XV
BROWN'S BROWN STUDY
Standing in his kitchen doorway, Brown looked out into his back yard.
It was, in one way, an unusual back yard for that quarter of the city,and in that one way it differed from the back yards of his neighbours.While theirs were bounded on all sides by high and ugly board fences,his was encompassed by a stone wall standing even higher, and enclosingthe small area of possibly forty feet by thirty in a privacy quiteunknown elsewhere in the district. This stone wall had been laid by theEnglishman who had built the house, his idea of having things to himselfbeing the product of his early life in a country where not only is everyman's house his castle, but the surrounding ground thereof, as well, hisdomain, from which he would keep out every curious eye.
It was an evening in mid-April. Brown had opened the big oak door to letthe late western light of the spring day flood his kitchen, while hewashed and put away the dishes lately used for his supper--and for thatof a forlorn and ill-used specimen of tramp humanity who had arrived ashe was sitting down.
He was presently to address a gathering of factory girls in a near-byschoolhouse; and he was trying, as he stood in the door, with the softspring air touching gratefully his face, to gather his thoughtstogether for the coming talk. But he was weary with a long day'slabours, and somehow his eyes could summon no vision of the faces hewas to see. Instead--
"There ought to be a garden back here," he said to himself. "If I'm tostay here for the coming year--as it looks as if I must--I shouldcultivate this little patch and make it smile a bit. As it is, it's doingno good to anybody, not even Bim. He's pretty careless about his bonesout here, and leaves them around instead of burying 'em decently. I mustteach him better. This would be a good place to bring the children into,if it had some flowers in it."
The notion cheered him a little, as the thought of flowers in the springhas a way of doing. He made a rough plan of the garden, in his mind,laying out beds of sturdy bloom, training vines to cover the bleakexpanse of stone, even planting a small tree or two of rapid growth--forthe benefit of whomever should follow him as a tenant of the old house.Presently he closed the door with some sense of refreshment, mental andphysical, and forced his thoughts into the channel it was now imperativethey should occupy.
He took his way to the meeting in the schoolhouse, however, with a stepless rapid than was usually his. It might have been the enervatinginfluence of the mild spring air; it might have been the pressure ofcertain recollections which he had not yet succeeded, in the two monthswhich had passed since the farewell dinner at Webb Atchison's, in soputting aside that they should not often depress and at times evendominate his spirit. Though he had left the old life completely behindhim, and had settled into the new with all the conviction and purpose hecould summon, he was subject, especially when physically weary, asto-night, to a heaviness of heart which would not be mastered.
"But I must--_I must_--stiffen my back," he said sternly to himself, ashe neared the dingy schoolhouse toward which, from all directions, hecould see his audience making its way. It was not the first time he hadaddressed these girls and women, in so informal and unostentatious amanner that no one of his hearers had so much as suspected hisprofession, but had taken him for one of their own class. "He's got a waywith him," they put it, "that makes you feel like you could listen to himall night." The sight of them now provided the stimulus he needed, and ashe smiled and nodded at two or three whom he had personally met he feltthe old interest in his task coming to his aid.
And in a brief space he was standing before them telling them the thingshe had come to tell. It was not his message he had lacked--that had beenmade ready long before the hour--it was only the peculiar power andmagnetism of speech and manner which had been the treasure of St.Timothy's, that he had felt himself unable to summon as he came to thishumble audience. But now, as almost always, he was able to use every artat his command to capture their attention, to hold it, to carry it frompoint to point, and finally to drive his message home with appealingforce. And this message was, as always, the simple message of belief inthe things which make for righteousness.
Not all his auditors could arrive on time; they were obliged to come whenthey could. Brown's talks had to be subject to constant thoughpainstakingly muffled interruptions, as one after another stole into theroom. His attraction for his hearers, however, once he was fairlylaunched, was so great that there were few wandering eyes or minds.Therefore, to-night, when he had been speaking for a quarter of an hour,the quiet entrance of two figures which found places near the door at theback of the room disturbed nobody, and caused only a few heads to turn intheir direction.
Those who did note the arrivals saw that they were strangers to theassembly. They saw something else, also, though they could not have toldwhat it was. The two women, one young, one of middle age, were plainlydressed in cheap suits of dark serge, such as many of the working-womenwere wearing. Their hats were of the simplest and most inexpensivedesign, though lacking any of the commonplace finery to be seeneverywhere throughout the room. But there was about the pair anundeniable since unconcealable air of difference, of refinement if itwere only in the manner in which they slipped into their seats and fixedtheir eyes upon the speaker, with no glances to right or left. The eyeswhich noted them noted also that both were possessed of faces such asneed no accessories of environment to make them hold the gaze of allabout them.
"Settlement folks," guessed one girl to another, with a slight curlof the lip.
"_Sh-h--_! Who cares what they are when _he's_ talkin'?" gave back theother--and settled again to listening.
Brown had seen the newcomers, but they were far back in the room, whichwas by no means brilliantly lighted, and beneath the shadows of theirhats there was for him no hint of acquaintance. He therefore proceeded,untrammelled by a knowledge which would surely have been his undoing hadhe possessed it at that stage of the evening. He went on interesting,touching, appealing to his listeners, waging war upon their hearts withall the skill known to the valiant, forceful speaker. Yet such was hisapparent simplicity of method that he seemed to all but two of those whoheard him to be merely talking with them about the things whichconcerned them.
His was not the ordinary effort of the amateur social worker--such thoughhe felt himself to be. He had not a word to say to his hearers about"conditions"; he gave them no impression of having studied them and theirenvironment till he knew more about it all than they did--or thought hedid. He brought to them only what they felt, consciously orunconsciously, to be an intimate understanding of the human heart,whether it were found beating under the coarse garments of the factoryhand or the silken ones of the "swells up-town." Gently but searchinglyhe showed them their own hearts, showed them the ugly things, the strangethings, the wonderful things, of their own hearts--and then, when he hadthose hearts beating heavily and painfully before him, applied thehealing balm of his message. Hard eyes grew soft, weary facesbrightened, despairing mouths set with new resolve, and when the hourended there seemed a clearer atmosphere, a different spirit, in thecrowded room, than that which earlier had pervaded it.
"Say, ain't he what I told you?" One girl, passing near the two strangersas the company dispersed, inquired of another. "Don't it seem like heknows what you don't know yourself about how you're feelin'?"
"You can't be so down in the mouth when you're listenin' to him," wasanother comment which reached ears strained to attention. "You feel likethere was some good livin', after all. Did Liz come, d'ye know? She needssomethin' to make her buck up. If she'd jest hear him--"
Brown remained in the room till almost the last were gone. The twostrangers waited at the door, their backs turned to the room, as if inconference. Several women stayed to speak with the man who had talked tothem, and the waiting ones could hear his low tones, the same friendly,comprehending, interested tones to which St. Timothy's had grown sohappily accustomed. At length the last lingerer passed the two by thedoor, and Brown, approaching, spoke to t
hem.
"Did you want to see me? Is there anything I can do?" he began--and thetwo strangers turned.
His astonished gaze fell first upon Mrs. Brainard, her fine and glowingeyes fixed upon him with both mirth and tenderness in their look. She hadbeen deeply touched by the sights and sounds of the hour just passed, yetthe surprise she had in store for her friend, Donald Brown, was movingher also, and her smile at him from under the plain little hat she worewas a brilliant one. But he stared at her for a full ten seconds beforehe could believe the testimony of his eyes. Was this--could this possiblybe--the lady of the distinguished dress and bearing, who stood before himin her cheap suit of serge, with a little gray cotton glove upon the handshe held out to him?
He seized the hand and wrung it, as if the very contact was much to him.His face broke into a smile of joy as he said fervently, "I don't knowhow this happens, but it's enough for me that it does."
"I'm not the only one present, Don," said the lady, laughing, and turnedto her companion.
If he had given the second figure a thought as he recognized his oldfriend, it was to suppose her some working-girl who had conducted thestranger to the place. But now he looked, and saw Helena Forrest.
"_You_!" he breathed, and stood transfixed.
Miss Forrest had always been, though never conspicuously dressed, such afigure of quiet elegance that one who knew her could almost recognize herwith her face quite out of sight. Now, without a single accessory of thesort which stands for high-bred fashion, her beauty flashed at Brown likethat of one bright star in a sky of midnight gloom. She was not smiling,she was looking straight at him with her wonderful eyes, and in them wasa strange and bewildering appeal.
For a moment he could not speak--he, who had been so eloquent within herhearing for the hour past. He looked at her, and looked again at Mrs.Brainard, and back at Helena again, and then he stammered, "Ican't--quite--believe it is you--either of you!" and laughed at his ownconfusion, his face flushing darkly under the skin, clear to the roots ofthe heavy locks on his forehead.
"But you see it is," said Helena's low voice. "We are confident of thatourselves, for the journey has seemed a long one, under two smotheringveils. And we hadn't the easiest time finding you."
Brown recovered himself. "You didn't motor over this time, then?"
"The last time we were here," Mrs. Brainard reminded him, "you told usquite frankly that you didn't care to have your friends arrive inlimousines, or in velvet and sables. So--we have left both behind."
"I see you have. It was wonderfully kind of you, though the disguise isby no means a perfect one. I wonder if you can possibly think, either ofyou, that you looked like the rest of my audience!"
"Did you know us when we came in?" questioned Mrs. Brainard, with a merryglance. "I think you did not, Mr. Donald Brown!"
"How long have you been here?"
"We must have come in near the beginning of your talk. You didn't evensee us then, did you?"
"I saw two figures which looked strange to me--but--the lights--"
"Oh, yes," agreed the lady, gayly, "the lights were poor. And you sawtwo working-women who were merely strangers to you, so you didn'tlook again."
"I'm glad I didn't recognize you."
"Why? We rather hoped you would--didn't we, dear?"
She looked at her companion, who nodded, smiling.
"We both hoped and feared, I think," Helena said.
"I couldn't have gone stumbling on," Brown explained. "I should have hadto dismiss the meeting, telling them I had a rush of blood to thehead--or to the heart!"
At this moment he was helped out by the abrupt opening of the doorbeside him. A grimy-faced janitor looked in, wearing an expression ofsurly dissatisfaction. When he saw Brown the expression softenedslightly, as if he knew a friend when he beheld him, but he did notwithdraw. Brown rallied his absorbed faculties to appreciate what latehours meant to that busy janitor.
"Just leaving, Mr. Simpson," he said cheerfully, and led his visitors outinto the school's anteroom.
"Are you at a hotel?" he asked, with eagerness, of Mrs. Brainard. "Howcan I--where can I--"
"We ran away," explained that lady promptly. "Not a soul knows where weare. We did not register at a hotel, for this is a secret expedition. Wetake the eleven-fifteen train back. Meanwhile, Don, am I not anacceptable chaperon? And won't my presence make it entirely proper for usto break a bit of bread with you in your bachelor home? We had onlyafternoon tea before we left. We are very hungry--or I am!"
"Oh, if you will only do that!" he said with an inflection of greatpleasure. "I shall be so tremendously honoured I shall hardly know how toexpress it. I hope I have something for you fit to eat. If I haven't--"
"Bacon and eggs," said Mrs. Brainard, with twinkling eyes, "are what yoursister Sue insists you live on. Never in my life did I have such alonging for bacon and eggs!"
"Then you shall have them--or an omelet garnished with bacon. And thecorner grocery has some lettuce and radishes. I believe I can evenachieve a salad."
Brown led the way through the ill-lighted streets, not talking as hemight have done in another quarter of the city, but hurrying them pastplaces he could not bear to have them see, and making one detour to avoidtaking them through the poorest part of the neighbourhood. It was by nomeans a dangerous neighbourhood, but somehow he felt with these two rarewomen on his hands, as if he must guard them even from the ordinarysights to be had in the districts of the working class. And as he walkedby their side it came upon him, as it had never done with such forcebefore, that he could never seriously ask any woman from his own world tocome and face such a life as the one he had chosen for the active yearsof his own.
Yet--he had also a curious feeling that he must not let that thoughtspoil for him the wonder of this visit. The hour was his, let him makethe most of it. He had not so many happy hours that he could afford tolose one because it could be only one. He would not lose it.