THE LEADING OF THE BLIND
ON the morrow’s morning Brant went to his work with a choir of new
resolves making melody in his heart. He would get speech with Dorothy
by fair means or other and make a frank avowal of his love, telling
her what she should know of his past, and pleading only for the time
wherein to make good his promises of amendment. Then he would settle
down to his work, walking straitly and shunning even the appearance of
evil through the weeks or months or years of his probation. And in the
end he would win her and wear her in the face of all the world, and
none should say him nay.
Thus he planned as he bent over the drawing-board, etching in the
scheme of the future while he traced the intricate lines of the map.
From summarizing he presently came down to the successive steps in the
outworking of the problem, and then he remembered that he still held
the money won in the night of madness at Draco’s. Then and there he
determined to return it, whether the chief gambler would or no, and on
the heels of this resolve came a nobler. He would draw out of his bank
balance every dollar that had not come to him hallowed by honest toil,
and, since it was manifestly impossible to make individual restitution,
he would give the money to some worthy charity.
Being a man of action, he did not suffer the good resolution to cool by
delay. Within the hour he had made a deposit in his bank, purchased
New York exchange for the amount won at Draco’s, and cashed his check
for six hundred and eight dollars and fifteen cents, the exact sum
with which he had left Silverette on the night of the tragedy. Then he
begged a sheet of paper and an envelope from the cashier and scribbled
a note to Draco:
“Here is the money which you refused to take back the other night,” he
wrote. “It is not yours, but it is still less mine, and I don’t want
it. I have put it into New York exchange, so you will know it is out of
my hands. Keep it, or throw it away, as you please.”
That done, he began to wonder what he should do with the six hundred
odd dollars. There were worthy charities a-plenty, but he shrank
equally from giving without explanations and from telling any part of
his story to a stranger, however charitable or devout. Since it had to
be done, he finally chose Dorothy’s clergyman as his beneficiary, and,
having so decided, sought out the address and boarded a street car for
the house of the minister. A servant answered the bell, and, in reply
to Brant’s inquiry, sent him across the street to the church.
“You’ll find the study at the back,” she said. “If Mr. Crosswell ain’t
there, you can go in and wait. He’ll not be long gone.”
Brant did as he was directed, and when his tap at the half-open door
was unanswered, he went in. A young woman was sitting in a corner
reading, and when he saw that it was Dorothy he stood abashed like any
schoolboy. Only for a moment, however, for Dorothy rose quickly and
came forward with hands outstretched.
“Why, Mr. Brant, you fairly startled me! I heard you at the door and
thought it was Mr. Crosswell. How do you do? and where have you been
all these weeks?”
Brant went dizzy with mingled joy and self-reproach. Then it was a
hideous mistake, after all, and Mrs. Langford had kept her own counsel.
It was almost beyond belief, and he stammered helplessly in his
acknowledgments:
“I--I haven’t been anywhere--that is, I’ve been here--no, not just
here, either----”
Dorothy’s laugh rang sweet and joyous, and it outran her words in
restoring his self-possession.
“It’s the atmosphere of the place, you know,” she said archly. “People
come here to confess their sins, and polite excuses are not allowed.
Have you come to confession, Mr. Brant?”
Her jesting question went near enough to the truth to make him wince.
“Ye--yes; something of that sort. I came to have a little talk with
Mr.--Mr.----”
“Crosswell?” she suggested. “So did I. Won’t you sit down and wait for
him? He will be in before very long, I think.”
Brant did as he was bidden, and thus having the opportunity for free
speech which he would have been willing to buy at a price, went dumb
and could do no more than tie idle knots in his watch chain. Dorothy
read the questions in his eyes, but she mistook their pointing, and
wondered how she could help matters along without betraying Isabel.
Much to her relief, he opened the way by breaking ground in the
direction of things serious.
“The last time we met you were in trouble,” he began. “I hope the cause
has been removed.”
“It has,” she assented; “and--and I have wanted so much to thank you.
It was very, very good of you to help us.”
“Please don’t mention it; any one would have done as much under the
circumstances,” he protested, adding, “and that without the hope of
reward.”
She knew what he meant, or thought she did, and steeled herself to lead
him on.
“I think we all expect rewards of some kind for our good deeds, and we
usually get them, don’t we?”
“Rather oftener than we deserve, I think. But I missed mine.”
Dorothy had prayed for this opportunity, and for strength to improve
it, but she had to turn away from him before she could go on.
“Sometimes we think we have lost things when we have only overlooked
them,” she ventured; then, brushing aside the figure of speech, she
went straight to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Brant, why don’t you
come to see us any more?”
From the personal point of view it was the cruelest of questions, but
she was determined to secure her own safety and Isabel’s happiness
by forcing his confidence, and she knew no better way to do this.
Nevertheless, she was wholly unprepared for his reply.
“For the best of reasons, Miss Langford: I have been forbidden the
house.”
It seemed incredible that he should put such a harsh construction upon
Isabel’s refusal, and Dorothy was bewildered. “But I don’t understand,”
she began. “Surely----”
“One moment, please. Do you believe in repentance?”
“In its efficacy, you mean? Why, certainly; otherwise we should all be
beyond hope.”
“Then let me suppose a case--call it a parable, if you will. There was
once a man who was thoroughly bad; quite given over to the service
of the Evil One. One day this man saw the error of his way and
resolved to live thenceforth a clean life. Then he met and loved a
woman”--he paused and got up to pace slowly back and forth behind her
chair--“loved her with a love that recked nothing of the great gulf
separating him from her; forgetting the gulf, indeed, until the spectre
of his evil past was called up to remind him of his unworthiness. Do
you follow me?”
Her “Yes” was the faintest of whispers, but he heard it and went on.
“Judge, then, between that man and an exacting world. Is there any hope
for such a one? Would patient perseverance in well-doing some time earn
him the right to contend for such a prize as the love of a good woman?
Might he venture to look forward to a time when the great gulf would be
fairly bridged--when a pure woman, knowing the worst of him, would not
turn from him in loathing?”
Dorothy rose and faced him with the light of self-sacrifice shining in
her eyes.
“Who am I that I should judge any one?” she asked softly.
“You are yourself, Dorothy; and you know the man--and the woman.”
It was a moment of supreme trial. How could she give him the word of
encouragement from Isabel without betraying Isabel’s secret? And how
could she ever forgive herself if she should waste the opportunity and
send him away empty-handed. In her embarrassment she again took counsel
of frankness.
“It is only the faint-hearted who despair,” she said steadily.
“Difficulties are made to be overcome, and for one who presses forward
steadfastly there is always hope.” She stopped with the feeling that
all these phrasings were but generalities, and he broke in eagerly:
“That is enough. You have heard the parable; this is the
interpretation. I am the man, Dorothy, and you----”
“Are the woman,” he was going to say, but she held up a warning
finger, and he heard a step at the door. It was the clergyman
returning, and before Brant could add the word to which all the other
words had been but the preface his chance was gone. The next moment
Dorothy was introducing him to an elderly little man with a kindly face
and a hand-clasp that spoke of warm friendships and a broad personality.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brant--always glad to know any friend
of Miss Dorothy’s. Sit down--sit down, both of you, and let us be
comfortable.”
Brant obeyed, but Dorothy hesitated.
“I wanted to see you a moment about the Crowleys,” she said. “They are
in trouble again, and this time it is beyond me. Mr. Brant wishes to
see you about another matter, and if you can give me a minute----”
“Certainly, certainly; Mr. Brant will excuse us,” and they went apart
to discuss the case of the unfortunate Crowleys, while Brant took up a
book and pretended to read. Presently Dorothy took her leave, giving
her hand to Brant at parting and inviting him to call soon at Hollywood.
He told no lie in saying that he should be glad to, and he tried to say
with his eyes that other thing which had been denied lip utterance.
Dorothy flushed faintly under his gaze and her hand trembled a little
in his; whereupon he made bold to revert to the object of their common
solicitude in another offer of assistance.
“About William: be sure to command me if I can ever help you again. I
hope the occasion won’t arise, but if it does, you must manage to let
me know at once.”
“Indeed I shall,” she rejoined gratefully. “But you must come to see
us. Good-bye.”
When she was gone the clergyman drew up his chair opposite Brant’s. “A
most devoted young woman,” he said with kindly emphasis. “I don’t know
how we should get along in the parish without her. Have you known the
Langfords long?”
“Not very long; no.”
“Charming family--that is--er--all but the boy. He is a little wild,
I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” assented Brant. He was finding his introduction by Dorothy a
very considerable hindrance to his errand.
“The judge knows it, and tries to do what he can,” Mr. Crosswell went
on, following out his own line of thought. “But Mrs. Langford puts the
lad on a pedestal and so spoils him. But pardon me, you came on an
errand of your own, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Brant braced himself and took the simplest way out of the
entanglement. “You probably have many ways in which you can use money
for charitable purposes, haven’t you, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Yes, indeed. You are always safe to assume that in the case of a
working clergyman,” was the reply.
“I supposed so. I have some money here”--taking the roll of bills
from his pocket--“which is, in a certain sense, what you might call
conscience money. Would you object to adding it to your charity fund?”
“Not at all, if it be truly conscience money. But you must give me some
assurance that it is--that there is no possibility of restitution to
the proper parties.”
“There is none whatever. It is money which was won across the gaming
table--not recently,” he added, in deference to the look of pained
surprise in the kindly eyes, “but some months ago. I don’t know what
else to do with it, and it will be truly an act of charity to me if you
will take it.”
“Under those circumstances I shall be quite willing to disburse it
for you, Mr. Brant. It is very commendable in you to take such an
honourable view of the matter--a thing as commendable as it is rare, I
assure you.”
But Brant could not let that stand. “It is a simple matter of justice,
and I am afraid the motive is purely selfish. To be very frank about
it, the stuff burns my fingers.”
“A most hopeful sign, my dear sir,” said the little clergyman, warming
to Brant as most good people did, without any reason that could be set
in words. “It is not often that we are given to see such practical
proofs of repentance.”
Being an honest man in the better sense of the word, Brant made haste
to remove the false impression:
“Don’t misunderstand me. I am not at all sure that I am repentant in
your meaning of the word; in fact, I am quite sure I am not. I drank
the cup of evil living to the dregs, and the dregs nauseated me--that
is all.”
“But that is a very good beginning--very good, indeed,” asserted the
clergyman benignly. “Go on as you have begun, and we shall see better
things; I am quite sure of that.”
Brant remembered his desperate plunge of less than forty-eight hours
before, and smiled.
“It is very evident that you haven’t sounded all the depths of
wickedness in the human heart, Mr. Crosswell, and perhaps it is just
as well for us sinners that you haven’t. We are a sorrier lot than you
have any idea of, I fancy.”
“We are all ‘vile earth’ when it comes to that, Mr. Brant; but I shall
continue to consider your case as a most hopeful one.” Then, as Brant
found his hat, “Must you go? Come and see me often. I want to know more
of you.”
Brant bowed himself out and went his way musing. As he approached the
side gate giving upon the street, a carriage drew up to the curb and a
lady descended therefrom. He had opened the gate for her and lifted
his hat before he saw that it was Mrs. Langford; but in any case he
could have done no less. Notwithstanding, her chilling stare cut him
to the quick, and he went back to his office with the comfortable
feeling of elation engendered by the meeting with Dorothy and the act
of restitution somewhat dashed by the chance encounter.
Meanwhile Mrs. Langford had entered the study and made known her
errand, which was to call for Dorothy.
“She said she wouldn’t wait,” explained the clergyman. “Mr. Brant was
here, waiting to see me about a matter which was--ah--er--a matter
which I presume Miss Dorothy knew to be private, and so she kindly made
room for him.”
“Mr. Brant!” Mrs. Langford’s frown was quite portentous. “Do you mean
to say they were here together, Mr. Crosswell?”
“Why, yes; that is, I--er--I found them both here when I came in.”
Then, as the lines of displeasure deepened in the lady’s brow, he tried
to set himself right by adding: “A most excellent young man, Mrs.
Langford; I am glad to know that he is a friend of the family.”
“He is not,” she rejoined with aggressive emphasis. “He was never more
than a calling acquaintance, and he is not even that at present. I have
forbidden him the house.”
“Forbidden him the house?” echoed the good man in unfeigned
astonishment. “May I--may I ask your reason?”
“You may; and I will tell you, if you will tell me what he was doing
here.”
“He came on a very worthy errand, I assure you, Mrs. Langford; he came
to devote a certain sum of money to charitable objects--money acquired
in a manner which is all too common in this our day and generation,
but which he felt that he could not conscientiously keep.”
“Humph! Some of the proceeds of his gambling, I suppose. It was a mere
trick, Mr. Crosswell, and I hope you won’t let him impose upon you.
I know his whole history, and it is thoroughly bad and disgustingly
disreputable.”
“But, my dear madam, are we not commanded----”
“I know what you would say,” she broke in, with her hand on the door.
“But you know my views, Mr. Crosswell. If a woman had done the tenth
part of the evil things this man has, you would be the first to
recommend sackcloth and ashes and a sisterhood, if not a solitary cell.”
The indignant lady swept down the walk and stepped into her carriage.
“Conscience money, indeed!” she said to herself. “It is much more
likely that he made the whole thing an excuse to get a chance to talk
to Dorothy. Well, I’ll put a stop to that!”
But when Mrs. Langford’s carriage turned and rolled away, the good
little man stood in the doorway of his study and shook his head sadly
to the tune of a musing commentary on his latest visitor.
“Strange, passing strange, that she can be so uncharitable, when her
own son stands so sorely in need of the broadest charity! I do hope
there is no dreadful day of retribution in store for her, but it is
certainly tempting Providence to be so pitiless.”