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gmtfflfflsmtm wttttttt i \ i > i nwtmi«n| i * M ** ^ - ■ —<t> *1* <Ihe I By CHARLES M. SHELDON, Author of “In His Steps.” “Rotert Hardy’s Seven Days,” Etc. Copi/riohl, 1001, by Charles Af. Sheldon TV Vv CHAPTER II. ■ ill rl ■ \ IP f "Slmli/inq life, eh." said David 'llatlon. RE you quite sure you understand the situation. LuellaV*’ John Cordon asked the question grave ly, but ids look did not betray any anxiety yet. lie had be en talking to Luella Marsh for sev eral minutes. His face also was grave, almost solemnly so, but there was a growing expression of uneasiness upon it as she turned her head toward her lover. “1 think so—yes,” she said slowly. “In other words, you mean no,” said John Gordon, smiling slowly. * Luella Marsh returned the smile and then became instantly grave again. “I would like to ask you a few more questions. May I?” “Of course.” “Then 1 don’t know that I am quite clear in my mind as to your exact rea sons for leaving your own home. Will you try to make me understand that'/” “Luella”— He paused, and for the first time a fear grew upon him that he was going to fail to make her un derstaud the real crisis in his life. Was this the attitude of the woman iwho could prove to be the companion he would need? Would she hesitate and demand all these proofs and rea sons, all these explanations? And yet he felt the need of her. She had thus far satisfied him. and as he faced her now there was only one prayer in his heart, and that wsis that she would finally cast in her lot with his and say: “Where thou goest I will go. Thy peo ple shall be my people and thy God my God.” He began his explanation while Lu- el'a leaned her chin on her hand and watched him with deepening serious ness. “I am thirty years old. From the time of my birtli I have been used to every luxury. I have enjoyed all the elegant comforts of a rich, exclusive, proud family. My father’s ambition, as you know, has always been the am bition of a man who has lived a life os remote from the common people as If he had been born in some other ■world. I have grown up in this at mosphere. I have known as little of the people and their real life as my father. Up to the time of my religious experience I cared as little for the peo ple as I knew about them. Since that experience my whole object in living has changed. I find myself longing to know the people as much as I already love them. It is not enough that I love them at a distance. I must know from close personal experience their daily life. As near tfs possible I must partake of their sorrows, their priva tions, their misery. Do not answer me yet.” John Gordon eagerly re strained a movement on Luella’s part to interrupt with a word. “Why should l not do this, 1 who have all my life tasted the luxury of soft and easy •physical living? There Is only one tiling for me to do if I accomplish my life’s ambition now, and that is to leave the surroundings that are so completely opposed to all the life of the people I have come to love in order that I may know, if possible, as well as love, with Intelligent power to help.” “And you ask me to leave my home as you leave yours?” She did not look at him while asking the question, but in the silence that followed before he replied she turned her face full toward him. His answer came very calmly, but his voice in spite of him trembled a little. “The woman who becomes my wife (Will make her home with me. We shall ■hare alike whatever the future con tains.” It was perhaps at this moment that Luella Marsh had her first glimpse Into John Gordon’s real character. She had never 'given him credit for much Imagination or poetic feeling. In real ity he ha<l a great deal of both. But ■be did not change her position of se rious thoughtfulness. She only turned her bead 4 little as she said: "Where do you intend to make your borne? Will you tell me in detail?’ “I ivivc not fully decided; probably in Hope House." "And you expect me to live with you there?'’ *1!’ you marry me, yes.” John Gor- liou spoke with effort. IIis fear had grown with every word she uttered, with every new question she put to liini. "1 will never”— she began and rose to her feet. Gordon rose instantly. “Wait a moment!” She sat down and motioned him fp be seated. “Wait! I want to think awhile.” She put her hands over her face, and John Gordon watched and waited. His heart was hungry for her love, but his sold ircmbled for what he thought was to lie her decision. As the minutes went by and she still made no motion his conviction deepened that his knowl edge of her character and motives was superficial. All that .he really knew was to some degree the strength of her personality. He knew she could not lie moved by pleading. If she would not go with him out of a love that pleaded its otvn cause, John Gordon knew that no tdher motive would prevail. When she finally lifted her head, she put her hands behind her and looked full and frank into ins face. But what she said surprised him at first until he saw its bearing on her final answer. “You used the word ‘people’ a good many times in what you said about your re.- . us for leaving your father’s Lou-'V. Toil me what you mean by it.” "i’.y tiu* word?” He was doubtful as to her meaning. "Yes, just what do you mean by say ing you are moved by a love for the •p. op! ■.' ■’ "1 i.it: n ,he masses, the multitudes, the p ( pie, the humanity that work- with its hands for a living, the human ity that to Is at th furnaee and the !(• in and the machine, the lunnenky ti it i ■ s • •; (!**. 's \\ .'i s, and bves i > p >< “ tii. e liii ’or o that give person like y or a i id m Ph a safe >. the thing we - . must ii av* 1 for < vnr luxuriou •• tns "a!” Jo l\u 0 ordon spek' • for th ■ 1 i i ■. r Uu w itb ti u* same pas Vn|o': i! ■’ : [ i •! 1 he in ti r e w with ll.s i‘;i i »• i. >:• ! ia tint • mod the TV i t.; * ;.: '. ! .1 i .S *,ie ! m. i ta.a ahuod. i' 1 hi' ' \ 1-' \ 1 i* k! iow;i or eared for kumuim ? our ' ( ia; ;■ hav v been \va?t- ed in sellis k and fa "bsh grat ideation of vlie *.■ i 11 > ;< k w hiie t our brothers and si stors, La vi 1 r. a t ot only uneared for by ’ US, but : :e LUa By unknown. Of what value 1 mu 1)0; i : ted culture, our tins simply: Do you love me enough to share the unknown future with me? Will you not come with me, trusting in our love for each other to bear us over hard places and explain new experi ences as ‘fast ns they' become real to us?” She trembled and hesitated. She had but to reach out her hand and put it in John Gordon’s and say one word. She did not move nor speak for almost a minute. Then she said, looking straight in front of her: “Must I give an answer now?” "Luella. you have already given me answer! You have promised to be my wife!" The words were spoken by him in a moment of great longing as he saw her indecision and foresaw her inevitable answer. Her eyes darkened a little. “I never promised to be the wife of”- “Tlie wife of"— John Gordon re peated after a silence so long that its suspense was not bearable to him. “I hardly know how to finish”— She uttered a short laugh, and John Gor don rose at once to his feet. “I can never live in Hope House,” she added in a low tone. __ “Is that your answer, then?” He stood looking at h r calmly, but she did not look up. “Yes,” she finally replied. “Then we must go our separate ways, so help us God!” he exclaimed in a sudden burst of passion, for his heart was hot within him. He paused a moment irresolutely and then started to go out. She had not made any motion nor lifted her head to look at him. At the door he turned for an instant and saw, to his astonish ment, that her proud head lay on her arms, which were oids.retched on the table near which she had been sitting. lie was back by her side, kneeling again and calling her name. When she lifted her head, there were tears on her glowing cheeks. “John, i cannot bear to have it so.” “Thar i do you love me. Luella, enough to shan * all wit li me ?” he cried. “Yes; 1 love you , John,” she said slowly. But e ven ; as she said it she drew b: aek frot a him a little. “At the same ti me I i.o not see why it is neces- sary to live at Hope ■ House.” “Net nccessi triiy there, but some- where among iJO i icople. Luella, , do you nc t ut.'.lei i ti:n: 1 my reasons for wan.m; g to km >\v th e people?” fc . t a not ? are,” she replied in a trorbl i d tone. and then suddenly she turned away ft in him and put her ht tui d ■ her a t ins again. John yx oruon rose and walked up and down l [he room. 1 i’wice as he went elegant houses, our fine spun clothing, our fastidious habits, if in the refine ment of a civilization that is veneered selfishness we play our little plays like children and never wake to the power of usefulness as grownup men and women who have giants’ work to do for the weak and less fortunate?” Luella Marsh listened in genuine sur prise. This was another new phase of her lover’s character. But there were things said by him that angered her, although while John Gordon was talk ing she was saying to herself, “I did not know he had any gifts as a speak er that would bear developing.” Looking up at him, noting the flush of feeling on his generally pale face, she spoke the first impulsive thought rouscdjjy what he said. “Do you really classify lives like yours and mine as ‘useless?’ Are the people, thou, the only useful beings? Or is it true that the people as you have defined them are such a needy uud suffering quantity as you say? Are they not as selfish in their way as we are in ours?” He heard her in surprise. It was quickly becoming more clear to each of them that they had much to learn of each other's personality. Still, ffe was resolved not to argue matters. He had come with one clear, simple pur pose in his mind. He did not wish to have it obscured or put into second place. If Luella Marsh would go with him into the life lie had chosen, he knew enough of her to feel certain that both their lives would be strengthened and beautified: that if she ouce cast in her lot with him she would never look back, but would go ou clear to the end and bear all things with growing joy and peace. If she decided to reject him and his career because of details in it that were unknown or questiona ble, then be had no calm answer to bis own heart as to the result on himself except to say that his path would be a lonely due. But he was of determina tion not to leave the matter unsettled. They were not children, hut grown man ami woman, and should be able to know their own minds. “Luella, I did uot come here to argue with you”—he spoke with great gen tleness in reply to her questions—“I want you. I love you. That means I would not hide one particle of the truth from you. If you marry me, It will be a life of burden bearing. It will be a future full of pain in many ways, it will mean very largely a total breaking away from all the soft, easy, pleasant social relations we have both known since we were born. All this is true. I would not try to soften it for you. But It will be a Joyful life, a life of satisfaction, a life full of the conscious ness of helping to make a !letter world, of doing something besides playing, Lu ella!” He forgot in bis feeling what he had said ever since he knew her, that she could not be, moved by pleading, and, rising suddenly, be went over and betide her. “LueUal Tell me | past the table he paused irresolutely, his mind in a turmoil, his heart uncer tain. The third time he stopped, with 9 decision in his manner, and placed his hand on her head. “I do pot ask j ou to marry me unless you can trust everything to me. II you are not able to say without any fear or doubt. ‘I will go with you in all the way you have chosen.’ I do not, I cannot, plead with you, Luella. Is that asking too much, dear? Can the man who loves you ask any less?” “No, no, he can ask no less! But, John, I fear to go”— She had raised her head and was looking at him with more agitation than he had ever known her to show. “I am not certain that 1 am fitted, that I am adapted, for such a life. I have a honor of the places— the—I do not love the people, John, as you say you do. Am I to blame for that?” She asked the question almost tim idly, but nothing could soften the hard ness of tire statement to him. He did not yet see that the one thing that kepi her from coming to him without any questions was her lack of religious ex perience. She did not love the people because all her life had been'so far devoted-to a love of the things that had surrounded her social position. “No. I do not think you are to blame. But, ob, Luella, could you not learn to love them? Could you not come with me and let the future”— “I could not pretend,” she began, with a return of her proud attitude. “I do not ask you to pretend. If you love me. will not all the rest be possible?” She was silent a moment. Then sud denly she looked up and said frankly: “I would not be true to you if I kept anything back. I not only do uot love the people ns you do. but 1 do not see why you should sacrifice your life to them, as you plan to do. 1 cannot see that you will accomplish anything.” “And is accomplishment the great I and only thing? Is there nothing in : being or in striving regardless of ac complishment? But 1 cannot argue ! the matter. If you love me enough, i Luella. all the rest will follow; if you don’t, it will all be useless to you.” She still looked at him with the un certain, disturbed air that had marked her maimer when he first began to talk to her, only the look had deepened In to an expression of doubt and painful unrest. “I do not see the need of all you plan to do. I do not see the need,” she said slowly. “You would not have to see that if you only loved me,” he replied In a low tone, and there was a hopelessness lu It that had not been present before. He stood looking at her, and suddenly he added: “Let us be entirely frank, Luella, ! that we may not misunderstand. You ! shrink from the thought of living Id a | place like Hope House; you hesitate to commit your future to me because of the physical losses, the absence in our future of these physical luxuries we have both known, Into which we have been born—is that it? Your love for me is not strong enough to make this loss seem insignificant—Is that true?” It was u blunt question, and be pur posely put it bluntly, perhaps more so than was fair to her. Over her face the color deepened, and she evidently foil the Implied reproach lu bis sum ming ud of her hesitation. “That is not quite the truth.’ “A part of it?” “You have no right to force such a question upon me.” “I have a right to know the whole truth.” “You would not understand”— “I wTmld understand everything if you loved me enough to go with me without question.” “Love does not mean being unrea sonable.” “Yes, Luella, it docs, at least this far—that love will trust where it can not always give reasons.” She was silent again. He took a step nearer. "Luella, one question only: If I de cide that I must go to live in Hope House, will vou with me? Or will ,\ou refuse on account of the phys ical and social loss?” She looked at him steadily at first, although her color deepened and her lips trembled. “You have no right to ask such a question.” “I have—the right of a man who loves you.” "Then 1 will say not go, uot for the reason you think, but”— “It is not necessary to explain,” John Gordon answered sadly. “Luella, it is plain to me that you do not love me.” “You have no right to make any such test!" she exclaimed passionately. She stood up and faced him proudly, and Ue simply looked into her eyes a moment and thou turned and walked out of the room. This time he did not look back. As he closed the door, Luel- ia Marsh fell upon hqr knees by the side of the table, exclaiming: "God pity me! God have mercy!” John Gordon went out of the house calmly enough, although his heart was torn with passionate conflict. As the current of the city swept him on. there surged up iu his soul hot anger that he had ever loved this woman who could uot have the test of faith in the man who loved her. But it was at this crisis that his real religious experience rescued him from wreck. Had it not been for that this story had never been told. But as he went his way that day his anger fell, and iu its place there grew up a tender memory that left no room for harsh judgment. But for the present he was over- wholmed by the result. He had put Luella Marsh into the altar place of a proud man’s affection. Every day since the time she had pledged her heart 1o his lie had thanked God for what had been given him. Her Appar ent response to Ids ambitions, especial ly noticeable in her correspondence during his absence, had exhilarated him. To find now that she would not trust her life to him because he had chosen a career of hardship and loss of physical things struck him the se verest blow he had ever experienced. The failure on the part of his father and sister to understand or sympathize became insignificant compared with this event. As he walked along he be gan to torture himself with questions. Had he made a mistake in taking her answer as final? Had he. as she said, no right to make such a test? Was it asking too much of any woman to ask her to leave a home of luxury to which she had been accustomed from birth and go at once into surroundings that were repulsive to her? And then she had confessed that she did not love the people as he did, but—was that an un- Mi “/ du not ask you to marry me unless you can trust everything to me.” pardonable sin? Yet be had felt when she said it as if an impassable gulf had suddenly been dug between them. Had he acted as a man should act who has so much at stake as in this case? The torture of these questions was so keen that after walking several blocks he turned to go back. “I must see her again,” he kept say ing. “I cannot let it end here.” He went ilp the steps and rang the bell. The servant who came to the door eyed him curiously. “Miss Marsh has gone out,” she said, and John Gordon at first did not be lieve her until he remembered that the carriage was standing at the curb when he left Luella and that she had said something about going out to the fork before tea. He slowly went down the steps, and when he was on the sidewalk he paused. 0 Perhaps in all his life be had never felt so lonely as at that moment. The consciousness that his father and sis- icr and now the woman who had promised to be his wife had repudiated his life smote him with a sens*.* of per sonal abandonment that was keen and searching. For a moment he felt so completely alone that he lot go of every motive for action. The city and the overwhelm ing thought of Its misery and sin and selfishness enraged biu^to“Let us eat. drink and be in‘n^l^^^iorrow we o'i.. moment would have saved John Gor don except the fact that what he had mentioned to his father and sister and Luella as his religious experience was the great^s. fact so far in his career. As he stood stili there at the foot of the steps gradually his spirit grew calm er. The consciousness of God in his life grew stronger. The purpose of his ambition cleared. And after a little while lu * 1 started on, knowing that his life work would not be changed in its main intent by anything that bad so far happened. Only as he went on he also knew that he could not and would not bo the same man and do the same things in some parts of his earthly vi sion as if Luella Marsh had decided to walk with him iu the way. It was also quite clear to him that without being able to give a good reason for it he was not closing the chapter with Luel la yet. lie certainly entertained the idea of her still coming into his life. It was not from his interview with her that he drew any such hope. But ho knew that he did not yet consider her action as final, or possibly it was his own action that was not final. He stopped at a corner, and the Sight of a street name on a car going by de cided his next movement. “I’ll go and take tea at Hope House,” be said to himself, and took the car, noting, by the time, that he would reach the house just as the little family of residents were in the habit of sit ting down to their evening meal. Hope House str od in the midst of its deseft of tenements and its corner sa loons and vaudeville halls like an oasis of refuge and strength. Saloons to right a .;d left and front and rear, with piles of brick and wood and rubbish flung together in chaotic, tumbled heaps, with openings for human be ings who streamed in and out of court and alley and doorway or sat in pallid, huddled masses on the stoops or curb ing formed the “frame in which Hope House was set. unique and alone. John Gordon left the ear one block from Hope House and walked down past five saloons in the block until he came to the arched entrance of the house. Going into the little court, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the familiar oleander tubs that stood against the outer wall of the court, and marveled at their ability to blossom with such freshness in such surround ing. “If oleanders ever had any fragrance iu this part of the city, they must almost smell of beer and sewer gas,” he said to himself as he went on into the broad hall that opened on the court. He was by no means a stranger to Hope House. Siuee his return from abroad he had been a frequent visitor and had been welcomed with that in ner welcome that springs from well known common purposes. “You are just in time!” called out a quiet but cheerful voice as John Gordon stepped into the doorway of the dining hall. “Miss Manning is absent. You may take her seat by me.” “1 count myself fortunate,” John Gor don replied as he took the seat, re turn'ug the greetings of those at the table, “We were talking about you,” said the head of the house, with her quiet but earnest manner. “I’m sorry to interrupt the conversa tion,” replied John Gordon. “No interruption, we assure you. We are glad you came In, for you are the only person who can answer a ques tion Mr. Ford just asked.” “Rather a personal question, Mr. Gordon,” said Ford, a student from the university, who was a resident of several months’ standing. “The ques tion 1 asked Miss Andrews was this: ‘What is Mr. Gordon going to do? Will he possibly come in here with us?’ ” John Gordon did not answer the question at once. He knew the com plete freedom of the social atmosphere of Hope House, especially at meal times, and understood well that his si lence would iiol he misconstrued ns discourtesy. He looked around the circle of ear nest. friendly faces at the table, and his gaze included, as it had many times before, tbe room itself, with its high, dark wainscoting, its few but choice portraits, Its plain but attractive home- ’ikeness; but, as on every other occa sion. his look finally came back to the face of the head of the house, for she was the genius of the place. Grace Andrews was in her thirty- sixth year. At the time John Gordon first met her at Hope House she had been in charge of the settlement for twelve years. Twelve years of asso ciation with desperate human prob lems such as those that swarmed like the people themselves had left on her face marks of that human, divine calmness that all great women boar who have loved the people. If Grace Andrews did not Impress strangers or visitors as being great in any real sense, it was because the look of her face spoke of a quiet peace that so many people superficially associate with meekness, but do not consider as an element of power. The residents of Hope House understood all that, and tbe oldest residents understood it bet- f ter than the youngest and had more unquekloued reverence for the great ness of Grace Andrews than those who had less knowledge of her. It was with a deepening conscious ness of what this woman was and of her wonderful life and Influence that John Gordon came Into her presence. He had met her during his university career when some special studies had taken him down to Hope House. And one of the first places he had visited on his return from abroad had been the dining room with Us fellowship life presidinl over by that central figure that dominated tlx* entire group. It was at that first meeting that he bgd frankly told her and the residents something of bis religious experience and its bearing on his life work. It was that frank confideme that hud led up to the question l y Ford. “Well?” Miss Andrews finally said ns John Gordon seemed ready to speak after looking at her so intently. Dur ing Ids silence the conversation at the table had gone on in a quiet but nat ural fashion. Every one In Hope House always gave every one (Us • perfect freedom for hit personality, and no one felt at all disturbed when John Gordon did not reply at once to the student’s query. They all paused in their talk when he spoke. ‘•Tve been thinking of it. I would count U an honor to he part of your family.” He spoke to Miss Andrews, but included all the table with a ges- lur;*. “I'm still In some doubt concern ing my future. I am sure you are enough interested in me to care to know that I have left my own home. I am just at present without a per manent place of abode. Perhaps you would be willing to take me in.” He spoke somewhat lightly, but not without a certain seriousness that they all seemed to understand. Miss An drews glanced at him quickly and said with a real tone of sympathy: “We would not only give you a hearty welcome, Mr. Gordon, but count our selves fortunate to have you with us.” “Thank you,” he replied gratefully. “I would not come into the house, of course, except as one who would take the position of a learner. I have every thing to learn and nothing to contrib ute. You would have to teach me the simplest duties of a resident, Miss An drews. I at least would be a very will ing and obedient pupil.” “I have no doubt of that,” she re plied, with a smile. “But the people who act that way are dangerously apt to be in a position to teach their teach ers in time.” “I shall never be able to teach the teacher in Hope House,” said John Gordon earnestly. Miss Andrews laugh ed. and the faintest tinge of c^’.jr ap peared on her cheeks. "Wo are all learners here. Let him who has not learned something today hold up his hand. Not a hand in sig’t. Oh, we are all in the primary ela> d tt'lie people are the alphabet of God And we have not yet learned the alphabet.” The talk gradually ( reled the table, while John Gordon ontinued to tell Miss Andrews somet’ ing i.i detail of the interview with hi father and sis ter. After the meal 'i as over the resi dents scattered to tin r work, but half a dozen with Miss Andrews and John Gordon lingered a few minutes in the library and living room, which opened out of the wide hall, next the old fash ioned staircasp which went up near the center of the room, for Hope House had formerly been an old fam ily mansion, and it stood now in its solitary refinement of interior in com plete contrast to every building In the dismal district now ruled and ruined by thCjhuman ruins that pleaded day and night for rebuilding until the souls of the residents grew weary with the burden, and God i ither grow daily farther away or closer by, in propor tion as the workers in the settlement grew more and more to love the peo ple or more and more to lose faith in their redemption. When John Gordon finally went away, he had practically promised to become a permanent resident of Hope House. Something of John Gordon’s family history was known to most of the residents, and there was enough of the romantic and unusual in such a de cision as his to stir the imagination of tlie earnest young men and women who had thrown in their lot with Hope House and what it stood for in the city. When John Gordon came out from the archway and turned into the street, it was after b o'clock. He walked along for half a dozen blocks, trying to realize what his life work would be iu such a place. Whatever else it would be, he knew it would be a life that would demand inexorably all the manhood possible. As he stopped and looked back down the street and re alized its wretchedness, its discomfort, its squalor, its moral filth, his heart cried out for strength, his soul felt compassion and anger and longing, and his love of the people, to his in tense satisfaction, grew in spite of. what they were and because of what they were. He was still standing there, absorbed In his thought of future possibilities, when a man put his hand on his shoul der and said familiarly: “John, do you want good company? I’m with you if you do." * “David!” cried John Gordon in as tonishment. "How do you happen to be here?” “Studying life, eh?” said David Bar-^ ton as he put his ai;m within his friend's and walked on. "But how does it happen that you”— “Having a week’s vacation. Harris told me I'd better go to Colorado. Been down here every night.” John Gordon walked on in deepening astonishment. "Come up to the rooms and let us have a talk,” said Barton, and John Gordon quietly agreed. They took a car and after riding two miles left the car, walked two blocks and came out on Park Boulevard, where David Bar ton, managing editor of the Dally News, had apartments. When they were seated, David Bar ton turned a sharp, nervous, but kind ly face toward John Gordon. “Surprised to see me down in the region of Hope House? Great place, isn’t it? Worth more than a trip to the Rockies to go through the show." *T ’ou mean to say you have never, been uown around Hope House be* fore?” “I’vo been there several times, son,” “Do you know Miss Andrews?” “Knew her before you were out high school.” “You never told me.” “Why should 1 tell you everything i once?" “Severn 1 years Is not at once,” plied John Gordon, with a smile. For answer the older man grat said after u pause: