The Settlement of the Confraternity of St. Philip was situated in one
of the most unsavoury districts in South London. It faced the river,
but between it and the water lay a dreary waste of debatable land,
strewn with the wreckage and rubbish thrown out by the small
boat-building firms that existed on either side.
Originally the Settlement had been two or three tenement houses that
had remained as a relic of the days when some better class folk had
lived there to be near the river, then one of London's great highways.
At the back the Settlement had annexed a big barnlike building
formerly used as a storehouse. It made a capital room for the meetings
that Aubrey Todmarsh and his assistants were continually organizing.
In the matter of cleanliness, even externally, the Settlement set an
example to the neighbourhood. No dingy paint or glass there. The
windows literally shone, the front was washed over as soon as there
was the faintest suspicion of grime by some of Todmarsh's numerous
protégés. The door plate, inscribed “South London Settlement of the
Confraternity of St. Philip,” was as bright as polish and willing
hands could make it.
The Rev. James Collyer looked at it approvingly as he stood on the
doorstep.
“Just the sort of work I should have loved when I was young,” he
soliloquized as he rang the door bell.
It was answered at once by a man who wore the dark blue serge short
coat and plus fours with blue bone buttons, which was the uniform of
the Confraternity. In addition he had on the white overall which was
_de rigueur_ for those members of the Community who did the housework.
This was generally understood to be undertaken by all the members in
turn.
But Mr. Collyer did not feel much impressed with this particular
member. He was a rather short man with coal-black hair contrasting
oddly with his unhealthily white face, deep-set dark eyes that seemed
to look away from the rector and yet to give him a quick, furtive
glance every now and then from beneath his lowered lids. He was
clean-shaven, showing an abnormally large chin, and he had a curious
habit of opening and shutting his mouth silently in fish-like fashion.
“Mr. Todmarsh?” the rector inquired.
The man held the door wider open and stood aside. Interpreting this as
an invitation to enter, Mr. Collyer walked in. The man closed the door
and with a silent gesture invited the clergyman to follow him.
The Community House of St. Philip was just as conspicuously clean
inside as out. Mr. Collyer had time to note that the stone floor of
the hall had just been cleaned, that the scanty furniture, consisting
of a big oak chest under the window and a couple of Windsor chairs at
the ends, was as clean as furniture polish and elbow-grease could make
it. His guide opened a door at the side and motioned him in.
A man who was writing at the long centre table got up quickly to meet
him and came forward with outstretched hands.
“My dear uncle, this is a pleasure!”
“One to which I have long been looking forward,” Mr. Collyer responded
warmly. “My dear Aubrey, the reports I have heard of the Settlement
have been in no way exaggerated. And so far as I can see this is an
ideal Community house.”
Todmarsh held his uncle's hand for a minute in his firm clasp, looking
the elder man squarely in the eyes the while.
“There is nothing ideal about us, Uncle James. We are just a handful
of very ordinary men, all trying to make our own bit of the world
brighter and happier. It sounds very simple, but it isn't always easy
to do things. Sometimes life is nothing but disappointments. But I
know you realize just how it feels when one spends everything in
striving to cleanse one's own bit of this great Augean mass that is
called London—and fails.”
His voice dropped as he spoke, and the bright look of enthusiasm faded
from his face, leaving it prematurely old and tired. For it was above
all things his enthusiasm, a sort of exalted look as of one who
dreamed dreams and saw visions not vouchsafed to ordinary men, that
made Aubrey Todmarsh's face attractive. Momentarily stripped of its
bright expression it was merely a thin, rather overjowled face, with
deep-set, dark eyes, noticeably low forehead, and thick dark hair
brushed sleekly backwards, hair that was worn rather longer than most
men's.
The clergyman looked at him pityingly.
“Oh, my dear Aubrey, this is only nerves, a very natural depression.
We parsons know it only too well. It is especially liable to recur
when we are beginning work. Later one learns that all one can do is to
sow in faith, and then be content to wait the issue in patience,
leaving everything to Him whose gracious powers can alone give the
increase.”
Todmarsh did not speak for a moment, then he drew a long breath and,
laying his hand on the rector's shoulder, looked at him with the
bright smile with which his friends were familiar.
“You always give me comfort, Uncle James. Somehow you always know just
what to say to heal when one has been stricken sorely. That idea of
sowing and waiting—somehow one gets hold of that.”
“It isn't original, dear Aubrey,” his uncle said modestly. “But for
all Christian work I have found it most helpful. But you, my dear
Aubrey, the founder of this—er—splendid effort—might rather have cause
for—er—spiritual exaltation than depression.”
“There is cause enough for depression sometimes, I assure you,” Aubrey
returned gloomily. “Much of our work is done among the discharged
prisoners, you know, Uncle James. Different members of our Community
look after those bound over under the First Offenders' Act, and those
undergoing short terms of imprisonment. With those who have had longer
sentences and the habitual offenders I try to deal as much as possible
myself with the valuable help of my second-in-command.”
“I know. I have heard how you attend at police courts and meet the
prisoners when they come out. I can hardly imagine a more saintly work
or one more certain to carry with it a blessing.”
“It doesn't seem to,” Todmarsh said, his face clouding over again.
“There is this man, Michael Farmore, the case I was speaking of. He
was convicted of burglary and served his five years. We got hold of
him when he came out and brought him here. In time he became one of
our most trusted members. If ever there was a case of genuine
conversion I believed his to be one. Yet——”
“Yes?” Mr. Collyer prompted as he paused.
“Yet last night he was arrested attempting to break into General
Craven's house in Mortimer Square.”
Todmarsh blew his nose vigorously. His voice was distinctly shaky as
he broke off. His uncle glanced at him sympathetically.
“You must not take it too much to heart, my dear Aubrey. Think of your
many successes, and even in this case that seems so terrible I feel
sure that your labour has not really been wasted. You have cast your
bread upon the waters, and you will assuredly find it again. You are
fighting against the forces of the arch-enemy, remember.”
“We are fighting against a gang of criminals,” Aubrey said shortly.
“We hear of them every now and then in our work. The Yellow Gang they
call them in the underworld—they form regular organizations of their
own, working on a system, and appear to carry out the orders of one
man. Sometimes I think he is the arch-fiend himself, for it seems
impossible to circumvent him.”
“But who is he?” the rector inquired innocently.
Aubrey Todmarsh permitted himself a slight smile.
“If we knew that, my dear uncle, it wouldn't be long before this wave
of crime that is sweeping over the Metropolis was checked. But I have
heard that even the rank and file of his own followers do not know who
he is, though he is spoken of sometimes as the Yellow Dog. Anyway, he
has a genius for organization. But now we must think of something more
cheerful, Uncle James. I want you to see our refectory and the
recreation rooms, and our little rooms, cells, kitchens. Through
here”—throwing open a glass door—“we go to our playground as you see.”
Mr. Collyer peered forth. In front of him was a wide, open space,
partly grass, partly concrete. On the grass a game of cricket was
proceeding, the players being youths apparently all under twenty. On
the concrete older men were having a game at racquets. All round the
open space at the foot of the high wall that surrounded the Community
grounds there ran a flower border, just now gay with crocuses and
great clumps of arabis—white and purple and gold. The walls themselves
were covered with creepers that later on would blossom into sweetness.
Here and there men were at work. It was a pleasant and a peaceful
scene and the Rev. James Collyer's eyes rested on it approvingly.
“There are always some of us at play,” Aubrey smiled. “These men have
been on night work—porters, etc. You know we undertake all sorts of
things and our record is such—we have never had a case of our trust
being betrayed—that our men are in constant request.”
“I do not wonder,” his uncle said cordially. “It is—I must say it
again, Aubrey—wonderful work that you are carrying on. Now what have
these men been before they came to you?”
Todmarsh was leading the way to the other part of the house.
“Wastrels; drunkards most of them,” he said shortly. “Discharged
prisoners, sentenced for some minor offence. I told you that we meet
prisoners on their release. Many of them are the wreckage—the
aftermath of the War.”
The rector sighed.
“I know. It is deplorable. That terrible War—and yet, a most righteous
War.”
“No war is righteous,” Aubrey said quickly. Then his expression
changed, the rapt look came back to his eyes. They looked right over
his uncle's head. “No war can be anything but cruel and wicked. That
is why we have made up our minds that war shall stop.”
Mr. Collyer shook his head.
“War will never stop, my boy, while men and women remain what they
are—while human nature remains what it is, I should say.”
Todmarsh's eyes looked right in front of him over the Community
playing fields.
“Yes, it will! Quarrelling there will be—must be while the world shall
last. But all disputes shall be settled not by bloodshed and horrible
carnage, but by arbitration. Every day the League of Nations' labours
are being quietly and ceaselessly directed to this end, and I think
very few people realize how enormously the world is progressing.”
“Your Uncle Luke does not think so. He does not believe in the League
of Nations,” Mr. Collyer dissented. “He, I regret to say, used a
lamentably strong expression—‘damned rot,’ he called it!”
“Oh, Uncle Luke is hopeless,” Aubrey returned, shrugging his
shoulders. “The League of Nations means nothing to him. He is one of
the regular fire-eating, jingo-shouting Britons that plunged us all
into that horrible carnage of 1914. But his type is becoming scarcer
every day as the world grows nearer the Christian ideal, thank
Heaven!”
“Sometimes it seems to me to be growing farther from the Christian
ideal instead of nearer.” The clergyman sighed. “I am going through a
terrible experience now, Aubrey. I must confess it is a great trial to
my faith.”
Instantly Todmarsh's face assumed its most sympathetic expression.
“I am so sorry to hear it, Uncle James. Do tell me about it, if it
would be any relief to you. Sit down”—as they entered the
refectory—“what is it? Tony?”
But the rector put aside the proffered chair.
“No, no. I must see all I can of the Settlement. No, it has nothing to
do with Tony, I am thankful to say. He is to the full as much
bewildered as I am myself. It is the emeralds—the cross!”
“The Collyer cross?” Aubrey exclaimed. “What of that?”
“Well—er, circumstances arose that made it—er—desirable that I should
ascertain its value. I took it to your Uncle Luke, thinking that he
might be able to help me, and he discovered that the stones were
paste.”
“Impossible!” Aubrey stared at his uncle. “I cannot believe it. But,
pardon me, Uncle James, I don't think that either you or Uncle Luke
are very learned with regard to precious stones. I expect it is all a
mistake. The Collyer emeralds are genuine enough!”
“Oh, there is no mistake,” Mr. Collyer said positively. “I had them
examined by a well-known expert this morning. They are paste—not
particularly good paste, either. If I had known rather more about such
things, I might have discovered the substitution sooner. Not that it
would have made much difference! You are wrong about your Uncle Luke,
though, Aubrey. He has an immense fund of information about precious
stones. He told me that he was about to dispose of——”
“Hush! Don't mention it!” Aubrey interrupted sharply. “I beg your
pardon, Uncle James, but it is so much safer not to mention names,
especially in a place like this. But what in the world can have become
of the emeralds? One would have been inclined to think it was the work
of the Yellow Gang. But they seem to confine their activities to
London. And how could it have been effected in peaceful little
Wexbridge? Now—what is that?” as a loud knock and ring resounded
simultaneously through the house. “Tony, I declare!” as after a pause
they heard voices in the hall outside.
A moment later Hopkins opened the door and announced “Mr. Anthony
Collyer.”
“Hello, dad, I guessed I should find you here,” the new-comer began
genially. “Aubrey, old chap, is the gentleman who announced me one of
your hopefuls? Because if so I can't congratulate you on his phiz.
Sort of thing the late Madame Tussaud would have loved for her Chamber
of Horrors, don't you know!”
“Hopkins is a most worthy fellow,” Aubrey returned impressively. “One
of the most absolutely trustworthy men I have. There is nothing more
unsafe than taking a prejudice at first sight, Tony. If you would
only——”
“Dare say there isn't,” Tony returned nonchalantly. “You needn't pull
up your socks over the chap, Aubrey. I'll take your word for it that
he possesses all the virtues under the sun. I only say, he don't look
it! Come along, dad, I have ordered a morsel of lunch at a little pub
I know of, and while you are eating it I will a scheme unfold that I
know will meet with your approval.”
The rector did not look as if he shared this conviction.
“Well, my boy, I have been telling my troubles to Aubrey. The
emeralds——”
“Oh, bother the emeralds, dad! It is the business of the police to
find them, not yours and mine or Aubrey's.”
Anthony Collyer was just a very ordinary type of the young Englishman
of to-day, well-groomed, well set up. There was little likeness to his
father about his clear-cut features, his merry, blue eyes or his
lithe, active form. The pity of it was that the last few years of
idleness had blurred the clearness of his skin, had dulled his eyes
and added just a suspicion of heaviness to the figure which ought to
have been in the very pink of condition. Tony Collyer had let himself
run to seed of late and looked it and knew it. To-day, however, there
was a new look of purpose about his face. His mouth was set in fresh,
strong lines, and his eyes met his father's firmly.
“I hoped you would both lunch with me,” Aubrey interposed hastily. “I
am sure if you could throw your trouble aside you would enjoy one of
our Community meals, Uncle James. The fare is plain, but abundant, and
the spirit that prevails seems to bless it all. You would find it
truly interesting.”
“I am sure I should, my boy. I really think, Tony——”
“That is all very well, Aubrey,” Tony interrupted. “I'm jolly well
sure your meals are interesting. But it isn't exactly the sort of
feast I mean to set the Dad down to when he does get a few days off
from his little old parish. No, I think we will stick to my pub—thank
you all the same, Aubrey.”
“Oh, well, if you put it that way——” Todmarsh shook hands with his
visitors.
The rector's expression was rather wistful as they went out. He would
have liked to share the simple meal Aubrey had spoken of. But Tony
wanted him and Tony came first.
At the front door they paused a minute. Tony looked at his cousin with
a wicked snigger.
“I'm really taking the Dad away out of kindness, Aubrey. There is a
car standing a little way down the road, and a certain bewitching
widow is leaning out talking to a couple of interesting-looking
gentlemen. Converts of yours, recent ones, I should say by the cut of
them.”
“Mrs. Phillimore!” Aubrey came to the door and looked out. “It is her
day for visiting our laundry just down the road.”
Mr. Collyer smiled.
“Well, she is a good woman, Aubrey. We are dining with your Uncle Luke
to-night. Shall we meet you there?”
“Oh, dear, no! My time for dining out is strictly limited,” Aubrey
responded. “Besides, I do not think that Uncle Luke and I are in much
sympathy. It is months since I saw him.”