CHAPTER XI

“My Faith?— Which Religion I profess?— None of which I mention make. Wherefore so? And can’t you guess?— For Religion’s sake.” —GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE morning brought counsel to Muriel. She would say nothing. Jack would not return for a year or two, and in the meantime Gladys’ passionate little heart might have turned elsewhere, or in any case the quick pain of certainty be less. For herself she turned her eager mind anew to the work before her. Love acted as a spur upon the discipline of her life; it made the dark places plainer, and lit up with light and hope the saddest mysteries. She was one of those few souls in whom experiences can never conflict or stand in opposition to each other. She knit them link by link into a chain binding her closer and higher towards her ideals. She never thought much about her difficulties until she came up to them, but when she once faced them they helped her afterwards. Edith le Mentier’s delicate insinuation she had felt a passing disgust at, and had straightway brushed aside. Jealousy and suspicion need darkness and a closed-up room; all Muriel’s rooms were open to the sky and bright with sunshine. Nevertheless when she looked at Edith le Mentier she felt an uneasiness she could not account for.

The party broke up the next morning. The doctor and his sister returned to town, while the others went to various other country houses, Muriel and her uncle going to Scotland for the remainder of her holiday. She was impatient to go back to her work, and the month passed in making arrangements and re-arrangements all involving voluminous correspondence. She wrote to Cyril Johnstone about Captain Hurstly’s club work, and as it was under parochial guidance, and various ritual stipulations of the young man’s were agreed to by the open-minded, slightly lax old vicar, he was soon settled in deeply earnest and energetic work such as the slow old parish had never seen before. Yet, as Muriel soon saw, the example of his stern habits and indefatigable labor bore much fruit of admiration and respect, though scarcely that imitation which the zealous young priest expected the doctrines he would have died for to bring forth. He was not satisfied with Muriel’s generous explanation. “It’s your doctrines that have made you, and if the people accept you, surely they are on the way to accept the doctrines?” She returned a week earlier than her uncle wished her to, to encourage Jack’s “Parson,” though she wrote to Jack that “your young priest doesn’t at all approve of me. He considers me a shallow society woman with a club craze, and shakes his head over my unaccountable friendship with you. He gave me splendid advice the other day, and I’m afraid I lost my temper with him, but the gravity with which he regarded me as he said, ‘My dear young lady, I am not speaking to you as a mere man, but from my priestly office,’ restored my sense of humor. . . . But no, Jack, I have a reason for wishing our engagement private. If it were any feeling of my own I would tell you, as it is you must take it on trust as you do me. Did you ever know Mrs. le Mentier very well?”

Muriel wrote the last sentence and then crossed it out. He might think—— Besides, it was so absurd. She felt angry with herself for having crossed it out—it was so unimportant. She was surprised that night by a letter from Cynthia Grant, who had passed out of her mind with the press of duty and pleasure and life. Now, however, she awoke to a vigorous interest.

“You will be surprised at what I am going to ask,” the letter ran, “but I hope that won’t shake you into the negative attitude that it does some people. I’m not going to tell you that I have any ‘religious views’ (and you will excuse me if I say that with most people they are little more—and distant views at that), because I haven’t; only it happens to please me to work, and I like you, consequently if you see any opening for a capable woman doctor who can give free ‘instruction’ to young women and practical help as well, let me know and I’ll come to you. My brother approves of my plan, and is going to get an assistant.

“Yours, “CYNTHIA GRANT, M.D.

“_P.S._—I am particularly anxious for interesting tumors.”

Muriel thought for a moment, then laughed, and wired back: “Please come, plenty of interesting tumors.”

It was the first day of October before the two women settled to work. Life opened before them full, arduous, engrossing. Around them in teeming factories and crowded dust-yards lived the people into whose lives their own brought knowledge, health, horizon. Year after year these sordid lives go on, working until dead-tired they stumble home and stand an hour or two in the close streets full of the dangers and temptations of the city; the holidays’ rough carnivals of over-feeding and drinking. Death, disease and sin the only breaks in the grim monotony of passing years, and now slowly and gradually the change was taking place. From their work the young people streamed into the clubs, and were taught little by little lessons of life, courtesy, truthfulness, honesty; and these not by confronting them with strange virtues, but in developing their own, generosity, kindliness and the marvellous quality of “straightness,” the shield of so many of the poor. Men found billiards and other games, even cards, though gambling was not allowed; they could pass their evenings in social good fellowship without spending their wages or staggering home drunk. Their wives, too, in another part were not less well cared for, and their sons and daughters, kept out of the streets four or five nights out of the seven, were all the more inclined to stay at home on the other two. More than all this, living among them and sharing all they suffered was a “lidy,” who if she had chosen need never have done a stroke of work, or given a thought to anything but pleasure and ease and beauty. Though some of the more hardened jeered at her for her sacrifice, the greater part were drawn in generous animation and gratitude into the work, and even those who jeered left her alone and would have fought any who tried to do her an injury.

“You only touch the fringe,” Cynthia said to her one day. “So what’s the use? When you die it will all sink back again!”

“Do you know,” said Muriel smiling, “I believe there is healing in the very hem of His garment, and that all these children in whom we start a larger life will in time permeate the apathetic multitude. As for ourselves, don’t doubt that when we die the work will not go on. Truly I should be very despairing if I dreamed that such tremendous purposes rested on my shoulders. We just fit in here, that’s all, and make the room larger for the next comer!”

“Humph!” said Cynthia dryly; “after I’d made the room larger, I should prefer sitting in it myself.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Muriel; “you would go on to make an addition to the house!”

“My brother comes here to-night,” Cynthia stated abruptly. “He’s going to bring a magic lantern for the men, and show them some of his Chinese slides.”

“I’m so glad,” said Muriel gratefully.

“Do you like him?” Cynthia asked.

“Like your brother? Of course, very much.”

“So little as that?” cried Cynthia laughing wistfully. “Oh, Muriel, Muriel!” Muriel colored and frowned. It was a subject that visibly annoyed her, and which she tried to ignore. Dr. Grant had been very kind to the club. She had tried to believe he was interested in the work; it was a little baffling to find it hinted that it might be the worker. Cynthia watched her carefully. “Is there nothing besides the work?” she thought to herself. She introduced the subject of a meal, and Muriel laughingly discovered she had forgotten her lunch.

“You were writing letters at lunch time, weren’t you?” suggested Cynthia.