On the Lightship Part 2

"No, modern," corrected Mr. Hopworthy.

"Modern in setting, though mediaeval in spirit," said Mr. Ferris, taking off his hat.

"Ah, that, indeed!" breathed Mr. Hopworthy. "I shall not soon forget your opening description; that picture of the old cathedral, lighted only by the far, faint flicker of an occasional taper, burning before some shrined saint. I can see him now, _Ignatius_, the young monk, as he moves in silence from one to another of the alms-boxes, gathering into his leathern bag the offerings that have been deposited by the faithful."

"I think he had a light," suggested the author of short stories, who was listening, critically.

"Of course; a flaming torch."

"How sweet of him!" Mabel murmured, and Mr. Hopworthy went on.

"There were twelve boxes--were there not?--upon as many pillars, and in each box, in addition to the customary handful of copper _sous_, there lay, as I recall it, a silver coin----"

"You will perceive the symbolism," the author whispered.

"It is perfect," sighed Mabel.

"Never had such a thing occurred before," continued Mr. Hopworthy, who appeared to know the story very well, "and in the solitude of his cell, _Ignatius_ sat for hours contemplating the riches that had so strangely come into his hand. His first thought was of the poor, to whom, of right, the alms belonged; but, when he recalled the avarice of _The Abbot_, his heart misgave him----"

"Rather a striking situation, I thought," remarked the writer. "Go on a little further, please."

"I wish I could," said Mr. Hopworthy, "but this is where your keen a.n.a.lysis comes in, your irresistible logic. I confess you went a shade beyond my radius of thought."

"Perhaps," admitted the other. "Very likely." But he had now caught the spirit of his own production, and, turning to his neighbor, he went on to explain:

"My purpose was to present a problem, to suggest a conflict of emotions, quite in the manner of Huysmans. Should _The Abbot_, who is but the type of sordid wisdom, be consulted, or should _The Almoner_, symbolizing self, obey the higher call of elementary impulse?"

"And which did _Ignatius_ do?" Mabel asked.

"I fear you fail to catch my meaning," said the author. "It is the soul-struggle we are a.n.a.lyzing----"

"But he must have come to some conclusion?"

"Not necessarily," said Mr. Ferris, gravely. "A soul-struggle is continuous, it goes on----" Mr. Ferris waved his white hand toward infinity.

"But did not _Ignatius_ decide to put the money where it would do the most good?" inquired Mr. Hopworthy.

"The phrase is yours," responded Mr. Ferris, "but it conveys my meaning dimly."

"As I recall the story," the other went on, "he resolved to sacrifice his own prejudices to the service of his fellow-creatures. But, when he thought of all who stood in need--the peasants tilling the fields, the sailors on the sea, the soldiers in the camp--he decided that it would be better to confine the benefit to one deserving object."

"A very sensible decision," Mabel opined, and Mr. Ferris muttered:

"Yes, that was my idea."

As the voices of the garden came to them on the summer breeze, he made a movement to consult his watch.

"You see my little problem," he observed. "The rest is immaterial."

"But I so liked the part where the young monk, filled with his n.o.ble purpose, stole from the monastery by night," said Mr. Hopworthy. "Ah, there was a touch of realism."

"I'm glad you fancied it," replied the author, relapsing into silence.

Mabel tapped the gravel with her foot; it is strange how audible a trifling sound becomes at times.

"Please tell me what he did," she begged. "I never heard a story in which so little happened."

The writer of short stories bit his full red lip, and sat erect.

"The young monk waited till the house was wrapped in sleep," he said, almost defiantly, it seemed. "Then, drawing the great bolt, he went out into the night. The harvest moon was in the sky, and----"

"It rained, I think," suggested Mr. Hopworthy.

"No matter if it did," rejoined the other. "Unmindful of the elements, he wound his cowl about him, and pressed on, fearlessly, into the forest, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Mile after mile he strode--and strode--and strode--until--until--it was time to return----"

"You forget the peasant festival," prompted Mr. Hopworthy.

"Festival?" said Mr. Ferris. "Ah, that was a mere episode, intended to give a sense of contrast."

"Of course," Mr. Hopworthy a.s.sented. "How frivolous beside his own austere life appeared these rustic revels. How calm, by contrast, was the quiet of the cloister----"

"Yes," Mr. Ferris took up the screed, "and, as from a distance he watched their clumsy merriment, he--he--he----"

"He determined to have just one dance for luck," a.s.sisted Mr. Hopworthy.

Perhaps the author, thus hearing the story from another, detected here some flaw of logic, for he did not proceed at once, although Miss Dunbar waited with the most encouraging interest. The momentary pause was put to flight by Mr. Hopworthy.

"Ah, Zola never did anything more daring," he declared. "Even Zola might have hesitated to make _Ignatius_ change clothes with the intoxicated soldier, and leaping into the middle of the ballroom, shout that every gla.s.s must be filled to the brim."

"Hold on!" gasped Mr. Ferris. "There must be some mistake. I swear I never wrote anything like that in my life."

"But you have admitted it!" the other cried. "You cannot conceal it from us now. You are grand. You are sublime!"

"I deny it absolutely," returned Mr. Ferris.

"Please stop discussing, and let me hear the rest," Mabel pouted. "Do go on, Mr. Ferris."

"I can't," said Mr. Ferris, sadly. "My story has been garbled by the printer."

"But the waltz," urged Mr. Hopworthy. "Surely, that waltz was yours."

Perhaps once more the irresistible logic of events became apparent, for, with an effort, Mr. Ferris said:

"Oh, yes, that waltz was mine. Enraptured by its strains, and giddy with the fumes of wine, _The Almoner_ floated in a dream of sensuous delight till suddenly he recalled--suddenly he recalled----"

"If you will pardon another interruption," put in Mr. Hopworthy, "he did nothing of the sort. Suddenly, as you must remember, word was brought that _The Abbot_ was dead, and that _Ignatius_ had been elected in his place."

"You spoil my climax, sir," the author cried. "Dashing the wine cup from his lips, _Ignatius_ then rushed into the night----"