John Marvel, Assistant Part 31

"Who? How?" I asked, as he paused, evidently following a train of reflection, while his eyes glowed.

"Why, ah! even a man like--Mr. Leigh, who though the product of an erroneous system is, at least, a broad man and a just one."

"Is he? I do not know him. Tell me about him." For I was suddenly interested.

Then he told me of Mr. Leigh and his work in trying to secure better service for the public, better tenements--better conditions generally.

"But they have defeated him," he said bitterly. "They turned him out of his directorship--or, at least, he got out--and are fighting him at every turn. They will destroy him, if possible. They almost have him beat now. Well, it is nothing to me," he added with a shrug of his shoulders and a sort of denial of the self-made suggestion. "He is but an individual victim of a rotten system that must go."

My mind had drifted to the conference which I had witnessed in McSheen's office not long before, when suddenly Wolffert said,

"Your old friend, Peck, appears to have gotten up. I judge he is very successful--after his kind."

"Yes, it would seem so," I said dryly, with a sudden fleeting across my mind of a scene from the past, in which not Peck figured, but one who now bore his name; and a slightly acrid taste came in my mouth at the recollection. "Well, up or down, he is the same," I added.

"He is a serpent," said Wolffert. "You remember how he tried to make us kill each other?"

"Yes, and what a fool I made of myself."

"No, no. He was at the bottom of it. He used to come and tell me all the things you said and--didn't say. He made a sore spot in my heart and kept it raw. He's still the same--reptile."

"Have you seen him?" I asked. He leaned back and rested his eyes on me.

"Yes, he took the trouble to hunt me up a day or two ago, and for some reason went over the whole thing again. What's McSheen to him?"

"I shall break his neck some day, yet," I observed quietly.

"You know I write," he said explanatorily. "He wanted me to write something about you."

"About me?"

"Yes."

"What a deep-dyed scoundrel he is!"

"Yes, he wanted to enlist me on the McSheen side, but--" his eyes twinkled. "Where do you go to church?" he suddenly asked me.

I told him, and I thought he smiled possibly at what I feared was a little flush in my face.

"To 'St. Mammon's!' Why don't you go to hear John Marvel? He is the real thing."

"John Marvel? Where is he?"

"Not far from where you say you live. He preaches out there--to the poor."

"In a chapel?" I inquired.

"Everywhere where he is," said Wolffert, quietly.

"What sort of a preacher is he?"

"The best on earth, not with words, but with deeds. His life is his best sermon."

I told him frankly why I had not gone, though I was ashamed, for we had grown confidential in our talk. But Wolffert a.s.sured me that John Marvel would never think of anything but the happiness of meeting me again.

"He is a friend whom G.o.d gives to a man once in his lifetime," he said, as he took his leave. "Cherish such an one. His love surpa.s.seth the love of women."

"Has he improved?" I asked.

A little spark flashed in Wolffert's eyes. "He did not need to improve.

He has only ripened. G.o.d endowed him with a heart big enough to embrace all humanity--except--" he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "the Jew."

"I do not believe that."

"By the way, I have a friend who tells me she has met you. Your dog appears to have made quite an impression on her."

"Who is she?"

"Miss Leigh, the daughter of the gentleman we were talking about."

"Oh! yes--a fine girl--I think," I said with a casual air--to conceal my real interest.

"I should say so! She is the real thing," he exclaimed. "She told me you put out her fire for her. She teaches the waifs and strays."

"Put out her fire! Was ever such ingrat.i.tude! I made her fire for her.

Tell me what she said."

But Wolffert was gone, with a smile on his face.

XXII

THE PREACHER

So, "the preacher" whom my client, McNeil, and my poor neighbors talked of was no other than John Marvel! I felt that he must have changed a good deal since I knew him. But decency, as well as curiosity, required that I go to see him. Accordingly, although I had of late gone to church only to see a certain worshipper, I one evening sauntered over toward the little rusty-looking chapel, where I understood he preached. To my surprise, the chapel was quite full, and to my far greater surprise, old John proved to be an inspiring preacher. Like Wolffert, he had developed. When he came to preach, though the sermon was mainly hortatory and what I should have expected of him, his earnestness and directness held his congregation, and I must say he was far more impressive than I should have imagined he could be. His sermon was as far from the cut-and-dried discourse I was used to hear, as life is from death.

He spoke without notes and directly from his heart. His text, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden." He made it out to be a positive promise of rest for the weary in body, mind and soul, given by One not only able to help, but longing to do so: a pitying Father, who saw His tired children struggling under their burdens and yearned toward them. The great Physician was reaching out His hands to them, longing to heal them, if they but received Him; if they but followed Him. To be converted meant to turn from what they knew to be evil and try to live as they felt He lived. He had come to bring the gospel to the poor. He had been poor--as poor as they. He knew their sorrows and privations and weakness; and their sins, however black they were. All He asked was that they trust Him, and try to follow Him, forgetting self and helping others. Do not be afraid to trust Him, or despair if He does not make Himself known to you. He is with you even until the end--and often as much when you do not feel it as when you do.

G.o.d appeared very real to him, and also to his hearers, who hung on his words as simple as they were. I felt a seriousness which I had long been a stranger to. He appeared to be talking to me, and I set it down to tenderness for old John Marvel himself, rather than to his subject.

When the service was over, he came down the aisle speaking to the congregation, many of whom he appeared to know by name, and whose concerns he also knew intimately. And as the children crowded around him with smiles of friendliness, I thought of the village preacher with the children following, "with endearing wile."

His words were always words of cheer.

"Ah! Mrs. Tams! Your boy got his place, didn't he?