The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Get out, you women,” commanded the doctor, who had forced his way across the threshold. “Send them away, officer,” to the policeman.

      There were others to turn out of the room itself, which was crowded with morbid or terrified creatures, all making for confusion. Glad had seized the child and was forcing her way out into such air as there was outside.

      The bed—a strange and loathly thing—stood by the empty, rusty fireplace. Drunken Bet lay on it, a bundle of clothing over which the doctor bent for but a few minutes before he turned away.

      Antony Dart, standing near the door, heard Miss Montaubyn speak to him in a whisper.

      “May I go to ‘er?” and the doctor nodded.

      She limped lightly forward and her small face was white, but expectant still. What could she expect now—O Lord, what?

      An extraordinary thing happened. An abnormal silence fell. The owners of such faces as on stretched necks caught sight of her seemed in a flash to communicate with others in the crowd.

      “Jinny Montaubyn!” someone whispered. And “Jinny Montaubyn” was passed along, leaving an awed stirring in its wake. Those whom the pressure outside had crushed against the wall near the window in a passionate hurry, breathed on and rubbed the panes that they might lay their faces to them. One tore out the rags stuffed in a broken place and listened breathlessly.

      Jinny Montaubyn was kneeling down and laying her small old hand on the muddied forehead. She held it there a second or so and spoke in a voice whose low clearness brought back at once to Dart the voice in which she had spoken to the Something upstairs.

      “Bet,” she said, “Bet.” And then more soft still and yet more clear, “Bet, my dear.”

      It seemed incredible, but it was a fact. Slowly the lids of the woman’s eyes lifted and the pupils fixed themselves on Jinny Montaubyn, who leaned still closer and spoke again.

      “‘T ain’t true,” she said. “Not this. ‘T ain’t true. There is no death,” slow and soft, but passionately distinct. “There—is—no—death.”

      “There—is—no—death.”

      “There—is—no—death.”

      The muscles of the woman’s face twisted it into a rueful smile. The three words she dragged out were so faint that perhaps none but Dart’s strained ears heard them.

      “Wot—price—me?”

      The soul of her was loosening fast and straining away, but Jinny Montaubyn followed it.

      “There—is—no—death,” and her low voice had the tone of a slender silver trumpet. “In a minit yer’ll know—in a minit. Lord,” lifting her expectant face, “show her the wye.”

      Mysteriously the clouds were clearing from the sodden face—mysteriously. Miss Montaubyn watched them as they were swept away! A minute—two minutes—and they were gone. Then she rose noiselessly and stood looking down, speaking quite simply as if to herself.

      “Ah,” she breathed, “she does know now—fer sure an’ certain.”

      Then Antony Dart, turning slightly, realized that a man who had entered the house and been standing near him, breathing with light quickness, since the moment Miss Montaubyn had knelt, was plainly the person Glad had called the “curick,” and that he had bowed his head and covered his eyes with a hand which trembled.

IV

      He was a young man with an eager soul, and his work in Apple Blossom Court and places like it had torn him many ways. Religious conventions established through centuries of custom had not prepared him for life among the submerged. He had struggled and been appalled, he had wrestled in prayer and felt himself unanswered, and in repentance of the feeling had scourged himself with thorns. Miss Montaubyn, returning from the hospital, had filled him at first with horror and protest.

      “But who knows—who knows?” he said to Dart, as they stood and talked together afterward, “Faith as a little child. That is literally hers. And I was shocked by it—and tried to destroy it, until I suddenly saw what I was doing. I was—in my cloddish egotism—trying to show her that she was irreverent because she could believe what in my soul I do not, though I dare not admit so much even to myself. She took from some strange passing visitor to her tortured bedside what was to her a revelation. She heard it first as a child hears a story of magic. When she came out of the hospital, she told it as if it was one. I—I—” he bit his lips and moistened them, “argued with her and reproached her. Christ the Merciful, forgive me! She sat in her squalid little room with her magic—sometimes in the dark—sometimes without fire, and she clung to it, and loved it and asked it to help her, as a child asks its father for bread. When she was answered—and God forgive me again for doubting that the simple good that came to her was an answer—when any small help came to her, she was a radiant thing, and without a shadow of doubt in her eyes told me of it as proof—proof that she had been heard. When things went wrong for a day and the fire was out again and the room dark, she said, ‘I ‘aven’t kept near enough—I ‘aven’t trusted true. It will be gave me soon,’ and when once at such a time I said to her, ‘We must learn to say, Thy will be done,’ she smiled up at me like a happy baby and answered: ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in ‘eaven. Lor’, there’s no cold there, nor no ‘unger nor no cryin’ nor pain. That’s the way the will is done in ‘eaven. That’s wot I arst for all day long—for it to be done on earth as it is in ‘eaven.’ What could I say? Could I tell her that the will of the Deity on the earth he created was only the will to do evil—to give pain—to crush the creature made in His own image. What else do we mean when we say under all horror and agony that befalls, ‘It is God’s will—God’s will be done.’ Base unbeliever though I am, I could not speak the words. Oh, she has something we have not. Her poor, little misspent life has changed itself into a shining thing, though it shines and glows only in this hideous place. She herself does not know of its shining. But Drunken Bet would stagger up to her room and ask to be told what she called her ‘pantermine’ stories. I have seen her there sitting listening—listening with strange quiet on her and dull yearning in her sodden eyes. So would other and worse women go to her, and I, who had struggled with them, could see that she had reached some remote longing in their beings which I had never touched. In time the seed would have stirred to life—it is beginning to stir even now. During the months since she came back to the court—though they have laughed at her—both men and women have begun to see her as a creature weirdly set apart. Most of them feel something like awe of her; they half believe her prayers to be bewitchments, but they want them on their side. They have never wanted mine. That I have known—known. She believes that her Deity is in Apple Blossom Court—in the dire holes its people live in, on the broken stairway, in every nook and awful cranny of it—great Glory we will not see—only waiting to be called and to answer. Do I believe it—do you—do any of those anointed of us who preach each day so glibly ‘God is everywhere’? Who is the one who believes? If there were such a man he would go about as Moses did when ‘He wist not that his face shone.’”

      They had gone out together and were standing in the fog in the court. The curate removed his hat and passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead, his breath coming and going almost sobbingly, his eyes staring straight before him into the yellowness of the haze.

      “Who,” he said after a moment of singular silence, “who are you?”

      Antony СКАЧАТЬ