"YOU DON'T KNOW MR. IMRIE"
The news of Judith's "mad whim" spread rapidly through Braeburn, and
various were the comments it evoked. For the most part they savoured of
condolence, although there was some sentimental approbation for what was
characterised by one enthusiast as the "nobility" of her course. This
had its effect upon Roger, and in time, he also came to feel admiration
for her, and then, as a natural consequence of his own participation in
the affair, he came to feel an admiration for himself. From out and out
hostility to the idea, therefore, he changed insensibly to ardent and
voluble sympathy.
At first Judith had admitted to herself quite frankly that the situation
bore possibilities of annoyance. Aside from her guest's potentially
dangerous familiarity with her daily life, she sensed in him a certain
lack of knowledge--or at least of observance--of those social amenities
upon which her training, more than her instinct, led her to place
considerable emphasis. It was with this feeling of an unbridgeable gulf
between them, that she approached their first meeting after the
accident. And it was with no little embarrassment, therefore, that she
entered his room.
The lines of pain had disappeared from his face, and the removal of the
stubble which had covered his chin when they had had their first
encounter, together with his rest, and--though she did not suspect
that--several meals much more bounteous than those to which he was
accustomed, had improved his appearance surprisingly. He greeted her
unaffectedly.
"Hello," he said. "I've been waiting to see you. I can't begin to tell
you how grateful I am for--all this."
"And I," she cried, "can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that it all
happened. I...."
"Well, then," he said with a smile which revealed two rows of strong,
even and very white teeth, "let's not either of us try."
That seemed to break the ice, and because he appeared to feel no
embarrassment, she found that hers had quite left her. Before she
realised it, the morning was well advanced, and when she left him it was
with a curious feeling that they had known each other for years and
years ... very well.
And that was only the beginning of the very odd, but very
real, friendship which sprang up between them. It would have
surprised--perhaps shocked--her friends to know how much time she spent
with him; but it would have shocked them still more to know the topics
of the conversations between them. She herself was amazed every time she
left him; not at the range and depth of his interests and his
knowledge--but at her own. He seemed to evoke ideas and words that she
had never dreamed were there. It struck her as little short of sorcery.
But the situation was not wholly pleasant. There were little rifts to
mar the lute. The first came after several weeks. It was Roger who
introduced it.
"Say, Judith," he said suddenly, one night at dinner, "Good's going to
be up and around pretty soon. You can't keep him cooped up there
forever, you know. When are you going to have him down to meals?"
He voiced a question which had been occurring with troublesome frequency
in her own mind. She was silent for a moment, as she struggled with a
decision she could no longer evade. It was a curious predicament in
which events had placed her--not easy to understand readily. It was
indisputable that Good was ignorant of either the theory or practice of
those conventions of the table upon which, against her will, she set
much store. It was equally certain that he was quite conscious of his
deficiencies in that respect. Were she in his place, she told herself,
she would prefer not to suffer the embarrassments which the contrasts
between themselves and him must entail. But on the other hand, did she
not perhaps over-emphasise his sensitiveness, and was it not more than
probable that to his sense of proportion her conception of the _manner_
of human intercourse was absurd, if not pitiful? She found herself in a
situation where, in an effort to be kind, she might be cruel. And what
was to her merely tact, might be to him pure snobbishness. That settled
the problem. She could not risk even the appearance of pettiness. The
decision made her realise, as nothing else had, how much his judgments
had come to mean to her.
"You're right, Roger," she said finally; "we'll have him down
to-morrow."
Roger looked at her quizzically.
"Where?" he asked.
"Where?" She affected bewilderment.
"Yes. Here ... or alone ... or...?"
She struggled momentarily.
"Why, here--of course--with us," she said firmly. Then very quickly, and
with finality, she changed the subject. It was a trifling incident; but
had she settled all later problems as she settled that one, the course
of her life would have been changed completely.
These were agreeable days, on the whole, for Judith and her guest, but
not for Roger. Pursuant to his sister's ultimatum and his own high
resolution taken thereon, he had fared forth, paladin-like, to conquer
that mysterious world wherein men bought and sold all manner of things,
not excluding themselves. But it had proven anything but the high road
to glory that he had secretly anticipated; he shivered lances daily with
an intangible enemy which neither showed its face nor gave its name, but
before which he seemed quite powerless.
He had gone first, as he said he would, to Judge Wolcott, and had, with
perhaps less humility than he himself thought he was displaying, but
with more than might naturally have been expected, announced his
readiness to consider any satisfactory (emphasised) "position" to which
he might be directed.
To his resentment, not to say surprise, the Judge had first laughed
unrestrainedly. But on realising the offence he was giving, which Roger
was at no pains to conceal, he had become quite serious, and had
directed the young man to a number of gentlemen, whose names he wrote
out on a bit of cardboard.
These gentlemen, however, had proved to have their habitat behind corps
of more or less impertinent menials. It had required very explicit
answers to what he considered a great number of entirely unnecessary
questions before he earned even the privilege of having his card
presented.
Once in the inner sancta, however, he had been treated most courteously,
the objects of his calls being impressed with the name of Wynrod no less
than with that of Wolcott. But after the exchange of sundry pleasantries
and compliments, he had invariably been shunted, though with exquisite
tact and delicacy, on to someone else.
He had found this process of education in the ways of the business world
excessively tiresome; but there was in his character a powerful, if
inconspicuous, vein of obstinacy, and he stuck grimly to the task in
hand. But he was nothing if not human, and his constant failure
gradually wore down his courage. To advance slowly would be hard enough,
he told himself; but not to move at all was altogether disheartening.
The natural consequence of it all was that he went into town later and
later, and came out earlier and earlier. There even came days when he
did not go in at all.
And the consequence of that was that he saw more and more of Good, with
the result that he fell under the stranger's spell even more completely
than his sister had.
In that fact, curiously enough, Judith found something to reconcile her
with the lad's failure to consummate the task she had set for him. He
might spend his time with worse men, she told herself, than with Brent
Good. But she saw to it that the latter's hours were not wholly spent
with Roger.
As the stranger grew in strength, she procured him a pair of crutches,
and with their aid, and that of the motor-car, they were able to take
little jaunts off into the surrounding country-side. On these trips it
almost brought the tears to her eyes to perceive the exquisite pleasure
the sight and the smell of growing things seemed to give him.
"I've never known anyone who enjoyed the country as much as you do," she
said one day, after he had waxed particularly enthusiastic over a view
from one of the near-by hills.
"I've never seen anything but city," he answered. Then he added very
simply: "I was pretty nearly a man before I saw my first cow." His brow
clouded reminiscently, and although she ached to draw him out on his
past, his evident unwillingness to speak of it further made her
hesitate.
Only once did he make any other reference to his childhood. She had been
saying how difficult it was to make people spell her name correctly.
"You don't have any difficulty there," she added.
"Not much," he admitted. "Queer name, isn't it," he said after a pause.
"Queer the way I got it, too. Like to hear about that?"
She smiled at the innocence of the query, but forced herself merely to
nod her head.
He smiled, and a curious expression of tenderness came into his eyes.
"You see, I was born without a name. That is, I never had any
parents--or never knew who they were, which amounts to the same thing. I
was just one of those nameless little scraps of a city's flotsam that
get found on people's doorsteps every now and then. That is, I think I
was. I guess I was about five when I began to be conscious of self. As
far back as I can remember, I was selling chewing gum and getting food
by begging from restaurants at night and sleeping in doorways and
packing-boxes. Then I sold newspapers, and got prosperous, and when I
was about ten--I guess it was ten--you see, I don't really know even how
old I am--I got into the hands, somehow or other, of an old Jew
rags-old-iron man." He was silent for a moment, and the expression of
tenderness spread over his whole face. "He was a good sort--that old
kike. He fed me as well as he could--which wasn't very well--and taught
me to write and figure and read--good books too. I knew the Public
Library better than you know your own house. He didn't just make me read
books--he made me like them. He'd come from Russia where he couldn't get
them, and he knew what books were. What your Church and brother and
friends and home are to you, books were to old Zbysko. He taught me to
love them, too. He did lots of things for me when doing things wasn't
easy. And he gave me the only name I ever had."
"Your name? I don't understand."
"Yes, the old chap was a great believer in patent medicines. He honestly
thought the men who made them were philanthropists. He gave me the name
of one of them." He laughed reminiscently. "I suppose I have one of the
best known names in the world! I see it everywhere."
"And the old man...?"
"They didn't _call_ it starvation--doctors never do name things right. I
think I was about thirteen then. They tried to send me to an
institution, but I ran away. I've shifted for myself since."
He lapsed into silence, and Judith could get no more out of him that
day. He was too obviously busy with his memories.
One Sunday morning, about a month or so after the accident, Judith was
struck by a whimsical idea. She broached it to her guest immediately.
"Mr. Good," she said at breakfast, "I have a favour to ask of you...."
"It's granted already," he said gallantly.
"Wait--it may not prove so easy. I know you don't care for church-going,
but I want you to go with me--this morning."
He looked dejected. "I should be delighted--honestly. But look--" He
indicated his old brown suit, which in spite of the constant and earnest
endeavours of Roger's valet, still looked indisputably shabby.
"No matter. We'll go late and sit in the back and nobody will see us.
But here's the real favour. There's to be a clergyman out from the
city, this morning, who is a friend of mine. Arnold Imrie is to preach,
and ..."
"Is Arnold coming?" broke in Roger. "By George, I'll go myself. He's a
wonder."
"That's what I wanted to find out," said Judith. "That is, I want to
find out if _you_ think so, Mr. Good. The people here think just that.
I want to get your opinion."
"That's hardly fair, is it, Miss Wynrod? He's a personal friend of
yours, and you know already what I think of church--yet you want my
opinion of both."
"No--not both; just the man."
Good shook his head. "I doubt if they can be separated," he said
dubiously.
"Well, we'll worry about that later. It's settled that you'll come?"
"Of course, but--"
"Thank you. I'll be ready in a minute."
All the way to the church Good protested that she was taking an unfair
advantage of him. But Judith refused to heed his protests.
They paused for a moment on the low rise overlooking the church, to
survey it. Judith was very fond of its weathered grey stones, almost
buried in the luxuriant ivy. She had been christened and confirmed in
it, and the stained glass windows at opposite ends of the
transept--masterpieces they were, too--were gifts of hers, in memory of
her long-dead father and mother. It was an exquisite little edifice, a
genuine bit of Tudor, without a particle of "adaptation," looking as if
it had been transplanted bodily from some English vale, together with
the soil upon which it stood, and the well trimmed trees which
surrounded it. She felt a little catch in her throat, as the memories
clustered before her.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Good slowly. "It's pretty...."
She did not like the hesitant qualification implied in his tone.
"Is there a reservation?"
"Well,"--he cocked his head on one side, and knitted his brows. "Yes.
It's too beautiful. It's beauty in the wrong place. The people out here
have beauty enough without it. I'd like it better if it was in the
city--in the heart of the city--with its trees and its vines and its
grass. It's needed more there." Then he laughed. "Oh, Miss Wynrod, you
must be careful what you ask me. I'm a queer fellow. Most of the things
you think are all right, I think are all wrong. You'd have to have lived
my life to see things the way I see them."
She was vaguely disappointed and hurt, and she made no attempt to reply.
Every now and then he did bewilder her by flights of thought which she
found herself incapable of following. Usually she tried to argue, but
the little church was too intimate a thing for that. She said nothing,
and silently they went on into it.
She had timed their arrival carefully so as to get there just before the
sermon, and unobtrusively they slipped into one of the side pews in the
rear. But the building was so small that they had a very good view of
the Reverend Arnold Imrie, sometime stroke of the Yale crew, Fellow of
Oxford, and one of the strongest heads that ever succumbed to a
Heidelberg _kneipe_.
He was a well-built, good-looking young man, with close cropped curly
blonde hair, and a clear skin and eyes. His complexion was ruddy, but
bronzed, as if he were still not unused to out-of-doors. Yet there were
two lines between his eyes, and a stoop to his shoulders that seemed to
betoken an equal familiarity with the study. Indeed his whole manner and
appearance gave the same paradoxical impression. It seemed to Good, as
he studied him, that Doctor Imrie was the product of a victory of the
mind over the body. He was the conscious ascetic, triumphing over the
instinctive sensualist. It was not hard to imagine that the clergyman
was very fond of the good things of the world, however much he might
neglect them in favour of the things of the spirit.
And in that estimate he was substantially correct. Imrie had gone into
the ministry, not really from choice, but from a painfully acute sense
of duty inherited from his Knoxian forbears. Contradicting an abounding
vitality was an overwhelming consciousness of sin, based, it must be
confessed, on a fair modicum of actuality, impelling him, irresistibly,
toward a fear and a hatred of the flesh. Some men enter the Church
positively, out of love for their God and their fellow men: but Imrie
had entered it negatively, from a fear and a distrust of the devil in
himself. Of his fellow men, in the mass, at least, he never thought at
all.
All these things Good sensed very clearly. But, he thought to himself,
Imrie was a young man, whose life had progressed in one channel ... and
there were a great many channels in the world. If anything should ever
occur to move him from his channel, a great many things might happen.
There were more Imries than the congregation, gazing respectfully with
tranquil eyes, saw.
It was quite characteristic of Imrie's neglect for the human equation in
life, that he should choose for his text that morning, the Evils of
Idleness--when fully two-thirds of his auditors represented the very
apotheosis of idleness. But it was equally explanatory of his popularity
among them. He had the faculty, wholly unconscious though it was, of
being able to castigate them eloquently for their sins, but in such an
abstract and impersonal fashion as to leave them quite untroubled at its
close.
His words, now, uttered with unquestioned sincerity, were hot and
forceful, his logic clear, his conclusions inescapable. He spoke
eloquently, his manner was impressive, and his delivery beyond
criticism. His hearers gave him their closest attention. Many of them
heard so well that later they would recall graphic bits, to quote, and
to use as explanation of their admiration of him. But not a brow
clouded. Not a soul was pained. He never perturbed his congregation.
Judge Wolcott expressed its feelings when he said, "I like to hear
Arnold preach because it brightens the day for me." Imrie was hardly a
Savonarola.
They had had disagreeable preachers at Braeburn, once or twice. One was
a particular disappointment. He was a missionary bishop from somewhere
in Africa, and the renown of his exploits had filled every seat. But he
proved to be an unattractive little man, with a falsetto voice and
shabby clothes, who not only spoke very badly, but who said some very
unnecessary and unpleasant things. Arnold Imrie was different. He spoke
their language, and they understood him. He was one of them. He had
grown up in their midst. Many of them called him by his first name. He
was perhaps a trifle too serious to people who found life rather more
amusing than otherwise, but on the whole they thought him more than
satisfactory. He was a gentleman. He was good. He was sincere. He was
orthodox. He never failed to point out the error of their ways--but he
never failed to do it with subtlety. And in a day when so many clergymen
were allowing themselves to wander into undesirable, if not absolutely
forbidden fields, he stuck to religion, where he belonged. And he was
not only delightful in the pulpit, but one could ask him to dine, with
perfect confidence in the result. As Good listened he turned to survey
the congregation. There was unqualified approval on every face. He
listened for a moment or two longer. Then he smiled faintly, as one
might at a play he has seen several times, and fell to counting the
ticking of his watch, wondering how much longer the sermon would last.
Nor was his impatience lost on Judith.
But Imrie never preached long sermons. In a very few minutes he had
wound up with his usual stirring peroration, and left the pulpit. Good
had an almost irresistible impulse to clap, not as expressing
approbation, but admiration for a difficult task well done. He
smiled--not wholly pleasantly--at the look of devout complacency on the
faces of all the well dressed men and women about him. Not one, he
reflected, who had listened so attentively to this stirring denunciation
of idleness, knew what real _toil_ was--or had any desire to know. He
wanted to rush to the pulpit himself--and tell them what it was. But he
followed Judith out quietly enough.
She had planned their exit so as to be well in advance of the crowd, but
she could not miss them all. She was irritated at the curious glances
flung at her and her companion, though she tried not to notice them. It
was only when a bow was quite unavoidable that she acknowledged it. She
was angry with herself for her self-consciousness. But when she glanced
at her companion, with his spotted, weather-beaten, shapeless suit, and
his antiquated, sun-burned hat, not to speak of his lean and angular
figure; and then at her own trim presence, she had to smile. They did
present a curious spectacle, and the covert smiles were justified.
Still--she was honest enough to admit it--it would please her more to
see Good somewhat better dressed. It did not occur to her that it would
please him too.
They walked along slowly for a little while, in silence. Good was the
first to speak.
"The inside was beautiful, too. That carved oak was fine. Just enough
carving. Not too much. Usually there is. And the windows--the sunlight
filtering in through that one on the left was like the organ when the
vox humana pedal is on--all shimmering. It was very beautiful. So
restful. All churches should be like that. The Catholics have the right
idea. It...."
"And the sermon?" she broke in quizzically.
He stopped short and looked at her narrowly. Her faint smile was not
lost on him.
"Now, Miss Wynrod--that isn't fair," he expostulated. "I told you not to
do that. Really...."
"But that's what I brought you for," she said. "Of course you like the
church. Anyone would. But I want to know about the rest of it. You
promised, you know."
He studied her thoughtfully. "Well," he said finally, "let's wait till
we get to that bosky dell up there. Then we can sit down and have it
out."
When they were seated, Good fell to toying with a stick, and making
little circles in the sand. She waited patiently for him to begin.
Finally he raised his head and looked at her half timorously from under
his bushy eyebrows.
"You won't be angry or disgusted if I tell you what's on my mind?" he
inquired.
"Have I ever been?"
"No--you've been quite remarkable in that respect," he admitted. "But
this is different."
"Go on--don't excuse yourself any more."
"Well, his text ... they nearly lynched a priest out in Colorado for
that. You see, he was preaching to strikers, and when he told them that
idleness was the root of all evil ... you couldn't hardly blame them,
now could you?"
She laughed at that. "But there aren't any strikers here," she
persisted.
"No, but to talk about idleness is almost as pointless here as there.
Why didn't he say something that would get under their hides? Look at
them coming up the street. Do they look as if they had been filled with
a fear of the Lord?"
"Do you think people go to church to be frightened?"
"I'm sure I don't know why they go," he said cheerfully. "I never could.
I'd rather do almost anything. Church-going always irritates me. The
preachers are so spineless--like this Mr. Imrie. He had a good theme.
But he didn't carry it out. Maybe he didn't know how. Maybe he didn't
dare...."
"You don't know Mr. Imrie," she said. "He'd dare--anything."
"All right. But that doesn't change what would happen if he did dare, or
did know. I've read the Bible quite a bit. Suppose Jesus came back and
got up in the pulpit and lit into his congregation the way he lit into
the money changers--'vipers' and all that? Why, the vestry would have
his scalp before the sun set, wouldn't they?"
"You seem to be rather hostile to religion, Mr. Good," said Judith,
vaguely offended.
He shrugged his shoulders in a manner indicative of helpless annoyance.
"Oh, Miss Wynrod--I didn't expect that of you. That's what they all say.
Roast the established Church and they call you an atheist or worse. I'm
not opposed to religion--why should I be? I can't say I dislike the air
I breathe, can I? But I haven't much use for an organisation that
doesn't live up to its confession of faith. Here are your Christian
Churches, founded on a rebellion against hypocrisy and privilege and
materialism, deliberately encouraging complacency and selfishness and
peace and quiet and oh--everything that its founder got crucified for.
I've come to know Jesus pretty well. I like him. He's the kind of leader
men want to follow. If he was alive to-day I'd be one of his lesser
disciples. And I'll bet a dollar that all your eloquent, dogmatic,
spiritual, irrelevant Imries would be running to the local Pilate to
have us jugged!"
"What makes you think you know Jesus better than--our Imries?" she asked
softly.
"I don't," he answered earnestly. "Knowing people is a subjective
affair. I know you as one person. Your brother knows you as another. You
may know yourself as very different from either of the two. It's the
same way with Jesus. We both made his acquaintance in the same way, so
we are both entitled to our opinion. But look here. You think Imrie's
nearer to Jesus than I am, don't you?"
"Why, really, I...." she stammered and coloured slightly.
"Of course you do. Well, I ask you this. Do you honestly think that
Imrie's Jesus--the Jesus he serves up to you on Sundays,--the cold,
logical, snobbish abstraction--would ever have gotten anybody so sore
that they'd crucify him? Of course you don't. Well what do you think
that congregation would do to me if I got up in the pulpit and gave _my_
Jesus--the fiery, human, uninspired, blood-red revolutionary that I
conceive him to be? You know without my telling you. Why, they'd have me
arrested if I used his own thoughts expressed in modern language--yes,
if I used his actual words--and _applied_ them. Suppose Imrie took that
stuff about the millstone, and applied it to Corey's cash girls and
delivery boys. Do you think the old man would be anxious to hear Imrie
again?"
"You seem to have thought a great deal about Jesus," said Judith, with a
faintly veiled sarcasm. But he did not sense that.
"Yes," he said naïvely. "Haven't you?"
She was silent at the unconscious rebuke, profoundly stirred by the
paradoxicality of the situation. She wanted to answer him in the
affirmative, wanted to very, very much. But she knew that she could not.
Jesus was not the living, breathing companion of every day that he
seemed to be to this irreverent infidel. He was far more sacred to her,
but far less a vital factor in the commonplaces of existence. She was
honest enough to admit it. But he appeared not to notice her tacit
confession.
"You see," he went on patiently, as if expounding a very simple problem
to a rather young and stupid child, "your stained-glass faith isn't
founded on Jesus at all. You're a Paulist. Like him, you're a Roman
citizen, an aristocrat, a mystic. Jesus wasn't any of those things. He
was the next thing to a slave, a man of the common people, and for all
purposes of comparison, a thorough-going materialist. He had no dogma
to preach, other than that the kingdom of the earth should belong to the
dwellers therein. But Paul was a different sort of chap. He changed the
propaganda so that it read 'kingdom of heaven,' which was a very
different thing, and much more comfortable for the shaking seats of the
mighty. Then the Greek philosophers got interested in that strange
abortion called Christianity, added Eleusinian mysteries and what not,
devised the doctrine of the immaculate conception to cover the
illegitimacy of Jesus, adapted the idea of the trinity from Egyptian
theology and...."
"You must study a great deal, too?" she asked, breaking in on the fluent
rush of his words.
"Yes," he said, almost apologetically; "it's great stuff. I like it."
Again she was silenced by the ingenuousness of his reply. She was
puzzled. She had thought she possessed a religion of conviction, but she
realised, in a sudden panic, that she had not. She had been born to her
faith as she had been born to her wealth and her position in society.
She did not dodge the consequent thought--it could be taken from her as
easily as the other things. This vagabond before her had been born with
nothing--not even a name--but what he had was his own. His very
impudence before sacred matters, the freedom with which he disregarded
the eminence of people and ideas, betokened his superiority to her. She
wanted to be disdainful, angry, displeased with him. She could not be.
She was humbled before the power of his faith, as she had never in her
life been humbled before the faith of Imrie. Though Good did not suspect
it, she was, in a way, at a crisis.
She was silent for a little while. Then she rose with a smile.
"Well, Mr. Good, I'm not a match for you in these matters, but Mr. Imrie
is coming to supper to-night and you can have it out with him face to
face."
"I'd be glad to," said Good as he scrambled to his feet, very awkwardly.
"But it wouldn't be any use. That's another reason for my dislike of
clergymen. You can't argue with them. The major premise, though it isn't
expressed of course, when you start off, is that they are right and you
are wrong. They are trying to convince you--always--never to learn. They
can go back to supernatural inspiration and I can't--so the argument
stops before it starts. You can't do much, you know, with a man who's
absolutely convinced that he's got a pipe line direct to eternity. But
I'll be polite to him. I'll try to forget that he's a parson and only
remember that he's your friend."
Judith smiled furtively at this magnanimous offer. It was so
characteristic of the man. If there was a drop of sycophantic blood in
his veins, he had yet to reveal it. And it was this sublime confidence
in himself which formed one of his most potent charms for her. From
birth she had been waited upon, with varying degrees of servility,
depending upon the station and the hopes of those who waited. There were
servants. There were young men, of varying degrees of attractiveness,
station, and impecuniousness, who wanted to marry her. There were
beggars, of varying degrees of honesty, who wanted her to aid them.
There were the proponents of various charitable schemes, with varying
degrees of sincerity and intelligence, who wanted her to sign the
cheques. And in addition to those who merely wanted money, were the
great swarm of both sexes, who sought the smile of her social favour,
who delighted to be seen with her, to have her accept their attentions,
to be invited to her functions. There had been very few people in
her life who were there with a wholly disinterested purpose. And
even the individuals who were disinterested--or whom she thought
disinterested--had relatives who were not. In spite of her temperament,
the circumstances of her birth and wealth had forced her to surround
herself with a well-defined armour of suspicion. In Good's lack of
reverence, of tact, of taste, of manners, of anything approaching the
conventions which made up her life, she found what she had craved. Of
his utter clarity of soul there could be no doubt. She never once even
suspected that he had a thought which he considered worth uttering,
which, from motives of expediency, he did not utter. She had given him
food and lodging. He had given her--all he had to give--his open heart.
It was clear that he thought they were quits. And she was glad that he
did. It was her first experience of such an exchange.
She smiled again as she recalled his promise not to enter into debate
with Imrie. He would treat Imrie kindly--for her sake. How Arnold would
fume if he knew of such forbearance. And if Good only knew what he was
saying ... well, she reflected, he would doubtless say it just the same!
At supper, true to his promise, Good was extremely taciturn. He appeared
respectfully interested in all that Imrie had to say, joked pleasantly
with Roger, was politely intimate with Judith, and to her very great
astonishment, even went so far as to tell several very entertaining
anecdotes of his experiences in the diamond mines of South Africa.
"Why," she cried, "I never knew you had been there."
"No," he said, with a twinkle in his eye and a dry little twist to his
lips, "I never told you."
But after that he relapsed into comparative silence, and shortly after
the meal, excused himself rather deftly, though none the less certainly,
and went to his room.
Roger, as usual, had an engagement elsewhere, and presently he, too,
departed. Judith and Imrie were left alone.
"That was a splendid sermon, Arnold," she said, with an effort at
enthusiasm, and a subconscious question as to whether she really meant
what she said.
Imrie was thoughtful. "I did my best. The congregation seemed to like
it. But it could be done much better."
"So could most things."
"Perfection is no trifle, is it," he smiled. "But let's not talk of such
dreadful things as sermons. I haven't seen you for ages...."
"Six weeks, to be exact," she interrupted.
"Exactly!" he thanked her with his eyes for the implication, and
woman-like, she took away his pleasure deliberately.
"The accident happened the day after you left."
"Oh." He was silent for a moment. "That was a splendid thing,
Judith--your taking that fellow in. Just like you. But hasn't he been
something of a--well, a care?"
"On the contrary. I've enjoyed him intensely."
"But don't you find him--a little uncouth?" he persisted.
"Yes--very. But a little roughness is a relief after too much polish,
isn't it?"
"Yes, of course," he admitted. "But you wouldn't confess even if you
had been put out. And that's like you, too." He looked at her with an
expression in his eyes, the meaning of which there could be no doubt.
"Let's go out on the porch," she said abruptly. "It's so stuffy in
here."
The moon was full and it shone over a picture of loveliness. Below them,
as they sat on the stone balustrade of the terrace, stretched Judith's
immaculate gardens, redolent with the soft perfume of sweet pea and
mignonette. As the breeze faintly stirred the leaves, the shadows danced
fantastically on the sod. Over in the velvet depths of the sunken tennis
courts, the fireflies flashed their lanterns incessantly. Somewhere in
the distance a guitar sounded now and again, and a woman's voice rose
and fell softly. It was very peaceful and pleasant, and Imrie, thinking
of the hot city and the morrow, drew a deep sigh. No power on earth
could prevent him from going back--but he did not pretend to think that
he wanted to go.
"Don't you ever wonder what those crickets are saying?" asked Judith,
conscious instinctively that her companion's eyes still burned with the
same light. "Just listen to them."
"I'd rather have you listen to me," said Imrie in a choking voice, as if
struggling to control himself. Suddenly his hand shot out and caught
hers in a grip like iron. "I want to tell you how much I love you!" he
whispered passionately.
She looked at him for a long time without replying, and he could see by
the movement of the shadows on her face, that her lip quivered. Her eyes
glistened, too. Then, very slowly and thoughtfully, she withdrew her
hand.
"It isn't fair, it isn't fair," she repeated dully. "You promised not
to."
"I know, I know--but I can't help it, my darling. I love you so much.
Nothing else matters. I can't help telling you. I looked for you in
church this morning and when I couldn't find you, it was so hard to go
on. I didn't care, after that. It's that way always. With you beside
me--it would be so different. Can't you ... don't you feel ... any
different?"
She shook her head sadly. It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times
harder than all the rest. That he loved her truly, there was no doubt in
her mind. Of the others, she was not so sure. But she did not love him,
and it hurt tremendously to tell him so. She could not tell why. He
always begged her to give a reason, and she never could. He was a good
man, and an attractive man. There was nothing lacking. As candid old
Mrs. Waring had told her, "Don't be a silly, my dear. You could not
possibly do better." She believed that, too. Imrie was as near her
ideal as she had ever ventured to formulate one. And yet....
[Illustration: It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times harder than
all the rest]
"But I thought ... the last time ..." he was saying. "It seemed as
if ... there was more hope. And now ... it seems as if there was less.
Why, my dearest? Have you changed? What have I done? What haven't I
done? You seem further away from me now than ever ... won't you ever
come to me ... is it always to be 'the desire of the moth for the
star' ... please speak to me, darling ... please...."
His voice broke under the stress of his emotion. Never had she seen him
so moved. She marvelled at it. She had a turbulent wish to ask him why
he never lost himself like that in his pulpit--and immediately
afterwards wondered where such an outrageous, irreverent thought could
have come from. That was not like her. But she knew very well who it was
like.
"Is there--someone else?"
The question made her start guiltily. She was glad that her face was in
shadow.
"Was there?" she asked herself. Then the absurdity of the thought made
her smile to herself.
"No," she said firmly. "There is no one else."
"Then perhaps...?" His voice trailed off.
"Yes," she said mechanically, as one who answered a question without
hearing it, "perhaps."
They were silent, then, for a long time. Finally Imrie held out his
hand. His face, clear in the moonlight, was drawn and seemed pallid. He
was visibly affected.
"I'm sorry, Judith," he said, with a perceptible tremor in his voice,
"but I can't help it. Sometime--perhaps...."
"Yes." Her eyes filled with tears again, and she dared not trust herself
to speak. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and comfort him.
But she would do it as she would comfort Roger--and he would know that.
So she held out her hand.
"I'm sorry, too, Arnold. But let us be the good friends we have always
been, anyway."
She regretted that, as she saw him wince. It was not friendship that he
wanted. But she forced herself to finish in that key. It was safest.
"I hope the plans for the new church are getting on famously?"
"Yes," he said apathetically. "It's doing very well."
"You must bring out the sketches and let me see them. I'm tremendously
interested."
"I will--mail them to you," he said heavily. Slowly, as if reluctant, he
took her hand again, held it just a moment, and then, with a suddenness
that overwhelmed her, seized her in his arms and kissed her hotly on the
lips. Then, like a shadow, he fled.
For a long time after he had gone Judith sat on the balustrade,
listening to the myriad noises of the night, and pondering on what had
befallen her. It had been a very eventful day. She smiled as she
pondered on its contrasts. But she sobered as she thought of Imrie. She
felt her cheek grow warm as she recalled his kiss. Then a faint smile
widened her lips at the impetuosity of it. It was so unlike him. He had
never shown such--she knew he would call it disrespect--but that was not
the word she would use. She hoped he would not apologise. That would
spoil it all. Perhaps--if he were a little less respectful....
She could love Imrie the man, she reflected, as she walked slowly into
the house. But Imrie the clergyman--she knew for a certainty that that
was impossible.