The compulsion which took Stephen Arnold to Crooked Lane is hardly
ours to examine. It must have been strong, since going up to Mrs. Sand
involved certain concessions, doubtless intrinsically trifling, but of
exaggerated discomfort to the mind spiritually cloistered, whatever its
other latitude. Among them was a distinctly necessary apology, difficult
enough to make to a lady of rank so superior and authority so voyant
in the Church militant, by a mere fighting soul without such straps and
buttons as might compel recognition upon equal terms. It is impossible
to know how far Stephen envisaged the visit as a duty--the priestly
horizon is perhaps not wholly free from mirage--or to what extent he
confessed it an indulgence. He was certainly aware of a stronger desire
than he could altogether account for that Captain Filbert should not
desert her post. The idea had an element of irritation oddly personal;
he could not bear to reflect upon it. It may be wondered whether in any
flight of venial imagination Arnold saw himself in a parallel situation
with a lady. I am sure he did not. It may be considered, however, that
among mirages there are unaccountable resemblances--resemblances without
shape or form. He might fix his gaze, at all events, upon the supreme
argument that those who were given to holy work, under any condition,
in any degree, should make no rededication of themselves. This had to
support him as best it could against the conviction that had Captain
Filbert been Sister Anastasia, for example, of the Baker Institution,
and Ensign Sand the Mother Superior of its Calcutta branch, it was
improbable that he would have ventured to announce his interest in the
matter by his card, or in any other way.
It was a hesitating step, therefore, that carried him up to the
quarters, and a glance of some nervous distress that made him aware, as
he stood bowing upon her threshold, clasping with both hands his soft
felt hat to his breast, that Mrs. Sand was not displeased to see him.
She hastened, indeed, to give him a chair; she said she was very glad
he'd dropped in, if he didn't mind the room being so untidy--where there
were children you could spend the whole day picking up. They were out
at present, with Captain Sand, in the perambulator, not having more
servants than they could help. A sweeper and a cook they did with; it
would surprise the people in this country, who couldn't get along with
less than twenty, she often said.
Mrs. Sand's tone was casual; her manner had a quality somewhat
aggressively democratic. It said that under her welcome lay the right
to criticise, which she would have exercised with equal freedom had her
visitor been the Lord Bishop John Calcutta himself; and it made short
work of the idea that she might be over-gratified to receive Holy Orders
in any form. She was not unwilling, however, to show, as between Ensign
and man, reasonable satisfaction; presently, in fact, she went so far
as to say, still vaguely remarking upon his appearance there, that she
often thought there ought to be more sociability between the different
religious bodies; it would be better for the cause. There was nothing
narrow, she said, about her, nor yet about Captain Sand. And then,
with the distinct intimation that that would do, that she had gone far
enough, she crossed her hands in her lap and waited. It became her to
have it understood that this visit need have no further object than an
exchange of amiabilities; but there might be another, and Mrs. Sand's
folded hands seemed to indicate that she would not necessarily meet it
with opposition.
Stephen made successive statements of assent. He sat grasping his hat
between his knees, his eyes fixed upon an infant's sock which lay upon
the floor immediately in front of him, looking at Mrs. Sand as seldom
and as briefly as possible, as if his glance took rather an unfair
advantage, which he would spare her.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Yes, certainly,” revolving his hat in his hands.
And when she spoke of the fraternity that might be fostered by such
visits, he looked for an instant as if he had found an opening, which
seemed, however, to converge and vanish in Mrs. Sand's folded hands. He
flushed to think afterwards, that it was she who was obliged to bring
his resolution to a head, her scent of his embarrassment sharpening her
curiosity.
“And is there anything we Army officers can do for you, Mr. Arnold?” she
inquired.
There was a hint in her voice that, whatever it was, they would have
done it more willingly if she had not been obliged to ask.
“I am afraid,” he said, “my mission is not quite so simple. I could
wish it were. It is so easy to show our poor needs to one another; and
I should have confidence--” He paused, amazed at the duplicity that
grinned at him in his words. At what point more remote within the poles
was he likely to show himself with a personal request?
“I have nothing to ask for myself,” he went on, with concentration
almost harsh. “I am here to see if you will consent to speak with me
about a matter which threatens your--your community--about your possible
loss of Miss Filbert.”
Mrs. Sand looked blank. “The Captain isn't leavin' us, as far as I
know,” she said.
“Oh--is it possible that you are not aware that--that very strong
efforts are being made to induce her to do so?”
Mrs. Sand looked about her as if she expected to find an explanation
lying somewhere near her chair. Light came to her suddenly, and brought
her a conscious smile; it only lacked force to be a giggle. She glanced
at her lap as she smiled; her air was deprecating and off-putting, as if
she had detected in what Arnold said some suggestion of a gallant nature
aimed at herself. Happily, he was not looking.
“You mean Mr. Lindsay!” she exclaimed, twisting her wedding-ring and its
coral guard.
“I hope--I beg--that you will not think me meddlesome or impertinent. I
have the matter very much at heart. It seems to lie in my path. I must
see it. Surely you perceive some way of averting the disaster in it!”
“I'm sure I don't know what you refer to.” Mrs. Sand's tone was prudish
and offended. “She hasn't said a word to me--she's a great one for
keeping things to herself--but if Mr. Lindsay don't mean marriage with
her--”
“Why, of course!” Arnold, startled, turned furiously red, but Mrs. Sand
in her indignation did not reflect the tint. “Of course! Is not
that,” he went on after an instant's pause, “precisely what is to be
lamented--and prevented?”
Mrs. Sand looked at her visitor with dry suspicion. “I suppose you are a
friend of his,” she said.
“I have known him for years. Pray don't misunderstand me. There is
nothing against him--nothing whatever.”
“Oh, I don't suppose there is, except that he is not on the Lord's side.
But I don't expect any of his friends are anxious for him to marry an
officer in the Salvation Army. Society people ain't fond of the Army,
and never will be.”
“His people--he has only distant relatives living--are all at home,”
Stephen said vaguely. The situation had become slightly confused.
“Then you speak for them, I suppose?”
“Indeed not. I am in no communication with them whatever. I fancy they
know nothing about it. I am here entirely--ENTIRELY of my own accord. I
have come to place myself at your disposition if there is anything I can
do, any word I can say, to the end of preventing this catastrophe in a
spiritual life so pure and devoted; to ask you at all events to let me
join my prayers to yours that it shall not come about.”
The squalor of the room seemed to lift before his eyes and be suffused
with light. At last he had made himself plain. But Mrs. Sand was not
transfigured. She seemed to sit, with her hands folded, in the midst of
a calculation.
“Then he HAS put the question. I told her he would,” she said.
“I believe he has asked her to marry him and she has refused, more than
once. But he is importunate, and I hear she needs help.”
“Mr. Lindsay,” said Mrs. Sand, “is a very takin' young man.”
“I suppose we must consider that. There is position too, and wealth.
These things count--we are all so human--even against the Divine
realities into possession of which Miss Filbert must have so perfectly
entered.”
“I thought he must be pretty well off. Would he be one of them
Government officials?”
“He is a broker.”
“Oh, is he indeed?” Mrs. Sand's enlightenment was evidently doubtful.
“Well, if they get married Captain Filbert 'll have to resign. It's
against the regulations for her to marry outside of the Army.”
“But is she not vowed to her work; isn't her life turned for ever
into that channel? Would it not be horrible to you to see the world
interfere?”
“I won't say but what I'd be sorry to see her leave us. But I wouldn't
stand in her way either, and neither would Captain Sand.”
“Stand in her way! In her way to material luxury, poverty of spirit, the
shirking of all the high alternatives, the common moral mediocrity of
the world. I would to God I could be that stumbling block! I have heard
her--I have seen the light in her that may so possibly be extinguished.”
“I don't deny she has a kind of platform gift, but she's losin' her
voice. And she doesn't understand briskin' people up, if you know what I
mean.”
“She will be pulled down--she will go under!” Arnold repeated in the
depths of his spirit. He stood up, fumbling with his hat. Mrs. Sand and
her apartment, her children out of doors in the perambulator, and the
whole organisation to which she appertained had grown oppressive and
unnecessary. He was aware of a desire to put his foot again in his own
world, where things were seen, were understood. He thought there might
be solace in relating the affair to Brother Colquhoun.
“It's a case,” said Mrs. Sand judicially, “where I wouldn't think myself
called on to say one word. Such things everyone has a right to decide
for themselves. But you oughtn't to forget that a married woman”--she
looked at Arnold's celibate habit as if to hold it accountable for
much--“can have a great influence for good over him that she chooses.
I am pretty sure Captain Filbert's already got Mr. Lindsay almost
persuaded. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he joined the Army himself
when she's had a good chance at him.”
Arnold put on his hat with a groan, and began the descent of the stairs.
“Good-afternoon then,” Mrs. Sand called out to him from the top. He
turned mechanically and bared his head. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Good-afternoon.”