I
Hodder opened the door. In the dingy passageway he perceived a tall
figure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman.
In spite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high
collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate,
pleated linen. In one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat
of which the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel,
the brown paper wrapping of which was soaked: in the other, a manila bag
containing lemons.
His head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald,
but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples. The face was
clean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating,
distinctly philanthropic. And the blue eyes rested on the clergyman with
a benevolence unfeigned.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the old gentleman said; “I am told Mrs. Garvin
lives here.”
Before the rector could reply Mrs. Garvin herself stood between them.
“It's Mr. Bentley!” she exclaimed.
“I fear I'm intruding, ma'am,” he said. “But some of Dicky's little
friends have just informed me that he is ill, and I have taken the
liberty of calling to inquire.”
Mr. Bentley entered the room,--simple words to express that which was in
some sort an event. He laid his parcels on the table, his hat and stick
on a chair, and stood looking down in silence at the thin little form on
the couch. Presently he turned.
“I'm afraid he's very ill, ma'am,” he said gently. “You have your own
doctor, no doubt. But if you will permit me, as a friend, to make a
suggestion, we have in the city one of the best child specialists in
the United States, who is never weary of curing these little ones,--Dr.
Jarvis, and I shall be happy to ask him to come and see Dicky.”
Mrs. Garvin glanced at Hodder, who came forward.
“I was just about to telephone for Dr. Jarvis, Mr. Bentley, when you
arrived. I am Mr. Hodder, of St. John's.”
“How do you do, sir?” The kindly eyes, alight with a gentle flame,
rested upon the rugged figure of the rector. “I am glad that you, too,
agree that Dr. Jarvis is advisable, Mr. Hodder.”
There was a sound from the bed. Garvin had got to his feet and was
staring wildly, with reddened lids.
“Are you Horace Bentley?” he demanded.
“That is my name, sir,” Mr. Bentley replied. His expression of surprise
was only momentary. And in all his life Hodder had never beheld a
greater contrast in human beings than between that gracious and courtly
old man and the haggard, unkempt, unshaved, and starving outcast facing
him. Something like a film came over Garvin's eyes.
“He ruined you, too, twenty years back--Eldon Parr did for you, too.
Oh, I know his record, I've followed his trail--he got all the Grantham
stock that would have made you a millionnaire!”
“Ah,” replied Mr. Bentley, smiling to humour him, “that's something I
have no wish to be, sir,--a millionaire.” He met the frightened gaze of
the wife. “Good day, ma'am. If you will allow me, I'll come to-morrow
morning to learn what Dr. Jarvis will have had to say. Have courage,
ma'am, have courage. You may have faith in Dr. Jarvis.”
The poor woman was incapable of speech. Mr. Bentley picked up his hat
and stick.
“I've taken the liberty of bringing Dicky a little ice and a few
lemons.” His eyes rested again on the couch by the window. Then he
turned to Garvin, who stood mutely, staring. “Good evening, sir,” he
said. “We must look for the best.”
II
They went down the stairs of the shabby and battered house, stairs
by the side of which holes had been knocked through the faded
wall-paper--scars of frequent movings. The sound and smell of frying
came out of the open door of what once had been the parlour, and on the
front steps a little girl darted past them with a pitcher of beer. When
they reached the sidewalk Mr. Bentley halted.
“If you were intending to telephone Dr. Jarvis, Mr. Hodder, there is a
public station in the drug store just above here. I know that clergymen
are busy persons, and I am passing it, if you are pressed for time.”
“My only concern is to get Jarvis here,” said the rector. “If I may go
with you--”
Once again in the hot sunlight, reaction had set in. Hodder was suddenly
unstrung, and the kindly old gentleman beside him seemed for the
instant the only fixture in a chaotic universe. It was not until later
reflection that he realized Mr. Bentley might, by an intuitive sympathy,
a depth of understanding, have drained something of his state, since the
incidents which followed were to be accounted for on no other grounds.
In such elemental moments the frail conventions are swept away: Mr.
Bentley, whoever he might be, was no longer a stranger; and it seemed
wholly natural to be walking with him up the street, to hear him
saying,--not with perfunctory politeness but in a tone that was itself
an invitation,--“With pleasure, sir, we'll go together. And let us trust
that the doctor will be at home.”
Nor did Hodder stop to wonder, then, why Mr. Bentley should have sought
in his conversation to dissipate something of the hideous blackness of
a tragedy which must have moved him profoundly. How fortunate, he
declared, that they should have arrived before it was too late! For it
was plain to be seen that these Garvins were good people who had been
broken by adversity.... The boy had struck him particularly--a lovable,
merry little fellow whose clothes, Mr. Bentley observed, were always
neatly mended, betokening a mother with self-respect and character. He
even spoke of Garvin: adversity, worry, the heat, constant brooding over
a happier past and an uncertain future--was it surprising that the poor
man's mind had become unhinged? They must make some plan for Garvin,
said Mr. Bentley, get the man and his wife into the country for a while
amongst kindly people. This might no doubt be arranged....
“Here we are, sir.”
The familiar smell of drugs, the sound of the trickling water in the
soda fountain roused Hodder to reality, to action, and he hurried into
the telephone booth, fumbled in the dog-eared book, got Dr. Jarvis's
number and called it. An eternity seemed to elapse before he had a
reply, heard his coin jangling in the bog, recognized the voice of the
great doctor's secretary. Yes, the doctor was in would he speak to Mr.
Hodder, of St. John's?... An interval, during which Hodder was suddenly
struck with this designation of himself. Was he still of St. John's,
then? An aeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white
marble of its aisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. He was not
that man, but another--and still Mr. Hodder, of St. John's.... Then he
heard the specialist say, “Hello, Mr. Hodder, what can I do for you?”
Heard his own voice in reply, explaining the case. Could the doctor
find time? The doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the
poor,--though he did not say so: he would be there--by half-past six.
The rector hung up the receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped
his brow, for the heat was stifling.
“The doctor will go,” he explained in answer to Mr. Bentley's inquiring
look.
“Now, sir,” said the old gentleman, when they were out of the store,
“we have done all that we can for the time being. I do not live far from
here. Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking supper with me,
if you have no other engagement.”
No other engagement! Not until then did Hodder remember his empty rooms
in the parish house, and the train which was to have borne him away from
all this already speeding northward. He accepted gratefully, nor did
he pause to speculate upon the mystery by which the stream of his life
seemed so suddenly to have been diverted. He had, indeed, no sense of
mystery in the presence of this splendidly sane, serene old man, any
more than the children who ran after him from the dingy yards and
passages, calling his name, clinging to the skirts of his coat. These
accepted him simply as an anomalous fact in their universe, grinned at
his pleasantries, and held up grimy little hands for the kidney-shaped
candy beans he drew forth from his capacious pockets. In the intervals
he reminisced to the rector about the neighbourhood.
“It seems but a short while ago when the trees met overhead--magnificent
trees they were. The asphalt and the soot killed them. And there were
fruit trees in that yard”--he pointed with his stick to a littered sun
parched plot adjoining a battered mansion--“all pink and white with
blossoms in the spring. Mr. Hadley lived there--one of our forgotten
citizens. He is dead and gone now and his family scattered. That other
house, where the boy lies, belonged to Mr. Villars, a relation of the
Atterbury family, and I can recall very well a little girl with a pink
sash and a white dress who used to come running out to meet me with
flowers in her hands. Incredible as it may seem, she picked them in that
yard. I thought of her as I went in, how fresh and happy she used to
be, and what a different place this was for children then. She must have
some of her own by this time.”
The character of the street had changed to what might be called
shabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house--one
of a row--that showed signs of scrupulous care. The steps were newly
scrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted.
“This is where I live, sir,” said Mr. Bentley, opening the door with a
latchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened and
cool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture. It
was fitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the
ceiling.
An old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. His hair was as
white as his master's, and his face creased with age.
“Sam,” said Mr. Bentley, “I have brought home a gentleman for supper.”
“Yassah, Misteh Ho'ace. I was jest agwine to open up de blin's.”
He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on
the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired.
Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in
Hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before:
every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day
when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in
old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over
the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume
of the thirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley's. Who was
she?
Hodder wondered. Presently he found himself before a photograph on the
wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously.
“Ah, you recognize it,” said Mr. Bentley.
“St. John's!”
“Yes,” Mr. Bentley repeated, “St. John's.” He smiled at Hodder's glance
of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. “That
picture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say--in 1869.
I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you
see. That was Mr. Gore's house”--he indicated a square, heavily corniced
mansion--“where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the
church, where you see the trees above the wall.”
The rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the
picture thoughtfully.
“I ought to have remembered,” he said. “I have seen your name in the
church records, sir, and I have heard Mr. Waring speak of you.”
“My dear Mr. Hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me. A
great many years have passed since I was a parishioner of St. John's--a
great many years.”
“But it was you,” the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke with
conviction, “it was you who chose the architect, who did more than other
men to make the church what it is.”
“Whatever I may have done,” replied Mr. Bentley, with simple dignity,
“has brought its reward. To this day I have not ceased to derive
pleasure from it, and often I go out of my way, through Burton Street,
although the view is cramped. And sometimes,” he added, with the hint of
a twinkle in his eye, “I go in. This afternoon is not the first time I
have seen you, Mr. Hodder.”
“But--?” said the rector. He stared at the other's face, and the
question died on his lips.
“You wonder why I am no longer a parishioner. The time came when I
could not afford to be.” There was no hint of reproach in his voice,
of bitterness. He spoke regretfully, indeed, but as one stating an
incontrovertible fact. “I lost my fortune, I could not keep my pew, so
I deeded it back to the church. My old friends, Mrs. Dimock and Asa
Waring, and others, too, were very kind. But I could not accept their
hospitality.”
Hodder bowed his head in silence. What thundered indictment of the
Church of Christ could have been as severe, as wholly condemning as
these few words so dispassionately uttered by the man beside him?
The old darky entered, and announced supper.
Hodder had lost his way, yet a hand had been held out to him, and he
seized it. With a sense of being led, psychically as well as physically,
he followed Mr. Bentley into a large bedroom, where a high, four-posted
bed lifted a pleated canopy toward the ceiling. And after he had washed
his hands they entered a dining-room looking out upon a little yard
in the rear, which had been transformed into a garden. Roses, morning
glories, and nasturtiums were growing against the walls; a hose lay
coiled upon the path; the bricks, baked during the day, were splashed
with water; the leaves and petals were wet, and the acrid odour of moist
earth, mingling with perfumes, penetrated the room. Hodder paused in the
window.
“Sam keeps our flowers alive,” he heard Mr. Bentley say, “I don't know
how.”
“I scrubs 'em, sah,” said Sam. “Yassah, I washes 'em like chilluns.”
He found himself, at Mr. Bentley's request, asking grace, the old darky
with reverently bent head standing behind his master; sitting down at
a mahogany table that reflected like a mirror the few pieces of old
silver, to a supper of beaten biscuits that burned one's fingers, of
'broiled chicken and coffee, and sliced peaches and cream. Mr. Bentley
was talking of other days--not so long gone by when the great city had
been a village, or scarcely more. The furniture, it seemed, had come
from his own house in what was called the Wilderness Road, not far from
the river banks, over the site of which limited trains now rolled on
their way eastward toward the northernmost of the city's bridges. He
mentioned many names, some remembered, some forgotten, like his own;
dwelt on pleasures and customs gone by forever.
“A little while after I moved in here, I found that one old man could
not fill the whole of this house, so I let the upper floors,” he
explained, smilingly. “Some day I must introduce you to my tenants, Mr.
Hodder.”
By degrees, as Hodder listened, he became calm. Like a child, he found
himself distracted, talking, asking questions: and the intervals grew
longer between the recurrent surges of fear when the memory rose before
him of the events of the day,--of the woman, the child, and the man:
of Eldon Parr and this deed he had done; hinting, as it did, of closed
chambers of other deeds yet to be opened, of countless, hidden miseries
still to be revealed: when he heard once more the tortured voice of
the banker, and the question: “How would you like to live in this
house--alone?” In contrast, now he beheld the peace in the face of the
man whose worldly goods Eldon Parr had taken, and whom he had driven out
of the church. Surely, this man had found a solution!... What was it?
Hodder thought of the child, of the verdict of Dr. Jarvis, but he
lingered on, loth to leave,--if the truth be told--afraid to leave;
drawing strength from his host's calm, wondering as to the source of it,
as to the life which was its expression; longing, yet not presuming, to
question. The twilight deepened, and the old darky lit a lamp and led
the way back to the library.
“Sam,” said Mr. Bentley, “draw up the armchair for Mr. Hodder beside the
window. It is cooler there.”
“I ought to go,” Hodder said. “I ought to see how the child is. Jarvis
will have been there by this time, and there may be necessaries--”
“Jarvis will have attended to that,” Mr. Bentley replied. “Sit down,
Mr. Hodder. I am not sure that, for the present, we have not done all in
this case that is humanly possible.”
“You mean,” said the rector, “that they will accept nothing from me.” It
came from him, spontaneously, like a cry. He had not meant to say it. “I
don't blame them. I don't blame them for losing their faith in God and
man, in the Church. I ought to have seen it before, but I was blind,
incredibly blind--until it struck me in the face. You saw it, sir, and
you left a church from which the poor are thrust out, which refuses to
heed the first precept of its Master.”
“I saw it,” answered Mr. Bentley, “but I could do nothing. Perhaps you
can do--something.”
“Ah!” Hodder exclaimed sharply, “why do you say that? The Church is
paralyzed, chained. How can she reach these wretched people who are the
victims of the ruthless individualism and greed of those who control
her? You know--that man, Mr. Bentley.” (Hodder could not bring himself
to pronounce Eldon Parr's name.) “I had an affection for him, I pitied
him, because he suffers--”
“Yes,” echoed Mr. Bentley, “he suffers.”
Hodder was momentarily arrested by the sadness of his tone.
“But he doesn't know why he suffers--he cannot be made to see,” the
rector went on. “And he is making others suffer,--hideously, while
he imagines himself a Christian. He is the Church to that miserable,
hopeless wretch we saw to-day, and to hundreds of the same kind whom
he has driven to desperation. And I--who am supposed to be the vicar of
God--I am powerless. They have a contempt for me, a just contempt. They
thrust me out of their doors, bid me to return and minister to their
oppressors. You were right to leave, and I should have left long since.”
He had not spoken with violence, or with a lack of control. He seemed
rather to have regained a mastery of himself, and felt as a man from
whom the shackles have been struck, proclaiming his freedom. Mr.
Bentley's eyes lighted in involuntary response as he gazed at the figure
and face before him. He pressed his hands together.
“If you will forgive a curiosity, Mr. Hodder, that is somewhat due to my
interest in a church with which I have many precious associations, may I
ask if this is a sudden determination on your part?”
“No,” Hodder said. “I have known ever since I came here that something
was wrong, but at first I couldn't see it, and after that I wouldn't see
it. That is about what happened, as I look back on it.
“But the farther in I went,” Hodder continued, “the more tangled
and bewildered I became. I was hypnotized, I think,” he added with
a gesture,--“hypnotized, as a man is who never takes his eyes from a
pattern. I wanted to get at this neighbourhood--Dalton Street--I mean,
and finally I agreed to the establishment of a settlement house over
here, to be paid for largely by Eldon Parr and Francis Ferguson. I
couldn't see the folly of such an undertaking--the supreme irony of it,
until--until it was pointed out to me.” He hesitated; the remembrance of
Alison Parr ran through him, a thread of pain. “And even then I tried to
dodge the issue, I tried to make myself believe that good might flow out
of evil; that the Church, which is supposed to be founded on the highest
ideal ever presented to man, might compromise and be practical, that
she might accept money which had been wrung from a trusting public
by extortion, by thinly disguised thievery such as this Consolidated
Tractions Company fraud, and do good with it! And at last I made up my
mind to go away, to-day, to a quiet place where I might be alone, and
reflect, when by a singular circumstance I was brought into contact
with this man, Garvin. I see now, clearly enough, that if I had gone, I
should never have come back.”
“And you still intend to go?” Mr. Bentley asked.
Hodder leaned his elbow against the mantel. The lamplight had a curious
effect on Mr. Bentley's face.
“What can I do?” he demanded. The question was not aimed directly at his
host--it was in the nature of a renewed appeal to a tribunal which
had been mute, but with which he now seemed vaguely aware of a
certain contact. “Even supposing I could bring myself to accept the
compromise--now that I see it clearly, that the end justifies the
means--what good could I accomplish? You saw what happened this
afternoon--the man would have driven me out if, it hadn't been for you.
This whole conception of charity is a crime against civilization--I
had to have that pointed out to me, too,--this system of legalized or
semi-legalized robbery and the distribution of largesse to the victims.
The Church is doing wrong, is stultifying herself in encouraging it. She
should set her face rigidly against it, stand for morality and justice
and Christianity in government, not for pauperizing. It is her mission
to enlighten these people, all people--to make them self-respecting,
to give them some notion of the dignity of their souls and their rights
before God and man.”
“Aren't you yourself suggesting,” said Mr. Bentley, “the course which
will permit you to remain?”
Hodder was silent. The thought struck him with tremendous force. Had he
suggested it? And how--why? Could it be done? Could he do it or begin
it?
“We have met at last in a singular way,” he heard Mr. Bentley going on,
“in a way that has brushed aside the conventions, in a way--I am happy
to say--that has enabled you to give me your confidence. And I am an old
man,--that has made it easier. I saw this afternoon, Mr. Hodder, that
you were troubled, although you tried to hide it.”
“I knew that you saw it,” Hodder said.
“Nor was it difficult for me to guess something of the cause of it. The
same thing has troubled me.”
“You?”
“Yes,” Mr. Bentley answered. “I left St. John's, but the habits and
affections of a lifetime are not easily severed. And some time before
I left it I began to have visions of a future for it. There was a
question, many years ago, as to whether a new St. John's should not be
built in the West End, on a site convenient to the parishioners, and
this removal I opposed. Mr. Waring stood by me. We foresaw the day when
this district would be--what it is now--the precarious refuge of the
unfortunate in the battle of life, of just such unhappy families as the
Garvins, of miserable women who sell themselves to keep alive. I thought
of St. John's, as you did, as an oasis in a desert of misery and vice.
At that time I, too, believed in the system of charities which you have
so well characterized as pauperizing.”
“And now?”
Mr. Bentley smiled, as at a reminiscence.
“My eyes were opened,” he replied, and in these simple words summed up
and condemned it all. “They are craving bread, and we fling them atones.
I came here. It was a house I owned, which I saved from the wrecks, and
as I look back upon what the world would call a misfortune, sir, I can
see that it was a propitious event, for me. The street 'ran down,'
as the saying goes. I grew gradually to know these people, my new
neighbours, largely through their children, and I perceived many things
I had not dreamed of--before then. I saw how the Church was hampered,
fettered; I saw why they disliked and distrusted it.”
“And yet you still believed that it had a mission?” Hodder interrupted.
He had been listening with rapt attention.
“I still believed it,” said Mr. Bentley. “My conception of that mission
changed, grew, and yet it seemed further and further from fulfilment.
And then you came to St. John's.”
“I!” The cry was involuntary.
“You,” Mr. Bentley repeated. “Sometimes,” he added whimsically, “I go
there, as I have told you. I saw you, I heard you preach. I talked to
my friend Waring about you. I saw that your eyes were not opened, but
I think I had a certain presentiment, for which I do not pretend to
account, that they would be opened.”
“You mean,” said the rector, “that if I believe in the mission of the
Church as I have partially stated it here tonight, I--should stay and
fight for it.”
“Precisely,” Mr. Bentley replied.
There was a note of enthusiasm, almost of militancy in the old
gentleman's tone that surprised and agitated Hodder. He took a turn up
and down the room before he answered.
“I ought to tell you that the view I expressed a moment ago is new to
me. I had not thought of it before, and it is absolutely at variance
with any previous ideas I have held. I can see that it must involve,
if carried to its logical conclusion, a change in the conception of
Christianity I have hitherto held.”
He was too intent upon following up the thought to notice Mr. Bentley's
expression of assent.
“And suppose,” he asked, “I were unable to come to any conclusion? I
will be frank, Mr. Bentley, and confess to you that at present I cannot
see my way. You have heard me preach--you know what my beliefs have
been. They are shattered. And, while I feel that there is some definite
connection between the view of the Church which I mentioned and her
message to the individual, I do not perceive it clearly. I am not
prepared at present to be the advocate of Christianity, because I do not
know what Christianity is. I thought I knew.
“I shall have to begin all over again, as though I had never taken
orders, submit to a thorough test, examine the evidence impartially. It
is the only way. Of this much I am sure, that the Church as a whole
has been engaged in a senseless conflict with science and progressive
thought, that she has insisted upon the acceptance of facts which are in
violation of reason and which have nothing to do with religion. She has
taught them to me--made them, in fact, a part of me. I have clung to
them as long as I can, and in throwing them over I don't know where I
shall land.”
His voice was measured, his words chosen, yet they expressed a withering
indignation and contempt which were plainly the culmination of months of
bewilderment--now replaced by a clear-cut determination.
“I do not blame any individual,” he continued, “but the system by which
clergymen are educated.
“I intend to stay here, now, without conducting any services, and find
out for myself what the conditions are here in Dalton Street. You know
those people, Mr. Bentley, you understand them, and I am going to ask
you to help me. You have evidently solved the problem.”
Mr. Bentley rose. And he laid a hand, which was not quite steady, on the
rector's shoulder.
“Believe me, sir,” he replied, “I appreciate something of what such a
course must mean to you--a clergyman.” He paused, and a look came upon
his face, a look that might scarce have been called a smile--Hodder
remembered it as a glow--reminiscent of many things. In it a life was
summed ups in it understanding, beneficence, charity, sympathy, were
all expressed, yet seemingly blended into one. “I do not know what
my testimony may be worth to you, my friend, but I give it freely. I
sometimes think I have been peculiarly fortunate. But I have lived a
great many years, and the older I get and the more I see of human
nature the firmer has grown my conviction of its essential nobility and
goodness.”
Hodder marvelled, and was silent.
“You will come here, often,--every day if you can. There are many men
and women, friends of mine, whom I should like you to know, who would
like to know you.”
“I will, and thank you,” Hodder answered. Words were inadequate for the
occasion....