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diff --git a/14606-0.txt b/14606-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3770b6d --- /dev/null +++ b/14606-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1406 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14606 *** + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustrations. + See 14606-h.htm or 14606-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/0/14606/14606-h/14606-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/0/14606/14606-h.zip) + + + + + +AND THUS HE CAME + +A Christmas Fantasy + +by + +CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY + +Pictures by Walter B. Everett + +G.P. Putnam's Sons +New York and London +The Knickerbocker Press + +1916 + + + + + + + +[Illustration: "No, No," said the woman, "I can't go with you now."] + + + +To the Beloved Memory +of +Little Betty + + + + +Contents + + I.--THE BABY + II.--THE CHILD + III.--THE FRIEND + IV.--THE WORKMAN + V.--THE COMFORTER + VI.--THE BURDEN BEARER + VII.--THE THORN CROWNED + VIII.--THE BROKEN-HEARTED + IX.--THE FORGIVER OF SINS + X.--THE GIVER OF LIFE + XI.--THE STILLER OF THE STORM + + + + +Illustrations + + "NO, NO," SAID THE WOMAN, "I CAN'T GO WITH YOU NOW" (Frontispiece) + + AFTER A TIME SHE FELL DOWN ON HER KNEES. SHE PRESSED THEM AGAINST + HER FACE + + SHE LAID HER HAND UPON THE KNOB OF THE CHURCH DOOR + + "IT IS HE," WHISPERED THE PRIEST; "HIS SORROW WAS GREATER THAN MINE" + + ABSOLVO TE + + THE CRY FOR BREAD + + + + +I + +The Baby + +"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM" + + + + +I + +The Baby + + +The heavy perfume of rare blossoms, the wild strains of mad music, the +patter of flying feet, the murmur of speech, the ring of laughter, +filled the great hall. Now and again a pair of dancers, peculiarly +graceful and particularly daring, held the center of the floor for a +moment while the room rang with applause. + +Into alcoves, screened and flower-decked, couples wandered. In the +dancing-space hands were clasped, bosoms rose and fell, hearts throbbed, +pulses beat, and moving bodies kept time to rhythmic sound. + +Suddenly the music stopped, the conversation ceased, the laughter died +away. Almost, as it were, poised in the air, the dancers stood amazed. +One looked to another in surprise. Something stole throughout the room +which was neither music, nor lights, nor fragrance, but which was +life--a presence! + +"Do you see that child?" asked the wildest of the dancers of her escort. +"There," she pointed. "He looks like a very little boy." + +"I see nothing," said the man, who still held her in the clasp of his +arm. + +"He is strangely dressed, although I see him indistinctly, vaguely," +whispered the woman. "He wears a long white robe and there is a kind of +light about his face. See, he is looking at us." + +"I see nothing," repeated the man in low tones. "The heat, the light, +the music, have disturbed you; let me get you--" + +"I want nothing," interposed the woman, waving the man aside and drawing +away from his arm. "Don't you see him, there?" + +She made a step toward the center of the room. She stopped, put her +hand to her head. + +"Why, he is gone," she exclaimed. + +"Good," said the man, while at that instant the room suddenly rang with +cries: "Go on with the music, the dance is not half over." He extended +his arm to the woman again. "Our dance is not finished." + +"Yes, it is," she said as the flying feet once more twinkled across the +polished floor, as everybody took a long breath and a new start +apparently unconscious of the pause. + +"It is over for me. What I saw!" + +"What did you see?" + +"I don't know, but I'm going back home to my child. Good-night." + + * * * * * + +Yes, the music had stopped suddenly. The man in the farthest alcove +turned to his companion. They were hidden by a group of palms. + +"I wonder why?" queried the woman. She was deathly pale. Her eyes were +dark with fear, yet alight with passionate determination. + +"When it begins," said the man tenderly, "we will slip away. My car is +outside. Everything is ready." + +"That is my husband over there," said the woman. + +"Yes," said the man, "he won't trouble you any more." + +"That woman with him is leaving him," she said. "I wonder why." She +turned suddenly with a great start. "There is somebody here," she +whispered, staring into the back of the alcove. + +"Nonsense," said the man, throwing a glance around the recess. "There's +nobody here but you and I. We are alone together, as we shall be +hereafter, when we have taken the step." + +"But that child," whispered the woman, "with his strange vesture and +his wonderful face. His eyes look at me so." + +"There is no child there, my dear," urged the man; "you are overwrought, +excited, nervous. The music starts. Let us go." + +He stretched out his hand to the woman, but as he came nearer she shrank +back with her own hand on her heart. + +"Oh," she said faintly, "he's gone." + +"Of course he's gone," he answered soothingly. "Now is our time to get +away. Let me--" + +"No, no," said the woman. "I can't go with you now. It wouldn't be +right." + +"But you knew that before," pleaded the man. "Besides--" + +"Yes, but I can't do it. He was there! His eyes spoke--I--don't touch +me," she said; "I'm going back to my husband. Don't follow." + + + + +II + +The Child + + + + +"SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME" + + + + +II + +The Child + + +The employees had all gone home, carrying with them Christmas checks and +hearty greetings from the great man whose beck and nod they followed. He +sat in his private office absolutely alone. He had some serious matters +to consider and did not want any interruptions. His balance-sheet for +the year had been made up according to the custom of the firm before +Christmas instead of on New Year's Day. He examined it again. It showed +tremendous profit. The mills were turning out quantities of material, +the demand for which was greater and the cost of production less than +ever before. + +"I tell you," said the man to himself, "it was a master-stroke to +displace the men with children in the mills. They have reduced the cost +by four fifths. War has made the prices go up. This is not wealth, it is +riches beyond calculation." + +He picked up a letter, read it over. It was a proposal from the +superintendent to clear more land, to build more buildings, to install +more machines, to employ more children and increase the profits greatly. + +"I'll do it," said the man. "We can crush opposition absolutely. I'll +control the markets of the world. I'll build a fortune upon this +foundation so great that no one can comprehend it." + +He stopped, leaned back in his chair, lifted his eyes up toward the +ceiling of the room and saw beyond it the kingdoms of this world and the +means unlimited to make him lord and master. He gave no thought to the +foundations, only to the structure erected by his fancy. How long he +indulged in dreams he scarcely realized, but presently he put his hands +on the arms of the chair and started to rise, saying, + +"I'll telegraph the superintendent to go ahead." + +He had scarcely formulated the words when right in front of him, seated +on his desk, he saw a young lad regarding him intently. He stopped, +petrified, in the position he had assumed. + +"How did you get in? What are you doing here?" he asked. There was no +answer. "Come," said the man, shrinking back. "I can't imagine how you +got in here. If my people had not all gone I should hold them to strict +account. As it is, you--" + +The room was suddenly filled with people. They came crowding through the +walls from every side and pressed close to him. Such people he had never +seen: wan, worn, stunted, pinched, starved, joyless. They were all +children, meagerly clothed, badly nourished, ill developed. They were +quite silent. They did not cry. They did not protest. They did not +argue. They did not plead. They did not laugh. They just looked at him. +They made no sound of any sort. He had children of his own and he had +known many children. He had never known so many gathered together +without a smile or a laugh. + +His eye wandered around the room. They were very close to him and yet +they did not touch him. He turned to the desk where the lad had sat, but +he was no longer there and yet he well remembered his face. He knew +exactly how he looked. He turned to the nearest child and in some +strange way, although the poor, wretched face had not changed, his look +suggested the lad who had been his first visitor. He turned to another +and another. They all looked back at him in the same way with the same +eyes. + +He threw his head up again and saw the castle of success of which he had +dreamed. He looked down again. This was the foundation. Slowly his hand +went to the desk. The little crowding figures drew back to give him +freedom of movement as he stretched his hand out for a telegraph-blank. +He drew it to him. He seized a pen and wrote rapidly: + +"Build no more mills, take the children out of those already in +operation, put men in their places. We will be content with less profit +in the future." + +He read over the telegram. The telephone was close at hand. He called up +the telegraph-office, dictated it and directed it to be sent +immediately. He had been so engrossed in this task that he had noticed +nothing else. Now he looked up. The room was still filled with children, +but they were all laughing. It was a soundless laugh, and yet he heard +it. And then the room was empty save for the child he had seen first and +vaguely. He had just time to catch a smile from his lips and then he, +too, was gone as silently and as strangely as he had appeared. + +Was it a dream? No, there was the telegram in his hand! Had he sent it? +Again he called up the office on the telephone. + +"Did you get a message from me just a minute ago?" + +"Yes, do you want to recall it?" + +The man thought a second. + +"No," he said quietly--was it to himself or to his vanished +visitors?--"let it go. Merry Christmas." + + + + +III + +The Friend + + + + +"INASMUCH AS YE HAVE DONE IT UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY +BRETHREN" + + + + +III + +The Friend + + +"Is the story of the Christ Child true, Mommy?" quivered one little, +thin voice. + +"Yes, they told us it was over at the mission Sunday-school," said the +littlest child. + +"I don't believe it," answered the mother. "God ain't never done much +for me." + +"It's Christmas eve, ain't it?" asked the boy, climbing up on the thin +knees of the threadbare woman and nestling his thin face against a +thinner breast which the rags scarcely covered decently. + +"Yes, it's Christmas eve." + +"And that's the day He came, ain't it?" urged the oldest girl. + +"They say so." + +"Don't you believe it, Mommy?" + +"I used to believe it when I was a girl. I believed it before your +father died, but now--" + +"Don't you believe it now?" repeated the first child. + +"How can I believe it? You're old enough to understand. That's the last +scuttle of coal we got. We ate the last bit of bread for supper +to-night." + +"They say," put in the little boy, "that if you hang up your stockings, +Santa Claus'll fill 'em, 'cause of the Christ Child." + +"Don't you believe it, Sonny," said the mother desperately. + +"I'm going to hang up mine and see," said the littlest girl. + +"He's got too many other children to look after," said the woman, "to +care for the likes of us, I'm afraid, and--" + +"But my Sunday-school teacher said He came to poor people special. He +was awful poor Himself. Why, He was born in a stable. That's awful poor, +ain't it?" asked the boy. + +"When I was a girl," answered the mother, "I lived on a farm and we had +a stable there that was a palace to this hole we live in now. No, you'd +better not hang up your stockings, none of you." + +"And you don't believe in Him, Mommy?" + +"No. What would be the use if you hung 'em up and didn't find anything +in 'em in the morning?" + +"It'd be awful, but I believe in Him," said the littlest girl. "I don't +think God has forgot us, really. I'm going to try." + +"I tell you 'tain't no use." + +"Oh, yes, it is." + +"I'm sure it ain't. But have it your own way," said the woman. "If +someone would fill your stockings with milk and bread and--" + +"I want a turkey," said the oldest girl. + +"And cranberry sauce," added the boy. + +"I want a doll-baby in mine," said the littlest girl. + +The mother hid her face and groaned aloud. + +"You ain't sick, are you, Mommy?" + +"I guess so. Come, you'd better say your prayers and go to bed. We don't +have to keep the fire going so hard when you're all covered up." + +It did not take long for the three little youngsters to divest +themselves of the rags of clothing they wore. They slept in what passed +for their underclothes, so there was no donning of white gowns for the +night. + +"Here are our stockings, Mommy," said the oldest, handing three ragged, +almost footless, black stockings to the woman. + +"It's no use, I tell you. I can't do it." + +"It won't do any harm, Mommy," urged the girl. + +"Do you believe in it, too?" asked the mother, and the girl shook her +head. "You won't be disappointed in the morning if there's nothing in +'em?" + +"No, I suppose it will be because Santa Claus was too busy." + +With nervous fingers the woman hung the three stockings near the window. +She was hungry, she was cold, she was broken, she was a mother. She +could scarcely keep from crying. + +"Maybe you'll be glad you did it," said the littlest girl drowsily. + +"Ain't you comin' to bed, too, Mommy?" asked the oldest, beneath the +covers over the mattress on the floor. + +"In a little while." + +"And you won't forget to say your prayers?" + +"I ain't said 'em for months, ever since your father was killed, and we +got so poor." + +"But you'll say 'em to-night 'cause it's Christmas eve?" + +"Yes, to-night," said the mother; "now you go to sleep." + +"Are you waitin' for him to come, Mommy?" asked the littlest girl, who +was very sleepy. + +"Yes," said the mother. + +Presently, as she sat in the dark, having turned out the light, the deep +breathing of the children told her they were asleep. She rose quietly, +stepped to the window, and stood looking at the three shapeless, +tattered stockings. She was high up in the tenement and the moonlight +came softly over the house roofs of the city into the bare, cold, +cheerless room. She stared at the stockings and tears streamed down her +wasted cheeks. She had hung them low at the suggestion of the littlest +girl so the children could easily get at them in the morning. + +[Illustration: She pressed them against her face.] + +After a time she fell down on her knees. She pressed them against her +face. She did not say anything. She could scarcely think anything. She +just knelt there until something gently drew her head around. She +dropped the stockings. She put her right hand on the window-ledge to +steady herself and looked backward. + +No sound save the breathing of the children and her own stifled sobs had +broken the silence; the door was shut, but a man was there, a man of +strange vesture seen dimly in the moon's radiance, yet there was a kind +of light about his face. She could see his features. They were those of +a man in middle years. They were lined with care. He had seen life on +its seamy side. The woman felt that he had known poverty and loneliness. +She stared up at him. + +"I didn't believe," she whispered; "it cannot be. I thought we were +forgotten." + +The man slowly raised his hand. The moonlight struck fair upon it. She +saw that it was calloused, the hand of a man who toiled. It was extended +over her head. There was no bodily touch, but her head bent low down +until she rested it upon her hands upon the floor. When she looked up, +the room was empty. There was no sound save the breathing of the +children and the throb of her own heart which beat wildly in the fearful +hollow of her ear. + +She heard a sound of strange footsteps outside the door. There was a +crackle as of paper, the soft sound of things laid upon the floor, a +gentle rapping on the panels, a light laugh, a rustle of draperies, +footsteps moving away. As in a dream she got to her feet, she knew not +how. She opened the door. + +The hall was dimly illuminated. Her feet struck a little heap of +joy-bringing parcels. She leaned back against the door-jamb, her hand +to her heart, trembling. What could it mean? + +A tiny voice broke the silence. It was the littlest girl turning over in +her sleep, murmuring incoherently and then clearly: + +"If you only believe, that's enough; if you only believe." + + + + +IV + +The Workman + +"IS NOT THIS THE CARPENTER?" + + + + +IV + +The Workman + + +In the mean squalid room back of the saloon half a score of men were +assembled. They were all young in years, in other things not youthful. +Some of them lounged against the wall. Some sat at tables. All were +drinking. The air was foul with smoke and reeked with the odor of vile +liquor. + +"We've got two jobs on hand to-night," said the leader of the gang. +"There's a crib to be cracked an' a guy to be croaked. Red, you an' +Gypsie an' the Gunney will crack the crib. It's dead easy. Only an old +man an' his wife. The servants are out except one an' he's fixed. I'll +give you the layout presently. The other job's harder. Kid, I'll put you +in charge, an' as it's got to be done early to-night I'll give you the +orders now. He'll be at The Montmorency at ten o'clock. Someone will +call him out to the street." + +"Who?" + +"Never mind who. You'll be there in the car." + +"Whose car?" + +"Never mind whose. Why're you askin' so many questions? It'll take you +an' the four to The Montmorency at ten o'clock. When he comes out every +one of you let go, the whole bunch, understand. If they don't find five +bullets in him there'll be trouble to-morrow." + +"What do we get out of it?" + +"A hundred apiece fer you an' a hundred an' fifty fer me fer engineerin' +the job. Christmas money! You get me?" + +"Of course. How'll we know who we've got to shoot?" + +"I'll be there myself on the sidewalk. I'll point him out to you." + +"The police?" + +"They're fixed." + +"Easy enough," said the Kid, the youngest of the gang. + +"Well, you guys," said the leader pointing out four of the men, "will go +with the Kid. The car'll be at the door in half an hour." + +"Now, gimme my orders," said Red. + +The gang leader scribbled something on a bit of paper. + +"You go to that number with these two guys between midnight an' two in +the mornin'. You'll find a back winder open. Here's the combination of +the safe. The silver'll be in that." + +"Jewels?" + +"In a wall cabinet upstairs. It'll be unlocked." + +"An' if they make any noise?" + +"Croak 'em, of course. But don't make no noise doin' it. Better use a +blackjack. We're not sure about the cop on that beat." + +"I understand." + +"Well, git your gats and make ready. Before we go, the drinks'll be on +me. Fill up, men," he added, first pouring himself a liberal glassful, +"an' here's to bringin' it off easy." + +With deep relish the toast was drunk by all save Red and the Kid. Red +set his glass down on the table. The Kid dropped his to the floor. + +"There's somebody else in the room," whispered Red. + +"Yes, yonder by the door," said the Kid. "You c'n jest see him." + +"Don't be a fool," said the gang leader. "There's nobody here but us." + +"He's wearin' strange clothes," said Red. + +"He looks like a carpenter by his kit o' tools," said the Kid. + +"Here, pull yourselves together, men," said the gang leader; "you're +dippy, there's nobody here. Where's your nerve?" + +But Red made no move to obey. He thrust his glass from him and rose and +leaned over the table staring. The other men shrank back glancing at the +two figures, for the Kid had also dashed the proffered glass aside. + +"I see him," he said, "he's lookin' at me, he's lookin' through me." + +In his excitement he took a step forward and the table went over with a +crash. The two men passed their hands over their eyes in bewilderment. + +"Why, there ain't nobody here," said the Kid. + +"But I seen him I tell you," persisted Red. + +"And so did I." + +"Well, he's gone, whoever he was, accordin' to your own showin'," said +the gang leader contemptuously. "Now brace up. Take your liquor. Get a +move on youse." + +"Not me," exclaimed Red suddenly. + +"Nor me," said the Kid. + +"What d'ye mean?" + +"I won't do it." + +"Neither will I." + +Both men moved to the door. The gang leader sprang to intercept them, +his arms upraised, his hands clenched. + +"Lemme pass," said Red. + +"Are you goin' to give us away?" + +"No," answered Red. "But you don't rob no house, an' you don't kill no +man to-night." + +"You all know what that means," cried the leader. "Here you men grab +'em." + +But the rest of the gang hung back. + +"Mebbe they did see somethin'," said one. + +"You cowardly dogs," cried the leader. + +"We won't mention no names to nobody," said the Kid, "but you can't +pull them jobs off. We'll jest warn 'em." + +"You swore you'd be true to the gang, that you'd obey orders an' follow +directions." + +"We won't give ye away but I'm goin' to quit the gang an' go to work," +said Red. + +"Me too," said the Kid. + +"Work! Hell!" exclaimed the gang leader, but they shoved him out of the +way and went out of the door. + + + + +V + +Comforter + + + + +"NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE" + + + + +V + +The Comforter + + +She was a daughter of shame. Even inexperience could see that as she +wandered up and down the streets of the town, desperate, impelled to go +on by a force too strong for her to resist. She trod the pavement, yet +loathed the necessity and hated herself for her compliance. She had only +to look forward to the jail or the hospital; yet there was always the +river. Had it come to that? Was there nothing else? + +She lifted her eyes from the stone walk as hard as the heart of the +world, and found herself opposite a brightly lighted building. She +leaned against the door. From within came the sound of music, the +strains of a hymn, words of prayer. The light streamed about her face +from the stained window. This was a Church of God. Stained window, +stained woman, confronting each other in the night! + +There was no God for her. There might have been once, but she had +committed the unpardonable sin against society and society was God. +There was no place for her anywhere, save the jail or the hospital or +the river. That last was the best. The street was deserted. She had +thought it not a good place in which to ply her trade! She made a step +forward and stopped. + +In her pathway stood a figure seen dimly in the darkness. It stood in +the shadow beyond the broad light from the painted window. There was +something strangely familiar about it. She glanced up at that window. +Had the figure there stepped down and embodied itself vaguely on the +walk before her? + +[Illustration: She laid her hand upon the knob of the church door.] + +What was this strange figure? Who was he? As she stared, the outline +drew nearer. A man vested in long white draperies confronted her. He was +bareheaded and appeared insensible to the cold in which she shivered. +She put out her hand and something folded it back upon her breast. She +opened her lips and something sealed them. + +As she watched, the figure slowly moved. It bent forward and went slowly +down on its knees on the sidewalk. The white hand began to trace +strange, mysterious, unknown, incomprehensible characters upon the +pavement. She watched with bated breath, some memory of another sinful +woman of whom she had heard in childhood coming back to her prostrate +mind. Yes, and there behind the figure stood others, hateful and hating, +very violent, passionate men. She stared from the handwriting in the +dust to these others and they faded away. She was alone with the +kneeling figure and, as she looked, it too vanished in the chill air. + +She bent over the pavement. There was nothing there, yet she had +received a message. After a last glance she turned away, new courage, +new life, new hope in her heart. + +She mounted the steps, she laid her hand upon the knob of the church +door, she turned it and went bravely within. + + + + +VI + +The Burden Bearer + +"HE, BEARING HIS CROSS, WENT FORTH" + + + + +VI + +The Burden Bearer + + +The sound of the running feet of the man smashing through the burned +stubble ceased abruptly. He stopped at the threshold of the door. No +friendly bark of dog welcomed him. From the barn there came no gentle +lowing of cattle, no homely clucking of chickens. Like the house the +byre too had been ruined, gutted with flame. + +The soldier whose march had brought him back to his own village that +night stood in the entrance of what had been his home and stared at the +smoking walls, the charred roof gaping to the sky, the empty casements. +The enemy had been there. He whispered his young wife's name, he called +softly to the baby, as if they might be sleeping somewhere within the +devastated house. He listened for a reply but none came. Perhaps he +would have been thankful even for a groan or a cry of agony, anything +that meant life. But all was silence within, without. + +Yonder on the winding road at the foot of the hill he could hear the +trampling of men, the groaning of wheels, the clank of iron cavalrymen, +the jingling of bits and swords, sharp words of command. The army was +advancing. He could delay no longer. He must get back to his place in +the ranks. Summoning his courage he crossed the threshold and stepped +into the vacant emptiness of the house. Everything was gone but the four +stone walls. There were unrecognizable heaps of ashes here and there. He +bent over them fearfully in the twilight wondering whether the +shapeless, formless masses were-- + +Something caught his eye. The one thing intact apparently. He stooped +over it. It was the baby's shoe--white, it had been originally. He +remembered it. Now it was stained with blood. That was all that was +left--a little baby's shoe, blood spotted. He pressed it to his heart +and groaned aloud. A spasm of mortal anguish shook his frame. He lifted +his clenched hand toward the sky overshadowing the roofless walls. + +Now he suddenly became aware that he was not alone. There was someone +else in the room. He saw vaguely, indistinctly, a figure strangely clad, +staggering on with bended back as if under some crushing load. He stared +in the twilight striving to concentrate his faculties. The figure passed +by. On its back was a shadowy something--beams of wood roughly crossed, +he decided. It raised its head and looked at him. The face was somehow +lighter than the rest. + +The man's arm fell. The room was empty after all. He stared at the +little shoe. Was it somewhere well with the child, with its mother? +Unbuttoning his tunic he thrust the little shoe within, over his heart. +He straightened up. Away off on the road a bugle call rang out above the +tumult. He turned away, seized his rifle, shouldered it, stepped rapidly +toward his regiment and his duty. + + + + +VII + +The Thorn Crowned + +"THE SOLDIERS PLATTED A CROWN OF THORNS AND PUT IT ON HIS HEAD" + + + + +VII + +The Thorn Crowned + + +It was ghastly cold in the ruined church. It had been warm enough there +during the day, but the fire that had gutted it had died like the young +acolyte, like the aged sacristan, the venerable mother, the sweet young +novice, the women who had sought shelter there in vain. Neither the +dignity of age nor the sweetness of maidenhood nor the innocence of +youth nor the sanctity of profession had availed. + +The old priest was glad they were dead. Life after what they had +suffered had been unthinkable. He thanked God for that oblivion. He +wished that he, too, might die in that violated shrine where he had +peacefully ministered for so long a time. They had taken the flock, the +shepherd must follow. He should have led. + +He had fought, oh, he had played the man for the honor of the poor lambs +committed to him. Had he done right? Should he not have stood dumb +before the shearers? They had shot him and stabbed him and beaten him +into insensibility. The last thing he had heard was the shriek of one +woman, the piteous appeal of another. They thought he was dead, but he +was living. Why had he not died? + +How could God be so cruel? This was war. This ruined sanctuary, these +broken men and women who had sought only to serve Him! Was there a God +indeed? Faith, hope, what were they? Assurance, trust? Words, words! Ah, +how he suffered. + +[Illustration: "It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was +greater than mine."] + +It was bitter cold and yet he burned with fever. The tremors of pain so +exquisite that they might almost be counted pleasure shot through his +ruined, torn, broken figure, yet he recked little of these. It was the +shame, the shame. He had been zealous for the Lord of Hosts. There was +no God. Men were not made in any image save that of hell. He could not +move hand or foot, but he could see. He could speak. He could curse God +and die. + +As his lips framed that anathema he saw vaguely the figure of a +stranger; a slender, wasted body, dark stains upon it in the moonlight. +It wore some kind of curious headgear. The man stared. The light was +reflected from the sharp points of long thorns. A cloth was fastened +about the loins. The figure stood very straight in the desecrated Holy +of Holies. A light seemed to come from its face. Its eyes looked at the +man with great pity. Slowly the figure raised its arms. Slowly the arms +extended themselves; there were blood-stains in the palms of the hands. + +"It is He," whispered the priest. "His sorrow was greater than mine. +Lord, I believe." + +He knew nothing more save that a great peace had suddenly stolen around +him. + + + + +VIII + +The Broken Hearted + + + + +"ONE OF THE SOLDIERS WITH A SPEAR PIERCED HIS SIDE" + + + + +VIII + +The Broken Hearted + + +"I'll get that man if I die for it," said the soldier. "He's found the +one position in the lines from which he can fire into our trenches." + +"It's easier said than done," remarked his comrade, "and the minute you +cross that spot you come within his range. He'll put a bullet through +you before you can level a rifle or press a trigger." + +"I'll not go that way," said the man. + +"What is your plan?" + +"You know that salient yonder on the right? I'm going out of the trench +there." + +"When?" + +"Now. I'll wrap myself in white. That little run of coppice will cover +me until I get within a few feet of him, then I'll have to chance it." + +"Wish I could help you, old man. I'd like to get that man. He's shot six +of the best fellows in the company and--" + +"You can help me by making a diversion to attract his attention. Keep +him looking at that alley." + +A few moments later the soldier shrouded in white crept out of the +trench and noiselessly rolled down the slope to the bushes. The snow was +deep on the ground. There was no touch of color about the soldier. He +even thrust his rifle under the linen in which he had wrapped himself. +Outside the shelter of the trenches the wind blew with terrific force. +It was terribly cold. He had discarded his overcoat for freedom of +motion. Only his indomitable resolution kept him alive. He locked his +jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering. The ice-covered snow +under his bare hands almost blistered the flesh as he crept along. + +He intended to use the bayonet. If he shot the man he was stalking alarm +would be given and he would be riddled with bullets before he got back. +He was willing to give a life for a life if it were necessary, but he +was reluctant to do so if it could be avoided. Cold steel would be +better. Cold steel! He smiled grimly. It would need some hot blood to +take the chill off the bayonet at the end of his rifle. + +Slowly, almost holding his breath lest he be noticed, he edged his way +along. He had plenty of time for thought. This was not so easy a job as +he had fancied, not the physical part, but the mental strain. He could +shoot a man who was shooting at him, he could batter a man over the head +who was trying to do the same to him, but this stalking a man in cold +blood was different somehow. Cold blood! He laughed soundlessly at his +recurrent fancy. He went a little more slowly. Finally he stopped to +consider. + +From the nook ahead of him in which the enemy had ensconced himself came +a sudden rapid rattle of rifle-shots. His friend back in the trench was +doing his part. The man was awake--on the alert. It would be something +of a fair fight, he thought with some little satisfaction. He surveyed +the intervening space beyond the coppice. The men in the trenches on +both sides would be awake, too. It would take him a few seconds to cross +that space and get at the man he was stalking. Could they shoot him +before that? There was some shelter where the enemy was. If the stalker +could get to that spot he would be protected for a moment from fire from +the enemy's trench. + +It would take him a second or two to cross that space. In a second or +two what might happen? Well, he would have to risk that. At the very +end of the coppice he gathered himself together and rose slowly to a +crouching position. Another rain of shots came from the nook; the man's +rifle would be empty, he must give him no chance to reload. Now it would +be a fair fight with the bayonet. + +He threw aside the white draperies that impeded his legs and in half a +dozen bounds the two men were face to face. + +No shot had been fired. Yes, the magazine of the man's rifle was empty. +He heard the crunch of his enemy's feet on the snow. He rose to his +feet, his bayoneted rifle extended. The two barrels struck with terrific +force. The men swayed, drew back for another thrust, and they were +suddenly aware of a mist-like figure between them, a figure draped in +white, lightly, diaphanously. + +They stood arrested, guns drawn back, and stared. The figure slowly +extended its arm, carrying drapery with it. A man's breast was bared. +There, over the heart, was a great gaping wound, fresh, as if a broad, +heavy blade had pierced it. + +There was a clatter on the ice as a gun dropped and another clatter as a +similar weapon struck the stone opposite. The two men bent forward, +their hands outstretched. They took a step as if to touch the figure and +there was nothing there! The hands met. They clasped warmly in the cold +against each other. + +"My God, what was that?" said the stalker. + +"I don't know," answered the other. + +"A pierced side!" + +"Was it--" + +"No. It couldn't be." + +"Well, we worship the same God and--" + +Ah, they were seen. There were quick words of command from the +trenches, a staccato of rifle-shots, and two bodies lay side by side, +hands still clasped, while the snow reddened and reddened beneath them. + +And it was Christmas eve. + + + + +IX + +The Forgiver of Sins + + + + +"I SAY UNTO THEE UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN" + + + + +IX + +The Forgiver of Sins + + +"A Priest, for Christ's sake, a priest," moaned the man. + +A white-faced sister of charity upon whom had developed the appalling +task of caring for the long rows of wounded at the dressing station +before they were entrained and sent south to the hospital, hovered over +the stretcher. + +"My poor man," she whispered, "there is no priest here." + +"I can't die without confession--absolution," was the answer. "A priest, +get me a priest." + +Next to and almost touching the cot on which the speaker writhed in his +death agony lay another man apparently in a profound stupor. He wore +the uniform of a private soldier and his eyes were bandaged. His face +had been torn to pieces by shrapnel, fragments of which had blinded him. +At that instant he came out of that stupor. Perhaps the familiar words +recalled him to himself. He moved his hand slightly. The sister saw his +lips tremble. She bent low. + +"Who seeks confession, absolution?" he whispered. "I am a priest." + +"You are wounded, dying, father." + +"How can I die better than shriving a fellow sinner?" + +That was true. The heroic woman turned to the man who still kept up his +monotonous appeal. + +"The man next to you," she said, "dying like you, is a priest." + +"Father," cried the first man with sudden strength. "I must confess +before I die." + +"Lift me up," said the priest. + +The woman slipped her arm about his shoulders and raised him. + +"The sister?" began the other. + +"I shall be blind and deaf," said the woman. + +"Speak on," whispered the priest. + +"I have been a great sinner--there isn't time to confess all." + +"What is heaviest upon your soul, my son?" + +"A woman's fate." + +"Ah." + +"There were two who loved her--a dozen years ago--she preferred me--I +took her away." + +"Did you marry her?" + +"No. And then we quarreled--I deserted her. When I came to seek her she +was gone--young, innocent, penniless, alone in Paris--I have sought her +and never found her." + +"What is your name?" asked the priest suddenly with a fierce note in +his quivering voice. + +"Father, can I be forgiven?" answered the man giving his name. + +The dying soldier stared anxiously up at his bandaged comrade, at the +nun who had hid her face behind the shoulder of the priest. He noticed +that her body was shaking. + +"And the woman's name?" + +The priest suddenly sat upright. He shook off the sister's restraining +hand. He tore the bandage from his own face. He bent over the dying man +as he murmured the woman's name. + +"Wretch," he cried, "look at me." + +His face was gashed and cut and torn but something remained by which the +other recognized him. + +"You!" he cried shrinking away. + +"I loved her, too," said the priest. "I would have married her. When +she went away with you Holy Church received me." + +"Mercy," cried the soldier uplifting his hand. + +"What mercy did you show her?" + +The priest could not see but he could feel. His hand seized the other's +throat. + +"My father," interposed the nun. "He has confessed. God will forgive, +even as I." + +"Who are you?" asked the blind priest, fearfully. + +"The woman!" cried the dying man shaking off the other's hand and +lifting himself up. + +The sight came back to the priest on the instant. The fierce agony that +filled his blinded eyes seemed to give place to the gentle touch of a +hand upon them. He seemed to hear a mighty word--_Ephphatha_--that meant +"be opened." Light flooded his soul. Looking up he was aware of two +figures. One of the twain, an old man, gray bearded, was appealing to +the other, clad in white raiment and youthful. And the priest suddenly +recalled an old and well-known story of a fellow servant who would not +have mercy. + +"Father, forgive--" whispered the man before him. + +As the voice of the dying sinner died away in the silence all was dark +again. The priest saw no more, but the horrible pain in his eyes did not +return. Over his torn features came a look of calm. He lifted his arm. +His wavering hand cut the air in the sign of the cross. + +"_Absolvo te_," he murmured as he pitched forward dead upon the breast +of the dying. + +And the woman tenderly covered them over. + +[Illustration: _Absolvo te._] + + + + +X + +The Giver of Life + +"HE THAT EATETH OF THIS BREAD SHALL LIVE FOREVER" + + + + +X + +The Giver of Life + + +Of the five specters in the boat three were without life. Those whose +faint breathing indicated that they had not yet reached the point of +death were too weak and indifferent to rid the boat of the bodies of the +others. Ever since the homeward-bound whaler had struck a derelict in a +gale of wind north of the Falklands and foundered, this little boat, +surviving the shipwreck as by a miracle, had drifted on. + +For three weeks in vain they had scanned the horizon for a sail. Their +scanty supply of bread and water had been consumed in ten days. +Thereafter they had nothing. The baby had died first, next a man whose +arm had been broken by a falling spar in the disaster, and then the +ship's cabin boy. The survivors were a man and a woman. They were both +far gone. The woman was plainly dying. The man kept himself up by sheer +exercise of will. + +Their drifting had been northward toward warmer seas. It was winter in +their home land and, though they knew it not, Christmas day. There the +tropic sun blazed overhead from an absolutely cloudless sky. There was +no vestige of breeze to stir the canvas of the solitary sail or ripple +the glassy surface of the smoothed out ocean. The boat lay still. Not +even the iron man at the helm could have lifted an oar. It had been dead +calm for days. Speech there was none except in the gravest necessity. To +talk connectedly was impossible. + +After scanning the horizon for the thousandth time the man's burning +eyes sought those of the woman at his feet. He was astonished to find +them open. Her mouth was working, her parched lips strove to form words. +He dropped the tiller which his hand had grasped mechanically, and which +was useless since there was no way on the boat, and bent his head lower. +Some sudden recrudescence of strength which the dying sometimes receive +came to the woman. + +"Death," she whispered. "Glad." She turned her head slightly and saw the +form of the child. "The Baby--and--I--together." + +The man nodded. Tenderly he laid his hot wasted hand on the woman's +fevered brow. + +"A priest," she said, looking up at him uncomprehendingly. + +She was evidently going fast yet she knew what she wanted although she +was not conscious that she craved the impossible. It would appear that +she had been a good churchwoman. The man could only stare. He was no +priest, only a rough sailor. + +"A priest," said the woman more clearly. "I want--a priest--the +sacrament." By some nervous convulsive effort she lifted her arms up +toward him beseeching, appealing. There was another kind of agony in her +voice that had not been present when she had moaned for water in the +days before. + +"The sacrament," she insisted, "I die." + +The man looked away. Hard by the boat where there had been but a waste +of sea rose a green island. A stretch of pleasant meadow met his eyes. +It was so close to him that if he had leaned over the gunwale of the +boat he could have laid his hand on the lush grass. Dumbly he wondered +where it had been before, how he had come upon it so suddenly, why he +had not seen it hours ago. + +In front of him were hundreds of people, men, women, and children, plain +people in strange simple garb, the like of which he had never seen. In +front of these people and with their backs toward him stood a little +group of men, in the center a figure in white garments. A lad offered +something in a basket. + +The man watched, amazed, awe-stricken, yet with a strange peace in his +soul. He made no movement to gain the shore. He only looked and looked. +The white-robed figure bent over the basket. He lifted from it a crude +rough loaf of bread. He raised his eyes to heaven, his lips moved. He +broke the bread and gave it. + +As the sailor watched the island disappeared as suddenly as it had come. +The scene changed. Now he looked into a low room, dimly lighted with +strange lamps. Through an open window he saw the stars. The few men that +had stood about the man in the grassy meadow were alone with him in that +upper chamber reclining about a table. The man lifted from the board a +cup of silver. He blessed it and gave it. The fragrance of wine came to +the watcher. + +He rubbed his eyes and looked again and before him spread the smooth +unbroken surface of the monotonous sea. The woman's voice smote his ear +again, higher, shriller, with more painful entreaty. + +"A priest--for the love of God--the sacrament," she whispered. + +The man tore open the last canvas bread-bag. It was tough material but +it yielded to his insistence. In the corner there was a single tiny +crumb they had overlooked. He lifted it gently with his great hand. He +held it up in the air a moment striving to think. He was an English +sailor and in his boyhood had been a chorister in a great Cathedral. The +mighty words came back to him. He bent over the woman. + +[Illustration: The cry for bread.] + +"Bread," he whispered. "The body--" + +He shattered the water breaker with his fist. There was a suggestion of +moisture on the inside of the staves of the cask. He drew his finger +across them and touched it to the woman's lips. + +"Water," he said hoarsely. "The blood--" + +The terror, the yearning, disappeared from the woman's eyes. She looked +at the man sanely, gratefully. + +"God bless--" she faltered and then her lips stiffened. + +Some tag of quaint old Scripture that had impressed him when he first +heard it because of its very strangeness, but of which he had never +thought in all the years of his rough life since boyhood, came into the +man's mind now. He lifted his head as if to see again that figure. + +"A priest forever," he gasped, "after the order of Melchis--" + +He did not finish the word. The woman was dead. He knew now for what he +had been kept alive. His task had been performed. He bowed his head in +his hands and entered into life eternal with the others. + +Presently a little cloud flecked the sky. Out of the south the wind blew +softly. The smooth sea rippled blue and white in the gentle breeze. The +little boat, cradling its dead, rocked gently as it drifted on. + + + + +XI + +The Stiller of the Storm + + + + +"BE OF GOOD CHEER; IT IS I; BE NOT AFRAID" + + + + +XI + +The Stiller of the Storm + + +"It's Christmas eve at home," murmured the young lad after he had said +his prayers and tumbled into his narrow berth on the great ship. "I +suppose they're trimming the Christmas tree now and hanging up the +stockings. I wish I were there." + +He was very young to serve his country, but not too young according to +the standards of mankind to be a midshipman on the great steel monster +keeping the leaden deep. It was the first time he had ever been away +from home on Christmas day, too. The youngsters had all laughed and +joked about it in the steerage mess. They had promised themselves some +kind of a celebration in the morning, but in his own cot with no one to +see, a few tears which he fondly deemed unmanly would come. He had the +midnight watch and he knew that he must get some sleep, but it was a +long time before he closed his eyes and drifted off to dream of home and +his mother. + +Athwart that dream came a sudden, frightful, heart-stilling roar of +destruction; a hideous crash followed, a terrible rending, breaking, +smashing, concatenation of noises, succeeded by frightful detonations, +as through the gaping hole torn in the great battleship by the deadly +torpedo, the water rushed upon the heated boilers, the explosion of +which in turn ignited the magazines. By that deadly underwater thrust of +the enemy the battleship was reduced in a few moments to a disjointed, +disorganized, sinking mass of shapeless, formless, splintered steel. + +As the explosions ceased, from every point rose shrieks and groans and +cries of men in the death-agony hurled into eternity and torn like the +steel. And then the boy heard the surviving officers coolly, resolutely +calling the men to their stations. + +He had been thrown from his berth by the violence of the explosion. His +face was cut and bleeding where he had struck a near-by stanchion. His +left arm hung useless. He had lain dazed on the deck for a few moments +until he heard the orders of his lieutenant. He was one of the signal +midshipmen stationed on the signal bridge. Whatever happened that was +the place to which to go; he still had a duty to perform. + +Picking himself up as best he could, he hurried to report to the +lieutenant. With such means as were available signals were made. Calls +for help? Oh, never! Warnings that the enemy's submarines were in the +near vicinity and that other ships should keep away. + +The captain was on the half wrecked bridge above. The boy noticed how +quiet he was, yet his voice rang over the tumult. + +"Steady, men, steady. Keep your stations. Stand by. Be ready." + +The old quartermaster whose business it was to tell the hours saluted +the captain. + +"Eight bells, sir," he said, "midnight. Christmas day," he added. + +"Strike them," said the captain. + +And, as clear as ever, the four couplets rang out over the chaos and the +disaster. + +"Christmas day," the boy murmured. + +"She's going, men," said the captain, as the cadences died away. "Save +yourselves. Abandon the ship." + +"Christmas morning," said the boy. "I wonder what they're doing at +home." + +"Overboard with you, youngster," said the signal lieutenant; "I wish I +had a life-preserver for you, but--" + +"Merry Christmas, sir," said the lad suddenly. + +"Good God!" said the man. "Merry Christmas! They will think of us at +home." + +What was left of the ship gave a mighty reel. + +"Quick or she'll suck you down," the officer roared, as he fairly flung +the boy into the water,--and how he hurt that broken arm! "You can swim. +Strike out. Good-by." + +The boy had caught a glimpse of the captain standing on the bridge as +the wreck went down and then the wild waters closed over his head. It +was frightfully cold. A hard gale was blowing. The waves ran terribly +high. His left arm was helpless. His head ached fiercely. What was the +use? Still the boy struck out bravely with his free hand. The instinct +of life! It was too dark to see. The sky was covered with drifting +clouds. Only here and there a little rift of moonlight came through. + +"Christmas morning," he sobbed out as the waves rolled him over. "Oh, my +God!" + +He felt himself going down. All at once the waters seemed to grow still. +It was suddenly calm. He was no longer cold. He threw his head up for +one last look at the sky and life and then he hung, as it were, +suspended in some strange way. He saw a figure walking across the smooth +of the seas as it had been solid ground. The figure drew nearer, the +wind seemed to have died away, but the draperies that shrouded it swung +gently as they would while a man walked along. The face he saw dimly, +vaguely, but there was light in it somehow. It came slowly nearer. + +"Christmas morning," whispered the boy. + +The hand of the figure reached down. It caught the boy's right arm. He +was lifted up. + +"Home and Christmas morning," whispered the boy, closing his eyes. + +The moonlight broke through a cloud and fell upon him. A wave rolled +over him and the sea was empty as before. + + + * * * * * + +He that hath eyes to see, let him see! + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14606 *** |