Outside one of the cafes, as the carriage turned to the station, some Italians were singing "_O Soli Mio_" to the accompaniment of guitars and a harp, with mellow, pa.s.sionate voices.

The long green train rolled into the gla.s.s-roofed station, the bra.s.s-work of the carriage doors covered thick with oily dust from the Italian tunnels through which it had pa.s.sed. The conductor of the sleeping-car portion found the two women their reserved compartment.

Their luggage was already registered through to Charing Cross and they had only dressing bags with them.

As the train started again Mrs. Daly pulled the sliding door into its place, the curtains over it and the windows which looked out into the corridor. Then she switched on the electric light in the roof and also the lamp which stood on a little table at the other end.

"There, my dear," she said, "now we shall be quite comfortable."

She sat down by Mary, took her hand in hers and kissed her.

"I know what you are experiencing now," she said in her low rich voice, "and it is very bitter. But the separation is only for a short, short time. G.o.d wants her, and we shall all be in heaven together soon, Mrs.

Lothian. And you"re leaving her with her husband. It is a great mercy that he has come at last. They are best alone together. And see how brave and cheery he is!--There"s a real man, a Christian soldier and gentleman if ever one lived. His wife"s death won"t kill him. It will make him live more strenuously for others. He will pa.s.s the short time between now and meeting her again in a high fever of righteous works and duty. There is no death."

Mary held the firm white hand.

"You comfort me," she said. "I thank G.o.d that you came to me in my affliction. Otherwise I should have been quite alone till Harold came."

"I"m real glad that dear good Morton Sims asked me to call. Edith Sims and I are like" ... She broke off abruptly. "Like sisters," she was about to say, but would not.

Mary smiled. Her friend"s delicacy was easy to understand. "I know,"

she answered, "like sisters! You needn"t have hesitated. I am better now. All you tell me is just what I am _sure_ of and it is everything.

But one"s heart grows faint at the moment of parting and the rea.s.suring voice of a friend helps very much. I hope it doesn"t mean that one"s faith is weak, to long for a sympathetic and confirming voice?"

"No, it does not. G.o.d has made us like that. I know the value of a friend"s word well. Nothing heartens one so. I have been in deep waters in my time, Mary. You must let me call you Mary, my dear."

"Oh, do, do! Yes, it is wonderful how words help, human living words."

"Nothing is more extraordinary in life than the power of the spoken word. How careful and watchful every one ought to be over words.

Spoken, they always seem to me to have more lasting influence than words in a book. They pa.s.s through mind after mind. Just think, for instance, how when we meet a man or woman with a sincere intellectual belief which is quite opposed to our own, we are chilled into a momentary doubt of our own opinions--however strongly we may hold them.

And when it is the other way about, what strength and comfort we get!"

"Thank you," Mary said simply, "you are very helpful. Dr. Morton Sims"--she hesitated for a moment--"Dr. Morton Sims told me something of your life. And of course I know all about your work, as the whole world knows. I know, dear Mrs. Daly, how much you have suffered. And it is because of that that you help me so, who am suffering too."

There was silence for a s.p.a.ce. The train had stopped at Cannes and started again. Now it was winding and climbing the mountain valleys towards Toulon. But neither of the two women knew anything of it. They were alone in the quiet travelling room that money made possible for them. Heart was meeting heart in the small luxurious place in which they sat, remote from the outside world as if upon some desert island.

"Dear Morton Sims," the American lady said at length. "The utter sane goodness of that man! My dear, he is an angel of light, as near a perfect character as any one alive in the world to-day. And yet he doesn"t believe in Jesus and thinks the Church and the Sacraments--I"ve been a member of the Episcopalian Church from girlhood--only make-believe and error."

"He is the finest natured man I have ever met," Mary answered. "I"ve only known him for a short time, but he has been so good and friendly.

What a sad thing it is that he is an infidel. I don"t use the word in the popular reprehensible sense, but as just what it means--without faith."

"It"s a sad thing to us," Mrs. Daly said briskly, "but I have no fears for him. G.o.d hasn"t given him the gift of Faith. Now that"s all we can say about it. In the next world he will have to go through a probation and learn his catechism, so to speak, before he steps right into his proper place. But he won"t be a catechumen long. His pure heart and n.o.ble life will tell where hearts and wills are weighed. There is a place by the Throne waiting for him."

"Oh, I am sure. He is wonderfully good. Indeed one seems to feel his goodness more than one does that of our clergyman at home, though Mr.

Medley is a good man too!"

"Brains, my dear! Brains! Morton Sims, you see, is of the aristocracy.

Your clergyman probably is not."

"Aristocracy?"

"The only aristocracy, the aristocracy of brain-power. Don"t forget I"m an American woman, Mary! Goodness has the same value in Heaven however it is manifested upon earth. The question of bimetallism doesn"t trouble G.o.d and His Angels. But a brilliant-minded Saint has certainly more influence down here than a fool-saint."

Mary nodded.

Such a doctrine as this was quite in accord with what she wished to think. She rejoiced to hear it spoken with such sharp lucidity. She also worshipped at a shrine, that of no saint, certainly, but where a flaming intellect illuminated the happenings of life. In his way, quite a different way, of course, she knew that Gilbert had a finer mind than even Morton Sims. And yet, Gilbert wasn"t good, as he ought to be... . How these speculations and judgments coiled and recoiled upon themselves; puzzled weary minds and, when all was done, were very little good after all!

At any rate, she loved Gilbert more than anything or anybody in the world. So that was that!

But tears came into her eyes as she thought of her husband with deep and yearning love. If he would only give up alcohol! _Why_ wouldn"t he?

To her, such an act seemed so simple and easy. Only a refusal, that was all! The young man who came to Jesus in the old days was asked to give up so much. Even for Jesus and immortality he found himself unable to do it. But Gilbert had only to give up one thing in order to be good and happy, to make her happy.

It was true that Dr. Morton Sims had told her many scientific facts, had explained and explained. He had definitely said that Gilbert was in the clutches of a disease; that Gilbert couldn"t really help himself, that he must be cured as a man is cured of gout. And then, when she had asked the doctor how this was to be done, he had so little comfort to give. He had explained that all the advertised "cures"--even the ones backed up by people of name, bishops, magistrates, and so on, were really worthless. They administered other drugs in order to sober up the patient from alcohol. That was easy and possible--though only with the thorough co-operation of the patient. After a few weeks, when health appeared to be restored, and the will power was certainly strengthened, the "cure" did nothing more. The _pre-disposition_ was not eradicated. That was an affair to be accomplished only by two or three years of abstinence and not always then.

--"I"ll talk to Mrs. Daly about it," the sad wife said to herself. "She is a n.o.ble, Christian woman. She understands more than even the doctor.

She _must_ do so. She loves our Lord. Moreover she has given her life to the cause of temperance." ...

But she must be careful and diplomatic. The natural reticence and delicacy of a well-bred woman shrank from the unveiling, not only of her own sorrow, but of a beloved"s shame. The coa.r.s.e, ill-balanced and bourgeois temperament bawls its sorrow and calls for sympathy from the sweepings of any Pentonville omnibus. It writes things upon a street wall and enjoys voluptuous public hysterics. The refined and gracious mind hesitates long before the least avowal.

"You said," she began, after a period of sympathetic silence, "that you had been in deep waters."

Julia Daly nodded. "I guess it"s pretty well known," she said with a sigh. "That"s the worst of a campaign like mine. It"s partly because every one knows all about what you"ve gone through that they give you a hearing. In the States the papers are full of my unhappy story whenever I lecture in a new place. But I"m used to it now and it doesn"t hurt me. Most of the stories are untrue, though. Mr. Daly was a pretty considerable ruffian when he was in drink. But he wasn"t the monster he"s been made out to be, and he couldn"t help himself, poor, poisoned man. But which story have you read, Mary?"

"None at all. Only Dr. Morton Sims, when he wrote, told me that you had suffered, that your husband, that----"

"That Patrick was an alcoholic. Yes, that"s the main fact. He did a dreadful thing when he became insane through drink. There"s no need to speak of it. But I loved him dearly all the same. He might have been such a n.o.ble man!"

"Ah, that"s just what I feel about my dear boy. He"s not as bad as--as some people. But he does drink quite dreadfully. I hate telling you. It seems a sort of treachery to him. But you may be able to help me."

"I knew," Mrs. Daly said with a sigh. "The doctor has told me in confidence. I"d do anything to help you, dear girl. Your husband"s poems have been such a help and comfort to me in hours of sadness and depression. Oh, what a dreadful scourge it is! this frightful thing that seizes on n.o.ble and ign.o.ble minds alike! It is the black horror of the age, the curse of nations, the ruin of thousands upon thousands. If only the world would realise it!"

"No one seems to realise the horror except those who have suffered dreadfully from it."

"More people do than you think, Mary, but, still, they are an insignificant part of the whole. People are such fools! I was reading "Pickwick" the other day, a great English cla.s.sic and a work of genius, too, in its way, I suppose. The princ.i.p.al characters get drunk on every other page. Things are better now, as far as books are concerned, though the comic newspapers keep up their ghastly fun about drunken folk. But the cause of Temperance isn"t a popular one, here or in my own country."

"A teetotaller is so often called a fanatic in England," Mary said.

"I know it well. But I say this, with entire conviction, absolute bed-rock certainty, my dear, the people who have joined together to go without alcohol themselves and to do all they can to fight it, are in the right whatever people may say of them. And it doesn"t matter what people say either. As in all movements, there is a lot of error and mistaken energy. The Bands of Hope, the Blue Ribbon Army, the Rechabites are not always wise. Some of them make total abstinence into a religion and think that alcohol is the only Fiend to fight against.

Most of them--as our own new scientific party think--are fighting on wrong lines. That"s to say they are not doing a tenth as much good as they might do, because the scientific remedy has not become real to them. That will come though, if we can bring it about. But I tire you?"

"Please go on."

"Well, you know our theory. It is a certain remedy. You can"t stop alcohol. But by making it a penal offence for drunkards to have children, drunkenness must be almost eliminated in time."

"Yes," Mary said. "Of course, I have read all about it. But I know so little of science. But what is the _individual_ cure? Is there none, then? Oh, surely if it is a disease it can be cured? Dr. Morton Sims tried to be encouraging, but I could see that he didn"t think there really _was_ much chance for a man who is a slave to drink.

It is splendid, of course, to think that some day it may all be eliminated by science. But meanwhile, when women"s hearts are bleeding for men they love ..."

Her voice broke and faltered. Her heart was too full for further speech.

The good woman at her side kissed her tenderly. "Do not grieve," she said. "Listen. I told you just now that so many of the great Temperance organisations err in their rejection of scientific advice and scientific means to a great end. They place their trust in G.o.d, forgetting that science only exists by G.o.d"s will and that every discovery made by men is only G.o.d choosing to reveal Himself to those who search for Him. But the Scientists are wrong, too, in their rejection--in so many cases--of G.o.d. They do not see that Religion and Science are not only non-antagonistic, but really complement each other. It is beginning to be seen, though. In time it will be generally recognised. I read the admission of a famous scientist the other day, to this effect. He said, "It is generally recognised that any form of treatment in which the "occult," the "supernatural," or anything secret or mysterious is allowed to play a dominant part in so neurotic an affection as inebriety, often succeeds." And he closed a most helpful and able essay on the arrest of alcohol with something like these words: