The Angel of the Gila Part 7

"Would you mind telling me the humanitarian notions that made you willing to bury yourself in this G.o.dless place?"

She hesitated. The catechism evidently annoyed her, for it seemed to savor of impertinent curiosity. But at last she answered:

"I believe my grandfather is responsible for the humanitarian notions.

It is a long story."

She hesitated.

"I am interested in what he has done, and what you are doing. Please tell me about it."

"Well, it goes back to my childhood. I was my grandfather's constant companion until I went to college. He is a well-known philanthropist of New England, interested in the poor, in convicts in prison and out, in temperance work, in the enfranchis.e.m.e.nt of woman, in education, and in everything that makes for righteousness."

She paused.

"And he discussed great questions with you?"

"Yes, as though in counsel. He would tell me certain conditions, and ask me what I thought we had better do."

"An ideal preparation for philanthropic service." He was serious now.

"There awoke within me, very early, the purpose to serve my fellow men in the largest possible way. Grandfather fostered this; and when the time came for me to go to college, he helped me plan my course of study." She looked far away.

"You followed it out?"

"Very nearly. You see, Mr. Hastings, service is no accident with me.

It dates back generations. It is in my blood."

"Your blood is of the finest sort. Surely service does not mean living in close touch with immoral, disreputable people."

Her eyes kindled, grew dark in color.

"What _does_ it mean, then? The strong, the pure, the G.o.dly should live among men, teach by precept and example how to live, and show the loveliness of pure living just as Jesus did. I have visited prisons with grandfather, have prayed with and for criminals, and have sung in the prisons. Is it not worth while to help these wretched creatures look away from themselves to G.o.d?"

"Oh, Miss Bright," he protested, "it is dreadful for a young girl like you even to hear of the wickedness of men."

"Women are wicked, too," she responded seriously, "but I never lose hope for any one."

"Some day hope will die out in your heart," he said discouragingly.

"G.o.d forbid!" she spoke solemnly. In a moment she continued:

"I am sure you do not realize how many poor creatures never have had a chance to be decent. Just think how many are born of sinful, ignorant parents, into an environment of sin and ignorance. They live in it, they die in it. I, by no will or merit of my own, received a blessed heritage. My ancestors for generations have been intelligent, G.o.dly people, many of them people of distinction. I was born into an atmosphere of love, of intelligence, of spirituality, and of refinement. I have lived in that atmosphere all my life. My good impulses have been fostered, my wrong ones checked."

"I'll wager you were painfully conscientious," he said.

"Why should I have been given so much," she continued, "and these poor creatures so little, unless it was that I should minister to their needs?"

"You may be right." He seemed unconvinced. "But I am sure of one thing. If I had been your grandfather, and you my grandchild, I never would have let you leave me."

He was smiling.

"You should know my grandfather, and then you would understand."

"How did you happen to come to Gila?" he asked.

"I met Mr. and Mrs. Clayton in the home of one of their friends in England. We were house guests there at the same time. We returned to America on the same steamer. Mrs. Clayton knew I was to do settlement work, and urged me to come to Gila a while instead. So I came."

How much her coming was beginning to mean to him, to others! Both were silent a while. Then it was Kenneth who spoke.

"Do you know, Miss Bright, it never occurred to me before you came, that I had any obligations to these people? Now I know I have. I was indifferent to the fact that I had a soul myself until you came."

She looked up questioningly.

"Yes, I mean it," he said. "To all intents and purposes I had no soul.

A man forgets he has a soul when he lives in the midst of vice, and no one cares whether he goes to the devil or not."

"Is it the environment, or the feeling that no one cares?" she asked.

"Both." He buried his face in his hands.

"Did you feel that no one cared? I'm sure your mother cared."

She had touched a sore spot.

"My mother?" he said, bitterly. "My mother is a woman of the world."

Here he lifted his head. "She is engrossed in society. She has no interest whatever in me, and never did have, although I am her only child."

"Perhaps you are mistaken," she said softly. "I am sure you must be mistaken."

"When a mother lets year after year go by without writing to her son, do you think she cares?"

"You don't mean to say that you never receive a letter from your mother?"

"My mother has not written to me since I came to America. Suppose your mother did not write to you. Would you think she had a very deep affection for you?"

Esther's face grew wistful.

"Perhaps you do not know," she answered, "I have no living mother. She died when I was born."

"Forgive my thoughtless question," he said. "I did not know you had lost your mother. I was selfish."

"Oh, no," she said, "not selfish. You didn't know, that was all. We sometimes make mistakes, all of us, when we do not know. I lost my father when I was a very little child."

"And your grandfather reared you?"

"Yes, grandfather, a.s.sisted by my uncle and auntie."

"Tell me about your grandfather, I like to hear."