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them blandly. From within came the sound of singing. To Kelcey there were a million voices. He dreaded the terrible moment when the doors should swing back. He wished to recoil, but at that instant the bland man pushed the doors aside, and he followed his mother up the centre aisle of the little chapel. To him there was a riot of lights that made him transparent. The multitudinous pairs of eyes that turned toward him were implacable in their cool valuations.
They had just ceased singing. He who conducted the meeting motioned that the service should wait until the new-comers found seats. The little old woman went slowly on toward the first rows. Occasionally she paused to scrutinize vacant places, but they did not seem to meet her requirements. Kelcey was in agony. He thought the moment of her decision would never come. In his unspeakable haste he walked a little faster than his mother.
Once she paused to glance in her calculating way at some seats and he forged ahead. He halted abruptly and returned, but by that time she had resumed her thoughtful march up the aisle. He could have assassinated her. He felt that everybody must have seen his torture, during which his hands were to him like monstrous swollen hides. He was wild with a rage in which his lips turned slightly livid. He was capable of doing some furious, unholy thing.
When the little old woman at last took a seat, her son sat down beside her slowly and stiffly. He was opposing his strong desire to drop.
When from the mists of his shame and humiliation the scene came before his vision, he was surprised to find that all eyes were not fastened upon his face. The leader of the meeting seemed to be the only one who saw him. He stared gravely, solemnly, regretfully. He was a pale-faced but plump young man in a black coat that buttoned to his chin. It was evident to Kelcey that his mother had spoken of him to the young clergyman, and that the latter was now impressing upon him the sorrow caused by the con- templation of his sin. Kelcey hated the man.
A man seated alone over in a corner began to sing. He closed his eyes and threw back his head. Others, scattered sparsely throughout the innumerable light-wood chairs, joined him as they caught the air.
Kelcey heard his mother’s frail, squeaking soprano. The chandelier in the centre was the only one lighted, and far at the end of the room one could discern the pulpit swathed in gloom, solemn and mystic as a bier. It was surrounded by vague shapes of darkness on which at times was the glint of brass, or of glass that shone like steel, until one could feel there the presence of the army of the unknown, possessors of the great eternal truths, and silent listeners at this ceremony. High up, the stained glass windows loomed in leaden array like dull-hued banners, merely catching occasional splashes of dark wine-colour from the lights. Kelcey fell to brooding concerning this indefinable presence which he felt in a church.
One by one people arose and told little tales of their religious faith. Some were tearful, and others calm, emotionless, and convincing.
Kelcey listened closely for a time. These people filled him with a great curiosity. He was not familiar with their types.
At last the young clergyman spoke at some length.
Kelcey was amazed, because, from the young man’s appearance, he would not have suspected him of being so glib; but the speech had no effect on Kelcey, excepting to prove to him again that he was damned.
CHAPTER XII
Kelcey sometimes wondered whether he liked beer. He had been obliged to cultivate a talent for imbibing it. He was born with an abhorrence which he had steadily battled until it had come to pass that he could drink from ten to twenty glasses of beer without the act of swallowing causing him to shiver. He understood that drink was an essential to joy, to the coveted position of a man of the world and of the streets. The saloons contained the mystery of a street for him. When he knew its saloons he comprehended the street.
Drink and its surroundings were the eyes of a superb green dragon to him. He followed a fascinating glitter, and the glitter required no explanation.
Directly after old Bleecker’s party he almost reformed. He was tired and worn from the tumult of it, and he saw it as one might see a skeleton emerged from a crimson cloak. He wished then to turn his face away.
Gradually, however, he recovered his mental balance. Then he admitted again by his point of view that the thing was not so terrible. His headache had caused him to exaggerate. A ‘drunk’ was not the blight which he had once remorsefully named it. On the contrary, it was a mere unpleasant incident. He resolved, however, to be more cautious.
When prayer-meeting night came again his mother approached him hopefully. She smiled like one whose request is already granted.
‘Well, will yeh go t’ prayer-meetin’ with me t’-night again?’
He turned toward her with eloquent suddenness, and then riveted his eyes upon a corner of the floor.
‘Well, I guess not,’ he said.
His mother tearfully tried to comprehend his state of mind.
‘What has come over yeh?’ she said tremblingly. ‘Yeh never used t’ be this way, George. Yeh never used t’ be so cross an’ mean t’ me—’
‘Oh, I ain’t cross an’ mean t’ yeh,’ he interpolated, exasperated and violent.
‘Yes, yeh are, too! I ain’t hardly had a decent word from yeh in ever so long. Yer as cross an’ as mean as yeh can be. I don’t know what t’ make of it. It can’t be’—there came a look in her eyes that told that she was going to shock and alarm him with her heaviest sentence—‘it can’t be that yeh’ve got t’ drinkin’.’
Kelcey grunted with disgust at the ridiculous thing. ‘Why, what an old goose yer gettin’ t’ be!’
She was compelled to laugh a little, as a child laughs between tears at a hurt. She had not been serious. She was only trying to display to him how she regarded his horrifying mental state. ‘Oh, of course I didn’t mean that, but I think yeh act jest as bad as if yeh did drink. I wish yeh would do better, George!’
She had grown so much less frigid and stern in her censure that Kelcey seized the opportunity to try to make a joke of it. He laughed at her, but she shook her head and continued: ‘I do wish yeh would do better. I don’t know what’s t’ become ‘a yeh, George. Yeh don’t mind what I say no more’n if I was th’ wind in th’ chimbly. Yeh don’t care about nothin’ ‘cept goin out nights. I can’t ever get yeh t’ prayermeetin’ ner church; yeh never go out with me anywheres unless yeh can’t get out of it; yeh swear an’ take on sometimes like everything; yeh never—’
He gestured wrathfully in interruption. ‘Say, lookahere, can’t yeh think ‘a something I do?’
She ended her oration then in the old way—‘An’ I don’t know what’s goin’ t’ become ‘a yeh.’
She put on her bonnet and shawl and then came and stood near him expectantly. She imparted to her attitude a subtle threat of unchangeableness. He pretended to be engrossed in his newspaper. The little swaggering clock on the mantel became suddenly evident, ticking with loud monotony. Presently she said firmly, ‘Well, are yeh comin’?’
He was reading.
‘Well, are yeh comin’?’
He threw his paper down angrily. ‘Oh, why don’t yeh go on an’ leave me alone?’ he demanded in supreme impatience. ‘What do yeh wanta pester me fer? Ye’d think there was robbers. Why can’t yeh go alone or else stay home? You wanta go, an’ I don’t wanta go, an’ yeh keep all time tryin’ t’ drag me. Yeh know I don’t wanta go.’ He concluded in a last defiant wounding of her. ‘What do I care ‘bout those of bags-‘a-wind, anyhow? They gimme a pain!’
His mother turned her face and went from him. He sat staring with a mechanical frown. Presently he went and picked up his newspaper.
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