They drew near and sat upon the substitutes for seats in a circle--and
the fire threw up flame and made a glow in the fog hanging in the black
hole of a room.
It was Glad who set the battered kettle on and when it boiled made tea.
The other two watched her, being under her spell. She handed out slices
of bread and sausage and pudding on bits of paper. Polly fed with
tremulous haste; Glad herself with rejoicing and exulting in flavors.
Antony Dart ate bread and meat as he had eaten the bread and dripping at
the stall--accepting his normal hunger as part of the dream.
Suddenly Glad paused in the midst of a huge bite.
"Mister," she said, "p'raps that cove's waitin' fer yer. Let's 'ave 'im
in. I'll go and fetch 'im."
She was getting up, but Dart was on his feet first.
"I must go," he said. "He is expecting me and--"
"Aw," said Glad, "lemme go along o' yer, mister--jest to show there's no
ill feelin'."
"Very well," he answered.
It was she who led, and he who followed. At the door she stopped and
looked round with a grin.
"Keep up the fire, Polly," she threw back. "Ain't it warm and cheerful?
It'll do the cove good to see it."
She led the way down the black, unsafe stairway. She always led.
Outside the fog had thickened again, but she went through it as if she
could see her way.
At the entrance to the court the thief was standing, leaning against the
wall with fevered, unhopeful waiting in his eyes. He moved miserably
when he saw the girl, and she called out to reassure him.
"I ain't up to no 'arm," she said; "I on'y come with the gent."
Antony Dart spoke to him.
"Did you get food?"
The man shook his head.
"I turned faint after you left me, and when I came to I was afraid I
might miss you," he answered. "I daren't lose my chance. I bought some
bread and stuffed it in my pocket. I've been eating it while I've stood
here."
"Come back with us," said Dart. "We are in a place where we have some
food."
He spoke mechanically, and was aware that he did so. He was a pawn
pushed about upon the board of this day's life.
"Come on," said the girl. "Yer can get enough to last fer three days."
She guided them back through the fog until they entered the murky
doorway again. Then she almost ran up the staircase to the room they
had left.
When the door opened the thief fell back a pace as before an
unexpected thing. It was the flare of firelight which struck upon his
eyes. He passed his hand over them.
"A fire!" he said. "I haven't seen one for a week. Coming out of the
blackness it gives a man a start."
Improvident joy gleamed in Glad's eyes.
"We'll be warm onct," she chuckled, "if we ain't never warm agaen."
She drew her circle about the hearth again. The thief took the place
next to her and she handed out food to him--a big slice of meat, bread,
a thick slice of pudding.
"Fill yerself up," she said. "Then ye'll feel like yer can talk."
The man tried to eat his food with decorum, some recollection of the
habits of better days restraining him, but starved nature was too much
for him. His hands shook, his eyes filled, his teeth tore. The rest of
the circle tried not to look at him. Glad and Polly occupied themselves
with their own food.
Antony Dart gazed at the fire. Here he sat warming himself in a loft
with a beggar, a thief, and a helpless thing of the street. He had come
out to buy a pistol--its weight still hung in his overcoat pocket--and
he had reached this place of whose existence he had an hour ago not
dreamed. Each step which had led him had seemed a simple, inevitable
thing, for which he had apparently been responsible, but which he knew--
yes, somehow he KNEW--he had of his own volition neither planned nor
meant. Yet here he sat--a part of the lives of the beggar, the thief,
and the poor thing of the street. What did it mean?
"Tell me," he said to the thief, "how you came here."
By this time the young fellow had fed himself and looked less like a
wolf. It was to be seen now that he had blue-gray eyes which were
dreamy and young.
"I have always been inventing things," he said a little huskily. "I did
it when I was a child. I always seemed to see there might be a way of
doing a thing better--getting more power. When other boys were playing
games I was sitting in corners trying to build models out of wire and
string, and old boxes and tin cans. I often thought I saw the way to
things, but I was always too poor to get what was needed to work them
out. Twice I heard of men making great names and for tunes because they
had been able to finish what I could have finished if I had had a few
pounds. It used to drive me mad and break my heart." His hands clenched
themselves and his huskiness grew thicker. "There was a man," catching
his breath, "who leaped to the top of the ladder and set the whole world
talking and writing--and I had done the thing FIRST--I swear I had! It
was all clear in my brain, and I was half mad with joy over it, but I
could not afford to work it out. He could, so to the end of time it
will be HIS." He struck his fist upon his knee.
"Aw!" The deep little drawl was a groan from Glad.
"I got a place in an office at last. I worked hard, and they began to
trust me. I--had a new idea. It was a big one. I needed money to work
it out. I--I remembered what had happened before. I felt like a poor
fellow running a race for his life. I KNEW I could pay back ten times--
a hundred times--what I took."
"You took money?" said Dart.
The thief's head dropped.
"No. I was caught when I was taking it. I wasn't sharp enough. Someone
came in and saw me, and there was a crazy row. I was sent to prison.
There was no more trying after that. It's nearly two years since, and
I've been hanging about the streets and falling lower and lower. I've
run miles panting after cabs with luggage in them and not had strength
to carry in the boxes when they stopped. I've starved and slept out of
doors. But the thing I wanted to work out is in my mind all the time--
like some machine tearing round. It wants to be finished. It never
will be. That's all."
Glad was leaning forward staring at him, her roughened hands with the
smeared cracks on them clasped round her knees.
"Things 'AS to be finished," she said. "They finish theirselves."
"How do you know?" Dart turned on her.
"Dunno 'OW I know--but I do. When things begin they finish. It's like a
wheel rollin' down an 'ill." Her sharp eyes fixed themselves on Dart's.
"All of us'll finish somethin'--'cos we've begun. You will--Polly
will--'e will--I will." She stopped with a sudden sheepish chuckle and
dropped her forehead on her knees, giggling. "Dunno wot I 'm talking
about," she said, "but it's true."
Dart began to understand that it was. And he also saw that this ragged
thing who knew nothing whatever, looked out on the world with the eyes
of a seer, though she was ignorant of the meaning of her own knowledge.
It was a weird thing. He turned to the girl Polly.
"Tell me how you came here," he said.
He spoke in a low voice and gently. He did not want to frighten her,
but he wanted to know how SHE had begun. When she lifted her childish
eyes to his, her chin began to shake. For some reason she did not
question his right to ask what he would. She answered him meekly, as
her fingers fumbled with the stuff of her dress.
"I lived in the country with my mother," she said. "We was very happy
together. In the spring there was primroses and--and lambs. I--can't
abide to look at the sheep in the park these days. They remind me so.
There was a girl in the village got a place in town and came back and
told us all about it. It made me silly. I wanted to come here, too.
I--I came--" She put her arm over her face and began to sob.
"She can't tell you," said Glad. "There was a swell in the 'ouse made
love to her. She used to carry up coals to 'is parlor an' 'e talked to
'er. 'E 'ad a wye with 'im--"
Polly broke into a smothered wail.
"Oh, I did love him so--I did!" she cried. "I'd have let him walk over
me. I'd have let him kill me."
"'E nearly did it," said Glad.
"'E went away sudden an' she's never 'eard word of 'im since."
From under Polly's face-hiding arm came broken words.
"I couldn't tell my mother. I did not know how. I was too frightened
and ashamed. Now it's too late. I shall never see my mother again, and
it seems as if all the lambs and primroses in the world was dead. Oh,
they're dead--they're dead--and I wish I was, too!"
Glad's eyes winked rapidly and she gave a hoarse little cough to clear
her throat. Her arms still clasping her knees, she hitched herself
closer to the girl and gave her a nudge with her elbow.
"Buck up, Polly," she said, "we ain't none of us finished yet. Look at
us now--sittin' by our own fire with bread and puddin' inside us--an'
think wot we was this mornin'. Who knows wot we'll 'ave this time
to-morrer."
Then she stopped and looked with a wide grin at Antony Dart.
"Ow did I come 'ere?" she said.
"Yes," he answered, "how did you come here?"
"I dunno," she said; "I was 'ere first thing I remember. I lived with a
old woman in another 'ouse in the court. One mornin' when I woke up she
was dead. Sometimes I've begged an' sold matches. Sometimes I've took
care of women's children or 'elped 'em when they 'ad to lie up. I've
seen a lot--but I like to see a lot. 'Ope I'll see a lot more afore I'm
done. I'm used to bein' 'ungry an' cold, an' all that, but--but I
allers like to see what's comin' to-morrer. There's allers somethin'
else to-morrer. That's all about ME," and she chuckled again.
Dart picked up some fresh sticks and threw them on the fire. There was
some fine crackling and a new flame leaped up.
"If you could do what you liked," he said, "what would you like to do?"
Her chuckle became an outright laugh.
"If I 'ad ten pounds?" she asked, evidently prepared to adjust herself
in imagination to any form of un-looked-for good luck.
"If you had more?"
His tone made the thief lift his head to look at him.
"If I 'ad a wand like the one Jem told me was in the pantermine?"
"Yes," he answered.
She sat and stared at the fire a few moments, and then began to speak in
a low luxuriating voice.
"I'd get a better room," she said, revelling. "There's one in the next
'ouse. I'd 'ave a few sticks o' furnisher in it--a bed an' a chair or
two. I'd get some warm petticuts an' a shawl an' a 'at--with a ostrich
feather in it. Polly an' me 'd live together. We'd 'ave fire an' grub
every day. I'd get drunken Bet's biby put in an 'ome. I'd 'elp the
women when they 'ad to lie up. I'd--I'd 'elp 'IM a bit," with a jerk of
her elbow toward the thief. "If 'e was kept fed p'r'aps 'e could work
out that thing in 'is 'ead. I'd go round the court an' 'elp them with
'usbands that knocks 'em about. I'd--I'd put a stop to the knockin'
about," a queer fixed look showing itself in her eyes. "If I 'ad money
I could do it. 'Ow much," with sudden prudence, "could a body 'ave--
with one o' them wands?"
"More than enough to do all you have spoken of," answered Dart.
"It's a shime a body couldn't 'ave it. Apple Blossom Court 'd be a
different thing. It'd be the sime as Miss Montaubyn says it's goin' to
be." She laughed again, this time as if remembering something
fantastic, but not despicable.
"Who is Miss Montaubyn?"
"She's a' old woman as lives next floor below. When she was young she
was pretty an' used to dance in the 'alls. Drunken Bet says she was one
o' the wust. When she got old it made 'er mad an' she got wusser. She
was ready to tear gals eyes out, an' when she'd get took for makin' a
row she'd fight like a tiger cat. About a year ago she tumbled
downstairs when she'd 'ad too much an' she broke both 'er legs. You
remember, Polly?"
Polly hid her face in her hands.
"Oh, when they took her away to the hospital!" she shuddered. "Oh, when
they lifted her up to carry her!"
"I thought Polly 'd 'ave a fit when she 'eard 'er screamin' an'
swearin'. My! it was langwich! But it was the 'orspitle did it."
"Did what?"
"Dunno," with an uncertain, even slightly awed laugh. "Dunno wot it
did--neither does nobody else, but somethin' 'appened. It was along of
a lidy as come in one day an' talked to 'er when she was lyin' there.
My eye," chuckling, "it was queer talk! But I liked it. P'raps it was
lies, but it was cheerfle lies that 'elps yer. What I ses is--if THINGS
ain't cheerfle, PEOPLE's got to be--to fight it out. The women in the
'ouse larft fit to kill theirselves when she fust come 'ome limpin' an'
talked to 'em about what the lidy told 'er. But arter a bit they liked
to 'ear 'er--just along o' the cheerfleness. Said it was like a
pantermine. Drunken Bet says if she could get 'old 'f it an' believe it
sime as Jinny Montaubyn does it'd be as cheerin' as drink an' last
longer."
"Is it a kind of religion?" Dart asked, having a vague memory of rumors
of fantastic new theories and half-born beliefs which had seemed to him
weird visions floating through fagged brains wearied by old doubts and
arguments and failures. The world was tired--the whole earth was sad--
centuries had wrought only to the end of this twentieth century's
despair. Was the struggle waking even here--in this back water of the
huge city's human tide? he wondered with dull interest.
"Is it a kind of religion?" he said.
"It's cheerfler." Glad thrust out her sharp chin uncertainly again.
"There's no 'ell fire in it. An' there ain't no blime laid on
Godamighty." (The word as she uttered it seemed to have no connection
whatever with her usual colloquial invocation of the Deity.) "When a
dray run over little Billy an' crushed 'im inter a rag, an' 'is mother
was screamin' an' draggin' 'er 'air down, the curick 'e ses, 'It's
Gawd's will,' 'e ses--an' 'e ain't no bad sort neither, an' 'is fice was
white an' wet with sweat--'Gawd done it,' 'e ses. An' me, I'd nussed the
child an' I clawed me 'air sime as if I was 'is mother an' I screamed
out, 'Then damn 'im!' An' the curick 'e dropped sittin' down on the
curbstone an' 'id 'is fice in 'is 'ands."
Dart hid his own face after the manner of the wretched curate.
"No wonder," he groaned. His blood turned cold.
"But," said Glad, "Miss Montaubyn's lidy she says Godamighty never done
it nor never intended it, an' if we kep' sayin' an' believin' 'e's
close to us an' not millyuns o' miles away, we'd be took care of whilst
we was alive an' not 'ave to wait till we was dead."
She got up on her feet and threw up her arms with a sudden jerk and
involuntary gesture.
"I 'm alive! I 'm alive!" she cried out, "I've got ter be took care of
NOW! That's why I like wot she tells about it. So does the women. We
ain't no more reason ter be sure of wot the curick says than ter be sure
o' this. Dunno as I've got ter choose either way, but if I 'ad, I'd
choose the cheerflest."
Dart had sat staring at her--so had Polly--so had the thief. Dart
rubbed his forehead.
"I do not understand," he said.
"'T ain't understanding! It's believin'. Bless yer, SHE doesn't
understand. I say, let's go an' talk to 'er a bit. She don't mind
nothin', an' she'll let us in. We can leave Polly an' 'im 'ere. They
can make some more tea an' drink it."
It ended in their going out of the room together again and stumbling
once more down the stairway's crookedness. At the bottom of the first
short flight they stopped in the darkness and Glad knocked at a door
with a summons manifestly expectant of cheerful welcome. She used the
formula she had used before.
"'S on'y me, Miss Montaubyn," she cried out. "'S on'y Glad."
The door opened in wide welcome, and confronting them as she held its
handle stood a small old woman with an astonishing face. It was
astonishing because while it was withered and wrinkled with marks of
past years which had once stamped their reckless unsavoriness upon its
every line, some strange redeeming thing had happened to it and its
expression was that of a creature to whom the opening of a door could
only mean the entrance--the tumbling in as it were--of hopes realized.
Its surface was swept clean of even the vaguest anticipation of anything
not to be desired. Smiling as it did through the black doorway into the
unrelieved shadow of the passage, it struck Antony Dart at once that it
actually implied this--and that in this place--and indeed in any
place--nothing could have been more astonishing. What could, indeed?
"Well, well," she said, "come in, Glad, bless yer."
"I've brought a gent to 'ear yer talk a bit," Glad explained informally.
The small old woman raised her twinkling old face to look at him.
"Ah!" she said, as if summing up what was before her. "'E thinks it's
worse than it is, doesn't 'e, now? Come in, sir, do."
This time it struck Dart that her look seemed actually to anticipate the
evolving of some wonderful and desirable thing from himself. As if even
his gloom carried with it treasure as yet undisplayed. As she knew
nothing of the ten sovereigns, he wondered what, in God's name, she saw.
The poverty of the little square room had an odd cheer in it. Much
scrubbing had removed from it the objections manifest in Glad's room
above. There was a small red fire in the grate, a strip of old, but gay
carpet before it, two chairs and a table were covered with a harlequin
patchwork made of bright odds and ends of all sizes and shapes. The fog
in all its murky volume could not quite obscure the brightness of the
often rubbed window and its harlequin curtain drawn across upon a
string.
"Bless yer," said Miss Montaubyn, "sit down."
Dart sat and thanked her. Glad dropped upon the floor and girdled her
knees comfortably while Miss Montaubyn took the second chair, which was
close to the table, and snuffed the candle which stood near a basket of
colored scraps such as, without doubt, had made the harlequin curtain.
"Yer won't mind me goin' on with me bit o' work?" she chirped.
"Tell 'im wot it is," Glad suggested.
"They come from a dressmaker as is in a small way," designating the
scraps by a gesture. "I clean up for 'er an' she lets me 'ave 'em. I
make 'em up into anythink I can--pin-cushions an' bags an' curtings an'
balls. Nobody'd think wot they run to sometimes. Now an' then I sell
some of 'em. Wot I can't sell I give away."
"Drunken Bet's biby plays with 'er ball all day," said Glad.
"Ah!" said Miss Montaubyn, drawing out a long needleful of thread, "Bet,
SHE thinks it worse than it is."
"Could it be worse?" asked Dart. "Could anything be worse than
everything is?"
"Lots," suggested Glad; "might 'ave broke your back, might 'ave a fever,
might be in jail for knifin' someone. 'E wants to 'ear you talk, Miss
Montaubyn; tell 'im all about yerself."
"Me!" her expectant eyes on him. "'E wouldn't want to 'ear it. I
shouldn't want to 'ear it myself. Bein' on the 'alls when yer a pretty
girl ain't an 'elpful life; an' bein' took up an' dropped down till yer
dropped in the gutter an' don't know 'ow to get out--it's wot yer
mustn't let yer mind go back to."
"That's wot the lidy said," called out Glad. "Tell 'im about the lidy.
She doesn't even know who she was." The remark was tossed to Dart.
"Never even 'eard 'er name," with unabated cheer said Miss Montaubyn.
"She come an' she went an' me too low to do anything but lie an' look at
'er and listen. An' 'Which of us two is mad?' I ses to myself. But I
lay thinkin' and thinkin'--an' it was so cheerfle I couldn't get it out
of me 'ead--nor never 'ave since."
"What did she say?"
"I couldn't remember the words--it was the way they took away things a
body's afraid of. It was about things never 'avin' really been like
wot we thought they was. Godamighty now, there ain't a bit of 'arm in
'im."
"What?" he said with a start.
"'E never done the accidents and the trouble. It was us as went out of
the light into the dark. If we'd kep' in the light all the time, an'
thought about it, an' talked about it, we'd never 'ad nothin' else.
'Tain't punishment neither. 'T ain't nothin' but the dark--an' the dark
ain't nothin' but the light bein' away. 'Keep in the light,' she ses,
'never think of nothin' else, an' then you'll begin an' see things.
Everybody's been afraid. There ain't no need. You believe THAT.'"
"Believe?" said Dart heavily.
She nodded.
"'Yes,' ses I to 'er, 'that's where the trouble comes in--believin'.'
And she answers as cool as could be: 'Yes, it is,' she ses, 'we've all
been thinkin' we've been believin', an' none of us 'as. If we 'ad what
'd there be to be afraid of? If we believed a king was givin' us our
livin' an' takin' care of us who'd be afraid of not 'avin' enough to
eat?'"
"Who?" groaned Dart. He sat hanging his head and staring at the floor.
This was another phase of the dream.
"'Where is 'E?' I ses. ''Im as breaks old women's legs an' crushes
babies under wheels--so as they'll be resigned?' An' all of a sudden
she calls out quite loud: 'Nowhere,' she ses. 'An' never was. But 'Im
as stretched forth the 'eavens an' laid the foundations of the earth,
'Im as is the Life an' Love of the world, 'E's 'ERE! Stretch out yer
'and,' she ses, 'an' call out, "Speak, Lord, thy servant 'eareth," an'
ye'll 'ear an' SEE.
"'An' never you stop sayin' it--let yer 'eart beat it an' yer breath
breathe it--an' yer 'll find yer goin' about laughin' soft to yerself
an' lovin' everythin' as if it was yer own child at breast. An' no 'arm
can come to yer. Try it when yer go 'ome.'"
"Did you?" asked Dart.
Glad answered for her with a tremulous--yes it was a TREMULOUS--giggle,
a weirdly moved little sound.
"When she wakes in the mornin' she ses to 'erself, 'Good things is goin'
to come to-day--cheerfle things.' When there's a knock at the door she
ses, 'Somethin' friendly's comin' in.' An' when Drunken Bet's makin' a
row an' ragin' an' tearin' an' threatenin' to 'ave 'er eyes out of 'er
fice, she ses, 'Lor, Bet, yer don't mean a word of it--yer a friend to
every woman in the 'ouse.' When she don't know which way to turn, she
stands still an' ses, 'Speak, Lord, thy servant 'eareth,' an' then she
does wotever next comes into 'er mind--an' she says it's allus the
right answer. Sometimes," sheepishly, "I've tried it myself--p'raps it's
true. I did it this mornin' when I sat down an' pulled me sack over me
'ead on the bridge. Polly 'd been cryin' so loud all night I'd got a
bit low in me stummick an'--" She stopped suddenly and turned on Dart
as if light had flashed across her mind. "Dunno nothin' about it," she
stammered, "but I SAID it--just like she does--an' YOU come!"
Plainly she had uttered whatever words she had used in the form of a
sort of incantation, and here was the result in the living body of this
man sitting before her. She stared hard at him, repeating her words:
"YOU come. Yes, you did."
"It was the answer," said Miss Montaubyn, with entire simplicity as she
bit off her thread, "that's wot it was."
Antony Dart lifted his heavy head.
"You believe it," he said.
"I 'm livin' on believin' it," she said confidingly. "I ain't got
nothin' else. An' answers keeps comin' and comin'."
"What answers?"
"Bits o' work--an' things as 'elps. Glad there, she's one."
"Aw," said Glad, "I ain't nothin'. I likes to 'ear yer tell about it.
She ses," to Dart again, a little slowly, as she watched his face with
curiously questioning eyes--"she ses 'E'S in the room--same as 'E's
everywhere--in this 'ere room. Sometimes she talks out loud to 'Im."
"What!" cried Dart, startled again.
The strange Majestic Awful Idea--the Deity of the Ages--to be spoken of
as a mere unfeared Reality! And even as the vaguely formed thought
sprang in his brain he started once more, suddenly confronted by the
meaning his sense of shock implied. What had all the sermons of all the
centuries been preaching but that it was Reality? What had all the
infidels of every age contended but that it was Unreal, and the folly of
a dream? He had never thought of himself as an infidel; perhaps it
would have shocked him to be called one, though he was not quite sure.
But that a little superannuated dancer at music-halls, battered and worn
by an unlawful life, should sit and smile in absolute faith at such a--a
superstition as this, stirred something like awe in him.
For she was smiling in entire acquiescence.
"It's what the curick ses," she enlarged radiantly. "Though 'e don t
believe it, pore young man; 'e on'y thinks 'e does. 'It's for 'igh an'
low,' 'e ses, 'for you an' me as well as for them as is royal fambleys.
The Almighty 'E's EVERYWHERE!' 'Yes,' ses I, 'I've felt 'Im 'ere--as
near as y' are yerself, sir, I 'ave--an' I've spoke to 'Im."'
"What did the curate say?" Dart asked, amazed.
"Seemed like it frightened 'im a bit. 'We mustn't be too bold, Miss
Montaubyn, my dear,' 'e ses, for 'e's a kind young man as ever lived,
an' often ses 'my dear' to them 'e's comfortin'. But yer see the lidy
'ad gave me a Bible o' me own an' I'd set 'ere an' read it, an' read it
an' learned verses to say to meself when I was in bed--an' I'd got ter
feel like it was someone talkin' to me an' makin' me understand. So I
ses, ''T ain't boldness we're warned against; it's not lovin' an'
trustin' enough, an' not askin' an' believin' TRUE. Don't yer remember
wot it ses: "I, even I, am 'e that comforteth yer. Who art thou that
thou art afraid of man that shall die an' the son of man that shall be
made as grass, an' forgetteth Jehovah thy Creator, that stretched forth
the 'eavens an' laid the foundations of the earth?" an' "I've covered
thee with the shadder of me 'and," it ses; an' "I will go before thee
an' make the rough places smooth;" an' "'Itherto ye 'ave asked nothin'
in my name; ask therefore that ye may receive, an' yer joy may be made
full."' An' 'e looked down on the floor as if 'e was doin' some 'ard
thinkin', pore young man, an' 'e ses, quite sudden an' shaky, 'Lord, I
believe, 'elp thou my unbelief,' an' 'e ses it as if 'e was in trouble
an' didn't know 'e'd spoke out loud."
"Where--how did you come upon your verses?" said Dart. "How did you
find them?"
"Ah," triumphantly, "they was all answers--they was the first answers I
ever 'ad. When I first come 'ome an' it seemed as if I was goin' to be
swep' away in the dirt o' the street--one day when I was near drove wild
with cold an' 'unger, I set down on the floor an' I dragged the Bible to
me an' I ses: 'There ain't nothin' on earth or in 'ell as 'll 'elp me.
I'm goin' to do wot the lidy said--mad or not.' An' I 'eld the book--
an' I 'eld my breath, too, 'cos it was like waitin' for the end o' the
world--an' after a bit I 'ears myself call out in a 'oller whisper,
'Speak, Lord, thy servant 'eareth. Show me a 'ope.' An' I was tremblin'
all over when I opened the book. An' there it was! 'I will go before
thee an' make the rough places smooth, I will break in pieces the doors
of brass and will cut in sunder the bars of iron.' An' I knowed it was
a answer."
"You--knew--it--was an answer?"
"Wot else was it?" with a shining face. "I'd arst for it, an' there it
was. An' in about a hour Glad come runnin' up 'ere, an' she'd 'ad a bit
o' luck--"
"'T wasn't nothin' much," Glad broke in deprecatingly, "on'y I'd got
somethin' to eat an' a bit o' fire."
"An' she made me go an' 'ave a 'earty meal, an' set an' warm meself. An'
she was that cheerfle an' full o' pluck, she 'elped me to forget about
the things that was makin' me into a madwoman. SHE was the answer--
same as the book 'ad promised. They comes in different wyes the answers
does. Bless yer, they don't come in claps of thunder an' streaks o'
lightenin'--they just comes easy an' natural--so's sometimes yer
don't think for a minit or two that they're answers at all. But it
comes to yer in a bit an' yer 'eart stands still for joy. An' ever since
then I just go to me book an' arst. P'raps," her smile an illuminating
thing, "me bein' the low an' pore in spirit at the beginnin', an'
settin' 'ere all alone by me-self day in an' day out, just thinkin' it
all over--an' arstin'--an' waitin'--p'raps light was gave me 'cos I was
in such a little place an' in the dark. But I ain't pore in spirit now.
Lor', no, yer can't be when yer've on'y got to believe. 'An' 'itherto
ye 'ave arst nothin' in my name; arst therefore that ye may receive an'
yer joy be made full.'"
"Am I sitting here listening to an old female reprobate's disquisition
on religion?" passed through Antony Dart's mind. "Why am I listening? I
am doing it because here is a creature who BELIEVES--knowing no
doctrine, knowing no church. She BELIEVES--she thinks she KNOWS her
Deity is by her side. She is not afraid. To her simpleness the awful
Unknown is the Known--and WITH her."
"Suppose it were true," he uttered aloud, in response to a sense of
inward tremor, "suppose--it--were--TRUE?" And he was not speaking
either to the woman or the girl, and his forehead was damp.
"Gawd!" said Glad, her chin almost on her knees, her eyes staring
fearsomely. "S'pose it was--an' us sittin' 'ere an' not knowin' it--an'
no one knowin' it--nor gettin' the good of it. Sime as if--" pondering
hard in search of simile, "sime as if no one 'ad never knowed about
'lectricity, an' there wasn't no 'lectric lights nor no 'lectric
nothin'. Onct nobody knowed, an' all the sime it was there--jest
waitin'."
Her fantastic laugh ended for her with a little choking, vaguely
hysteric sound.
"Blimme," she said. "Ain't it queer, us not knowin'--IF IT'S TRUE."
Antony Dart bent forward in his chair. He looked far into the eyes of
the ex-dancer as if some unseen thing within them might answer him.
Miss Montaubyn herself for the moment he did not see.
"What," he stammered hoarsely, his voice broken with awe, "what of the
hideous wrongs--the woes and horrors--and hideous wrongs?"
"There wouldn't be none if WE was right--if we never thought nothin' but
'Good's comin'--good 's 'ere.' If we everyone of us thought it--every
minit of every day."
She did not know she was speaking of a millennium--the end of the world.
She sat by her one candle, threading her needle and believing she was
speaking of To-day.
He laughed a hollow laugh.
"If we were right!" he said. "It would take long--long--long--to make
us all so."
"It would be slow p'raps. Well, so it would--but good comes quick for
them as begins callin' it. It's been quick for ME," drawing her thread
through the needle's eye triumphantly. "Lor', yes, me legs is better--
me luck's better--people's better. Bless yer, yes!"
"It's true," said Glad; "she gets on somehow. Things comes. She never
wants no drink. Me now," she applied to Miss Montaubyn, "if I took it
up same as you--wot'd come to a gal like me?"
"Wot ud yer want ter come?" Dart saw that in her mind was an absolute
lack of any premonition of obstacle. "Wot'd yer arst fer in yer own
mind?"
Glad reflected profoundly.
"Polly," she said, "she wants to go 'ome to 'er mother an' to the
country. I ain't got no mother an' wot I 'ear of the country seems like
I'd get tired of it. Nothin' but quiet an' lambs an' birds an' things
growin.' Me, I likes things goin' on. I likes people an' 'and organs
an' 'buses. I'd stay 'ere--same as I told YOU," with a jerk of her hand
toward Dart. "An' do things in the court--if I 'ad a bit o' money. I
don't want to live no gay life when I 'm a woman. It's too 'ard. Us
pore uns ends too bad. Wisht I knowed I could get on some 'ow."
"Good 'll come," said Miss Montaubyn. "Just you say the same as me
every mornin'--'Good's fillin' the world, an' some of it's comin' to me.
It's bein' sent--an' I 'm goin' to meet it. It's comin'--it's
comin'.'" She bent forward and touched the girl's shoulder with her
astonishing eyes alight. "Bless yer, wot's in my room's in yours; Lor',
yes."
Glad's eyes stared into hers, they became mysteriously, almost
awesomely, astonishing also.
"Is it?" she breathed in a hushed voice.
"Yes, Lor', yes! When yer get up in the mornin' you just stand still
an' ARST it. 'Speak, Lord,' ses you; 'speak, Lord--'"
"Thy servant 'eareth," ended Glad's hushed speech. "Blimme, but I 'm
goin' to try it!"
Perhaps the brain of her saw it still as an incantation, perhaps the
soul of her, called up strangely out of the dark and still new-born and
blind and vague, saw it vaguely and half blindly as something else.
Dart was wondering which of these things were true.
"We've never been expectin' nothin' that's good," said Miss Montaubyn.
"We 're allus expectin' the other. Who isn't? I was allus expectin'
rheumatiz an' 'unger an' cold an' starvin' old age. Wot was you lookin'
for?" to Dart.
He looked down on the floor and answered heavily.
"Failing brain--failing life--despair--death!"
"None of 'em's comin'--if yer don't call 'em. Stand still an' listen
for the other. It's the other that's TRUE."
She was without doubt amazing. She chirped like a bird singing on a
bough, rejoicing in token of the shining of the sun.
"It's wot yer can work on--this," said Glad. "The curick--'e's a good
sort an' no' 'arm in 'im--but 'e ses: 'Trouble an' 'unger is ter teach
yer ter submit. Accidents an' coughs as tears yer lungs is sent you to
prepare yer for 'eaven. If yer loves 'Im as sends 'em, yer 'll go
there.' ''Ave yer ever bin?' ses I. ''Ave yer ever saw anyone that's
bin? 'Ave yer ever saw anyone that's saw anyone that's bin?' 'No,' 'e
ses. 'Don't, me girl, don't!' 'Garn,' I ses; 'tell me somethin' as 'll
do me some good afore I'm dead! 'Eaven's too far off.'"
"The kingdom of 'eaven is at 'and," said Miss Montaubyn. "Bless yer,
yes, just 'ere."
Antony Dart glanced round the room. It was a strange place. But
something WAS here. Magic, was it? Frenzy--dreams--what?
He heard from below a sudden murmur and crying out in the street. Miss
Montaubyn heard it and stopped in her sewing, holding her needle and
thread extended.
Glad heard it and sprang to her feet.
"Somethin's 'appened," she cried out. "Someone's 'urt."
She was out of the room in a breath's space. She stood outside
listening a few seconds and darted back to the open door, speaking
through it. They could hear below commotion, exclamations, the wail of
a child.
"Somethin's 'appened to Bet!" she cried out again. "I can 'ear the
child."
She was gone and flying down the staircase; Antony Dart and Miss
Montaubyn rose together. The tumult was increasing; people were running
about in the court, and it was plain a crowd was forming by the magic
which calls up crowds as from nowhere about the door. The child's
screams rose shrill above the noise. It was no small thing which had
occurred.
"I must go," said Miss Montaubyn, limping away from her table. "P'raps
I can 'elp. P'raps you can 'elp, too," as he followed her.
They were met by Glad at the threshold. She had shot back to them,
panting.
"She was blind drunk," she said, "an' she went out to get more. She
tried to cross the street an' fell under a car. She'll be dead in five
minits. I'm goin' for the biby."
Dart saw Miss Montaubyn step back into her room. He turned
involuntarily to look at her.
She stood still a second--so still that it seemed as if she was not
drawing mortal breath. Her astonishing, expectant eyes closed
themselves, and yet in closing spoke expectancy still.
"Speak, Lord," she said softly, but as if she spoke to Something whose
nearness to her was such that her hand might have touched it. "Speak,
Lord, thy servant 'eareth."
Antony Dart almost felt his hair rise. He quaked as she came near, her
poor clothes brushing against him. He drew back to let her pass first,
and followed her leading.
The court was filled with men, women, and children, who surged about the
doorway, talking, crying, and protesting against each other's crowding.
Dart caught a glimpse of a policeman fighting his way through with a
doctor. A dishevelled woman with a child at her dirty, bare breast had
got in and was talking loudly.
"Just outside the court it was," she proclaimed, "an' I saw it. If
she'd bin 'erself it couldn't 'ave 'appened. 'No time for 'osspitles,'
ses I. She's not twenty breaths to dror; let 'er die in 'er own bed,
pore thing!" And both she and her baby breaking into wails at one and
the same time, other women, some hysteric, some maudlin with gin, joined
them in a terrified outburst.
"Get out, you women," commanded the doctor, who had forced his way
across the threshold. "Send them away, officer," to the policeman.
There were others to turn out of the room itself, which was crowded with
morbid or terrified creatures, all making for confusion. Glad had
seized the child and was forcing her way out into such air as there was
outside.
The bed--a strange and loathly thing--stood by the empty, rusty
fireplace. Drunken Bet lay on it, a bundle of clothing over which the
doctor bent for but a few minutes before he turned away.
Antony Dart, standing near the door, heard Miss Montaubyn speak to him
in a whisper.
"May I go to 'er?" and the doctor nodded.
She limped lightly forward and her small face was white, but expectant
still. What could she expect now--O Lord, what?
An extraordinary thing happened. An abnormal silence fell. The owners
of such faces as on stretched necks caught sight of her seemed in a
flash to communicate with others in the crowd.
"Jinny Montaubyn!" someone whispered. And "Jinny Montaubyn" was passed
along, leaving an awed stirring in its wake. Those whom the pressure
outside had crushed against the wall near the window in a passionate
hurry, breathed on and rubbed the panes that they might lay their faces
to them. One tore out the rags stuffed in a broken place and listened
breathlessly.
Jinny Montaubyn was kneeling down and laying her small old hand on the
muddied forehead. She held it there a second or so and spoke in a voice
whose low clearness brought back at once to Dart the voice in which she
had spoken to the Something upstairs.
"Bet," she said, "Bet." And then more soft still and yet more clear,
"Bet, my dear."
It seemed incredible, but it was a fact. Slowly the lids of the woman's
eyes lifted and the pupils fixed themselves on Jinny Montaubyn, who
leaned still closer and spoke again.
"'T ain't true," she said. "Not this. 'T ain't TRUE. There IS NO
DEATH," slow and soft, but passionately distinct. "THERE--IS--NO--
DEATH."
The muscles of the woman's face twisted it into a rueful smile. The
three words she dragged out were so faint that perhaps none but Dart's
strained ears heard them.
"Wot--price--ME?"
The soul of her was loosening fast and straining away, but Jinny
Montaubyn followed it.
"THERE--IS--NO--DEATH," and her low voice had the tone of a slender
silver trumpet. "In a minit yer 'll know--in a minit. Lord," lifting
her expectant face, "show her the wye."
Mysteriously the clouds were clearing from the sodden face--mysteriously.
Miss Montaubyn watched them as they were swept away! A minute--two
minutes--and they were gone. Then she rose noiselessly and stood
looking down, speaking quite simply as if to herself.
"Ah," she breathed, "she DOES know now--fer sure an' certain."
Then Antony Dart, turning slightly, realized that a man who had entered
the house and been standing near him, breathing with light quickness,
since the moment Miss Montaubyn had knelt, was plainly the person Glad
had called the "curick," and that he had bowed his head and covered his
eyes with a hand which trembled.