The Drunkard. Thorne Guy
talked to her for a minute or two and she seemed clever and sympathetic. Certainly she is lovely."
Ingworth rose from the bed. He pointed to the table in the centre of the room. "Well, I'm off, old chap," he said. "As far as Miss Wallace goes, she's absolutely gone on you! She was quoting your verses all the way in the cab. She lives in a tiny flat with another girl, and I had to wait outside while she did up that parcel there! It's 'Surgit Amari,' she wants you to sign it for her, and there's a note as well, I believe. Good-night."
"Good-night, Dicker. I can't talk now. I'm beautifully drunk to-night.. Look me up in the morning. Then we'll talk."
The door had hardly closed upon the departing youth, when Lothian sank into a heap upon his chair. His body felt like a quivering jelly, a leaden depression, as if Hell itself weighed him down.
Mechanically, and with cold, trembling hands, he opened the brown paper parcel. His book, in its cover of sage-green and gold, fell out upon the table. He began to read the note – the hand-writing was firm, clear and full of youth – so he thought. The heading of the note paper was embossed —
"The Podley Pure Literature Institute.
Dear Mr. Lothian:
I am so proud and happy to have met you to-night. I am so sorry that I had not the chance of telling you what your poems have been to me – though of course you must always be hearing that sort of thing. So I will say nothing more, but ask you, only, to put your name in my copy of "Surgit Amari" and thus make it more precious – if that is possible – than before.
Mr. Ingworth has kindly promised to give you this note and the book.
The letter dropped unheeded upon the carpet. Thick tears began to roll down Lothian's swollen face.
"Mary! Mary!" he said aloud, "I want you, I want you!" ..
"Darling! there is no one else in the world but you."
He was calling for his wife, always so good and kind to him, his dear and loving wife. At the end of his long foul day, lived without a thought of her, he was calling for her help and comfort like a sick child.
Poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room.
– She was sleeping now, in the quiet house by the sea. The horn of a motor-car tooted in St. James' Street below – She was sleeping now in her quiet chamber. Tired lids covered the frank, blue eyes, the thick masses of yellow hair were straying over the linen pillow. She was dreaming of him as the night wind moaned about the house.
He threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, in dreadful drunken surrender and appeal.
– "Father help me! Jesus help me! – forgive me!" – he dare not invoke the Holy Ghost. He shrank from that. The Father had made everything and had made him. He was a beneficent, all-pervading Force – He would understand. The Lord Jesus was a familiar Figure. He was human; Man as well as God. One could visualise Him. He had cared for harlots and drunkards! ..
Far down in his sub-conscious brain Lothian was aware of what he was doing. He was whining not to be hurt. His prayers were no more than superstitious garrulity and fear. Something – a small despairing part of himself, had climbed upon the roof of the dishonoured Temple and was stretching trembling hands out into the overwhelming darkness of the Night.
"Father, help me! Help me now. Let me go to bed without phantoms and torturing ghosts round me! Do not look into the Temple to-night. I will cleanse it to-morrow. I swear it! Father! Help me!"
He began to gabble the Lord's Prayer – that would adjust things in a sort of way – wouldn't it? There was a promise – yes – one said it, and it charmed away disaster.
Half-way through the prayer he stopped. The words would not come to him. He had forgotten.
But that no longer distressed him. The black curtain of stupor was descending once more.
"'Thy will be done' – what did come after? Well! never mind!" God was good. He'd understand. After all, intention was everything!
He scrambled into bed and instantly fell asleep, while the lovely face of Rita Wallace was the first thing that swam into his disordered brain.
In a remote village of Norfolk, not a quarter of a mile from Gilbert Lothian's own house, a keen-faced man with a pointed beard, a slim, alert figure like an osier wand and steely brown eyes was reading a thin green-covered book of poems.
Now and then he made a pencil note in the margin. His face was alive with interest, almost with excitement. It was as though he were tracing something, hunting for some secret hidden in the pages.
More than once he gave a subdued exclamation of excitement.
"It's there!" he said at last to himself. "Yes, it is there! I'm sure of it, quite apart from what I've heard in the village since I came."
He rose, put the book carefully away in a drawer, locked it, blew out the lamp and went to bed.
Three hundred miles away in Cornwall, a crippled spinster was lying on her bed of pain in a cottage by the sea.
The windows of her room were open and the moon-rays touched a white Crucifix upon the wall to glory.
The Atlantic groundswell upon the distant beaches made a sound as of fairy drums.
The light of a shaded candle fell upon the white coverlet of her bed, and upon a book bound in sage-green and gold which lay there.
The woman's face shone. She had just read for the fifth time, the poem in "Surgit Amari" which closes the first book.
The lovely lines had fused with the holy rapture of the night, and her patient soul was caught up into commune with Jesus.
"Soon! Oh, soon! Dear Lord," she gasped, "I shall be with Thee for ever. If it seemeth good to Thee, let me be taken up on some such tranquil night as this. And I thank Thee, Dear Saviour, that Thou hast poured Thy Grace into the soul of Gilbert Lothian, the Poet. Through the white soul of this poet, which Thou hast chosen to be a conduit of comfort to me, my night pain has gone. I am drawn nearer to Thee, Jesus who hast died for me!
"Lord, bless the poet. Pour down Thy Grace upon him. Guard him, shield him and his for ever more. And, Sweet Lord, if it be Thy will, let me meet him in Heaven and tell him of this night – this fair night of summer when I lay dying and happy and thinking kindly and with gratitude of him.
"Jesus!"
CHAPTER IV
LOTHIAN GOES TO THE LIBRARY OF PURE LITERATURE
"I only knew one poet in my life:
And this, or something like it, was his way."
The Podley Library in West Kensington was a fad of its creator. Mr. John Podley was a millionaire, or nearly so, and the head of a great pin-making firm. He was a public man of name and often preached or lectured at the species of semi-religious conversations known as "Pleasant Sunday Afternoons."
Sunday afternoon in England – though Mr. Podley called it "The Sabbath" – represented the pin-maker's mental attitude with some fidelity. All avenues to pleasure of any kind were barred, though possibly amusement is the better word. A heavy meal clogged the intellect, an imperfectly-understood piece of Jewish religious politics was made into an idol, erected and bowed down to.
Mr. Podley had always lived with the fear of God, and the love of money constantly before his eyes. "Sabbath observance" and total abstinence were his watchwords, and he also took a great interest in "Literature" and had pronounced views upon the subject. These views, like everything else about him, were confined and narrow, but were the sincere convictions of an ignorant, pompous and highly successful man.
He had, accordingly, established the Podley Free Library in Kensington in order to enunciate and carry out his ideas in a practical way. What he considered – and not without some truth – the immoral tendency of modern writers, was to be sternly prohibited in his model house of books.
Nothing