." His voice was decisive; but his
eyes were no longer on mine. They were on Jimmy Gibbons's shoes with
the big and ragged hole in one of them through which the bare skin of
his foot showed red and raw. He drew in his breath; turned to me.
"Put on warm things. It's pretty cold to-night."