He glanced down at the minister and their eyes met.
"They lock them in here like sheep in a pen. If a fire should break out they would all die!" said the minister under his breath. His lips were trembling with the helplessness of himself against the power of a great trust.
"You don't say!" said Courtland, startled. It was his first view of conditions of this sort. He looked about with eyes alive to things he had not seen before. "But I thought this was a model factory! Isn't it absolutely fire-proof?"
"Somewhat so, on theoutside!" shrugged Burns. "It's a whited sepulcher, that's what it is. Beautiful marble and vines, beautiful rest-room and library—for thevisitorsto rest and read in—beautiful restaurant where the girls must buy their meals at the company'sprices or go without; beautiful outside everywhere; but it's rotten,absolutely rottenall through! Look at the width of that staircase! That's the one the employees use. The visitors only see the broad way by which you came up. Look at those machines! All painted and gilded! They are old models and twice as heavy to work as the new ones, but we can't get them to make changes. Look at those seats, put there to impress the visitors! The fact is not one of the hands dare use them, except a minute now and then when the foreman happens to leave the room! They know they will get docked in their pay if they are caught sitting down at their work! And yet it is always flaunted before the visitors that the workmen can sit down when they like. So they can, but they can go home without a pay-envelope if they do, when Saturday night comes. Oh, there is enough here to make one's blood boil! You're interested in these things? I wish you'd let me tell you more some time. About the long hours, the stifling air in some rooms, and the little children working in spite of the law! I wish men like you would come down here and help clean this section out and make conditions different! Why don't you come and help me?"
The minister laid his hand on Courtland's arm, and instantly it seemed as if the Presence came and stood beside him and said: "Here! This is your work!"
With a great conviction in his heart Courtland turned and followed Burns down the broad marble stairs out to the office, where he left word for Tennelly and his uncle that he had been there and had to go, but would see them again that evening, and then down the street to Burns's common little boarding-house, where they sat down and talked the rest of the afternoon. Burns opened Courtland's eyes to many things that he hadnot known were in the world. It was as if he laid his hands upon him and said, as of old: "Brother Saul, receive thy sight!"
When Courtland went back to the university his decision was made. He felt that he was under orders, and the Presence would not go with him in any such commission as Uncle Ramsey had proposed. His only regret was that Tennelly would not understand. Dear old Tennelly, who had tried to do his best for him!
The dénouement began in Tennelly's room after supper, when Courtland courteously and firmly thanked Uncle Ramsey, butdeclinedthe offer!
Uncle Ramsey grew apoplectic in the face and glared at the young man, finally bringing out an explosive: "What! Youdecline?"
Uncle Ramsey spluttered and swore. He tore up and down the small confines of the room like an angry bull, bellowing forth anathemas and arguments in a confused jumble. He enlarged on the insult he had been given, and the opportunity that was being lost never to be offered again. He called Courtland a "trifling idiot," and a few other gentle phrases, and demanded reasons for such an unprecedented decision.
Courtland's only answer was: "I am afraid it isn't going to fit in with my views of life, Mr. Thomas. I have thought it over carefully and I cannot accept your offer."
"Why not? Isn't it enough money?" roared the mad financier. "I'll double your salary!"
"Money has nothing to do with it," said Courtland, quietly. "That would make no difference." He was sorry for this scene for Tennelly's sake.
"Well, have you something else in view?"
"No, not definitely."
"Then you're a fool!" said Uncle Ramsey, and furtherstated what kind of a fool he was, several times,vigorously. After which he mopped his beaded brow with trembling, agitated hands, and sat down. The old bull was baffled at last.
Uncle Ramsey blustered all the way to the train with his nephew. "I've got to have that young man, Thomas. There's no two ways about it. A fellow that can stand out the way he did against Ramsey Thomas is just the man I want. He's got personality. Why, a man like that at work for us would be worth millions! He would give confidence to every one! Why, we could make him a Senator in a few years, and there's no telling where he wouldn't stop! He's the kind of a man who could be put in the White House if things shaped themselves right. I'vegotto have him, Thomas, and no mistake! Now, I'm going to put it up to you to find out the secret of this thing. You just get his number and we'll meet him on any reasonable proposition he wants to put up. Say, Thomas, isn't there a girl anywhere that could influence him?"
"Yes, there's a girl!"
"The very thing! You put her wise about it, and when I come back next week I'll stop off again and see what I can do with her? You can take me to call on her, you know. Can you work it, Thomas?"
Tennelly said he'd try, and went around to see Gila on his way back to the university.
Gila listened to the story of Uncle Ramsey's offer with bated breath and averted gaze. She would not show Tennelly how much this meant to her. But in her eyes there grew a determination that was not to be denied.
She planned a campaign with Tennelly, coolly, and with a light kind of glee that fooled him completely. He saw that she was entering into the spirit of the thingand had no idea she had any other interest than to please her cousin, and achieve a kind of triumph herself in making Courtland do the thing he had vowed not to do.
But long after Tennelly had gone home she stood before her mirror, looking with dreamy eyes into the pictures her imagination drew there for her. She saw herself the bride of Courtland after he had succeeded in the big business enterprise to which Uncle Ramsey had opened the door; she saw Washington with its domes and Capitol looming ahead of her ambition; Senators and great men bowing before her; even the White House came like a fantasy of possibility. All this and more were hers if she played her cards aright. Never fear! She would play them! Courtlandmustbe made to accept Uncle Ramsey's proposition!
Bonnie's letter reached Mother Marshall Wednesday afternoon while Father was off in the machine arranging for a man to do the spring plowing. She knew it by heart before he got back, and stood at her trysting window with her cheek against the old hat, watching the sunset and thinking it over when the car came chugging contentedly down the road.
Father waved his hand boyishly as he turned in at the big gate, and Mother was out on the side door-step waiting as he came to a halt.
"Heard anything yet?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes. A nice, dear letter!" Mother held it up, "Hurry up and come in and I'll read it to you."
But Father couldn't wait to put away the machine. He bounded out like a four-year-old and came right in then, regardless of the fact that it was getting dark and he might run into the door-jamb putting away the machine later.
He settled down, overcoat and all, into the big chair in the kitchen to listen; and Mother put on her spectacles in such a hurry that she got them upside down and had to begin over again.
You Dear Mother Marshall! [the letter began.]And Dear Father Marshall, too!I think it is just the most wonderful thing that I ever heard of that you are willing to invite a stranger like me tovisit you! At first I thought it wasn't right to accept such great kindness from people I never saw, and who didn't know whether they could even like me or not. But afterward Mr. Courtland told me about your Stephen and that you had suffered, too! And then I knew that I might take you at your word and come for a little while to get the comfort I need so much! Even then I couldn't have done it if Mr. Courtland and my nurse hadn't told me they were sure I could get something to do and so be able to repay you for all this kindness. If I can really be of any comfort to you in your loneliness I shall be so glad. But I'm afraid I could never even half fill the place of so fine a son as you must have had. Mr. Courtland has told me how grandly he died. He saw him, you know, at the very last minute, and saw all he did to save others. But if you will let me love you both I shall be so grateful. All that I had on earth are gone home to God now, and the world looks so long and hard and sad to me! I do hope you can love me a little while I stay, and that you will not let me make you any trouble. Please don't go to any work to get ready for me. I will gladly do anything that is necessary when I get there. I am quite able to work now; and if I have a place where I can feel that somebody cares whether I live or die it will not be so hard to face the future. A great, strange city is an awful place for a girl that has a heavy heart!I am so glad that you know Jesus Christ. It makes me feel at home before I get there. My dear father was a minister.They wouldn't let me go and pack up, so I had to do the best I could with directing the kind friends who did it for me. I have taken you at your word and had mother's sewing-machine and a box of my little brother's things sent with my trunk. But if they are in the way I can sell them or give them away. And I don't want you to feel that I am going to presume upon your kindness and settle down on you indefinitely. Just as soon as I get a chance to work I must take it, and I shall want to repay you for all you have done for me. You have sent me a great deal more money than I need.I start Wednesday evening on the through express. I have marked a time-table and am sending it because we are unable to find out just what time I can make connections from Grant's Junction, where they say I have to change. Perhaps you will know. But don't worry about me; I'll find my way to you as soon as I can get there. I am praying all the time that I shall not disappoint you. And now till I see you,
I think it is just the most wonderful thing that I ever heard of that you are willing to invite a stranger like me tovisit you! At first I thought it wasn't right to accept such great kindness from people I never saw, and who didn't know whether they could even like me or not. But afterward Mr. Courtland told me about your Stephen and that you had suffered, too! And then I knew that I might take you at your word and come for a little while to get the comfort I need so much! Even then I couldn't have done it if Mr. Courtland and my nurse hadn't told me they were sure I could get something to do and so be able to repay you for all this kindness. If I can really be of any comfort to you in your loneliness I shall be so glad. But I'm afraid I could never even half fill the place of so fine a son as you must have had. Mr. Courtland has told me how grandly he died. He saw him, you know, at the very last minute, and saw all he did to save others. But if you will let me love you both I shall be so grateful. All that I had on earth are gone home to God now, and the world looks so long and hard and sad to me! I do hope you can love me a little while I stay, and that you will not let me make you any trouble. Please don't go to any work to get ready for me. I will gladly do anything that is necessary when I get there. I am quite able to work now; and if I have a place where I can feel that somebody cares whether I live or die it will not be so hard to face the future. A great, strange city is an awful place for a girl that has a heavy heart!
I am so glad that you know Jesus Christ. It makes me feel at home before I get there. My dear father was a minister.
They wouldn't let me go and pack up, so I had to do the best I could with directing the kind friends who did it for me. I have taken you at your word and had mother's sewing-machine and a box of my little brother's things sent with my trunk. But if they are in the way I can sell them or give them away. And I don't want you to feel that I am going to presume upon your kindness and settle down on you indefinitely. Just as soon as I get a chance to work I must take it, and I shall want to repay you for all you have done for me. You have sent me a great deal more money than I need.
I start Wednesday evening on the through express. I have marked a time-table and am sending it because we are unable to find out just what time I can make connections from Grant's Junction, where they say I have to change. Perhaps you will know. But don't worry about me; I'll find my way to you as soon as I can get there. I am praying all the time that I shall not disappoint you. And now till I see you,
Sincerely and gratefully,Rose Bonner Brentwood.
"It couldn't be improved on," declared Mother, beamingly. "It's just what I'd have wanted her to say if I'd been planning it all out, only more so!"
"It's all right!" said Father, excitedly, "but that's one thing we forgot. We'd ought to have sent her word we would meet her at the station, and what time the train left Grant's Junction, and all! Now that's too bad!"
"Now don't you worry, Father. She'll find her way. Like as not the conductor will have a time-table and be able to tell her all about the trains. But I certainly do wish we had let her know we would meet her."
They were still worrying about it that night at nine o'clock while Father wound the kitchen clock and Mother put a mackerel asoak for breakfast. Suddenly the telephone in the next room gave a whir, and both Father and Mother jumped as if they had been shot, looking at each other in bewildered question as they hastened to the 'phone.
It was Father who took down the receiver. "A telegram? For Mr. Seth Marshall! Yes, I'm listening! Write it down, Mother! A telegram!"
"Mercy! Perhaps she wasn't well enough to start!" gasped mother, putting her pencil in place.
Miss Brentwood left to-night at nine-fifteen on express number ten, car Alicia lower berth number eight. Please let me know if she arrives safely.
Miss Brentwood left to-night at nine-fifteen on express number ten, car Alicia lower berth number eight. Please let me know if she arrives safely.
Paul Courtland.
"Now isn't that thoughtful of him!" he said, as he hung up the receiver. "He must have sensed we wanted to send her word, and now we can do it!"
"Send her word!" said Mother, bewildered.
"Why, surely! Haven't you read in the papers how they send messages to trains that are moving? It's great, isn't it, Mother? To think this little dinky telephone puts you and me out here on this farm in touch with all the world."
"Do you mean you can send a telegram to her on board the train, Seth?" asked Mother, in astonishment.
"Sure!" said Father. "We've got all the numbers of everything. Just send to that express train that left to-night. What was it—Express number ten, and so on, and it'll be sent along and get to her."
"Well, I think I'd ask her to answer then, to make sure she got it. I think that's a mighty uncertain way to send messages to people flying along on an express train. If you don't get any word from her you'll never know whether she got it or not, and then you won't know whether to meet her at Sloan's or Maitland," said Mother, with a worried pucker on her forehead.
"Sure!" said Father, taking down the receiver. "I can do that."
"It's just wonderful, Seth, how much you know about little important things like that!" sighed Mother, when the telegram was sent. "Now, I think we better go right to bed, for I've got to get to baking early in the morning. I want to have bread and pies and doughnuts fresh when she comes."
It was while they were eating breakfast that the answer came:
Telegram received. Will come to Sloan's Station. Having comfortable journey. R.B.B.
Telegram received. Will come to Sloan's Station. Having comfortable journey. R.B.B.
"Now isn't that just wonderful!" said Mother, sitting back weakly behind the coffee-pot and wiping away an excited tear with the corner of her apron. "To think that can be done! Now, wouldn't it be just beautiful if we had telephones to heaven! Think, if we could get word from Stephen to-day, how happy we'd be!"
"Why, we have!" said Father. "Wait!" and he reached over to the little stand by the window and grasped the worn old Bible. "Here! Listen to this!
"For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. For the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.
"For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. For the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.
"There, Mother! Ain't that just as good as any telegram from a moving train? And it's signed with His own seal and signature! It means He's heard our sorrow about Stephen's leaving us, and He heard it ages before we felt it ourselves, and wrote this down for us! Sent us a telegram this morning, just to comfort us! I reckon that meeting with Stephen and the Lord in the air is going to knock the spots clean out of this little old meeting to-morrow morning down at Sloan's Station. We won't need our ottymobeel anymore after that. We'll havewings, Mother! How'll you like to fly?"
Mother gave a little gasp of joy and smiled at Father like a rainbow through her tears. "That's so, Father! We don't need telephones to heaven, do we? I guess His words cover all our needs if we'd only remember to look for them. Now, Father, I must get at those doughnuts! Was you going to take the machine and run down to town and see if those books have come yet? They surely ought to be here by this time. Then don't forget to fix that fire up in the bedroom so it'll be all ready to light when she gets here. Isn't it funny, Father, we don't know how she looks! Not in the least. And if two girls should get off the train at Sloan's Station we wouldn't know which was the right one!"
"WellI should!" declared Father. "I'm dead certain there ain't two girls in the whole universe could have written that letter, and if you'd put any other one down with her, and I saw them side by side, I could tell first off which she was!"
So they helped each other through that last exciting day, finding something to do up to the very last minute the next morning before it was time to start to Sloan's Station to meet the train.
Mother would go along, of course. She pictured herself standing for hours beside that kitchen window with her cheek against the old hat, waiting, and wondering what had happened that they hadn't come, and she couldn't see it that way. So she left the dinner in such stages of getting ready that it could be soon brought to completion, and wrapped herself in her big gray cloak.
Father went faster than he had ever been known to go since he got the car, and Mother never even noticed. He got a panic lest his watch might be out of the wayand the train arrive before they got there. So they arrived at the station almost an hour ahead of the train.
"Oh, I'm so glad it's a pretty day!" said Mother Marshall, slipping her gloved hands in her sleeves to keep from shivering with excitement.
Mother Marshall sat quite decorously in the automobile till the train drew up to the platform and people began to get out. But when Bonnie stepped down from the car she forgot all about her doubts as to how they would know her, and jumped right out on the platform without waiting to be helped. She rushed up to Bonnie, saying, "This is our Bonnie, isn't it?" and folded her arms about the girl, forgetting entirely that she hadn't meant to use the name until the girl gave her permission; that she had no right to know the name even, wasn't supposed to have heard of it, and was sort of giving the young man away as it were.
But it didn't matter! Bonnie was so glad to hear her own name called in that endearing tone that she just put her face down in Mother Marshall's comfortable neck and cried. She couldn't help it, right there while the train was still at the station and the other travelers were peering curiously out of the sleeper at the beautiful pale girl in black who was being met by that nice old couple with the automobile. Somehow it made them all feel glad, she had looked so sad and alone all the journey.
What a ride that was home again to the farm, with Mother Marshall cuddling and crooning to her: "Oh, my dear pretty child! To think you've really come all this long way to comfort us!" and Father running the old machine at an unheard of rate of speed, slamming along over the road as if he had been sent for in great haste, and reaching his big fur glove back now and thento pat the old buffalo robe that was tucked snugly over Bonnie's lap.
Bonnie herself was fairly overcome and couldn't get her equilibrium at all. She had thought these must be wonderful people to be inviting a stranger and doing all they were doing, but such a reception as this she had never dreamed of.
"Oh, you are so good to me!" sobbed Bonnie, with a smile through her tears. "I know I'm acting like a baby, but I can't seem to help it. I've had nobody so long, and now to be treated like this, I just can't stand it! It seems as if I'd got home!"
"Why, sure! That's what you have!" said Father, in his big, hearty voice.
"Put your head right down on my shoulder and cry if you want to, my pretty!" said Mother Marshall, pulling her softly over toward her. "You can't think how good it is to have you here! Father and I were so afraid you wouldn't come! We thought you mightn't be willing to come so far to utter strangers!"
So it went on all the way, all of them so happy they didn't quite know what they were saying.
Then, when they got to the house even Father was so far gone that he couldn't let them go up-stairs alone. He just had to leave the machine standing by the kitchen door and carry that little hand-bag up as an excuse to see how she would like the room.
Bonnie, pulling off her gloves, entered the room when Mother opened the door. She looked around bewildered a moment, as if she had stepped from the middle of winter into a summer orchard. Then she cried out with delight:
"Oh! How perfectly beautiful! You don't mean me to have this lovely room? It isn't right! A stranger and a pauper!"
"Nothing of the kind!" growled Father, patting her on the shoulder. "Just a daughter come home!"
Then he beat a hasty retreat to the fireplace and touched a match to the fire already laid, while Mother, purring like a contented old pussy, pushed the bewildered girl into the big flowered chair in front of the fire and began unfastening her coat and taking off her hat, reverently, half in awe, for she was not used to girl's fixings, and they held almost as much mystery for her as if she had been a man.
In the midst of it all Mother remembered that dinner ought to be eaten at once, and that Bonnie must have a chance to wash her face and straighten her hair before dinner.
So Father and Mother, with many a reluctant lingering and last word, as if they were not going to see her for a month, finally bustled off together. In just no time at all Bonnie was down there, too, begging to be allowed to help, and declaring herself perfectly able, although her white face and the dark rings under her tired eyes belied her. Mother Marshall was not sure, after all, but she ought to have put Bonnie to bed and fed her with chicken broth and toast instead of letting her come down-stairs to eat stewed chicken, little fat biscuits with gravy, and the most succulent apple pie in the world, with a creamy glass of milk to make it go down.
Father had just finished trying to make Bonnie take a second helping of everything, when he suddenly dropped the carving-knife and fork with a clatter and sprang up from his chair:
"I declare to goodness, Mother, if I didn't forget!" he said, and rushed over to the telephone.
"Why, that's so!" cried Mother. "Don't forget to tell him how much we love her!"
Bonnie looked from one to the other of them in astonishment.
"It's that young man!" explained Mother. "He wanted we should telegraph if you got here all safe. You know he sent us a message after he put you on the train."
"How very thoughtful of him!" said Bonnie, earnestly. "He is the most wonderful young man! I can't begin to tell you all he did for me, a mere stranger! And so that explains how you knew where to send your message. I puzzled a good deal over that."
Four hours later Courtland, coming up to his room after basket-ball practice, a hot shower, and a swim in the pool, found the telegram:
Traveler arrived safely. Bore the journey well. Many thanks for the introduction. Everybody happy; if you don't believe it come and see for yourself.
Traveler arrived safely. Bore the journey well. Many thanks for the introduction. Everybody happy; if you don't believe it come and see for yourself.
Father and Mother Marshall.
Courtland read it and looked dreamily out of the window, trying to fancy Bonnie in her new home. Then he said aloud, with conviction, "Some time I shall go out there and see!"
Just then some one knocked at his door and handed in a note from Gila.
Dear Paul,—Come over this evening, I want to see you about something very special.
Dear Paul,—Come over this evening, I want to see you about something very special.
Hastily,GGila.
Gila's note came to Courtland as a happy surprise. He had not expected to see her until the next evening. Not that he had brooded much over the matter. He was too busy and too sanely healthy to do that. Besides, he was only as yet questioning within himself whether he was going to fall in love. The sensation so far was exceedingly pleasurable, and he was ready for the whole thing when it should arrive and prove itself; but at present he was just in that quiescent stage when everything seemed significant and delightfully interesting.
He had firmly resolved that the next time he saw Gila he would tell her of his own heart experience with regard to the Presence. He realized that he must go carefully, and not shock her, for he had begun to see that all her prejudices would be against taking any stock in such an experience. He had only so shortly himself come from a like position that he could well understand her extreme views; her what amounted almost to repugnance, toward hearing anything about it. But he would make her see the whole thing, just as he had seen it.
Now Gila had no notion of allowing any such recital as Courtland was planning. She had her stage all set for entirely another scene, and she had on her most charming mood. She was wearing a little frock of pale-blue wool, so simple that a child of ten might have wornit under a white ruffled apron. The neck was decorated with a soft 'kerchief-like collar. Not even a pin marred the simplicity of her costume. Her hair, too, was simpler than usual, almost carrying out the childish idea with its soft looping away from the face. Little heelless black-satin slippers were tied with narrow black ribbons quaintly crossed and recrossed over the slim, blue-silk ankles, carrying out the charming idea of a modest, simple maiden. Nothing could be more coy and charming than the way she swept her long black lashes down upon her pearly cheeks. Her great eyes when they were lifted were clear and limpid as a baby's. Courtland was fairly carried off his feet at sight of her, and felt his heart bound in reassurance. This must be love! He had fallen in love at last! He who had scorned the idea so long and laughed at the other fellows, until he had really begun to have doubts in his own heart whether the delightful illusion would ever come to him! The glamour was about Gila to-night and no mistake! He looked at her with his heart in his eyes, and she drooped her lashes to hide a glint of triumph, knowing she had chosen her setting aright at last. Softly, dreamily, pleasantly, in the back of her mind floated the Capitol of the nation, and herself standing amid admiring throngs receiving homage. She was going to succeed. She had achieved her first triumph with the look in Courtland's eyes. She would be able to carry out Mr. Ramsey Thomas's commission and win Courtland to anything that would forward ambitious hopes for him! She was sure of it!
The very important business about which she had wished to see Courtland was to ask him if he would be her partner in a bazaar and pageant that was shortly to be given for some charitable purpose by the society folks with whom she companioned. She wanted Courtland to march with her, and to consult him about the characters they should choose and the costumes they should wear.
As if she had been a child desiring him to play with her, he yielded to her mood, watching her all the time with delighted eyes, that anything so exquisite and lovely should stoop to sue for his favor. Of course he would be her partner! He entered into the arrangements with a zest, though he let her do all the planning, and heeded little what character she had chosen for him, or what costume, so she was pleased. Indeed, his part in the matter seemed of little moment so he might go with her—his sweet, shy, lovely maiden! For so she seemed to him that night! A perfect Solveig!
The reason for the little slippers became apparent later, when she insisted upon teaching him the dancing-steps that were to be used in a final splendid assembly after the pageant. There was intoxication in the delight of moving with her through the dreamy steps to the music of the expensive Victrola she set going. Just to watch her little feet like fairies for lightness and grace; to touch her small, warm hand; to be so near those down-drooping lashes; to feel her breath on his hand; to think of her as trusting her lovely little self to him—made him almost deliriously happy. And she, with her drooping lashes, her delicate way of barely touching his arm, her utter seeming unconsciousness of his presence, was so exquisite and pure and lovely to-night! She did not dream, of course, of how she made his pulses thrill and how he was longing to gather her into his arms and tell her how lovely she was. Afterward he was never quite sure what kept him from doing it. He thought at the time it was herself, a sort of wall of purity and loveliness that surrounded her and made her sacred, so that he felt he must go slowly, must notstartle her nor make her afraid of him. It never occurred to him that the wall might be surrounding himself. He had entirely forgotten that first visit to Gila in the Mephistophelian garments, with the red light filling all the unholy atmosphere. There had never been so much as a hint of a red light in the room since he said he did not like it. The lamp-shade seemed to have disappeared. In its place was a great wrought-metal thing of old silver jeweled with opalescent medallions.
But it was part of the deliberate intention of Gila to lead him on and yet hold him at a distance. She had read him aright. He was a man with an old-fashioned ideal of woman, and the citadel of his heart was only to be taken by such a woman. Therefore, she would be such a woman until she had won. After that? What mattered it? Let time plan the issue! She would have attained her desire!
But the down-drooping lashes hid no unconscious sweetness. There was sinister gleam in those eyes as she looked at herself over his shoulder when they passed the great mirror set in a cabinet door. There was deliberate intention in the way the little hand lay lightly in the strong one. There was not a movement of the dreamy dance she was teaching him, not a touch of the little satin slipper, that did not have its nicely calculated intention to draw him on. The sooner she could make him yield and crush her to him, the sooner he declared his passion for her, that much nearer would her ambitions be to their fulfilment. Yet she must be very sure that she had him close in her toils before she discovered to him her purpose.
So the little blue Puritan-like spider threw her silver gossamer web about him, tangling more and more his big, fine manly heart, and flinging diamond dust, andpowder made of charms and incantations, in his eyes to blind him. But as yet she knew not of the Presence that was now his constant companion.
They had danced for some time, floating about in the pure delight of the motion together, and the nearness of each another, when it seemed to Courtland as if of a sudden a cooling hand was laid on his feverish brow and a calm came to his spirit like a beloved voice calling his name with the accent that is sure of quick response.
It was so he remembered what he had come to tell Gila. Looking down to that exquisite bit of humanity almost within his embrace, a great tenderness for her, and longing, came over him, to make her know now all that the Presence was becoming to him.
"Gila," he whispered, and his voice was full of thrill. "Let's sit down awhile! There is something I want to tell you!"
Instantly she responded, lifting great innocent eyes, with one quick sweep, to his face, so moved and tender; and gliding toward the couch where they might sit together, settling down on it, almost nestling to him, then remembering and drawing away shyly to more perfectly play her part. She thought she knew what he was going to say. She thought she saw the love-light in his eyes, and it was so dazzling it almost blinded her. It frightened her a little, too, like the light in no lover's eyes that had ever drawn her down to whisper love to her before. She wondered if it was because she really cared herself so much now that it seemed so different.
But he did not take her in his arms as she had expected he would do; though he sat quite near, and spoke in a low, privileged tone, as one would do who had the right. His arm was across the back of thecouch behind her; he sat sideways, turned toward her, and he still touched reverently the little hand he had been holding as they danced together.
"Gila, I have a story to tell you," he said. "Until you know it you can never understand me fully, and I want with all my heart to have you understand me. It is something that has become a part of me."
She sat quivering, wondering, half fearful. A gleam of jealousy came into her averted face. Was he going to tell her about another girl? A fierce, unreasoning anger shot across her face. She would not tolerate the thought that any one had had him before her. Was it—? It couldn't be that baby-faced pauper in the hospital? She drew her slim little body up tensely and waited for the story.
Courtland told the story of Stephen; told it well and briefly. He pictured Stephen so that the girl must needs admire. No woman could have heard that description of a man such as Stephen had been and not bow her woman's heart and wish that she might have known him.
Gila listened, fascinated, even up to the moment of the fire and the tragedy when Stephen fell into the flames. She shuddered visibly several times, but sat tense and still and listened. She even was unmoved when Courtland went on to tell of finding himself on a ledge above the burning mass, creeping somehow into a small haven, shut in by a wall of smoke, and feeling that this was the end. But when he began to tell of the Presence, the Light, the Voice, the girl gave a sudden start and gripped her cold hands together. Almost imperceptibly she drew her tense little body away from him, and turned slowly till she faced him, horror and consternation in her eyes, utter unbelief and scorn on her lips. But still she did not speak, still held her gazeon him and listened, while he told of coming back to life, the hospital walls, the strange emptiness, and the Presence; the recovery, and the Presence still with him; the going here and there and finding the Presence always before him and yet with him!
"He is here in this room with us, Gila!" he said, simply, as if he had been telling her that he had brought her some flowers and he hoped she would like them.
Then suddenly Gila gave a spring away from him to her feet, uttered a wild scream of terror, and burst into angry tears!
Courtland sprang to his feet in dismay and instant contrition. He had made the horror of the fire too dramatic. He had not realized how dreadful it would be to a woman's delicate sensibilities. This gentle, loving girl had felt it all to her soul and her nerves had given way before the reality of it. He had been an idiot to tell the story in that bald way. He should have gone about it more gently. He was not used to women. He must learn better. Would she forgive him?
And now indeed he had her in his arms, although he was utterly unaware of it. He was trying to comfort and soothe her, as he would soothe a little child who had been frightened. Not only his handkerchief but his hands were called into requisition to charm away those tears and comfort the pitiful little face that looked so streaked and pink and helpless there against his shoulder. He wanted to stoop and lay his lips on those trembling ones. Perhaps Gila thought he would. But he would not take advantage of her moment of helplessness. Not until she was herself and could give him permission would he avail himself of that sacred privilege. Now it was the part of a man to comfort her without any element of self in the matter.
When he had drawn her down upon the couch again,with the sobs still shaking her soft blue-and-white frilly breast, her blue-black hair all damp and tossed upon her temples, and tried to tell her how sorry he was that he had put her through the horrors of that fire, she put in a quivering protest. It wasnotthe fire. She shivered. It was not the horror and the smoke! It wasnotStephen's death, nor the danger to himself! It was notanyof those that had unnerved her! It was that other awful thing he had said: that ghostly, ghastly, uncanny, dreadful story of a Presence! She almost shrieked again as she said it, and she shivered away from him, as if still there were something cold and clammy in his touch that gave her the horrors.
A cold disappointment settled down upon him. She had not understood. He looked at her, troubled, disappointed, baffled. It was not possible, then, for him to bring her this knowledge that he wished so much for her to have. It was a thing that one could tell about to one's friends, but could not give to them. It was something they must take for themselves, must feel and see by themselves! With new illumination he turned to her and said in a voice wonderfully tender for a man so young:
"Listen, Gila! I have been clumsy in telling you! You cannot see it just from my poor story. But He will come toyouand you shall see Him for yourself! I will ask Him to come to you as He has to me!"
Again that piercing scream, and with a quick, lithe movement, almost like a serpent, she slid from his side and stood quivering in the middle of the room, her eyes flashing, her body shrinking, both little hands clenched at her throat.
"Stop!" she cried. "Stop!" and screamed again, stamping her foot. "I won't hear such horrible things! Iwon't haveany spirits coming around me! Iwon'tseethem! Do you understand? Ihatethat Presence, andI hate youwhen you talk like that!"
She had worked herself into a fine tantrum, but there was behind it all a horrible fear and shrinking from the Christ he had described, the shrinking of the naked soul in the garden from its God. The drooping, child-like eyes were wide with horror now; the sweet, innocent mouth was trembling with emotion. She was anything but Solveig-like. If Courtland caught a glimpse of the real Gila through it all he laid it to his own clumsy way of handling the delicate mystery of a girl's shy nature. He saw she was wrought up beyond her own control, and he was so far under the illusion that he blamed himself only, and set himself to calm her.
He coaxed her to sit down again, put his strong hand on her quivering one, marveling in tenderness at its smallness and softness. He talked to her in quiet, soothing tones, grave and reassuring. He promised he would talk no more about the Presence till she was ready to hear. He was leaning toward her in his strength, his arm behind her, his hand on her shoulder, with a sheltering, comforting touch when he told her this, as one would treat a little child in trouble, and, suddenly, like the sun flashing out from behind the clouds, she lifted up her teary face and smiled, nestling toward him, her head falling down on his shoulder with a sigh like a tired, satisfied child, her face lifted temptingly so close, so very close to his.
It was then that he did the thing that bound him to what followed. He stooped and laid his lips upon her warm little trembling ones and kissed her. The thrill that shot through him was like the click of shackles snapping shut about one's wrist; like the turning of the key in a prison-house; the shooting of thebolt to one's dark cell. He held her there and touched her soft hair with his finger-tips; touched her cool little forehead with his lips; touched her warm, soft lips again and felt the thrill; but something was the matter. He felt the surging forces within him rise and batter at the gate of his self-control. He wanted to say, "Gila, I love you!" but the words stuck in his throat.
What had he done? Whence came this sense of defeat and loss? The Presence! Where was the Presence? Yes—there—but withdrawn, standing apart in sadness, while he sat comforting and caressing one who had just said she hated Him! But that was because she had not seen Him yet! She was frightened because she did not understand! He would yet be able to make her see! He would implore the Presence to come to her; to break down her prejudice; to let her have the vision also!
So he sat and comforted her, yet longed to get away and think it out. This sense of depression and bitter disappointment hung about him like a burden; now, of all times, when he should be happy if ever he was to be!
But Gila was nestling close, patting his sleeve, talking little, sweet nonsensical words as if she had really been the little child she seemed. He looked down at her and smiled. How small she was, and child-like. He must remember that she was very young, and probably had never had much bringing-up. Serious things frightened her! He must go gently and lead her! It made him feel old and responsible to look at her—tender, beautiful girl!—enveloped as she was in the garment of his ideal of womanhood.
Yet there was something about it all that drove him from her. He must think it out and come to some clear understanding with himself. As it was, it seemedto him as if he were trying to take peace within himself while before him lay a lot of his own broken vows. He had vowed to himself to bring her to the Christ and he had not accomplished it. Instead she had declared she hated him and the Presence both; yet here he sat making love to her and ignoring it all! He felt a distinct weakness in himself, but did not know how to remedy it.
When he finally got away from Gila and walked feverishly toward the university, he felt as if his soul was crying out within him for a solution of the perplexities in which he was involved. By his side walked a Friend, but there seemed to be a veil between them. Ever mingling with his thoughts came the sweet, tear-wet face of Gila, with its Solveig-look, pleading up at him from the mist of the evening, luring him as it were to forget the Christ. He passed his hand wearily over his eyes, told himself that he had been through a good deal that evening and his nerves were not as strong as they used to be since the fire.
He was surprised to find that it was still early when he got back to his room, barely half past nine. Yet it had seemed as if it must be near midnight, so much had happened.
What he would have thought if he could have known that at that very minute Tennelly was seated in the chair in the library that he had so lately vacated, and Gila, posing bewitchingly in the firelight, merrily talking him over, is hard to say.
Not that they were saying anything against him—of course not! Tennelly would never have stood for that, and Gila knew better. But Gila had no intention of giving Tennelly any idea how far matters had gone between herself and Courtland. As for Tennelly, he would have been the most amazed of the three if he could have known all. He had been Courtland's intimate friend for so many years—years count like ages when one is in college—that he thought he knew him perfectly. He would have sworn to it that Courtland's friendship with Gila had not progressed further than a mere first stage of friendship. He admitted that Gila had an influence over his friend, but that it had really gone heart-deep seemed impossible. Courtland was a man of too much force, even young as he was, and too much maturity of thought, to be permanently entangled with a girl like Gila. That was what Tennelly thought before Gila had turned her eyes toward him and flung a few of her silver gossamer threads about his soul. For always in those first days of his visits to Gila it had been in Courtland's behalf; first, to see if she was good enough for a friend of his friend, and next to get her partnership in the scheme of turning Courtland's thoughts away from "morbid" things.
But that night for the first time Tennelly saw the Solveig in Gila, and was stirred on his own account. The childish blue frock and the simple frilled 'kerchief did their work with his high soul as well; and he sat, charmed, and watched her. After all, there was more to her than he had thought, or else she was a consummate actress! So Tennelly sat late before the fire, till Gila knew that he would turn aside again often to see her for himself, and then she let him go.
Gila took herself off to a house-party the very next day, with only a tinted, perfumed note, like a flutter of painted wings, to explain that the butterfly had melted into the pleasant sunshine to taste honey in other flowers for a time.
In a way her going was a relief to Courtland. He didn't understand himself. There was something wrong, and he wanted to find out what before he saw her again.
It was while he was in this troubled state that he stumbled upon the Bible as something that might possibly bring light.
He had studied it before in his biblical literature classes, and found it much like other books, a literary classic, a wonderful gem of beauty in its way, a rare collection of legends, proverbs, allegories, and the like. But looking at it now, with the possible hypothesis that it was the Word of God, all was changed.
He remembered once seeing a tray of gems in an exhibit, and among them one that looked like a common pebble. The man who had charge of the exhibit took the little pebble and held it in the palm of his hand for a moment, when it suddenly began to glow and sparkle with all the colors of the rainbow and rival all the other gems. The man explained that only the warmth of the human hand could cause this marvelous change. You might lay the stone under the direct rays of asummer sun, yet it would have no effect until you took it in your hand, when it would give forth its beauty once more.
It was like this when he began to read the Bible with the idea that it was the Word of God. Things flashed out at him that fairly dazzled his thoughts; living, palpitating things, as if they were hidden of a purpose to be discovered only by him who cared to search. Hidden truths came to light that filled his soul with wonder. Gradually he understood that Belief was the touchstone by which all these treasures were to be revealed. Everywhere he found it, that belief in Christ was a condition to all the blessings promised. He read of hearts hardened and eyes blinded because of unbelief, and came to see that unbelief was something a man was responsible for, not a condition which settled down upon him, and he could not help. Belief was a deliberate act of the will. It was not a theory, nor an intellectual affirmation; it was a position taken, which necessarily must pass into action of some kind. He began to see that without this deliberate belief it was impossible for man to know the things which are purely spiritual. It was the condition necessary for revelation. He was fascinated with the pursuit of this new study.
Wittemore came to his room one evening, his face grayer, more strained and horse-like than ever. Wittemore's mother had made another partial recovery and insisted on his return to college. He was plodding patiently, breathlessly along in his classes, trying to catch up again. He had paid Courtland back part of the money he borrowed, and was gradually paying the rest in small instalments. Courtland hated to take it, but saw that it would hurt him to refuse it; so he had fallen into a habit of stopping now and then to talk about his settlement work, just to show a little friendlyinterest in him. Wittemore had responded with a quiet wistfulness and a patient hovering in the background that touched the other man's heart deeply.
"I've just come from my rounds," said Wittemore, sitting down, apologetically, on the edge of a chair. "That old lady you carried the medicine to—she's been telling me how you made tea and toast!" He paused and looked embarrassed.
"Yes," smiled Courtland. "How's she getting on? Any better?"
"No," said Wittemore, the hopeless gray look settling about his sensitive mouth. "She'll never be any better. She's dying!"
"Well," said Courtland, "that'll be a pleasant change for her, I guess."
Wittemore winced. Death had no pleasant associations for him. "She told me you prayed for her! She wants you to do it again!"
It was plain he thought the praying had been a sort of joke with Courtland.
Courtland looked up, the color rising slowly in his face. He saw the accusation in Wittemore's sad eyes.
"Of course I know what you think of such things. I've heard you in the class. I don't believe in them any more myself, either, now." Wittemore's voice had a trail of hopelessness in it. "But somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to make a mockery of prayer, even to please that old woman. You seemy mother still believes in prayer!" He spoke apologetically, as of a dear one who had lacked advantages.
"ButI dobelieve in prayer!" said Courtland, earnestly. "What you heard me say in class was before I understood."
"Before you understood?" Wittemore looked puzzled.
"Listen, Wittemore. Things are all different now. I've met Jesus Christ and I've got my eyes open. I was blind before, but since I've felt the Presence everything has been different."
And then he told the story of his experience. He did not make a long story of it. He gave brief facts, and when it was finished Wittemore dropped his face into his hands and groaned:
"I'd give anything if I could believe all that again," came from between his long bony fingers. "It's breaking my mother's heart to have me leave the faith!"
The slick hay-like hair fell in wisps over his hands, his high, bony shoulders were hunched despairingly over Courtland's study table. He was a great, pitiful object.
"Why don't you, then?" said Courtland, getting up and going to the closet for his overcoat. "It's up to you, you know. Youcan! God can't do it for you, and of course there's nothing doing till you've taken that step. I found that out!"
"But how do you reconcile things, calamities, disasters, war, suffering, that poor old woman lying on her attic bed alone? How do you reconcile that with the goodness of God?"
"I don't reconcile it. It isn't my business. I leave that to God. If I understood all the whys and wherefores of how this universe is run I'd be great enough to be a God myself."
"But if God is omniscient I can't see how He can let some things go on! He must be limited in power or He'd never let some things happen if He's a good God!" Wittemore's voice had a plaintive sound.
"Well, how do you know that? In the first place, how can you be sure what is a calamity? And say, did it ever strike you that some of the things we blameon God are really up to us? He's handed over His power for us to do things, and we haven't seen it that way; so the things go undone and God is charged with the consequences."
"I wish I could believe that!" said Wittemore.
"You can! When you really want to, enough, you will! Come on, let's get that prayer down to the old lady! I'm sort of an amateur yet, but I'll do my best."
They went out into the mist and murk of a spring thaw. Wittemore never forgot that night's experience—the prayer, and the walk home again through the fog. The old woman died at dawning.
Courtland spent much time thinking about Gila these days. His whole soul was wrapped up in the desire that she might understand. He was longing for her; idealizing her; thinking of her in her innocent beauty, her charming ways; wondering how she would meet him the next time, what he should say to her; living upon her brief, alluring notes that came to him from time to time like fitful rose petals blown from a garden where he longed to be; but yet in a way it was a relief to have her gone until he could settle the great perplexity that was in his mind concerning her.
Gila prolonged her absence by a trip South with her father, and so it was several weeks before Courtland saw her again.
There seemed to be a settled sadness over his soul when he prayed about her, and when at last she returned and summoned him to her he was no nearer a solution of his difficulty than when he had last left her.
The hour before he went to her he spent in Stephen's room, turning over the leaves of Stephen's Bible. When he rose at last to go he turned again to this verse which had caught his eye among the marked verses that werealways so interesting to him because they seemed to have been landmarks in Stephen's life: