The Angel of His Presence (4 page)

Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and his work so well, had placed in the new, freshly washed decanter a small quantity of the rare old Scotch whiskey that had come with it. Thomas knew good whiskey when he saw—that is, tasted—it, and he was proud of a master to whom such a gift
had been given
. John Stanley did not expect to find anything in his decanter until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that effect. He was new to the ways of a "man" who so well understood his business. As he jerked the offending article toward him, some of this whiskey spilled out of the top that
had perhaps not been firmly closed
after Thomas had fully tested the whiskey. Its fumes so astonished its owner that, he knew not how, he dropped the decanter and it shivered into fragments at his feet on the dull red tiles of the hearth.

Ann
oyed beyond measure, and wonder
ing why his hand had been so unsteady, he rang the bell for Thomas and ordered him
to take away the fragments and wipe the whiskey from the hearth. Then he seated himself once more
till
it was done.
And
all the time those eyes, so sad and reproachful now, were looking through and through him.

"Thomas!" he spoke
sharply,
and the man came about face suddenly with the broom an
d dustpan in hand on which glit
tered the crystals of delicate cutting. "Where is the rest of that—that stuff?"

Thomas understood. He swung open the little door at the side of the chimney. "Right here at hand, sir! Shall I pour you out some, sir?" he said, as he lifted the demijohn.

John Stanley's entire face flushed with shame. His impulse was severely to rebuke the impertinence, nay the insult, of the servant to one who
had always been known
as a temperance man.
But
he reflected that the servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he himself had perhaps given the man reason to think that it would be acceptable by the very fact that he had these things among his personal effects. Then
too
, his eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised them to answer, and he could not
speak that harsh word quite in that tone with Jesus looking at him.

He wai
ted to clear his throat, and an
swered in a quieter tone, though still severely: "No; you may take it out and throw it away. I never use it."

"Yes,
sir," answered Thomas impassive
ly; but h
e marveled.
Nevertheless
he for
gave his master, and took the demijohn to his own room. He was willing to be humble enough to have
it thrown away on him.
But
as h
e passed the servant's piazza, the cook who sat resting from her day's labors there and planning for the morrow's menu, heard him mutter:

"As
sure as I live, it's the pictu
r
e
. It's got some kind o' a spell."

AFTER Thomas had left the room with the demijohn, his master seemed relieved. He began to walk up and down his room and hum an air from the German opera. He wanted to forget the unpleasant
occur
rence. After all, he was glad the hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one's fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and would not need to
be explained
. He walke
d about, still humming and look
ing at his room, and still that picture seemed to follow and be a part of his consciousness wherever he went.
It certainly was well h
ung, and gave the strong impres
sion of being a part of the room itself.
He
looked at it critically from a new point of view, and as he faced it, once more he was in the upper chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, "Yet a little while, and the world
seeth
me no more"; and he real
ized that he was in the presence of the scene of the end of his Master's mission.
He walked back to the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts away, and passing the table where stood his elegantly mounted smoking set, he decided to smoke. It was about the usual hour for his bedtime smoke, anyway. He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and lighted it with one of the matches in the silver match safe, and for an instant turned with a feeling of lazy, delicious luxury in the use of his new
room and all its appliances. Un
consciously he seated himself again before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to puff the smoke into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts wander as he closed his eyes.

Suppose, ah, suppose that someone, say the "
ladye
of high degree," should be there, should belong there, and should come and stand behind his chair. He could see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might
reach
over and touch his hair
and laugh lightly. He tried to imagine it, but in spite of
him
the laugh rang out in his thoughts scornfully like a sharp, silver bell th
at be
longed to someone else. He glanced over his shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above the smoke. She did not mind smoke. He had seen her face behind a wreath of smoke several times. It seemed a natural setting.
But
the dream seemed an empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at a new angle. How rosy the light
was as it played
on the hearth and how glad he was to be at home again. That was enough for
tonight. The "
ladye
of high de
gree" might stay in her home across the sea for this time. He was content.

Then he raised his eyes to the picture above without knowing it, and there he was smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least
so
he felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously careful never to smoke in or about a church.
He used to give long, ear
nest lectures on the subject to some of the boys of t
he mission who would smoke ciga
rettes and pipes on the steps of the church before service. He remembered them now with satisfaction, and he also remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had arisen from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which had been suppressed by his friends, but which had cut at the time, and which he had always wondered over a little. He had seen no inconsistency in speaking so to the boys in view of his own actions.
Bu
t now
, as he looked at that pic
ture he felt as though he were smoking in church with the service going on. The smoke actually hid his Master's face. He took down his cigar and looked up with a feeling of apolo
gy, but this was involun
tary. His irritation
was rising again.
The idea of a picture upsetting him so!
He must be tired or his nerves unsettled. There was no more harm in smoking in front of that picture than before any other. "Confound that picture!" he said, as he rose and walked over to the bay window, "I'll have it hung somewhere else tomorrow. I
won't
have the thing around. No,
it'll
have to be left here till after that reception, I suppose; but after
that it shall go.
Such a consum
mate nuisance!"

He stood looking out of the open window with a scowl. He reflected that it was a strange thing for him to
be so affected
by a
picture, a mere imagination of the brain. He would
not let it be so. He would over
come it. Then he turned
and tramped delib
erately up and down that room, smoking away as hard as he could, and when he thought his equilibrium
was restored
, he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, just casually as anyone might who had never thought of it before. His eyes fell and he went on, back and forth, looking every time at the picture, and every time the eyes of that central figure watched him with that same sad, loving look. At
last
he went to the window again and angrily threw up the screen, threw his half-smoked cigar far out into the shrubbery of the garden, saying as he did so, "Confound it all!"

It was the evening before the recept
ion. It was growing toward nine
o'clock, and John Stanley had retired to his wing to watch the fire and consider what a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that room since the first night of his return. He had not yielded to such weakness all at once
nor
with the consent of himself. He had thought at first that he really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side piazza,
but as the days went by he began to see that he was avoiding his own new room.
And
it was all because of that picture. He glanced vengefully in the direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly now if he could help it. His elegant smoking set was reposing in the chimney cupboard, locked there with a vicious click of the key by the hand of the young owner himself.

It was not only smoking,
but
other things that the
picture affected. There for in
stance was the pack of cards he had placed upon the table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design. He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They seemed out of place. Not that he felt ashamed of the cards. On the contrary he had expected to be quite proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he had acquired abroad, having never been particularly led in that direction by his surroundings before he had left home. Was this room becoming a church that he could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a sketch or two and a bit of
statuary which
he had brought in his trunk because they had been overlooked in the packing
of the other things. That morn
ing he brought them down to his room, but
the large picture refused to have them there. There was no harm in the sketches, only they did not fit into the same wall with the great picture, there was no harmony in their themes. The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness, true, but it was beautiful and would have looked wonderfully well on the mantel against the rich, dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that picture. It was becoming
a bondage
, that picture, and after tomorrow night he would banish it to—where? Not his bedroom, for it would work its spell there as well.

Just
h
ere
there came a tap on the win
dowsill, followed by a hoarse, half-shy whisper:

"Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?"

He looked up, startled. The voice had a familiar n
ote in it, but he did not recog
nize the two tall,
lank
figures outside in the darkness, clad in cheap best clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and self-respect.

"Who is
it?" he asked sharply and suspi
ciously.

"It's me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You
ain't
forgot me yet, I know.
And
this one's
my fri
end, Bert; you know him all right too. May we come in here? We
don't
want to go to the front door
and make trouble with the door
bell and see folks; we thought maybe you'd just let us come in where you was. We hung around
till
we found your room. We
knowed
the new part was yours, 'cause your father told the committee, you know, when they went to tell about the picture."

Light began to dawn on the young man.
Certainly
he remembered Joe Andrews, and had meant to hunt him up someday and tell him he was glad to hear he was doing well and living right, but he was in no mood to see him tonight. Why could he not have waited until tomorrow night when the others were to come?
Was not that enough?
But
of course he wanted to get a word of thanks all his own. It had been on his tongue to tell Joe he was unusually busy tonight, and would he come another time, or wa
it
till
tomorrow, but the remem
brance o
f the picture made that seem un
gracious. He would let them in for a few minutes. They probably wished to report that they had seen the picture in the room before the general view should be given, so
he unfast
ened the heavy French plate win
dow and let the two in, turning up as he did so the lights in the room, so that the picture might be seen.

They came in, lank and awkward, as though their best clothes someway hurt them, and they did not know what to do with their feet and the chairs. They did not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single file, looking as if they wished they were out now they were in. Their eyes went immediately to the picture.
It was the way of that picture to draw all eyes that entered the room,
and John Stanley noted this with the same growing irritation he had felt all day.
But
over their faces there grew that softened look of wonder and awe and amazem
ent, and, to John Stanley's sur
prise, of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the eyes of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now, and his fancy made it seem that the Master was looking at these two, well pleased. Could it be that he was better pleased with these two ignorant boys than with him, John Stanley, polished
gentleman
and cultured Christian that he trusted he was?

He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the softened look of deep purpose the night Joe had told him beneath the vines of his intention to serve Christ, and now standing in the presence of the boy again and remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before, there swept over him the thrill of delight again that a soul had been saved.
His
heart, long unused to such emo
tions, fe
lt weak, and he sat down and mo
tioned the boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of the picture had braced up the two to whatever mission theirs had been, for their faces were set in steady purpose, though it was evident that this mission was embarrassing. They looked at one another helplessly as if each hoped the other would begin, and at
last
Joe plunged in.

"Mr. Stanley, you be
e
n so good to us we thought 'twas only fair to you we should tell you. That is, we thought you'd like it, and anyway, maybe you wouldn't take it amiss."

John Stanley's heart was kind, and he had been deeply interested in this boy once. It all came back to him now, and he
felt a strong desire to help him on, though he wondered what could be the nature of his errand.

Joe caught his breath and went on. "You see, she
don't
know about it. She's heard so much of you, and she never heard that, not even when they was talking about the den and all
at the store, she was just
look
in
' at the picture and him," raising his eyes reverently to the picture on the wall, "and we never thought to tell her afore, and her so set against it.
And
we thought anyway afterward maybe you'd quit. Some do. We all did, but that was her
doin
'.
But
we thought you'd like to know, and if you had quit she needn't never be told at all, and if you hadn't, why we thought maybe '
twouldn't
be
nothin
' for you to quit now, 'fore she ever knew about it."

The slow red was stealing up into the face of John Stanley. He was utterly at a loss to understand what this meant, and yet he felt that he
was being arraigned
.
And
in such a way! So humbly and by such almost adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and wrong to give way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation, or even offended dignity on his part.