Part 33 (1/2)
The light that fired his features had chased from them their habitual expression of lethargic calm.
”It is a great work,” said the doctor, enthusiastically. ”But, do you know, father, it seems to me odd that so intense a believer in the rules of the rubric should have been the first to put religion into practical use among the poor. It seems a direct contradiction to the a.s.sertion that the a.s.sociation of the love of beauty with the love of G.o.d destroys sympathy for poverty and disease.”
A cloud pa.s.sed over the other's face.
”My predecessor prepared the ground for me,” he replied, constrainedly.
”I hope to sow the seed for future usefulness.”
”And capital seed it is. But, as I said, it saps the sower. You are running a race with Death. No man can work as you work and not pay the penalty. Get an extra a.s.sistant.”
Father Algarcife shook his head.
”They cannot do my work,” he answered. ”That is for me. As for consequences--well, the race is worth them. If Death wins or I--who knows?”
His rich voice rang with an intonation that was almost reckless. Then his tone changed.
”I go a block or two farther,” he said. ”Good-day.”
And he pa.s.sed on, the old lethargy settling upon his face.
At some distance he stopped, and, entering a doorway, ascended the stairs to the second landing. A knock at the first door brought a blear-eyed child with straight wisps of hair and a chronic cold in the head. She looked at him with dull recognition.
”Is Mrs. Watson worse?” he asked, gently.
A voice from the room beyond reached him in the shrill tones of one unreconciled to continual suffering.
”Is it the father?” it said. ”Show him in. Ain't I been lying here and expecting him all day?” The voice was querulous and sharp. Father Algarcife entered the room and crossed to where the woman lay.
The bed was squalid, and the unclean odors of the disease consuming her flesh hung about the quilt and the furniture. The yellow and haggard face upon the pillow was half-obscured by a bandage across the left cheek.
As he looked down at her there was neither pity nor repulsion in his glance. It was merely negative in quality.
”Has the nurse been here to-day?” he asked, in the same gentle voice.
The woman nodded, rolling her bandaged head upon the pillow. ”Ain't you going to sit down, now you've come?” she said.
He drew a chair to the bedside and sat down, laying his hand on the burning one that played nervously upon the quilt.
”Are you in pain?”
”Always--night and day.”
He looked at her for a moment in silence; then he spoke soothingly. ”You sent for me,” he said. ”I came as soon as the services were over.”
She answered timidly, with a faint deprecation:
”I thought I was going. It came all faint-like, and then it went away.”
A compa.s.sion more mental than emotional awoke in his glance.
”It was weakness,” he answered. ”You know this is the tenth time in the last fortnight that you have felt it. When it comes, do you take the medicine?”