WHEN men have slain the Living Truth and a new age has arisen from its
death, the world still rolls onward in its course and mankind does not
know that anything has happened. Children are born into the world, men
and women are married, others die, and only a few poor, lowly ones know
the significance of that death and resurrection. Thus it must ever be.
In the outer world there is no sign; each man pursues his own business
and pleasure with just the same avidity as though God's Truth had not
perished in the flesh to rise again into the glory of resurrection.
Yea; judgment-day may come and the angel may blow his trumpet until
the earth shall crack and heaven itself shall tremble, but the ears of
man are deaf to the blast and his eyes are blind to the terrors that
overhang the soul. In his ears are stoppers of clay and over his eyes
is a film of flesh, and neither sound nor sight can reach him.
What wonder, then, that men not only deny their Creator and their
Redeemer, but even refuse to believe that the soul within them is
alive. To them the body seems alive and not the soul; to them it seems
as though this world is the end of everything.
* * * * *
Mrs. Gilderman, though she had not recovered from her confinement
with the rapidity that a washerwoman might have done under the same
circumstances, was, nevertheless, so nearly quite well by the end of
the month as to be able to be down-stairs and about the house. She did
not go much abroad. Maybe on a fine afternoon she would take a spin in
the park in the automobile or out along the river, but she did not go
shopping, and was yet watched by her nurse with the jealous care due
to a convalescent patient of such pre-eminent importance. But, though
she did not go abroad, her friends came to see her, and she often held
receptions in her own room with tea and wafers, maybe, and a babble of
feminine chatter. She was conscious that her imported blue tea-gown was
vastly becoming to her blond beauty, and she made the most of it, lying
back in a nest of blue silk, silver-embroidered cushions.
It was about this time that she made Gilderman promise to have his
portrait painted. "I want Reginald to have it to say," she said, "that
that is the way my father looked in the year that I was born."
So Gilderman had commissioned Norcott to paint a full-length portrait
of himself with a bit of realistic background showing a glimpse of the
famous Cyprian Adonis fragment. No one living could do those little
realistic bits of background as could Norcott.
During this same month the Biddington-De Vaux wedding was to come off
at the national capital--Arabella Stewart Biddington and Lord George
De Vaux, an _attaché_ to a foreign embassy. Gilderman, on the score of
relationship to Miss Biddington, had, of course, to go. That same day
he was also to give a sitting to Norcott. He was growing very tired
of these sittings. There had been a great many of them, for Norcott
was endeavoring to make the work a _chef-d'oeuvre_. At first Gilderman
had been very much interested in the artist, his surroundings, and
the studio in which he worked. Not only had Norcott much to say
for himself, but he had collected about him an enormous amount of
bric-à-brac, rugs, tapestries, and hangings. You would have pronounced
the anteroom to the studio to have been cluttered were the things
gathered there less fine and interesting than they were. The studio
itself was a great, high-ceilinged room with a big skylight. There was
more bric-à-brac, rugs, tapestries here, but in the wider spaces they
did not seem so crowded together as in the anteroom. Gilderman had
become pretty well acquainted with all these surroundings by now, and
they were no longer so interesting to him as they had been at first.
He sat there in the morning of the Biddington-De Vaux wedding feeling
rather bored. He had to take the trip to the capital in the afternoon,
too. That also was a bore in prospect.
The outer door of the reception-room of Norcott's studio was so
arranged that when it opened a chime of bells was rung. Norcott was
working silently and industriously and Gilderman was sitting thinking
about the nuisance of the impending journey, when suddenly the chime
of bells rang out upon the silence of the studio. Presently Norcott's
Moorish servant came bringing in a card. Norcott looked at it. "It's
Santley Foord, Mr. Gilderman," he said. "Would you like him to come in?
He's a very interesting fellow, and it might entertain you."
"Santley Foord?" said Gilderman. And then, remembering the name: "Oh
yes; he's the fellow who wrote and illustrated those very interesting
articles about the West-China _imbroglio_ for the _Mundane Sphere_, is
he not?"
"Yes, that's the man."
"I'd be very glad to meet him," said Gilderman, welcoming any break in
the monotony of the sitting.
Then Santley Foord came in. He was a lively, brisk little man, with
a face burned russet-brown by the sun, a mustache nearly white, and
very light, closely cropped gray hair. He had a strong jaw and chin,
and his little eyes were as bright and as black as beads and danced
and twinkled and were never still for a moment. Norcott introduced
Gilderman, who bowed with a manner that was very urbane. Santley Foord
was evidently extremely gratified by the introduction.
"I was very much interested in your West-China articles," said
Gilderman. "It seemed to me that your sketches were strikingly clever,
too. That one with the dead bodies lying on the snow and the flock
of crows around them and the long line of road cut through the snow
and stretching away to the distance against the gray sky impressed me
extremely."
"I am highly flattered that you should have noticed it, Mr.
Gilderman," said Foord. "One can always get a capital effect of snow
in reproductive process. And then, I suppose, the subject was very
fetching. I stood there in the snow sketching the scene over the back
of my Tartar pony, with the sketch-book resting on the saddle, while my
two Kalmuck men brewed some tea in a deserted hut at the road-side."
Then he began describing incidental scenes connected with the
circumstances of the massacre. He talked well, and Gilderman listened
much interested.
From this subject, at a question from Norcott, the narrator branched
out into his experience in a Tartar village. He described his
introduction to a fat old Tartar chief, and he mimicked the obese
Oriental with an almost startling vividness. Gilderman laughed
heartily, and as he did so he registered in his own mind that he would
give a man's dinner-party and would ask Santley Foord. It would be very
entertaining. How Stirling West would enjoy the fellow.
"But, after all," said Foord, "you don't have to go out to the far East
to find such things. I've come across a mine of interest here that
nobody seems to know or to think anything about. Did you, for instance,
know that the disciples of that carpenter, about whom there was so
much talk awhile ago, are still living here in the very midst of the
city, a community in themselves? They claim to have had supernatural
experiences and to have seen visions and all that sort of thing. They
have strange religious ceremonies and meetings, in which they appear to
go off into a trance state, and a good many of the poor people among
whom they live believe all that they say to be a _bona-fide_ fact."
"I thought all that trouble was over and done with now," said Gilderman.
"Oh no, indeed. Why, I'm going to meet Dolan--Inspector Dolan, you
know--at eleven o'clock to-day, and we're going down to a meeting that
those people are going to hold this morning. I'm going to make a sketch
of it. They are quite the most interesting thing I have come across for
a long time, and I think the world will be rather struck to find that
these strange folk are living in its very midst without its knowing
anything at all about them."
"Really!" said Gilderman. And then, after a moment of pause: "Do you
know, Mr. Foord, I'd like immensely to go with you and Dolan and see
these people."
Santley Foord laughed. "Well, Mr. Gilderman, to tell you the honest
truth, I don't believe you would like it very much. The surroundings
are not especially pleasant. I've got used to all those kinds of
sights and smells by this time. One gets used to no end of such things
knocking about on the rough side of the world, but I don't believe
you'd like it."
Gilderman laughed in answer. "I don't know that I would especially
like the sights and smells," he said, "but I'd like very much to see
what these poor people are doing." And then, after a brief second of
hesitation, he continued: "Such things interest me very much. I saw the
Man Himself two or three times while He was alive, and spoke to Him
once face to face. He impressed me very singularly."
"Did He, indeed?" said Santley Foord.
Gilderman had found it very hard one time to confess this to his wife.
It had not been so hard to repeat the narrative in part to Stirling
West, and since then he had described the scene in the cemetery several
times to friends who had asked him about it. He described it now,
growing conscious as he did so of how flat his narrative was compared
to the clever way in which Foord would have told the story.
Foord listened very interestedly. "By Jove!" he said, when Gilderman
had ended, "I would have given a deal to see that, Mr. Gilderman.
It beats anything I ever saw down in India, and I've seen some very
strange things there, too." Then he began a vivid description of the
old trick: how he had once seen some jugglers put a woman under a
basket that was just big enough to cover her, and of how one of the
Indians had run the basket through and through with a sword. His
description of the woman's screams and of the trick blood that flowed
from under the basket and over the hot, white stones of the pavement
was almost horribly startling, and Gilderman, as he listened, again
registered a determination that he would ask Santley Foord to a man's
dinner some time in the near future.
After a while Foord arose from where he was sitting and sauntered
around the room, looking at some of the pictures and sketches. Then,
having completed his inspection, he said, in his almost abrupt fashion:
"Well, it's time to go around to the St. George. If you really care to
go with us to see these people, Mr. Gilderman, I'll be glad to take you
along."
"I'd like to see them," said Gilderman, "but I don't know whether
Norcott's through with me yet."
"Just give me five minutes more, Mr. Gilderman," said Norcott, "and
then we'll call the sitting off for the day."
Gilderman took Foord around to the St. George with him in his
automobile, and they got out together and entered the wide,
marble-flagged vestibule almost arm-in-arm. They found Inspector Dolan
already there and waiting. He was sitting on one of the leather-covered
seats that stood along the wall and was talking to a stranger. He arose
as Gilderman and Foord came in, and he looked distinctly surprised to
see Gilderman.
"Mr. Gilderman wants to go along with us," said Foord, and then the
inspector laughed.
Gilderman ordered an electric coach, and as they whirled away down-town
he offered his cigarette-case to his companions.
"I don't think I've seen you, inspector," he said, "since that man sold
his Master to the bishop that day. Whatever became of him? I wonder if
he ever felt sorry for what he had done."
"Sorry!" said the inspector--"sorry! I should think so. The officers
found his dead body hanging to a tree the day after the execution."
"Oh yes," said Gilderman, "I remember now reading an account of it. But
I did not know it was that man who hanged himself."
"Yes, sir, that was the man."
The coach stopped in a narrow and dirty street. Then they all got out
and walked for some little distance down the paved court until the
inspector at last turned into an alleyway.
The alley opened into another paved court, and here Gilderman found
himself in the midst of the sights and smells of which Santley Foord
had spoken. There were two or three rather dilapidated houses looking
down upon the court. They were shabby, squalid-looking piles, and
overhead, from house to house, were stretched clothes-lines, with
clothes hanging out to dry, motionless in the dull, heavy air. The
court was paved with cobble-stones, and here and there water had
settled in stagnant puddles. There were a couple of ash-barrels
standing by one of the houses, piled high with ashes and scraps of
refuse.
The inspector led the way directly to one of the houses. He put his
hand upon the knob of the door and turned it very softly. Then he
opened it and entered with Gilderman and Foord at his heels.
Gilderman found himself in a dark, narrow entryway. The walls of the
entry had that peculiar, greasy look that seems always to belong
to houses of the poorer sort, and there was everywhere a rank and
pervading smell. As the inspector closed the door, another door at the
farther end of the entry opened and a stout woman, unmistakably Jewish
in appearance, stood framed in the space of light behind. She hesitated
for a moment, and then said, with a sharp, rasping voice: "What do you
want? What are you doing here?"
The inspector walked directly along the passageway towards her. "That's
all right, Sarah," he said. "It's Inspector Dolan."
"What's the matter now?" said the woman. "I 'ain't been doing no harm."
"There's nothing the matter at all, only these two gentlemen here want
to go up-stairs to see your friends on the third floor."
"There ain't nobody up on the third floor," said the woman, sullenly;
"they 'ain't been here for a couple of days."
The inspector laughed. "That's all right, Sarah," he said. "We'll go
up and look for ourselves. Just you stay down here. And don't you go
kicking up a row," he added, turning suddenly stern in his demeanor.
The woman shrunk back as though threatened with a lash, but she did not
go entirely away. She partly followed them and then stood watching with
a sort of impotent sullenness as they went up-stairs, the inspector
leading the way.
Gilderman was nearly overpowered by the close, heavy atmosphere of the
house. His companions did not seem to think anything of it at all,
and he knew that the people who lived every day in that atmosphere
would not be aware of its close fetor. Surroundings of this sort were
infinitely distasteful to him, but since he had come so far he made up
his mind that he would go on to the end.
As the three climbed the stairs Gilderman became aware of a strange,
droning, sing-song sort of chant, or rather mummer, that grew louder
and louder as they ascended. He found it came from one of the rooms
on the third floor. The inspector led the way directly to the door of
this room, and Santley Foord turned and said to Gilderman: "It's those
people you hear, and, by George! Mr. Gilderman, we're in luck; they're
about some of their religious ceremonies this minute. I hope you'll be
able to see some of them in a trance state."
The inspector stood for a while with his hand upon the knob as though
listening. Then he said, in a low voice, "I'll wait outside here."
"Is it perfectly safe?" asked Gilderman, instinctively lowering his
voice to the same pitch as that in which the inspector spoke.
"Lord bless you! yes, Mr. Gilderman," said Dolan; "they're as harmless
as mice."
Then he opened the door and Foord stepped into the room, closely
followed by Gilderman. There were maybe a dozen or so men in the
crowded space. The room was very close and hot. Some of the inmates
were sitting around a deal table; two were standing with their backs
to a cold and rusty stove, and one was leaning against the wall, his
face hidden in his arm, his body shaking as though he were crying.
None of them seemed to be aware of the presence of the intruders, and
then Gilderman saw with a shock, almost as of awe, that they were
indeed in a state as though of entrancement. The faces of all were
transfixed, vacant, exalted. They seemed all to be lit with a singular
illumination. It was almost as though the faces were translucent
and illuminated to that singular roseate brightness by a light from
behind. Gilderman had never seen anything like it before. By-and-by a
feeling akin to terror began to creep over him. What did it all mean? A
strange, groaning murmur coming from the breasts of the men filled the
room full of sound, now rising fuller, almost into articulate speech,
now quavering away into a dull murmur. It was very impressive--almost
awful, to Gilderman.
If Foord was at all impressed he was too busy to yield to his emotions.
He had taken out his sketch-book and was sketching rapidly. Inspector
Dolan was looking over his shoulder through the half-open door.
None of the three knew what it was that they had come so near to
seeing; for the crying man with his face hidden against the wall was
Thomas the Doubter.
Still Foord sketched away rapidly, and by-and-by Gilderman found
himself becoming interested in the swift, dexterous strokes of the
pencil and the quick suggestions of portraiture. "Do you suppose they
mind you doing this?" he whispered.
"Lord bless you, no!" said Foord, _sotto voce_. "They don't see or know
anything when they're in that state."
At the sound of the voice the crying man lifted his face for a moment
from his hands and looked towards Gilderman with strange, filmy,
sightless eyes. His cheeks were drenched with tears. Gilderman knew
that though the man looked towards him he did not see him.
* * * * *
As Gilderman continued down-town towards the office, he felt strangely
softened and moved--strangely impressed by what he had just seen.
Again, as he thought over it all, a feeling as of awe came upon him. He
did not understand what it was he had beheld, but the impression lay
heavily upon him. A recollection of the morning's scene, accompanied
by the same feeling of awe (though less strong and vivid), recurred
again to him that afternoon as he crossed the river to embark upon
the other side for the capital. He was standing in the bow of the
ferry-boat at the time looking out across the water. He had never seen
a human face illuminated as those faces had been. It was as though the
spirit shone forth and consumed the fibres of flesh that incased it.
Was it then, indeed, true that the spirit was so present in every fibre
of flesh that it could thus glorify the human body to that strange
illumination? The bright surface of the harbor stretched away before
him, shut in by the distant farther shore of clustered buildings. A
huge out-going steamer was ploughing its slow and monstrous way down
the river. Gilderman saw everything and yet saw nothing as he stood
there pondering the remembrances of that morning.
He suddenly awoke to the things of every day as the boat thumped its
way into the slip, and he pushed forward with the crowd which, as soon
as it had poured off from the boat, presently spread out until he was
able to hurry through the waiting-room of the depot to the train.
His man met him at the gate and directed him to the parlor-car, where
Stirling West met him. "Hello, Gildy!" he said; "I thought you were
going to be left."
As they went together along between the rows of chairs to the
compartment where Tom De Witt and his mother and two sisters already
sat, Stirling West nudged Gilderman with his elbow. "Ain't she a
daisy!" he said, in a whisper. And Gilderman, looking down, saw an
exceedingly pretty and stylishly dressed blond girl sitting with an
elderly man of senatorial appearance.
He felt a distinct pleasure in the prettiness of the girl, and he
looked back at her again as he was about to enter the door of the
compartment. He was already forgetting what he had that morning seen.