He had not,certainly,the air of a dupe or a sentimentalist,but inspired confidence by his very personality.Youthlike,I watched him narrowly for flaws,for oratorical tricks,for all kinds of histrionic symptoms.Again I was near the secret;again it escaped me.The argument for Christianity lay not in assertions about it,but in being it.This man was Christianity....I must have felt something of this,even though I failed to formulate it.And unconsciously I contrasted his strength,which reinforced the atmosphere of the room,with that of Ralph Hambleton,who was,a greater influence over me than I have recorded,and had come to sway me more and more,as he had swayed others.The strength of each was impressive,yet this Mr.Brooks seemed to me the bodily presentment of a set of values which I would have kept constantly before my eyes....I felt him drawing me,overcoming my hesitation,belittling my fear of ridicule.I began gently to open the door--when something happened,--one of those little things that may change the course of a life.The door made little noise,yet one of the men sitting in the back of the room chanced to look around,and I recognized Hermann Krebs.His face was still sunken from his recent illness.Into his eyes seemed to leap a sudden appeal,an appeal to which my soul responded yet I hurried down the stairs and into the street.Instantly I regretted my retreat,Iwould have gone back,but lacked the courage;and I strayed unhappily for hours,now haunted by that look of Krebs,now wondering what the remarkably sane-looking and informal clergyman whose presence dominated the little room had been talking about.I never learned,but I did live to read his biography,to discover what he might have talked about,--for he if any man believed that life and religion are one,and preached consecration to life's task.
Of little use to speculate whether the message,had I learned it then,would have fortified and transformed me!
In spite of the fact that I was unable to relate to a satisfying conception of religion my new-born determination,I made up my mind,at least,to renounce my tortuous ways.I had promised my father to be a lawyer;I would keep my promise,I would give the law a fair trial;later on,perhaps,I might demonstrate an ability to write.All very praiseworthy!The season was Lent,a fitting time for renunciations and resolves.Although I had more than once fallen from grace,I believed myself at last to have settled down on my true course--when something happened.The devil interfered subtly,as usual--now in the person of Jerry Kyme.It should be said in justice to Jerry that he did not look the part.He had sunny-red,curly hair,mischievous blue eyes with long lashes,and he harboured no respect whatever for any individual or institution,sacred or profane;he possessed,however,a shrewd sense of his own value,as many innocent and unsuspecting souls discovered as early as our freshman year,and his method of putting down the presumptuous was both effective and unique.If he liked you,there could be no mistake about it.
One evening when I was engaged in composing a theme for Mr.Cheyne on no less a subject than the interpretation of the work of William Wordsworth,I found myself unexpectedly sprawling on the floor,in my descent kicking the table so vigorously as to send the ink-well a foot or two toward the ceiling.This,be it known,was a typical proof of Jerry's esteem.For he had entered noiselessly,jerking the back of my chair,which chanced to be tilted,and stood with his hands in his pockets,surveying the ruin he had wrought,watching the ink as it trickled on the carpet.Then he picked up the book.
"Poetry,you darned old grind!"he exclaimed disgustedly."Say,Parry,Idon't know what's got into you,but I want you to come home with me for the Easter holidays.It'll do you good.We'll be on the Hudson,you know,and we'll manage to make life bearable somehow."I forgot my irritation,in sheer surprise.
"Why,that's mighty good of you,Jerry--"I began,struggling to my feet.
"Oh,rot!"he exclaimed."I shouldn't ask you if I didn't want you."There was no denying the truth of this,and after he had gone I sat for a long time with my pen in my mouth,reflecting as to whether or not Ishould go.For I had the instinct that here was another cross-roads,that more depended on my decision than I cared to admit.But even then Iknew what I should do.Ridiculous not to--I told myself.How could a week or ten days with Jerry possibly affect my newborn,resolve?
Yet the prospect,now,of a visit to the Kymes'was by no means so glowing as it once would have been.For I had seen visions,I had dreamed dreams,beheld a delectable country of my very own.A year ago--nay,even a month ago--how such an invitation would have glittered!...Ireturned at length to my theme,over which,before Jerry's arrival,I had been working feverishly.But now the glamour had gone from it.
Presently Tom came in.
"Anyone been here?"he demanded.
"Jerry,"I told him.
"What did he want?"
"He wanted me to go home with him at Easter.""You're going,of course.""I don't know.I haven't decided.""You'd be a fool not to,"was Tom's comment.It voiced,succinctly,a prevailing opinion.
It was the conclusion I arrived at in my own mind.But just why I had been chosen for the honour,especially at such a time,was a riddle.
Jerry's invitations were charily given,and valued accordingly;and more than once,at our table,I had felt a twinge of envy when Conybear or someone else had remarked,with the proper nonchalance,in answer to a question,that they were going to Weathersfield.Such was the name of the Kyme place....
