Part 6 (1/2)

When they reached the street, Barbara lifted her brown eyes to Norman's face and asked:

”What do you think of a social system that drives thousands of men to kill themselves like that?”

”To tell you the truth I never thought of it at all before.”

”He would have been buried in a pauper's grave but for your help. I brought you here this morning because I knew you would save her that anguish when you understood.”

”You knew I would?” he softly asked.

”I wouldn't have let you come with me if I hadn't known it,” she answered, earnestly.

”It's funny how many of us live in this world without knowing anything about it,” he said, musingly.

”It would be funny were it not a tragedy,” she answered, turning across the street to the next block. They paused at the entrance of another narrow hallway.

”My work as secretary of the club includes, as you see, a wide range of calls. I'm a dispenser of alms, the pastor of a great parish, the friend, adviser, and champion of a lost world, and you have no idea what a big world it is.”

”I'm beginning to understand. What's the trouble here? Another suicide?”

”No--something worse, I think. A man who was afraid to die and took to drink. That's the way with most of them. None but the brave can look into the face of Death. This man is good to his family until he's drunk. Drink is the only thing that makes life worth the candle to him. But when he's under the influence of liquor he's a fiend. Last night he beat his wife into insensibility. This morning he sent one of the children for me.”

They climbed two flights of rickety stairs and entered a room littered with broken furniture. Every chair was smashed, the table lay in splinters, pieces of crockery scattered everywhere, and the stove broken into fragments. Two blear-eyed children with the look of hunted rabbits crouched in a corner. A man was bending over the bed, where the form of a woman lay still and white.

”For G.o.d's sake, brace up, Mary!” he was saying. ”Ye mustn't die! Ye mustn't, I tell ye! Your white face will haunt me and drive me into h.e.l.l a raving maniac. I didn't know what I was doin', old gal. I was crazy. I wouldn't 'a' hurt a hair of your head if I'd 'a' knowed what I was doin'!”

He bowed his face in his coa.r.s.e, bloated hands and sobbed.

The thin white hand of the wife stroked his hair feebly.

”It's all right, Sam. I know ye didn't mean it,” she sighed.

Norman sent for a doctor, and left some money.

With each new glimpse of the under-world of pain and despair the conviction grew in Norman's mind that he had not lived, and the determination deepened that he would get acquainted with his fellow men and the place he called his home.

”You are not tired?” Barbara asked, as they hurried into the street.

”No, I'm just beginning to live,” he answered, soberly.

”Good. Then you shall be allowed the honour of accompanying me to the county jail, to the poorhouse, to the hospital, and to the morgue--the four greatest inst.i.tutions of modern civilization. We must hurry. I've another sadder visit after these.”

As they hurried through the streets, Norman began to study with increasing intensity the phenomena presented in the development of Barbara's character. The more he saw of her, the more he realized the lofty ideals of her life, the more puerile and contemptible his own past seemed.

At the jail they found a boy who had been convicted of stealing and sentenced to the penitentiary. His old mother was ill. Barbara bore her last message of love.

They stopped at the poorhouse to see a curious old pauper who had become a regular attendant on the Socialists' meetings. He was called ”Methodist John,” because he was forever shouting ”Glory, Hallelujah!”

and interrupting the speakers. Barbara was the bearer of a painful message to John. Wolf had instructed her to keep him out of the meetings. She had decided to try a gentler way--to warn him against yelling ”Glory” again under penalty of being deprived of a dish of soup of which he was particularly fond. The Socialist Club served this simple, wholesome meal to all who asked for it after its weekly meetings.

John promised Barbara faithfully to stop shouting.

”Remember, John,” she warned him finally, ”shout--no soup! No shout--soup!”