certain little delightful, highly characteristic ways of helping out her
speech with slight yet significant motions--but had its place in Brown's
memory. She was not a frequent talker, she did not speak one word to Sue
Breckenridge's fifty; but when she did speak, in her voice of slow music,
people listened. And yet one never thought of her, Brown remembered, as a
silent person; the effect of her presence in any circle was that of a
personality of the active, not the passive, sort. The eyes of one
speaking must, involuntarily, be drawn to her because she was listening,
if I may coin a phrase, vividly. As for her looks--she possessed that
indescribable charm which is not wholly a matter of beautiful features,
but lies rather in such details as the lift of the eyebrow, the curve of
the lip, the droop of the hair upon the brow. She was dressed much more
simply than either of the older women present, yet with the simplicity,
it must be admitted, of the artist. She seemed somehow to make their
goodly showing fade before her own, as a crimson flower draws from the
colour of one of delicate blue.
Well, take them separately or as a group, they were an absorbing study to
the man who had seen so little of their kind for so long past, yet knew
that kind by the wontedness of his lifetime. He seemed to himself somehow
to be viewing them all, for the first time, from a vantage point he had
never before occupied. Every word they said in their pleasantly
modulated, well-bred voices, with the familiar accent of the educated
environment from which they came, and from which he came--it was his
accent, too, but somehow it sounded a bit foreign to him tonight--struck
upon his ear with a new meaning. Each gesture they made, personal and
familiar to him as they were, struck Brown now with its special
individuality.
"It's not fair, Don," said Sue Breckenridge suddenly, "for you to stand
over there in the shadow and watch us, without our being able to see your
face at all."
"You don't realize," declared Brown, in answer to this assertion and the
general assenting, laugh which followed it, backed by Atchison's. "Hear,
hear!" "that the group you all make in the light of my fire is a picture
far ahead of anything in Atchison's collection. I should be an
unappreciative host indeed if I didn't make the most of it."
"What an artful speech!" laughed Mrs. Brainard, lifting fine eyes in an
attempt to make out the shadowy face above her. "It's well calculated to
distract our attention from the fact that you are not changing your
position by so much as the moving of an arm. We came to see you, man, not
to show ourselves to you."
"We came to cheer his loneliness," put in Hugh Breckenridge with a
peculiar, cynical-sounding little laugh for which he was famous. "And
we find him up to his neck in boys. Jove! How do you stand their
dirty hands, Don? That's what would get me, no matter how good my
intentions were."
"Those hands were every pair scrubbed to a finish, to-day, in honour of
Thanksgiving. Do you think we have no manners here?" retorted Brown.
"That wasn't the dinner party you wrote me of when you refused to come
to mine, was it, Don?" questioned his sister.
"No. This was an after-dinner party, partaking of the 'lavin's,'" Brown
explained. "The real one was over an hour before."
"Do tell us about it. Did you enjoy it? Won't you describe your guests?"
Mrs. Brainard spoke eagerly.
"With pleasure. The Kelceys are my next-door neighbours on the left. Mrs.
Kelcey is pure gold--in the rough. Her husband is not quite her equal,
but he knows it and strives to be worthy of her. The Murdisons, on the
other side, are--Scotch granite--splendid building material. Old Mr.
Benson, the watchmaker, is--well, he's full-jewelled. The others I
perhaps can't characterize quite so easily, but among them I find several
uncut gems of the semi-precious varieties. Of course there's considerable
commonplace material--if you can ever call the stuff of which human
beings are made commonplace, which I doubt. There's more or less copper
and brass, with a good bit of clay--as there is in all of us. And a deal
of a more spiritual element which can't be measured or described, but
which makes them all worth knowing."
He had spoken in a thoughtful tone, as if he took Mrs. Brainard's
question seriously and meant to answer it in the same way. A moment's
silence followed. Then Doctor Brainard said slowly:
"I suppose you don't find those priceless elements among the people of
your abandoned parish. Down there we're all copper and clay, eh?"
"If you had been clay I might have done more with you," was the
quick retort.
"And you can do things with these people, can you? Dig out the rough
gold, polish the uncut diamonds, build temples of the granite--and
perhaps mold even the clay into works of art?"
The answer to the ironic question was grave enough, and it came with a
quietness which spoke more eloquently than fervid tones would have done
of the feeling behind it.
"No, Doctor, I can't hope to do those things. I'm not wise enough. But
the things these people are going to do to me, if I'll let them, are
worth coming for."
"They've done some of them already," murmured Mrs. Brainard. But nobody
heard her except Sue Breckenridge, who cried out:
"And you're not a bit homesick, Don, while you're living like this?"
"If you people won't come up here very often and make me remember what
being with you is like, I shall get on pretty well," said Brown's voice
from the shadow.
"Then we'll come as often as we can," cried Sue triumphantly.
"No, you won't--not if you want to help me. My reputation as an indigent
bachelor out of a job won't stand many onslaughts of company dressed as
you are. If you want to come to see me you must come disguised. I'm
afraid I'm under suspicion already."
"Explain to them that we're the clay, they the uncut diamonds. That will
let you out," advised Doctor Brainard grimly.
"Ah, but you don't look the part," said Brown, laughing. "You look like
what you are, a big jewel of a fellow, as my friend Mrs. Kelcey would
say. To tell the truth, you all seem like jewels to me to-night--and such
polished ones you dazzle my eyes. Hugh, I'd forgotten what a well-cut
coat looked like. I remember now."
"You seem pretty well dressed yourself," remarked Atchison, peering up
into the shadow. "According to Mrs. Breckenridge, you go about dressed in
monk's cloth, and a shabby variety at that. This doesn't look like it."
"He was wearing a dreadful, old shiny serge suit when I saw him a
fortnight ago," said Sue. "And such a scarf-pin! Don, are you wearing
that same scarf-pin to-night? Do show it to them."
"Does choosing to live by himself make a man a fair target for all the
quips and arrows of his friends?" Brown queried, at the same time
withdrawing obediently the little silver pin from his cravat and giving
it into Atchison's outstretched hand. "Be just to that pin, Webb. It was
given me by a special friend of mine."
"How will you exchange?" Atchison inquired gravely, touching his own
neckwear as he examined the pin. A rare and costly example of the
jeweller's art reposed there, as might have been expected.
"I'll not exchange, thank you."
"Neither will I," declared Atchison, leaning back with a laugh and
passing the pin on down the line.
Hugh Breckenridge gave the obviously cheap and commonplace little article
one careless glance, and handed it to Miss Forrest. She examined it
soberly, as if seeking to find its peculiar value in its owner's eyes.
Then she looked at Brown.
"This has a story, I am sure, or you wouldn't care so much for it," she
said. "Are we worthy to hear it, Mr. Brown?"
His eyes met hers, though as he stood she could barely make out
that fact.
"I should like you to hear it."
"Come out of the darkness, Don, please!" begged his sister again.
The others echoed the wish, and Brown, yielding against his
will--somehow he had never wanted more to remain in the shadow--took a
chair at one end of the hearth, where he was in full view of them all.
"It was given me," said Brown, speaking in a tone which instantly
arrested even Hugh Breckenridge's careless attention, though why it did
so he could not have said, "by a man whose son was wearing it when he
stood on a plank between two windows, ten stories up in the air, and
passed fifteen girls over it to safety. Then--the plank burned through
at one end. He had known it would."
There fell a hush upon the little group. Mrs. Brainard put out her hand
and touched Brown's shoulder caressingly.
"No wonder you wouldn't exchange it, Don," she said, very gently.
"Was the father at your dinner, Don?" Doctor Brainard asked, after a
minute.
"Yes, Doctor."
"So you wore it to please him," commented Sue.
"He wore it," said Helena Forrest, "as a man might wear the
Victoria Cross."
"Ah, but I didn't earn it," denied Brown, without looking up.
"I'm not so sure of that," Mrs. Brainard declared. "You must have
done something to make the father feel you worthy to wear a thing he
valued so much."
"He fancied," said Brown--"he and the mother--that there was a slight
resemblance between my looks and those of the son. And they have a finer
memorial of him than anything he wore; they have one end of the burned
plank. The father has cut the date on it, with his son's name, and it
hangs over the chimney-piece."
"What a tragic thing!" cried Sue, shuddering. "I don't see how they can
keep it. Do tell us something else, Don. Doesn't anything amusing ever
happen here? Oh--what became of the baby?"
Brown rose suddenly to his feet. "I'm forgetting my hospitality," said
he. "I'm going to make you all some coffee. The baby, Sue, is at Mrs.
Kelcey's, next door. Having only six of her own, she could easily make
room for the seventh."
"Tell us about the baby," demanded Webb Atchison. "Has Don gone into the
nursery business, with all the rest?"
Sue began to tell the story, describing the night on which she made her
first visit to her brother. Brown disappeared into the kitchen and soon
returned, bringing with him, as was his entertaining custom, the
materials for brewing his coffee upon the hob.
"You remember," he said, as he came, "the way this room was cleared for
your reception?"
"By an avalanche of boys, who swept everything, hurly-burly, into outer
darkness," supplied Breckenridge.
"You can guess, perhaps, what the kitchen must be looking like,
can't you?"
"Indescribable," murmured Sue. "You're not going to invite us to put it
in order for you, are you, Don?--and wash all those dreadful, gaudy
plates and cups?"
"Just take a look out there, will you?"
Sue shook her head, but Mrs. Brainard went to the door, followed by
Atchison and Miss Forrest. They looked out upon a low-ceiled,
lamp-lighted room, in absolute order, in which was not a trace of the
late festival-making except the piles of clean dishes upon the table,
under which lay Bim, nose on paws, alert eyes on the strangers.
"Magic?" queried Mrs. Brainard. "Surely those noisy boys couldn't
accomplish such a miracle?"
"Never. Though I suspect they were put to work by a good general, for the
borrowed chairs are gone and so are several other bulky articles. There's
no difficulty in guessing who did the deed," said Brown, busy with his
coffee-making.
He served his guests presently with a beverage which made Atchison
exclaim: "The old chap certainly knows how to make the best stuff I ever
drank. When I tasted this brew first I invited myself to come out and
stay a week with him, but he wouldn't have me."
"You're too polished an article for his hand; he wants his work-stuff
raw," Doctor Brainard said again. Evidently this point rankled. Brown
looked up.
"I'll challenge you to stay and have it out with me, Doctor," said he.
"Thank you, I came for no other purpose," retorted the doctor coolly.
"These people brought me up to have a look at you, and I'm not going back
till morning."
"That's great!" Brown's face showed his pleasure.
XI
BROWN'S PRESENT WORLD
When Miss Forrest returned from her survey of the kitchen she had come
straight to the corner of the hearth where Brown stood, and had taken
the chair beside the one he had lately occupied. He was therefore beside
her when he sat down to drink his coffee with his guests. At a moment
when Webb Atchison and Sue Breckenridge were engaged in a bit of
controversy over the relative merits of varying methods of coffee
making, Helena Forrest turned to Brown, who had been looking into the
fire without speaking.
"I hope you don't really mind our coming up here to-night," she said.
"Mind it? If I did, I couldn't blame you, for you came against your
will," he answered--and his eyes were no longer upon the fire.
"Without my consent, but not, perhaps, against my will."
He regarded her intently. She met his look without turning aside.
"You felt a curiosity to see the hermit in his cell," was his explanation
of the matter.
She nodded. "Of course. Who wouldn't, after such reports as Mrs.
Breckenridge brought back?"
"And now that you have seen him--you are consumed with pity?"
"No. If I am consumed with anything it is with envy."
His low laugh spoke his disbelief. She read it in the sound and in the
way his gaze left her face and went back to the fire.
"You don't think I mean that," said she.
"Hardly."
"Why not?"
"It is--inconceivable."
"Why?"
Her face, turned toward him, invited him to look at it again, but he did
not--just then.
"Because you are--Helena Forrest," he answered.
"And what is she, please, in your opinion?"
"An inhabitant of another world than that I live in."
"A world of which you have an even poorer opinion than you used to have
when you lived in it yourself!"
He smiled. "Anyhow, I am no longer in it. Nor ever shall go back."
A startled look passed over her face. "You don't mean that you intend to
stay here--forever?"
"Not quite that. But I mean to do this sort of work, rather than the sort
I began with. To do it I must live much as I am living now, where ever
that may be. Now--what about the envy of me you profess?"
He turned, still smiling, at the little sound he caught from her
half-closed lips.
"Are you happy in such a decision?" she murmured.
"Do I look like an unhappy man?"
She shook her head. "That's what I have been noticing about you ever
since I came. You did look unhappy when you went away. Now, you don't.
And it is the look on your face which gives me the sense of envy."
Brown gave one quick glance at the rest of the party. "Do you mean to
say," he questioned, very low, "that you are not happy?"
"Does that seem so strange?"
"It might very naturally seem so, to one who knows what you have to make
you the happiest of the happy."
"You yourself didn't find happiness among similar surroundings," she
said, looking at him intently.
"Similar?" The thought seemed to amuse him.
"Well, weren't they similar? At any rate we were in the same world, and
you say now we are not."
"We are so far apart," said he evenly, "that we can only signal to each
other. And even then--neither is familiar with the other's code!"
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and a strange expression showed in her eyes. "What a
hard, hard thing for you to say! It doesn't sound like you."
"Hard?" he questioned, with a contraction of the brows. "It is
substantially what you yourself once said. If it was true then, it must
be true now."
Moved by some impulse the two looked at each other searchingly,
Donald Brown's face grave but tense, Helena Forrest's full of a proud
pain. Clearly they were not understanding each other's code now--so
much was evident.
At this instant, without warning, the outer door flew open. Mrs. Kelcey,
her round red face disordered, her breath coming short, stood upon the
threshold and spoke pantingly, without regard to the company assembled:
"Mr. Brown, sor! The baby's dyin--the sthranger child. It was took all of
a suddint. Would ye moind comin' to say a bit of a prayer over him?
Father McCarty's away, or I wouldn't ask it."
She was gone with the words. With the first sentence Brown had sprung to
his feet. As Mary Kelcey vanished he turned to Doctor Brainard.
"Come, Doctor," he said, with a beckoning hand. "While I say the bit of a
prayer you try what you can do to keep the baby here!"
The eminent physician rose rather slowly to his feet. "It's probably no
use," he demurred. "The woman knows."
"The Lord knows, too," declared Brown, with a propelling hand on his
friend's arm: "knows that you're here to give the child a chance.
Come! Hurry!"
The two went out. Doctor Brainard would have stayed for his hat and
overcoat, but Brown would brook no delay.
Left behind, the party by the fire looked at one another with faces
sobered. Hugh Breckenridge consulted his watch.
"It's time we were off," he declared. "The Doctor's going to stay anyway,
and it's no use waiting for Don to come back."
"That's right," agreed Webb Atchison. "I came up here once before,
about six months ago, and I saw then enough of the way things went here
to know that he lives at the beck and call of every man, woman, and
child in this district--and they call him, too. He'd just finished
sobering up a drunkard that night, or scant attention I'd have had.
Well, I'll walk down to the hotel and send back Rogers and the car. Be
ready in ten minutes?"
They said they would be ready. But in Brown's little bedroom, donning
furry wraps, Helena Forrest spoke in Sue Breckenridge's ear:
"I can't bear to go till we know how it comes out."
Sue stared at her. "You don't mean to say you care? Why--it's just a
forlorn little foundling--better dead than alive. I saw it when I was
here two weeks ago. It has nothing to live for, dear. Don't think of
it again."
"But he cared--your brother cared," said Helena Forrest.
"Oh, Don cares about everything. I never saw such a soft heart. Of course
I think it's lovely of him, though I don't understand how he can be so
absorbed in such a class of people."
Miss Forrest went to the one window of the room. She lifted the plain
shade which covered it and looked out into the night.
Ten yards away she saw a brightly lighted, uncurtained window, beyond
which were figures, plainly discernible. The figures were moving, one
bringing a pail, another stooping--the scene was not one of still waiting
but of tense action. She caught a glimpse of Doctor Brainard's tall form
bending above something at one side, then she saw Brown himself cross the
room in haste.
Mrs. Brainard and Sue went back to the outer room to stand before the
fire with the purpose of accumulating all the bodily heat possible before
the long, cold drive. Miss Forrest, unheeding them, remained by the
window in the unlighted bedroom. Minutes passed. Hugh Breckenridge had
fallen to examining the larger room's eighteenth century features--he was
something of a connoisseur in antiques.
Helena, turning from the window for a moment, scanned the shadowy room in
which she stood. It was very scantily furnished with the bare essentials.
Upon the plain chest of drawers which held Brown's bachelor belongings
stood a few simply framed photographs; an old set of hanging bookshelves
was crammed full of books, with more overflowing upon the floor.
Suddenly, as she stood there, an outer door banged; swift footsteps
crossed the floor. Helena turned to see Donald Brown himself rushing into
the room. He ran to the chest of drawers, pulled one open, searched a
minute, withdrew something, and was hurrying out of the room again, when
he caught sight of the figure at the window. Involuntarily he halted for
an instant.
"Can you save it?" Helena cried, under her breath.
"I don't know--Brainard's got his coat off. Pray for us, will you?"
He was gone again.
Beside the narrow bed on which he lay every night, there dropped upon
its knees a figure in sumptuous furs; a face such as men vow themselves
ready to die for was pressed into the hard little pillow. Helena Forrest
breathed a prayer of beseeching for a life she had never seen, and when
she had done lifted eyes wet with tears.
As Hugh Breckenridge, protesting at the lateness of the hour, marshalled
his friends into the great car at the door, Doctor Brainard came out of
Mrs. Kelcey's house and ran across to the curb.
"Don wants me to tell you that the baby's pulled through. It's gone off
to sleep with his finger in its fist, and he won't leave it. He says
'good-night' to you."
"Was it the prayer or the potion that saved it, Doctor?" questioned
Breckenridge in his caustic tone.
"I don't know," said the doctor--and there was something new and gentle
in his voice. "It was very nearly beyond potions--I'm inclined to think
it was the prayer." An hour afterward, Doctor Brainard, sitting
wide-awake and thoughtful before Brown's fire, was aware of the quiet
entrance of the younger man. He looked up, and a radiant smile met him.
"Still doing well, I see, Don."
Brown nodded. He sank down into the chair opposite the doctor and ran his
hand through his hair. In spite of the brightness of his face the gesture
betrayed weariness.
Doctor Brainard got up. He went over to the corner where his overcoat
hung upon a peg in the wall, and took from a pocket a small instrument
composed mostly of tubes. He inserted certain earpieces in his ears and
returned to the fire.
"Sit up and let me get at you," he commanded.
Brown glanced round, saw the doctor's grotesque appearance with the
stethoscope in position, and shook his head. "That's not fair. I was
up rather early, and it's been a fairly full day--and night. Take me in
the morning."
"I'll take you right now, when you're tired enough to show up whatever's
there. Coat off, please."
He made his examination painstakingly, omitting no detail of his inquiry
into the state of both heart and lungs.
"What would you say if I told you you were in a bad way?" he asked.
Brown smiled. "I shouldn't believe you. I know you too well. You can't
disguise the fact that you find nothing new, and the old things improved.
I know I'm stronger than I was a year ago. Why shouldn't I be--with
nothing to do but take care of myself?"
The doctor whistled. "How do you make that out, that 'nothing to do?'"
"With the demands of a great parish off my shoulders the little I do
here is child's play."
"After I left you with the baby," said the doctor, "Mrs. Kelcey followed
me into the other room and told me a few things. In your old parish you
had your sleep o' nights. In your new one I should say you spend the
sleeping hours in activity."
"In my old parish," said Brown, studying the fire with an odd twist at
the corners of his lips, "I lay awake nights worrying over my
problems. Here, I'm asleep the minute my head touches the pillow.
Isn't that a gain?"
"Too weary to do anything else, I suppose. Well, I shall have to admit
that you are improved--surprisingly so. You are practically well. But
what I can't understand is how a man of your calibre, your tastes, your
fineness of make-up, can stand consorting with these people. Be honest,
now. After such a visit as you've had to-night with the old friends,
don't you feel a bit like giving in and coming back to us?"
Brown lifted his head. "Doctor," said he, slowly, and with a peculiar
emphasis which made his friend study his face closely, "if the Devil
wanted to put temptation in my way, just as I have decided on my future
course, he did it by sending you and the others down here to-night. If I
could have jumped into that car with the rest of you, and by that one act
put myself back in the old place, I would have done it--but for one
thing. And that's the sure knowledge that soft living makes me soft. I
love the good things of this life so that they unfit me for real service.
Do you know what was the matter with my heart when I came away? I do. It
was high living. It was sitting with my legs under the mahogany of my
millionaire parishioners' tables, driving in their limousines, drinking
afternoon tea with their wives, letting them send me to Europe whenever I
looked a bit pale. Soft! I was a down pillow, a lump of putty. I, who was
supposed to be a fighter for the Lord!"
"Nonsense, man!" cried the doctor, now thoroughly aroused. "You were the
hardest worker in the city. Your organizations--your charities--"
"My organizations, my charities!" The words came in a tone of contempt.
"They were all in fine working order when I came to them. They continued
to work, with no help from me. They are working quite as well now in my
absence as they did in my presence. St. Timothy's is a great, strong
society of the rich, and the man they engage to preach to them on Sundays
has mighty little to do that any figurehead couldn't do as well. Down
here--well, there is something to do which won't get done unless I do it.
And if this neighbourhood, or any other similar one, needs me, there's no
question that still more do I need the neighbourhood."
"In other words," said the doctor, "Mrs. Kelcey can do more for you than
Bruce Brainard?"