james layton occupied two dingy rooms, in a dilapidated house, situated between a church and a public-house, in as squalid and unwholesome a street as any in the east end of london. in them he spent such time as was left to him—and it was not much—after his active ministrations among the denizens of the miserable neighborhood. they were scantily furnished, and of comforts there were none. he denied himself anything beyond the barest necessities of existence, with the exception of a few books and pipes, which were the companions of his odd moments of leisure, and he read and smoked in a hard wicker chair, destitute even of a cushion. he ate sparingly, of food scarcely better than that on which his neighbors subsisted, and drank little. his clothes were poor, his shirts [pg 118]frayed, and his boots patched—and his income was a thousand pounds a week.
in his work he was unusually broad-minded and unprejudiced. he spent none of his time in efforts to lure the occupants of the public-house on his left into the church on his right. indeed, he was an excellent customer of the former institution, and was on the best of terms with its landlord, who was an ex-pugilist after his kind. he made no discrimination in the dispensation of his charity. he worked on the principle that before he reformed a man he must feed him—so before he attempted to deal with the mind he relieved the body. he was open-handed and unsuspicious—and wonderfully beloved. there were hundreds of people in that street, and many other streets, who would gladly have laid down their lives for him—and who imposed on him shockingly day after day in the minor matters of life. the mad philanthropist never turned away—never refused. he was a builder of men. no one knew, or cared, who he was or whence he came. he never gave account of himself, or spoke of his own affairs. curiosity was the [pg 119]one thing he resented. he enclosed himself, so far as private matters were concerned, within the fortifications of a reserve which no one had succeeded in penetrating. though he held a thousand confidences, he made none. in listening to the experiences of others he never referred to his own, or even hinted whether they had been sweet or bitter. he went on his silent way—and the world was the better for him.
in his bare sitting-room he sat with his face between his hands. a girl knelt on the floor beside him.
she was a remarkable girl. wild, wayward, with all the passions—brimful with untamed vitality—incapable of the common restraints. her face was neither beautiful, nor, perhaps, even pretty—but diana herself might have envied the full, lithe figure, the free grace of her movements. she was the creature of her desires—knowing no laws that opposed them. a primitive woman, from the dawn of the world.
"jim," she pleaded. "jim...."
[pg 120]he made no movement.
"be a man," she whispered. "pull yourself together."
he put her away from him roughly.
"i wish you'd go," he said dully. "i don't want you here."
her face grew whiter. her hands crept to him again. the light of a great love was in her eyes.
"oh, jim," she whispered, "i know i'm not like she was. i'm not beautiful. i'm not wonderful. i haven't anything that she had. oh, i know all that ... so well."
he uncovered his face—it was haggard and bloodless, the face of a man in the throes of a mental hell—and looked at her, almost with revulsion.
"you?" he cried harshly. "you...? you dare to name yourself to me in the same breath with her? get up, and look at yourself!" he pointed to a cracked mirror on the mantel-piece. "look!" he said hoarsely, thrusting her away from him again. "do you see how coarse and heavy and rough you are? she was light and delicate—like a snowflake. [pg 121]she never seemed to touch the ground. your hair is like string—your hands are large—your voice is harsh. her hair was like silk—gold silk in the sunshine. i could see through her hands. her voice was music. i want you to go. you are in my way."
she sprang up, raging.
"she never loved you!" she cried. "she never cared for you—or even thought of you! she wasn't fit to touch you—to look at you!"
his face was aflame.
"stop!" he shouted.
"i hate her!" she declared fiercely. "i hate her memory! i'm glad she's dead!"
he lunged forward from his chair, and seized her. in his fury he nearly struck her.
"as god's above us," he panted, "one more word...." his rage choked him. the words jammed in his throat.
she wrenched herself free. his arms dropped to his sides. he reeled dizzily.
"you may do what you like to me," she cried passionately. "i tell you—i'm glad she's dead! she deserved to die. she was wicked and cruel. i think god himself destroyed her."
[pg 122]he sank back into his chair weakly. a sob shook him.
"god did not destroy her," he said slowly. "god never destroys. he only builds. it is men and women who destroy."
there was a long silence. she came close to him again, all her anger swallowed up in a great sympathy.
"jim," she asked softly ... "was she so much to you?"
he became suddenly rigid.
"how did you come to know her? she wasn't your sort. she couldn't have had anything in common with you. what have you to do with women like that?"
his eyes narrowed threateningly. her questions had struck him into a new alertness. she noticed that his knees were pressed together.
"the papers said she only came to england two months ago—for the first time. it hasn't all happened since then. i know it hasn't. there must have been something else. something before. what was it?"
[pg 123]he sat glaring at her—locking and unlocking his hands.
"it all happened since then," he said jerkily. "i had never seen her before. there was nothing else."
"i don't believe it, jim," she declared. "you are hiding something."
he avoided her steady gaze.
"believe it or not, as you like," he retorted.
"people say there is some secret in your life," she said. "i believe there is. and i believe it was her secret too."
he lunged forward again, in a fresh paroxysm of fury.
"what is it to you?" he cried shrilly—"or to any one? why do you pry? suppose i have my secrets. they are no concern of yours. i give away my money—my life. isn't it enough? what would you be—what would any of them be now—but for me? i work day and night for others. can't i keep my soul to myself?"
"jim," she said gently, "i'm not prying. i don't want to know your secrets. i only [pg 124]wanted to make it lighter for you, if you'd let me."
"you can't make it lighter for me," he returned. "no one can make it lighter. i don't want to be interfered with. i want to be left alone. what right have you to try to judge me?"
"judge you?" she echoed. "who could want to judge you? why, you are the noblest man in all the world. no one could do more good than you do. every man, woman, and child here worships you, and would die for you."
his anger instantly subsided.
"ah, yes!" he said greedily—"tell me that. that's what i want to hear. tell me they worship me—that no one could do more good than i do—that men and women would die for me. go on telling me that!"
her voice thrilled with her love for him.
"you brought us light and life. you have raised hundreds—as you raised me—out of misery and filth. think of all the children you have sent away from this poison into the [pg 125]green fields and the sunshine—who would have died."
"yes! yes!" he cried. "go on! go on! all the children...."
"you are building them," she said—her whole being transformed with tenderness. "you are making them fit to be men and women. they wouldn't have been fit without you. you are teaching them how to be clean and happy. you are showing them that they needn't be the dregs of humanity—that these hovels needn't be their world. you are giving them new interests, new thoughts, new hopes. oh, what could be more wonderful—more splendid? it is god's own work."
"yes! yes!" he cried again. "god's work! i am doing god's work!"
he paced up and down the room eagerly—feasting on her words—drinking her praises as an exhausted man might drink an invigorating draught. he was in the grip of a feverish energy. his blood was racing.
his quick steps shook the wretched room. the floor creaked under his tread. a lamp on the table rattled. the girl watched him nervously. [pg 126]she put out a hand to check him, but he brushed it aside. his looks, his movements, frightened her. he seemed to be gazing out beyond the narrow walls into a space of surging memories, that sported with his reason. he muttered incoherently, oblivious of her presence. she grew frightened.
"jim!" she cried sharply.
he started, and stopped, looking at her vacantly.
"my work," he said restlessly. "i must get on with my work. i haven't done enough ... nearly enough. i must go on building ... go on giving light."
he let her put a hand on his arm and move him gently back to his chair. he sat down, and stared at her in a dazed fashion, as one returning to consciousness.
"why haven't you gone?" he said heavily. "i asked you to go."
"i'm not going, jim," she returned. "i can't leave you like this. you're not fit to be left."
his face darkened again.
"i am perfectly fit to be left," he said hardly. "and i wish to be alone."
[pg 127]"when you are better, i'll go," she said quietly—"if you want me to."
he made a gesture of impatience.
"i am better now," he said wearily. "i am quite well. i want you to go. why do you persist in staying when i want you to go?"
the girl's self-control deserted her. she burst into a storm of weeping.
"i won't go," she sobbed. "i won't go—because you are in trouble—and i love you. i don't care whether you want me or not. i love you."
he heard her indifferently. neither her tears nor her passion moved him.
"don't talk nonsense," he snapped. "love is nothing to me. i hate the word. you might as well talk of loving the monument as me."
"you lifted me up," she cried. "you saved my soul and body. i was lower than any of the others before you came. you taught me—and i've tried to learn your lessons. but, oh, if you didn't mean me to love you, you should have left me where i was."
"you were a good girl," he said, with tired [pg 128]tolerance. "you learnt well. but i didn't mean you to love me. i don't want you to love me. what i have done for you was only part of my work—like the others. i don't want any woman to love me. i tell you, i hate the word. it means nothing to me. i only want to go on...."
her sobs ceased. she stood very still. her face was torn, but he was not looking at her. she turned, and went slowly towards the door, her head bowed. she seemed to be shrunken and small. all her vitality had gone. she moved like an old woman, weakly.
the door opened before she reached it. two men stood in the passage. she started back. one of them came a few paces into the room, looking at the man in the chair.
"mr. james layton?"
he rose unsteadily.
"yes," he said, "i am james layton. what do you want?"
"we are police officers, investigating the murder of miss christine manderson."
the girl uttered a cry, and sprang between them.
[pg 129]"what do you want with him?" she demanded fiercely. "he knows nothing about it. how should he? what is it to do with him?"
the men looked at her with quick interest. but layton silenced her with an imperative gesture.
"i am at your service," he said quietly. "what can i do for you?"
"we are instructed to ask you to be kind enough to return with us to scotland yard to answer a few questions that may assist the investigation of the crime."
"certainly," layton returned, without hesitation.
his face was perfectly calm. he showed no fear or agitation.
"we have a taxi waiting," the man said. he spoke to layton—but he was looking at the girl.
"i will come with you at once," layton replied.
he took up his hat and stick. the girl leant against the wall panting, a hand pressed to her heart.
[pg 130]"jim," she gasped faintly. "jim...."
he turned, with the first sign of kindness he had yet shown to her.
"don't be frightened," he said gently. "i shall be back in an hour or so."
she clutched him desperately.
"you sha'n't go!" she cried wildly. "you sha'n't go!"
he put her aside firmly.
"why shouldn't i go? there is nothing to be afraid of. i must help if i can."
the door closed behind them. the girl moved from the wall, and staggered to the table, leaning on it heavily. she was ashen. her lips were gray. she heard them leave the house—heard the car start, and listened until the sound of it died away in the length of the street. her strength failed. she sank to her knees. a moan of agony escaped her.
"for nothing...." she whispered. "oh, god ... for nothing...."
she heard a quiet tap at the door, but could not answer. she saw the door open slowly. an enormous figure stood on the threshold.
[pg 131]she struggled to her feet.
"what do you want?" she murmured fearfully. "have you come ... for me?"
the figure squeezed its way through the narrow doorway, and closed the door.
"mademoiselle, you are a friend of mr. james layton, who was taken, a few minutes ago, to scotland yard?"
"yes," she cried, "yes. i am his friend. what is it?"
"before the end of the day, mr. layton will be detained on the charge of murder."
she screamed.
"he didn't do it! he didn't do it!"
"the evidence is strong," said the stranger. "he threatened her. he was in the garden when the crime was committed——"
she raised her hand, as if to ward off a blow.
"in the garden?" she shivered. "he was in the garden ... then?"
"he will require much assistance," continued the huge unknown—"and there is no time to lose. will you help him?"
"i would die for him," she choked. "what can i do?"
[pg 132]the stranger re-opened the door.
"come with me, mademoiselle," he said softly—"and i will tell you."
