Kitabı oku: «Rejected of Men», sayfa 10

“Not exactly,” said Gilderman, laughing. And then he explained. “I promised to be down at the office this morning and sign some papers. There seems to be pretty poor show of getting there, according to what my man says.”

“Well, I should rather say so, unless you choose to foot it; and even then it’s only a chance of getting through. By George! I never saw such a jam in my life.”

“Were you down there, then?” said Gilderman.

“Yes; Stirling and I went over to see Belle and Janette De Haven off.”

“They went this morning, did they?”

“Yes, and we went down to see them off–just for a lark, you know. While I was down-town I thought I’d go over to the office and strike the governor for a check, and so I got right into the thick of it all. I left Stirling down there somewhere.”

“What did Stirling stay down there for?”

“I don’t know. Wants to see the row out, I guess.”

“What are they doing down there now?” asked Gilderman.

“Nothing that I can see. The last I saw was the Man himself standing at the top of the court-house steps talking to a lot of lawyers. Where are you going now, Gildy?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gilderman. “I don’t suppose it’s any use my trying to get down to the office.”

“Not the least in the world. If you’re going back up-town, I’ll thank you for a lift. There isn’t a cab to be had anywhere, or if you do find one it can’t budge out of the block.”

“Jump in, then,” said Gilderman, “and I’ll take you up with me.”

Just at that time the Son of Man, weary, dusty, wayworn, was talking with the lawyers, giving utterance to those three great parables–the last of all He gave to the world. The first parable–the man who had two sons, the one of whom said, I will not go work in the vineyard, and yet went; the other of whom said, I will go, and went not. The second parable–the master of the vineyard who sent his servant to the husbandmen, who stoned him; then his son to the same husbandmen, who killed him outright. The third parable–that of how the king made a marriage feast for his son and yet had to send into the highways and byways for guests. Of how one guest came without a wedding garment, and, as a punishment, therefore, was cast into outer darkness where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. The people listened and did not understand, and Gilderman drove away from Divine Truth in his coupé.

“By George!” said Lawton, as the cab worked its way with difficulty out of the press of vehicles, “isn’t this a lovely state of affairs? I came down from the country yesterday afternoon. I never saw such a sight in my life. Half the trees in the park are stripped as bare as poles. We went by one place where they’d been spreading branches in the street, and everything all a-clutter. It’s a beastly shame, I say, that Pilate and Herod don’t do something to stop it all.”

As the coupé drove past the armory they saw that the authorities were at last evidently taking some steps to prevent any fatal culmination of the disturbance. The great armory doors stood wide open, and a crowd of people were gathered about. A couple of soldiers stood on guard, erect, motionless, endeavoring to appear oblivious to the interest of the clustered group of faces looking at them.

“I am glad to see that, anyhow,” said Gilderman, pointing with his cigarette towards the armory.

XV
JUDAS

THE burden of prosecution having devolved upon the Ecclesiastical Court, a decision was not long in being reached. Again it was the universally voiced opinion that it was better that one man should die rather than that a whole nation should perish. It now remained only to arrest the creator of this divine disturbance of mundane peace.

That same afternoon Mr. Inkerman, the lawyer, called on Bishop Caiaphas to say that a follower of the Man had been found who would be willing, he, Inkerman, believed, to betray his Master to the authorities. It would, he opined, be out of the question to attempt an arrest in the midst of the turbulent mob that surrounded Him; such an attempt would be almost certain to precipitate a riot. But if this fellow could be persuaded or bought to disclose where his Master slept at night, the arrest could be made without exciting any disturbance.

“How did you find your man?” asked the bishop.

“Oh, I didn’t find him myself,” said Mr. Inkerman. “Inspector Dolan found him. Dolan says he will bring him up here at five o’clock, if that will suit you.”

“Very well,” said the bishop; “that will suit me exactly.”

At the appointed time there were four or five of the more prominent ecclesiastics present in the bishop’s library–among the others, Dr. Dayton and Dr. Ives. A little after five Mr. Inkerman came quietly into the room accompanied by Gilderman.

“The inspector hasn’t come yet?” he asked.

“No,” said the bishop; “not yet.”

“They’ve just called me up from the station-house, telling me that he was on the way,” said the lawyer.

“How much do you suppose this man will want for his services?” asked the bishop, after a moment or two of pause.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the lawyer. “Thank you”–and he took a cigar from the box the man-servant offered him–“I would not give him very much, though. He’s only a poor devil, and a little money will go a great way with him. Offer him ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars!” exclaimed Dr. Ives. “Rogues must be cheap in these times, sir!” and there was a ripple of amusement.

“Some rogues are and some are not,” said Mr. Inkerman, when the laugh had subsided. “I dare say it would take a pot of money to buy a Herod, and still more to buy a Pilate,” and then again there was a ripple of laughter.

At that moment the servant came in bringing a printed card upon the salver. The card had a semibusiness-like, semisocial look. He handed it to the bishop, who glanced at it. “Oh,” he said, “here he is. Show him up directly.”

He handed the card to Dr. Dayton, who ran his eye over it. “It’s Inspector Dolan,” he said to the others.

In a little while the servant returned, holding open the door and ushering in the two men. The light shone upon the inspector’s uniform, gleaming upon the badge on his breast. He came directly into the room followed by a rather small, rather thin man, with a lean face and reddish hair and beard, and a long, lean neck. The man seemed abashed and ill at ease in the presence of the clergymen. He stood in the farther part of the room, not far from the door. He held his hat in his hand, shifting it and turning it around and around. He was ill clad and rough looking, but his face was rather cunning than stupid. It was not altogether a bad face. His eyes wandered about the room, resting an instant upon each unusual object. There was a large photogravure in colors of Renault’s “Execution in Tangier.” That caught his eye, and his gaze lingered upon it for a moment–the severed head, the prone corpse lying upon the steps, the huge figure of the executioner looming above it, and the splashes of blood trickling over the white marble. He looked at the picture for an instant, and then he looked at the bishop; then he looked back at the picture again.

Bishop Caiaphas was gazing steadily at him. “Well, my man,” he said, at last, “Inspector Dolan tells me that you are willing to help us arrest this Man.” The man’s gaze dropped from the picture to the bishop’s face. He did not reply, but he began again turning his hat around and around in his hands. “What do you know about Him?” the bishop continued.

“Why,” said the man, “I know Him–that is, I’ve been with Him, off and on–that is, near for a year, I reckon.”

“What makes you willing to betray Him?” asked the bishop, curiously. “Have you any cause of enmity against Him?”

The man looked at him with a half-bewildered look, as though not exactly understanding the purport of the question. Then a secondary look of intelligence came into his face. “Oh,” he said, “do you mean have I anything agin Him? Why, no; so far as that goes I haven’t anything agin Him, nor He hasn’t done anything agin me. There was a lot of us together–a kind of company, you know–and I always carried the money for the rest. Sometimes we had a little money, and then sometimes we hadn’t. I was with Him ever since last April a year ago up to last fall, when my father was took sick; and there ain’t nothing in it. He won’t take money Hisself for curing folks, and He wouldn’t let any of us take money.”

“And are you willing to show us where we may find Him?” asked the bishop.

“Why, yes,” said the other; “so far as that goes, I’m willing to do that if I’m paid for it. I haven’t got nothing agin Him, but I don’t owe Him nothing, neither.”

Bishop Caiaphas was looking at the man, trying to get into the workings of his mind. “Of course,” he said, “we are willing to pay you for your trouble. We don’t ask you to help us for nothing.”

“No, sir,” said Iscariot, “I know that. I just mean to speak plain, sir, when I say I’ve got to be paid for doing it. You see, He don’t pay me nothing, and I ain’t beholden to Him for nothing, but, all the same, I ain’t got no spite agin Him.”

“How much do you expect us to pay you?” said the bishop.

“I don’t know,” said the man. “How much do you think it would be worth to you? You see, I’ve got to keep track of Him all the time, and then I’ve got to let you know where He’s going to be, and where you can come up with Him. It may be a matter of four or five days.”

“This gentleman,” said the bishop, indicating Mr. Inkerman, “seems to think that ten dollars would be about right.”

The man looked down into his hat and began again turning it around and around in his hands. “I don’t know that I care to do it for that,” he said. “I don’t know that I care to do it at all, but this gentleman here”–indicating Inspector Dolan–“he comes to me and he says he heard I know where He’s to be found, and that I wasn’t particular about keeping with Him any longer.”

“And how much, then, do you think would be worth while?” said the bishop.

“Oh, well,” said the man, “I don’t just know about that. I wouldn’t mind doing it if you gave me thirty dollars.”

“Thirty dollars!” said Mr. Inkerman; but Bishop Caiaphas held up his hand and the lawyer was silent.

“I’ll give you thirty dollars, my man,” he said, “the day that your Master is apprehended.”

“Thankee, sir,” said the man. Still he stood for a while irresolutely.

“Well,” said the bishop, “what is it?”

“Why, sir,” said the man, “if you’ll excuse me so far as to say–that is, I mean I didn’t take what this here gentleman”–indicating Inspector Dolan again–“said just to mean that I was to help arrest Him. He asked me if I knew where He was at night. I told him yes. He says that if I’d show where He was there was money in it for me. I said I was willing to show him or any man where He was. But I didn’t look to have any hand in arresting Him, though.”

“But, my good fellow,” said the bishop, “I can’t pay you the money unless you do your part. Just as soon as He is arrested, then you shall have your money. Isn’t that satisfactory to you?”

“Oh yes; I suppose so,” said the other, doubtfully. But he still stood, turning his hat about in his hands.

“Well,” said the bishop, “is there anything else?”

“Only, if I might make so bold, sir, who’s to pay me, sir?”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the bishop. “Well, I’ll put the money in the hands of Inspector Dolan here, and as soon as the arrest is made he’ll see that you are paid. Will that be satisfactory to you, inspector?” and the bishop turned to the police officer.

“Oh yes; it’ll suit me well enough,” said the inspector.

“Very well,” said the bishop, “we’ll arrange it that way. That is all we need of you now. You may go. Mr. Dolan will settle everything with you after the arrest is duly made.”

After the clergymen had gone, Gilderman and the lawyer lingered for a while. “How do you suppose,” said Gilderman, “that that man could bring himself to do such a thing as that? How do you suppose he thinks and feels?”

“Why, bless your soul, Mr. Gilderman,” said the lawyer, “we can’t possibly enter into the mind of a man like that to understand why he does a certain thing. Those people neither think nor feel as a man in our position thinks and feels. They don’t have the same sort of logical or moral ballast to keep them steady. Any puff of prejudice or self-interest is enough to swerve them aside from their course to some altogether different objective point.”

“I think you are right, sir,” said the bishop, almost with a sigh–“I am afraid you are right. One of the most difficult things with which I have to deal is the inability a man like myself has to comprehend or to come within touch of the mental operation of those poor people. Only this morning, for instance, I had to do with a really deserving case of charity–a man who had had his arm amputated and who had a wife–an intelligent woman–and three or four small children. He is just back from the hospital and in real destitution, and I went to see him, filled with sympathy. But before I had talked with him five minutes I was perfectly convinced that his one and only aim was to get me to give him just as much money as he could squeeze from me. He asked me for twelve dollars a week, and when I told him I could not afford to give him but eight he was perfectly satisfied. A man in our position of life would express gratitude; he expressed little or none. He accepted what was done for him almost as a matter of course. It is terrible to think that you can’t reach these poor people with sympathy or brotherly love and hope to meet with a return of affection–to be conscious that their chief object, when you wish to help them, is to get just as much money out of you as they can. I am always conscious that they feel that I am rich and have got plenty of money to spare, and that it is their right to get all that they can from me.”

Thus spoke the bishop in his wisdom; and what he said was true. A gulf, not wide but as profound as infinity, separates the rich man from the poor man, and there is no earthly means of crossing it.

XVI
A GLIMPSE OF AGONY

IT was unfortunate that Mr. and Mrs. Dorman-Webster’s grand affair, given in celebration of their silver wedding, should have happened just at this time. One of the public journals, commenting upon it, said that giving such an entertainment at such a time was like playing with a spark of fire over a barrel of gunpowder. It might not bring about an explosion, but then an explosion might follow–an explosion whose radius might destroy things of much more value than even Mr. Dorman-Webster’s palace of marble and brownstone.

There had been almost no rioting at night. All the disturbance was during the day; but disjointed groups–sometimes even crowds–would pass occasionally along the street after nightfall with more or less tumult of noise and loud talking. There was a good deal of discussion as to whether it was safe for ladies to be out at night at such a time, but, in spite of the possible danger, nearly every one who had been asked to the Dorman-Websters’ went. It was, indeed, a magnificent affair, and, in spite of the excitement of the riots, a great deal of space was given to it in the newspapers. It was said that Madame Antonini had been paid a thousand dollars to come on from the West, where she was then singing, to appear in the two numbers of the opening musicale. She sang to the accompaniment of a harpsichord that had belonged to a foreign queen, and which Dorman-Webster had, for that especial purpose, added to his famous collection of historical musical instruments of all ages. One of the features of the affair was the massive decoration of the stair-rails from the ground to the third floor with red-and-white rose-buds that were said by the newspapers to have cost two dollars each.

Nearly everybody of the truly Roman caste was there. Gilderman went, but he had not been feeling well, and so had only stayed out the musicale, coming away before the supper, for the sake of a few minutes’ midnight chat with his wife, who had promised, with the nurse’s consent, to be sitting up when he returned. She was much interested in all that he had to tell her, but she appeared tired, and he did not stay very long. As it was still early he went around to the club. The Dorman-Webster entertainment had nearly depleted the “Romans,” and Gilderman sauntered about with that lonely feeling that one always has in being at some place when one knows that one’s friends are somewhere else. He had found Pilate sitting in the reading-room with a litter of papers spread around him.

Pilate was not always asked to such entertainments as that of the Dorman-Websters’. He used to smile about it sometimes with his sphinx-like smile, but perhaps he would have been more than human had he not felt the fact of being left out of such lists of invitations. He looked up as Gilderman came in. “Why, Mr. Gilderman,” he said, “how is it you’re not at the silver wedding?”

“I was there,” said Gilderman, “but I did not stay.”

“Tired of it?”

“Oh no; not at all.”

Then Pilate began again: “By-the-way, Mr. Gilderman, I was very sorry that I did not feel justified in calling out the troops last Sunday, as the bishop wanted me to do. I hope he understood my position.”

“I think he did understand your position,” said Gilderman, almost dryly. Pilate looked at him for a little while with his keen, steady eyes. Perhaps he did not know just what construction to place on Gilderman’s phrase. Gilderman wondered whether he looked guilty of the double meaning he had intended. “Wouldn’t you like to play a game of billiards?” he said.

“Certainly,” said Pilate. And then to the club servant, as he arose from where he sat: “Tell Abraham to fetch the soda-and-whiskey up to the billiard-room when he brings it. You’ll have to allow me ten or a dozen points, Mr. Gilderman,” he said. “I can’t play billiards with you young fellows.” And then they went off together to the billiard-room.

Some little time after midnight the men began dropping in from the Dorman-Websters’ until there was quite a number present. About one o’clock a party of six or eight began playing poker, and in a little while afterwards Gilderman joined the game.

They had been playing maybe not over a quarter of an hour when those hands were dealt to Gilderman and Latimer-Moire which were afterwards so much talked about.

Ryan was dealing at the time, and Gilderman drew three cards to a pair of queens. The first card he turned up was a third queen, the next was an ace. He wondered passively how it would feel to draw a fourth queen, and then he turned up the card. It was the queen of clubs.

He felt struck almost as with a physical shock. He closed his cards slowly and laid them face down upon the table, and he was conscious as he did so that he had been able to infuse a perfect and complete expression of indifference into his face and action. Oh, if it were only possible now for some one to hold a hand to play against him!

Then the play began, and he saw almost immediately that even this desire was to be gratified. One by one the other men dropped out of the game until only Latimer-Moire and himself remained. The betting went steadily on and on, each time being to the full limit. The stakes doubled and quadrupled again and again. It passed through Gilderman’s mind, what if his opponent should, after all, have four kings? Such a chance was almost impossible, but the thought of it caused him a pang as it went through his mind. The rumor of the betting flew through the club, and quite a little crowd presently gathered around the table. Gilderman kept his cards face down upon the board. The men, as they came, went one by one around back of Latimer-Moire and looked into his hand. Nearly all of them laughed when they saw it. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Gildy?” said Stirling West, over Gilderman’s shoulder.

“No, by George!” said Gilderman, without looking around. He put his hand over his cards as he spoke. “I’m playing this hand alone,” he said, “and I’ll play it till the crack of doom, if need be.” As he spoke another sudden, dull spark of apprehension passed through his heart. What if Latimer-Moire should have four kings, after all?

The betting went on and on, and now there was perfect silence.

“Look here, old fellow,” burst out Gilderman, at last, “I tell you plainly you’re up against an almost certain thing. I don’t want to win your money, but I’m not going to give in as long as you keep at it.”

“You haven’t won your money yet, my boy,” cried Latimer-Moire. “Don’t you worry about me; I’ll look after myself,” and a general laugh went around the table.

One or two more bets were made, and then Gilderman called the game.

“I thought you were going to keep it up till the crack of doom,” said Latimer-Moire.

“It’s on your account I call the game,” said Gilderman. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Latimer-Moire laid down a card. It was the ace of clubs. He couldn’t have four aces, for Gilderman had one. What was it he had? What if he had four kings? Gilderman held his breath. Then his heart gave a bound and he knew that he had won. Latimer-Moire laid down a knave. Three more knaves followed, laid down upon the table one by one. What triumph! What glory! Gilderman held his cards firmly in his hand. His impulse was to pretend that he was beaten. “Well, well!” he said, trying to infuse all the disappointment he could into his voice, “who would have believed you would draw four cards and get four jacks by it? Well, well!”

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Gildy,” said West.

But still Gilderman lingered. The triumph was very, very sweet under the tongue of his soul. “Four jacks!” he repeated. “Well, well, well!”

“Oh, show up your hand, Gilderman!” called out a voice from those who stood looking on.

Then Gilderman laid down his hand, spreading all the cards face up upon the green baize tablecloth.

There was a moment or two of silence and then almost a roar of laughter. Stirling West fetched Gilderman a tremendous clap upon the shoulder. “Gildy’s luck forever!” he cried out. Latimer-Moire joined the laugh against himself, but very constrainedly. Gilderman relit his cigar, which had gone out. His hand was chill and trembled in spite of himself. He assumed an air of perfect calmness and indifference, but his bosom was swelling and heaving with triumph. Then he pushed back his chair and arose.

“Hold on, Gildy!” cried out Latimer-Moire. “Ain’t you going to give me a chance to win my money back?”

“Not to-night,” said Gilderman; “some other time maybe, my boy, but I can’t spoil such luck by playing another hand to-night, old fellow.”

“Why, confound it–hold on, Gilderman, you can’t go away without giving me some show. Just a couple more hands.”

“Not to-night,” said Gilderman, and then he walked away with Stirling West. Pilate had come to the table and was standing looking down at the cards that still lay face up upon the board. Some one was explaining the game to him. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been playing the game for about forty years now and I don’t think I ever saw a piece of luck like that. Four queens against four jacks!”

Gilderman, as he walked away, heard the words and his bosom swelled with a still bigger load of triumph. As he whirled home in the electric cab he lay back in the leather cushions and gave himself up to the delight of his triumph. He was filled full with a great and pervading joy. That last queen! What a delicious shock when he turned up the card and saw what it was! What a glorious piece of luck! And then he thought, what should he do with the money? He did not want Latimer-Moire’s money. He would hand it over to the bishop; that was what he would do. Suppose he gave it to that one-armed fellow the bishop had spoken about the other day. No; it was too much to give in a lump to a poor devil like that. He revolted somehow from the thought of doing that; he would hand it over to the bishop.

Presently the cab stopped at the sidewalk in front of his own home. The chauffeur jumped down and opened the door and Gilderman stepped out. He lingered for a little while after the cab had whirled away into the darkness. The night was very mild and pleasant, and the moon was beautiful. So he stood for a while smoking his cigar, thinking of his luck and feeling very happy. The white clouds of smoke drifted pallidly away in the milky moonlight.

Suddenly there was a disturbance some little distance up the street, and a lot of figures came out from the park. Then they came marching down the sidewalk. Even in the distance Gilderman could see the gleam of brass buttons and of official badges, and he knew that they had been making some arrest. As the crowd approached, Gilderman walked slowly up the broad stone steps to the wide vestibule above. The porter opened the door at his coming, but Gilderman did not immediately enter. He stood upon the top step smoking a last puff or two at his cigar before he threw it away, and watching, with a sort of idle curiosity, for the crowd to go past on the other side of the street. Presently they were there, passing under the wide aureola of light of the double cluster of electric lamps at the curb.

Then Gilderman saw who it was that they had arrested–it was He.

Gilderman could not see whether He had handcuffs upon the wrists, but two policemen walked one upon each side of Him. Two or three policemen came behind them, and there was quite a crowd of men besides, one of them with his head tied up in a bloody cloth. As they came under the circle of light one face was turned and looked straight at Gilderman. The features appeared to be calm and emotionless. There was no hat upon the head, and Gilderman was almost sure he saw red drops of moisture, as of sweat, shining on His brow. Then they had gone by and Gilderman stood looking after them. The hall porter had also come farther out into the vestibule to see the crowd as it passed by.

As Gilderman stood gazing after the departing figures another figure came down the street, this time upon the same side as that on which he stood. It was a man walking rather close to the curb. Presently he also came within the circle of light directly in front of the house. He seemed to shrink for a moment and then walked out into the street. He looked up quickly towards Gilderman as he passed, and then Gilderman recognized him. He was that one of the disciples whom he remembered having seen a few days before–the short, thick-set man with the bald head and curly hair and beard. He turned his face towards Gilderman as he passed. Gilderman came partly down the steps. “Stop a minute, my man,” he said; “I want to speak to you.”

The man hesitated for an instant and then stood still. He hung back in the partial darkness of the street, and as Gilderman approached he seemed to shrink back farther still.

“Was that your Master who went by just now?” asked Gilderman.

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

“Where are they going to take Him?” asked Gilderman.

“I don’t know,” said the man; “I didn’t have time to ask.”

He was looking furtively down the street. The crowd had disappeared in the distance, but Gilderman could hear the sound of voices and the tread of feet far away. There was just a flitting glimpse of them as they passed under a circle of light a block or so away.

“Where are you going now?” asked Gilderman.

“I don’t know,” said the man. “I’m going to see where they take Him.”

He stepped farther back into the street as he spoke. He lingered for a moment and then turned and went away in the direction the others had taken. After he had gone a little distance he began running. Gilderman could hear his footsteps passing away down the street farther and farther. He saw a glimpse of his figure flitting under a corner lamp, and then he was gone.

So it is that the life of that young man came just within touch of the agony suffered alone in the darkness of the garden. So it is that we all of us, rich in our possessions of happiness and of wealth, live each his life, unconscious of the divine travail going on beneath until suddenly the end of all comes and we stand face to face with that which has been done. So it is that, all unconsciously to us, beneath the thin and crackling shell of mundane life, God is working out His end and we know nothing of it.

We laugh, we sing, we dance, we love, we hate, we triumph and strive for joys that turn to ashes in the mouth, and all the time the divine phenomenon of life is working out its completion beneath those shadowy appearances of things real. Now and then, maybe, like this young man, we suddenly come face to face with the Divine Humanity and maybe feel the soul quake at His presence. Then the face passes by and we see it and think of it no more except as an incident.

As Gilderman turned and went up into his warm and well-lighted house, filled with its richness and delectabilities, he wondered passively what would be done to the Man; what would be the end of it all with Him. The baby was awake and crying, and as Gilderman went to his room he caught a fleeting glimpse of the silently moving nurse passing across the dim upper hall.

Oh, the triumph of finding that a fourth queen had been dealt him! Four queens! He saw just how that queen of clubs had looked when he turned it up. How the fellows had roared when he showed his hand!

He looked at his watch as he wound it up. It was half-past two o’clock.