Delphi collected works o.., p.951
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 951
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
Matheson tried to pull himself together and offer some sort of answer to this strange, long, lean man with the curious “pro-blem.”
“If you have no friends,” he said, slowly, “and if you never had any friends, I’m sorry for you.”
“Ay, so am I!” agreed Jim. “But that don’t clear up the business. Being sorry don’t help any man. Now, s’pose you tell me a thing or two. I don’t want to make partic’lar inquiries, but mebbe you’re married?”
“Yes, I am,” Matheson replied.
“Well, s’pose your wife died, or — we won’t say that — but say she just skooted off to heaven, you’d have someone there you’d be glad to see when you went there, eh?”
Matheson’s leaden-white skin turned a yellow-red. He was desperately worried, for his conscience told him an unpleasant truth — namely, that if his wife “skooted off,” as Brown Jim graphically suggested, he would not be glad to see her again in the next world. She led him too terrible a life of “nagging” in this one. But, for convention’s sake, he played the hypocrite and answered:
“Naturally, I should be glad to see my own wife in heaven.”
Jim smiled — a knowing sort of smile.
“You would? Well, that’s all right. Lucky for you. There are one or two chaps who’d be glad to see someone else’s wife there. They’d think it real heaven then. ’Twouldn’t be proper, I know — that sort of thing would suit t’other place better. But, then, s’pose a fellow found a woman down there he couldn’t get at on earth, he’d be better pleased than with an angel. That’s so.”
Matheson pursed his thin lips together.
“You speak feelingly,” he said, with a slight touch of satire. “I remember you told me you were ‘nuts’ on love. Perhaps you have a love story of your own.”
“Ne’er a bit of one,” answered Jim at once with breezy frankness. “No woman ever looked at me twice. That’s why I’m ‘nuts’ on love. I’d like to have a girl to love me, and I’d like to love a girl; but it’s no use hankering that way. I’m cut off that sort of thing altogether. There’s no girls or women hereabouts ‘cept Injuns — decent poor souls enough — but you wouldn’t go fair crazy about having one of them to cuddle. All the same, I can fancy just what love could be if I’d anything to love.”
His blue eyes grew dreamy and absorbed, and he puffed at his pipe slowly.
Matheson fidgeted with his feet on the sanded wooden floor.
“Well, I’m afraid,” he said, after a pause, “that your ‘pro-blem’ is one that you must settle yourself. You see that, don’t you? If you’ve got no one to love you and you don’t love anybody, I can’t alter it, can I?”
“No,” replied Jim, thoughtfully— “no, ye poor little chap, you can’t alter it. I didn’t ask you to do the impossible. I just said how it was with me; and you being a Gospeller, I thought you could tell me where I might be likely to go, seeing I’ve nobody who expects to see me in heaven or t’other place.” Struck by a sudden inspiration, Matheson said:
“Yes, I can tell you. You will go to God the Father. He will know you. He will see you, lonely as you are; He will—”
“Stop that!” And Brown Jim suddenly rose, drawing himself up to his full height. “Stop that, I say! I haven’t lived among the hills and canons all these years for nothing. I take it God the Father don’t care more about me nor you than He does for a midge or a butterfly, and that’s not saying blasphemy. For, in my opinion, the midge and the butterfly is just as worth taking care of as a man — worth more, perhaps. For the blessed little things don’t talk — as a consequence they don’t tell lies. They does their duty, and that’s what few humans ever do without being paid for it. And God the Father cares for all and all alike, no difference between us, anyway — man and beast, bird and flower. That’s my faith, and now you’ve come to it! See here, Mister Gospeller! I don’t believe in a heaven made up of all good people. I don’t believe in a hell made up of all bad people. ‘God the Father,’ as you say, wouldn’t stand either place for a moment. It — it ‘ud be like a wrong figure in a sum, and the sum wouldn’t never come straight. And if ever there was a straight thing in this creation, it’s God the Father’s way!”
He made a picture at the moment, his big, heroic figure standing in the open doorway of the hut, silhouetted against a late evening sky faintly reddened by the last hues of what had been a magnificent sunset. And Matheson, looking up at him, suddenly felt cheap and small and narrow in spirit; he could not rise to the largeness or simplicity of Brown Jim’s “confession of faith.” But he made a final struggle against the overwhelming sincerity of the man.
“If those are your sentiments,” he said, “you ought to have no ‘problem,’ no doubts or difficulties. You should take God on trust, even if you have no one that knows you in heaven or—”
“Hell,” finished Jim, with a laugh that gave radiance to his dark face and sparkling eyes. “You’re right. That’s just what I do. I was only putting you through your paces, Mister Gospeller. You prayed so much, and with such a good heart, asking that the boys and me included might all be brought safe into the ‘heaven of the Father,’ that I thought I’d just point out to you the plain fact that heaven wouldn’t be exactly heaven to me, knowing nobody there. But when you come to God the Father, you strike a different note. And lone man as I am, I don’t care where He puts me, or what He does with me. My lonesomeness is my own fault, mebbe. Anyway, here I am in this world, and if I wasn’t no use of some sort I shouldn’t have come. Why” — and he ruffled his curling locks again and smiled— “when you come to think of it, if I’d been told before I was born that I’d be in such a place as this, where trees and flowers grow, and birds almost talk to ye, and blue skies are over your head, and good earth to tread on under your feet, I shouldn’t have believed it. I should have said ’twas a fairy tale. So y’ see what’s happened once is like to happen again, an’ I take it that when I’m done with the life here I’ll get born again in a world as pretty as this — perhaps prettier — and I’ll be able to sit on a tree stump and watch the live things all about me just as I do here, and I shouldn’t be surprised if I found someone there I might care for, and who might care about me. You understand me? I believe the Almighty Supreme knows just what I’ve missed, and that it won’t always be missing.”
“Then your problem is solved,” said Matheson, sedately. “And you don’t need to ask me anything more about it?”
“No, not exactly.” And Jim looked at him with a kindly tolerance. “Only just this: When you get praying and talking about heaven, call a halt for a minute and think whether any of the chaps you’re talking to are likely to want to go there, whether it ‘ud make them happy like. And if so be you should fancy they’re not quite the angel-and-a-harp sort of make, you might change over the wording a bit and offer them a bit of home and a bit of love to think about, making sure that God the Father — as a father — would never deny them that. Home and love, Mister Gospeller. They’d make a heaven anywhere — even in hell!”
Matheson sat stiffly silent for a moment. Then he got up and said:
“Well, good-night! I suppose I’d better turn in.”
“I s’pose ye had,” agreed Jim, without mentioning the fact that he was giving up his own bed to the missioner, in order that so physically weak a man might have a comfortable night’s rest before beginning his journey on the morrow.
“You’ll have to start a hour before sunrise to get through the bush. I’ll wake you up in time for a bite and a cup of coffee.”
Matheson thanked him; then, with a smile, said:
“You’re a curious sort of chap, but your heart seems in the right place! Though, you know, you’re not orthodox.”
“What’s that?” Jim inquired.
“Orthodox? Oh, I don’t know! It would take too long to explain. But it must comfort you to feel that our Lord died for you.”
“I hope He didn’t!” said Jim with sudden and unexpected emphasis. “I wouldn’t have any one die for me, if I knew it! I’d rather die myself!”
Matheson stared, astonished and almost frightened. It was such a knock-out blow to all his views.
“You mustn’t say that,” he stammered.
“Mustn’t say it? But I will say it!” declared Jim. “Why, what sort of a snivelling, selfish, mean microbe of a man would allow any one to die for him? What comfort is he going to get for his wretched carcase out of that? Here, you go to bed! You’ve talked enough and so have I! Be thankful for the power of sleep! Amen!”
Matheson hesitated; then, as Jim lit a candle and, putting it into his hand, waved him off to his bunk, he held his peace and turned in.
Left alone, Brown Jim lit another pipe and went outside his shanty. There was no moon, but the stars in their multitudinous brilliant battalions shone with a large, white splendour in the dark violet immensities of space, seeming now and again to flash like beacons set on the heights on invisible eternal hills. The thick stump of a felled tree was Jim’s favourite seat and coign of vantage, from whence, in daytime, he could perceive the blue line which marked the far summits of the great gorge through which the Colorado river swept its way — even at night he fancied he could discern the topmost edge of those perpendicular walls, six to seven thousand feet high, deft millions of ages ago by the rush of mighty waters. He sat down and puffed meditatively at his pipe, looking about him with observant eyes, his ears keen on every sound. He heard the mysterious rustle of the movement of living creatures on the ground, among the trees, and in the “bush” half a mile away — the monotonous, clicking music of the cicada, beating its fairy drum, and now and again the plaintive cry of an animal or the whirring of a bird’s wings.
“We’re all alike to the Almighty Supreme!” he said, reverently. “And wonderful it is how He takes care of us all! It’s the one law for man and beast and bird — do what you find yourself set to do and trust in Providence. Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies! If you start worrying and kicking against a barred door you’ll hurt yourself! That’s plain! Why, there’s a blue jay living about here that’s as lonesome a bird as I am a man — or if he’s got a mate he’s a deep customer, for I’ve never seen her. And yet he’s busy storing up winter food as though he’d raised a family. That’s because he feels it’s his duty to do it — mated or single. Just duty! For, says he to himself, a mate may come along at any moment; and suppose she does, what about winter housekeeping? That’s so! He follows the law and does his duty; he isn’t trying to get to a jay-heaven or a jay-hell! He’s just a jay. And I’m just a man. Lonesome, too. But, all the same, I’m pretty satisfied. There’s not a day I don’t thank the Almighty Supreme for the blessing of sight — for this world is something to see, I tell you! Chock-full of wonders! If I lived to a hundred I should never be able to look at them all. I’d like someone to look at them with me — a pretty woman, with bright, tender eyes and little, kind hands; but suppose she wouldn’t look — hadn’t the sense to look? That ‘ud be worse than lonesomeness! After all, I guess I’m pretty well off as I am! And for the poor little Gospeller sleeping in there” — and he made an instinctive gesture toward his shanty— “I hope he’ll get to heaven if he wants to. Only I just can’t fancy him with a crown on and a pair of wings!”
A slow smile irradiated his dark face — a smile altogether kindly and compassionate. Anon he lifted his eyes to the starred sky, and as he did so a meteor flashed up suddenly and came glittering downward through the dark in a trailing flame of glory. Its fall was followed by a distant thudding sound, like the echo of spent thunder. And in the silence that followed it seemed to Brown Jim that a voice spoke in the air, saying:
“Stand still and consider the wondrous works of God.”
A great awe enveloped his mind — an awe that in a poet would have awakened inspiration. But in him it remained what it was — an adoring devotion to the Unseen Power of which it is said:
“And God saw everything that He had made, and, behold, it was very good.”
Early morning and the first golden hint of sunrise saw him guiding the missioner to the safest and best road through the bush toward the nearest village, called by courtesy a town. When the point of severance arrived Matheson was conscious of a real regret at parting with this big, sincere, simple, upright naan.
“Good-bye!” said he, as he shook hands. “You’ve been very kind — and I shall always pray for you.”
“Don’t you do that!” said Jim, smiling. “It’ll give ye a deal of trouble for nothing!”
“Oh, no,” declared Matheson, “it will be a pleasure! And maybe I’ll send you someone to love!” Jim’s dark, level brows met in a quick frown. “Don’t try that on, Mister Gospeller!” he said, “I warn ye! None o’ those sort o’ games with me! If any woman’s coining my way she’ll come of her own accord; and if she’s not to come, why she won’t! You stick to the praying for yourself and your wife — that’s quite enough for you to take on night an’ morning. Don’t ye worry your head about me! Once through the bush it’s likely ye’ll forget ye ever saw me!”
“It’s not at all likely,” replied Matheson, with real sincerity; “I shall never forget you! You’re not a man one can forget.”
Jim’s slow smile again lit up his blue eyes.
“Well,” he said, “if that’s so, why, so it is! The best of luck to you! Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
They shook hands. Matheson was tempted to utter a pious “God bless you!” but somehow he felt that his benediction was unnecessary. Yes — quite unnecessary for this big, upstanding, straight-minded man of the forests and the hills — inasmuch as God’s blessing was already so plainly upon him. He turned away reluctantly, and, walking at as smart a pace as he could, soon lost sight of the tall figure and dark head, uplifted to watch him through the first half mile of the bush — while Brown Jim, retracing his steps to his own shanty and to the work of the day, amused himself by reviewing his own “problem.”
“Guess I gave that poor little shaver something to think about!” he said, addressing the warm, palpitating presence of Nature all about him. “Mebbe he never met a man before who hadn’t anybody waiting for him in heaven nor t’other place, and as a consequence hadn’t much fancy for either! It won’t hurt him to consider it! These chaps take it all too much for granted that everybody wants to go to heaven!
Some don’t. It all depends on who’s there to say how-d’ye-do. There’s no heaven without a friend in it. And if the Almighty Supreme puts a man like me all alone in a place — a sort of Adam over again without Eve — why, it’s not easy to beat this in the way of a garden view!”
And he looked up at the fully risen sun with the undazzled glance of an eagle. Its splendour bathed the distant hills with changeful hues of rose and violet and gold, and beneath its spreading canopy of flaming rays the earth glistened, wet with the moisture of hidden rivulets and springs. Bright-winged birds and butterflies flew to and fro — and there was a strange, subtle, and delicious odour arising from the long grass and unseen herbs growing close to the ground, as well as from the pine-trees lifting their tapering points to the sky. It was a moment of the morning when all creation thrilled with the expectation of the full day. And just then Jim’s “pro-blem” ceased to be a problem at all. It was solved by the man’s own power of manhood, which swept him dose to the divine influences which had brought him into being; and he was glad to be alone. Any companion — Eve herself — would have been an unwelcome intruder upon the splendid serenity and the intense spirit of worship and gratitude which possessed the whole consciousness of this particular Adam in his own Eden. He straightened himself and drew in the rich, warm, life-giving air.
“If heaven is anyway like this,” he said, “I could do with it! And I wouldn’t ask for any one to meet me there, neither! And — till I get there — if I ever do — this is good enough! No prayers for me, thank you — not so long as I’ve strength to praise God for all His beauty! Amen!”
THE BOY
AN EPISODE
THEY were sitting opposite each other at a table for two in a certain restaurant made “popular” during the “Danse Macabre” of the war. The Boy was fair, with bold, clear blue eyes under well-arched brows — and save for a certain delicate sensitiveness in the lines of his mouth and chin, his features made what is called a “strong” face. The Girl — his companion — was pretty, with that sort of prettiness found every day among barmaids and waitresses — good skin, plenty of hair, excellent false teeth, and roving eyes which wandered where they listed without any marked expression in them save lively self-appreciation and sharp inquisitiveness. She was older than the Boy, but by reason of her artistic make-up, delicately tinted cheeks, and overrubied lips, passed muster for being as young, or younger. He had met her at one of the “halls”; she had dropped her purse, he had picked it up for her, and then had assisted her to make way through the crowd that pushed to the door of exit; and she, seeing from the badge on his khaki that he was from overseas, and a lieutenant in a Canadian regiment, engaged him in conversation with many provocative flashes of the roving eyes aforesaid, with the result that the Boy was somewhat dazzled and attracted by her prettiness, and asked her to lunch with him next day. Very rash and silly of him! — but “boys will be boys!” She told him she was “in the War Office” — (by the way, it is remarkable what a number of “painted-lady” butterflies find work in that important section of Government activity!) — a statement which he confidingly accepted.
Their little luncheon together was quite pleasant — she chatted girlishly, and amused him for the moment, till, the meal being over, he offered her a cigarette, and lighting one himself, began to smoke, looking at her half-dubiously, half-admiringly, through a thin blue mist of tobacco.
