But the following afternoon he was forcibly reclothed in his own
beautiful and beloved rags, and was pushed out of the Bastille, and
there he saw his pale father and his mother, and his little sister, and
another man. And his mother was on her knees in the cold autumn
sunshine, and hysterically clasping the knees of the man, and weeping;
and the man was trying to raise her, and the man was weeping too.
Darius wept. The man was Mr Shushions. Somehow, in a way that Darius
comprehended not, Mr Shushions had saved them. Mr Shushions, in a
beaver tall-hat and with an apron rolled round his waist under his coat,
escorted them back to their house, into which some fresh furniture had
been brought. And Darius knew that a situation was waiting for his
father. And further, Mr Shushions, by his immense mysterious power,
found a superb situation for Darius himself as a printer's devil. All
this because Mr Shushions, as superintendent of a Sunday school, was
emotionally interested in the queer, harsh boy who had there picked up
the art of writing so quickly.
Such was the origin of the tear that ran down Mr Shushions's cheek when
he beheld Edwin, well-nourished, well-dressed and intelligent, the son
of Darius the successful steam-printer. Mr Shushions's tear was the
tear of the creator looking upon his creation and marvelling at it. Mr
Shushions loved Darius as only the benefactor can love the benefited.
He had been out of the district for over thirty years, and, having
returned there to die, the wonder of what he had accomplished by merely
saving a lad from the certain perdition of a prolonged stay in the
workhouse, struck him blindingly in the face and dazzled him.
Darius had never spoken to a soul of his night in the Bastille. All his
infancy was his own fearful secret. His life, seen whole, had been a
miracle. But none knew that except himself and Mr Shushions.
Assuredly Edwin never even faintly suspected it. To Edwin Mr Shushions
was nothing but a feeble and tedious old man.