IT was in the waning afternoon that Gilderman let himself into the
house. He looked about him. The hall servant was not there, and
Gilderman began stripping off his own overcoat. He felt an unusual
irritation that the man should at this time be neglecting his duties.
He wondered where his wife was; the house appeared to be strangely
silent. There was a lot of letters lying upon the tray on the hall
table. Why had the man left them there instead of taking them up to the
study? He gathered up the packet and began shifting the letters over.
There were two from the capital and one from the Western metropolis.
There was one from Rome--that must be from Kitty Van Tassle.
Suddenly Mrs. Caiaphas came out from the dining-room. Gilderman had not
expected to see her. Then instantly he saw that she had been crying.
Her eyes were red and her face was tremulous. "Oh, Henry," she cried
out, "where have you been? We have been sending everywhere for you."
She came quickly forward as she spoke and caught him by the hands,
holding them strenuously, almost convulsively.
Gilderman stood as though turned to stone; the silence of the house had
become suddenly leaden. His wife! What had happened? He stood still,
holding the packet of letters unthinkingly in his hand. "What is it,
mother?" he said, forcing himself to speak.
"Oh, Henry," said Mrs. Caiaphas, "do you know that you are a father? It
is a little son. But poor, poor Florence. It was terrible!"
"And she?" said Gilderman. He dared hardly whisper the words.
"She is well. She has been asking for you all the while."
Gilderman's heart leaped with a sudden poignant relief that was almost
an agony. The time had come--had passed, and all was well; but to think
that he should have been away at such a time! His mind flew back to
what he had seen and done that day, and now he suddenly saw, as in a
clear light, how mad had been the folly that had led him away from home
at such a time and for such a purpose. Again he told himself that he
would certainly go crazy if he tampered any more with such monstrous
things, and once more he registered a vow that he would never again
make such a fool of himself. Oh, what a fool he had been! He had
crossed the hallway with Mrs. Caiaphas and they were going up the
stairs together. "Where have you been, Henry?" she said.
"Oh, I was called out of town unexpectedly," he replied.
Dr. Willington was drinking a glass of Maderia in the anteroom at the
head of the stairs. There was a crumbled biscuit upon a plate on the
table. The doctor turned to Gilderman with a beaming face. He reached
out his hand, and Gilderman took it and pressed it almost convulsively.
As he was about to loosen his hand he caught it again and pressed it,
almost clinging to it. The doctor laughed.
"May I see her?" said Gilderman.
Again Dr. Willington laughed. "Not just yet," he said; "the nurse is
with her now. You may see her presently."
Gilderman heard a sharp, piping wail somewhere in the distance. It was
the voice of a newborn child. Mrs. Caiaphas had left him, going into
the room beyond with the doctor, and he was left alone. He looked down
and saw that he still held the packet of letters, and then again he
ran them over. The Roman letter was for his wife. As he stood there
he heard the bishop's voice down in the hall. At the same moment Mrs.
Caiaphas came out of the room again. She was followed by the nurse.
"You may go in now, Henry, and see her," she said. The white-capped,
white-aproned nurse stood at the door. She was strange to Gilderman,
but she smiled pleasantly at him, and he bowed to her as he entered.
The room, partly darkened, was singularly quiet, singularly in order.
It had a look as though no one was there. Then Gilderman saw his wife.
The coverlet was spread smoothly over her, and her arms were lying
passively upon it, the hands still and inert. Her eyes were turned
towards him and she was smiling. There was a bundle lying on the bed
beside her and a murmur came from it. Gilderman walked silently across
the room. He knelt down beside the bed and took her hand in his and
kissed it. Then he leaned over and kissed the soft lips. The assistant
nurse, who had been standing silently with folded hands beside the
window, passed noiselessly out of the room.
"We have been sending everywhere for you," the invalid said, in a low,
weak voice. "I wanted you--oh, so much, but now I am glad you were not
here."
Gilderman did not reply; again his mind flew back to what he had seen
that afternoon and the day before, but now it did not cling to it but
left it instantly. This was the only reality, this was his life--the
other was not. He was still kneeling beside the bed holding her hand.
Mrs. Gilderman reached out the other hand and softly raised the
silk wrapping of the bundle beside her. Gilderman saw the strange,
congested, shapeless little face, but it did not arouse any distinct
emotion in him.
* * * * *
The next morning Gilderman awakened very early, but with a sweet and
tepid sense of renewed nervous vitality. Even before he was awake
he felt the keen straining of a great delight and joy, and almost
instantly he realized what it was. Everything seemed illuminated
with the light of that joy. He lay in bed motionless, listening to
the distant sounds of the noises of the street--not moving, but just
living. The day was very bright and the sun was already shining aslant
in at the windows of the dressing-room beyond. A son; his very own.
His bosom filled full of joy as he lay there sunk in its delight.
Then he began to think about it. He seemed to look down through a
long perspective of years to come in which the child grew to boyhood,
the boy to manhood, and into all the glory of life and wealth and
happiness. He saw him at college--a fine, dashing fellow, a popular
hero. Then it suddenly came to him to wonder--what if the child grew
up differently from that--a poor, puny lad, for instance--or, worse,
if he grew up vicious or unruly? And then there was the possibility
of death--always the looming possibility of death. He tore his mind
away from these vague discomforts and drifted back again into the
illumination of that first awakening joy. Suddenly the thought of the
Man whom he had seen the day before intruded itself into his balmy
meditations. He thrust it quickly away from him and it was gone,
leaving only a shadowy spot of lingering darkness; once more the joy
was there. His wife had admired that necklace down at Brock's. He would
go down that morning and get it. He would have that big ruby added to
it as a pendant; the colors would be beautiful. It was a magnificent
set of stones, and it would make a fine family piece to be handed down
to future generations. He laid a plan that he would put the necklace
into a bon-bon box. He would give it to Florence and she would say,
"But, my dear boy, I can't eat bon-bons." Then she would open the box
and find the necklace. What a beautiful morning it was out-of-doors.
It seemed to him that he had never felt so happy in all his life. He
raised himself upon his elbow and pushed aside the curtains and looked
at the clock. It was not yet eight o'clock, but he felt that he could
not sleep any more. He was restless to get up and enter into this new
joy of his life, and most of all he wanted to go down to Brock's and
buy that necklace.
He arose without ringing for his man and began dressing himself. He did
not know where the man kept his clothes. He opened one drawer after
another, finding his garments piece by piece. It seemed very droll that
he should not know where his own clothes were. He laughed; he was very
elated; he was very foolish. He did not even know where his bath-towels
were. As soon as he was dressed he went across to his wife's room. He
stood there at the door for a long time. There was no sound. While he
stood there the adjoining door of the dressing-room opened and the
nurse came out swiftly and silently. She smiled at him.
"How is Mrs. Gilderman?" he said, whispering.
"She's asleep," whispered the nurse, in answer.
Then he went down-stairs into the library. Everything was unprepared
for his coming. The morning newspapers lay in a pile upon the table.
He gathered them up and went out into his study, and there settled
himself comfortably in his great leather chair by the window that
looked out across the street to the leafless vistas of the park beyond.
How happy he was! Then he opened the papers and tried to read, and
recognized delightfully that he could not detach himself from the joy
that possessed him. He was unable to follow the printed words.
Suddenly his man came into the room. He started when he saw Gilderman.
"I didn't know you were up yet, Mr. Gilderman," he said. "You didn't
ring for me."
Gilderman burst out laughing. "No," he said, "it was very early, and it
wasn't worth while. I couldn't sleep, and so I just got up."
"Is there anything that I can do, if you please, sir?"
"Nothing, except to fetch me a cup of coffee," said Gilderman. "I'll
not get shaved now until I dress again after breakfast."
The man lingered for an instant to arrange something on the table and
then went out of the room.
Gilderman ate his breakfast alone. As soon as he had finished he went
up-stairs again. The door of his wife's room was open, and the nurse
came to tell him that he might come in. Her morning toilet was over;
her face looked singularly sweet and pure and cool lying in the half
shade of the pillow. She welcomed him with a smile. As Gilderman came
up to the bedside, she softly opened the cover that hid the child's
face. Gilderman bent over and looked at it. Again he wondered that he
should be no more sensible to the fact of paternity. The joy was there,
but it did not seem to attach itself to its object. He kissed his wife,
and then sat down in a chair beside the bed. She held his hand. The
only piece of jewelry he wore was a plain gold ring upon his little
finger. She had a habit of turning this ring around and around upon
the finger, and she did so now. "Where were you yesterday, Henry?" she
said, after a while. "Oh, I did so long for you. I kept calling for
you all the time. Afterwards I was glad you weren't here. But where
were you? They sent everywhere for you--to the club and up to the
riding-school, and they even telegraphed out to De Witt's."
Gilderman leaned very tenderly over her. His heart filled at the soft
touch of her hand upon his. Then he suddenly determined to tell her all.
"I went out to Brookfield," he said. And then, without giving himself
time to draw back from his determination, he continued: "The fact is,
Florence, I didn't want to trouble you about it lately, and so I didn't
say anything about it, but--er--the fact is, I have become extremely
interested in the doings of that Man whom people are talking so much
about, and I went to Brookfield to see Him."
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Mrs. Gilderman.
"Yes. I dare say you think it is foolish. I think it was foolish myself
now; but I was led into it all. Day before yesterday I was down at
Brookfield with the De Witts, you know. Well, while I was there I was
curious to see Him. I saw Him do something; I could not get away from
it, and I kept thinking about it all the time."
"Was that what made you so strange and absent?"
"Yes."
"What was it you saw?"
Then he told her about the raising of Lazarus from the dead. She
listened in silence. After he was done she lay still and silent for a
moment or two. "Oh, Henry," she said, "how perfectly horrid! Isn't it
dreadful! I don't see how you could bear to see it. I don't see why
He's allowed to do such things. You don't really think He did bring a
dead man back to life, do you?"
Gilderman was silent for a moment or two. "No," he said, "of course
I couldn't believe such a thing as that. But I can't understand it at
all. There were things about it I can't fathom at all. It was very
terrible. I don't see how it could have been a trick."
"But you don't believe any man could bring another man back to life
after he had been dead four days, do you?"
Gilderman did not reply. He did not know what to reply. "No," said he,
helplessly, "I don't."
"And did you see Him yesterday?" she said.
"Yes, I did."
"And did He do anything more?"
"No; I only spoke to Him and He spoke to me."
"What did He speak to you about?"
Again Gilderman thought. It all seemed to him now very foolish and very
remote. He felt ashamed to tell her. He laughed. "I dare say you'll
think me awfully ridiculous, Florence," he said. "Well, I'll tell you
all about it." And so he did.
She listened to him without saying a word until he ended. Then she
pressed his hand. "Dear Henry," she said, smiling faintly, "you are so
enthusiastic and so impulsive. And then you're so given to thinking
about such things as this. But you oughtn't to let yourself be so
led away." And then, after a moment of silent thinking, she said: "Of
course you don't believe any such thing as that, do you? You don't
believe that a man ought really to give away everything he has?"
"Why, no," said Gilderman, "I don't think that. Indeed, I know a man
shouldn't give away everything that belongs to him." And then he added:
"For the matter of that, I couldn't give away everything I have, even
if I wanted to do so."
Mrs. Gilderman lay thinking for a while. "You don't think anybody saw
you down there, do you?"
"Why, no," said Gilderman; "at least, I think not."
"It would be dreadful, you know, if anybody knew what you had been
doing. Just think how everybody would talk and laugh. You oughtn't to
give way to your impulses as you do, Henry. Some time you'll get into
trouble by it."
"Oh, I'm sure nobody saw me," said Gilderman, and then he was
uncomfortably silent. It would, indeed, be very disagreeable to be
guyed about such a thing.
"I want you to promise something, Henry," said Mrs. Gilderman, suddenly.
"What is it?" said Gilderman.
"I want you to promise that you'll never undertake to do as that Man
told you--to sell all that you have and give it to the poor."
Gilderman laughed. "I think you can set your mind at rest as to that,
Florence," he said.
"But I want you to promise me--think of Reginald."
Reginald, by-the-way, was the name into which the baby had been born.
It was the name of Gilderman's baby brother, who had died almost in
infancy and whom he could just remember. "Very well, my dear," said
Gilderman, "I promise."
"We must think always of little Reginald now," said Mrs. Gilderman;
"we must remember that all we have is in trust for him. I want you to
promise me, dear, because I don't want you to do anything rash. You are
so impulsive--you poor, dear boy."
Gilderman laughed. "Very well, my dear," he said; "I promise you
faithfully that I won't try to sell a cent's worth, nor give away a
dime to the poor more than I have to."
Just then the nurse came in to say that Mrs. Caiaphas was down-stairs.
"Go down and see her, Henry, won't you?" said Mrs. Gilderman, and
Gilderman went, though reluctantly.
Gilderman made another confidant during the day. He was led rather
inadvertently into doing so. It was Stirling West. There had been
many visitors in the morning, and West had come around from the club
a little before noon to congratulate his friend. The two were sitting
together comfortably in the library smoking and looking out into the
street. The newspapers lay in a pile upon the floor, and upon the
uppermost sheet was a big pen-and-ink portrait of the Man of whom so
many were now talking. West pointed to it and made some comment upon
it. Gilderman looked down at the paper through the blue mist of tobacco
smoke. "It doesn't look at all like Him," said he.
"Doesn't it?" said West, and then he suddenly looked up at Gilderman.
"Eh!" said he, "by Jove! How do you know it doesn't look like Him? Did
you ever see Him?"
Gilderman had spoken without thinking. His first impulse was to
equivocate, but he did not. It was easier to tell about it now that he
had already spoken of it to his wife. He made a sudden determination to
take West into his confidence and see what he said about it all. "Yes,"
he said, "I have seen Him."
"The deuce you say! When did you see Him?"
"Not long ago. Yesterday and day before yesterday."
"Where?"
And Gilderman told him.
"The deuce you did! Well! Well! Well! You've kept yourself mighty close
about it."
"I didn't want to tell about it," said Gilderman.
"Why not?" said West.
Gilderman considered for just one lingering moment. "Look here,
Stirling," he said, suddenly, "I'll tell you about it, if you'll
promise not to say anything about it to the other fellows."
"All right," said West. "I'll promise."
"The fact is," said Gilderman, "I let it out a moment ago without
thinking what I was saying. I'm afraid I've been making rather a fool
of myself, Stirling. You know I've been always more or less interested
in that sort of thing. (West nodded his head.) Well, I went down to
Brookfield with the De Witts to see their new house. While I was there
I hunted up this Man, who was in the neighborhood at the time. I saw
Him bring that other man back to life," he added.
"By Jove!" commented West; "the mischief you did!" He smoked a little
while in silence. "But the newspapers say it was all a fake," he said,
presently.
"It wasn't a fake," said Gilderman. "I don't know what it was, but I
don't believe it was a fake. It was a horrible thing. I can't make head
nor tail of it even yet."
Then, in a more consecutive way, he told West all about what he had
seen. West listened in silence, and for the third time he commented "By
Jove!" when Gilderman had ended. He paused for a moment and then said,
"And you saw all that, did you?"
Gilderman nodded his head. He did not say anything about his having
seen the Man again--of having searched for Him for that special
purpose, and he suddenly determined that he would not do so. "I don't
want you to say anything about all this," he said; "I feel as though I
had been making an ass of myself."
"Well, I don't know about that," said West. "That's putting it rather
strong. You were always fond of that sort of thing, and everybody knows
that that's your peculiar lay. I don't see what you like about it, for
my part, nor why you want to go hunting around in the cemeteries that
way."
"Well, I have had a dose of it this time," said Gilderman, "and I don't
think I shall ever tamper with that sort of thing again."
Stirling West puffed out a cloud of smoke and said nothing further.