but an empty future of degradation. I can’t let go of the cursed thing that has overcome me. I’ve no future.”
He started suddenly. Through the empty house of death thrilled the peal of the doorbell, the bell which now so seldom answered the touch of those who had once come there in friendship and love and respect. Who was coming here?
“More misery, I suppose,” reflected Venable, starting up. “More humiliation and shame to be heaped on my head! Very well. I deserve the worst that can come.”
He squared his massive shoulders, threw back his iron-gray head, went to the door.
HE was astonished at sight of the woman who stood outside. She was a stranger; her clothes vaguely conveyed to him the idea that she might be a foreigner, begging for some charity. He had many such callers, for he had been a prominent man in church and city.
Yet had he noticed details—which he did not—he should have known that her clothes might be a trifle odd in cut, but were of very expensive material. It was her face that astonished him. There was sorrow in it, and the strength of sorrow, but it also held a firm resilience. Her face fairly conquered him; and it disturbed him with its inner element of appeal. It reached into him somehow—particularly the eyes.
It was a scarred face, the strong, though womanly, contours marred by a slight red weal across the left cheek which though not a disfigurement, was a distinct mar. Yet it could not spoil the fine, level poise of those eyes that so stirred Venable—eyes sea-gray like his own, deeper and steadier than his own just now.
“You are Doctor Venable?” Her voice was full and richly vigorous, expressive of an intense and womanly personality. “If you can spare me a few moments—”
Venable had not meant to admit her or anyone else, but somehow he found her entering, and found himself asking her to be seated in the empty study. Then he excused himself for a moment and went swiftly to the dining-room. On the table there was a whisky-bottle; he poured himself a drink, feeling need of the stimulant. Then he returned to the study, quite care less whether his breath betrayed the indulgence. He was past much of his shame by this time.
“You wish to see me, madam?” he inquired in ministerial accents.
“That is why I am here.” As she spoke, the woman opened a small handbag of metal studded with turquoise, and produced a letter which she extended to him. “If you will read this, Doctor Venable, you will better comprehend my mission. I have two other gentlemen to see in this city, and I shall have need of your services—”
Had she gone to anyone else first, thought Venable grimly, she would have heard some news about him!
He impatiently opened the letter, taking for granted that it was the usual begging epistle of doubtful credentials but with plausible appeal. Somewhat to his surprise, he saw that it had been written some months previously by one of the Eastern officials of his own church, and it was addressed to him personally. Written, he reflected, before his disgrace had become public property!
THE words that met his eyes formed a bitter comment upon what he had been, and what he now was. Indeed, he was thinking of this more than of the letter itself, as he read, so that the curious phrases and unusually strong indorsement of the woman were entirely lost upon him. Otherwise he would have realized that no ordinary charity-beggar could have drawn such a letter:
Reverend and dear brother:
As one of the most outstanding ministers of the church, and a man of powerful influence among those who know you, I am appealing to you as a brother in Christ to give to the bearer of this letter every aid in money or influence at your command.
Mrs. Ivanoff’s errand is not primarily concerned with the church itself; it is an errand of broad humanity, as you will realize when she makes you aware of its nature.
I have told her that you can put her in touch with the two or three prominent men in your city whom she wishes to interview. She is securing the backing of a dozen or so men for her cause—all of them men of the largest affairs in the country. You will see for yourself that her cause is a large one, above dollars and cents. I esteem it an honor to send her to you with the strongest indorsement within my power to give.
Venable silently folded up the letter, replaced it in its envelope and returned it to the woman.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Ivanoff,” he said bluntly, “that I am unable to serve you.”
The shock in her sea-gray eyes made him stagger a little mentally.
“Unable!” she said, her rich voice thrilling him. “Why, you—I have not yet told you my mission!”
Venable shrugged his shoulders.
“No matter,” he said. “If you had gone to anyone else in this city, you would not have come to me.”
A slight frown of puzzled wonder creased her brow. He noted that she was older than he had at first thought; her hair was streaked with gray.
“I do not understand,” she said slowly. “I was told that—that you—”
“Very likely,” broke in Venable, bitterness tincturing his voice. “And if you had come to anyone else in this city first, you would have been told that I am leaving here to-morrow in disgrace. You would have been told that I am a drug-fiend, that I have been cast out by society and all who knew me formerly, and that my influence would be useless to you.”
She did not seem startled by his disclosure. It seemed to him that he found a new depth to her eyes, a motherly solicitude in her voice.
“I am sorry, Doctor Venable,” she said. “I knew nothing of all this—if indeed you mean your words literally, which is hard to believe! However, that does not affect my errand here. If you will let me briefly sketch who I am and what I am doing—”
“No!” struck in Venable harshly, throwing out his hands in an emphatic gesture. His craggy features bristled in vehement negation; he glared at the woman with animosity that was unconcealed.
“No! I can’t be burdened with your troubles, madam; I can’t even stand up beneath my own! I don’t want to hear your story at all. There is nothing that I can do for you, in any case. You will do better in the community if you leave me alone.”
STILL Mrs. Ivanoff seemed to take no umbrage at his manner or words. Her eyes dwelt upon him in a quiet steadiness, a poised searching, as though they probed for the wounds under his harsh exterior.
“But perhaps,” she said softly, “I could help you, Doctor Venable.”
He broke into a bitter laugh.
“You help me?” His voice was acid with a sneer. “My dear madam, the good Lord Himself can’t help me!”
“That,” she said, “is blasphemy.”
A hint of iron in her voice carried the words to him with full force. He passed a hand across his brow.
“Blasphemy?” he muttered. “No—it is the truth! The truth.”
Mrs. Ivanoff rose. A placid dignity filled her manner.
“I
