Part 35 (2/2)

... ”Thus have they rewarded me evil for good; and hatred for my good will.”

The good will! How much value had he knocked off the good will already?

If they tried to turn themselves into a company to-morrow, what price could they put down for it? Soon there would be no good will left.

”Set thou an unG.o.dly man to be ruler over him; and let Satan stand at his right hand.”

Ah! There spoke the implacable voice of the Hebrew king. No mercy for the unG.o.dly.

”When sentence is given upon him, let him be condemned, and let his prayer be turned into sin.”

Ah! There again.

”Let his days be few; and let another take his office.”

She listened now fully, as the verses of condemnation followed one another in a dreadful sequence. That was the spirit of the Old Testament. The G.o.d of those days was anthropomorphic, a G.o.d of battles, a leader, a fighter: the friend of our friends, but the foe to our foes.

He taught one to fight against the most desperate odds--and not to forgive enemies, but to punish them.

And to-night the spirit in her own breast responded to the ancient barbarity of creed. That softer doctrine of the Gospel, with its soothingly mystical miracles of forgiveness, was not substantial enough for the stern facts of life. She felt too sore and too sick for the aid that comes veiled with inscrutable symbolism, and seems to martyrize when it seeks to save. All that faith was beautiful but dim, like the unsubstantiality of these church columns ascending through the shadows to the darkness that hid the roof. The reality was before her eyes, where in the strong light those men stood firmly on their own feet, and, singing the grand old psalm, craved swift retribution for the unG.o.dly.

These harder thoughts soon faded. As always happened, the hour in church did her good. Self-pity, except as the most transient emotion, was well nigh impossible to her. Courage was always renewing itself, and she could not long r.e.t.a.r.d the heightening glow that succeeded each fit of depression.

After all, she was in no worse a fix than when her first husband threw a ruined business on her hands. While there's life there's hope.

To her surprise she found Mr. Prentice waiting for her outside the church porch.

”Good evening, Mr. Prentice;” and she looked at him anxiously. ”Nothing wrong, I hope?”

”No, no,” said Mr. Prentice jovially. ”The fact is, my wife is on the sick list again; and as I'm at a loose end, I've come round to ask if you could give me a bit of supper.”

The real fact was that earlier in the day he had seen Mr. Marsden driving to the railway station with a valise and dressing-case on the box of the fly. He knew that this gentleman was by now safe in London, and he had grasped an opportunity of seeing his old friend alone. He desired, and intended if possible, to cheer her up and put new heart into her.

”Come along then.” She was obviously pleased to accept his company. ”But I'm afraid there won't be much supper--because Richard is away to-night.”

”I'm not hungry. I over-ate myself at dinner--I always over-eat on Sundays. Bread and cheese will do me grandly.”

”We'll try to produce something better than that”; and Mrs. Marsden bustled up the stairs, calling loudly for Yates.

Yates produced some cold meat; and Mr. Prentice said he thought it delicious. Yates herself waited upon them. The cupboard that contained the master's strong drink was of course locked; but there was a supply of good soda water accessible, and Yates ran out and bought some doubtful whisky. Mr. Prentice, however, declared that the whisky was excellent. His kind face beamed; he chaffed Yates, and made her toss her head and giggle as she filled his gla.s.s; he chatted gaily and easily with his hostess;--he was so friendly, so genial, so thoroughly welcome, that this was the happiest supper seen in St. Saviour's Court for a very long time.

No fire had been lighted in the drawing-room, so when their meal was done they sat together by the dining-room fire.

”What pleasant hours,” said Mr. Prentice, looking round at the familiar walls, ”what pleasant, pleasant hours I've spent in this room. Those autumn dinners--with Mears and the rest! How I used to enjoy them!”

”You helped us to enjoy them.”

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