John returned Kitty's look. He, too, was trying to grasp the full meaning of the announcement. "Are ye going to tell him ye know, Kitty?"

Neither of them had the slightest doubt of its truth.

"No, I ain't," she flashed back. "Not a word--nor n.o.body else. When Mr.

Felix O'Day gits ready to tell us, he will."

"Will ye tell Father Cruse?" he persisted.

"I don't know that I will. I'll have to think it over. And now, John, remember!--not a word of this to any livin' soul. Do ye promise?"

"I do." He hesitated, another question struggling to his lips, and then added: "What's up wid him, do ye think, Kitty?"

"I don't know, John, dear. I wish I did, but whatever it is, its breakin' his heart."

Chapter XI

The discovery of her lodger's t.i.tle made but little difference to Kitty, nor did it raise him a whit in her estimation. At best, it only confirmed her first impression of his being a gentleman--every inch of him. She may have studied the more closely her lodger's habits, noting his constant care of his person, the way in which he used his knife and fork, the softness and cleanliness of his hands--all object-lessons to her, for she broke out on her husband the day after her talk with the Englishman in the hansom cab with:

"I want to tell ye that ye'll have to stop spatterin' yer soup around after this, John, dear. I'm going to have a clean table-cloth on every day, and a clean napkin for him, and as I'm doin' the washing myself ye've got to help an' not muss things. First thing ye know he'll sour on what we are giving him and be goin' off worse than ever, trampin' the streets till all hours of the night." At which John had stretched his big frame and with a prolonged yawn, his arms over his head, had remarked: "All right, Kitty, you're boss. Sir or no sir, he's got no frills about him--just plain man like the rest of us."

Neither would his t.i.tle, had they known it, have made the slightest difference to any one of the habitues who gathered in Tim Kelsey's book-shop.

Who Felix was, or what he had done, or what he was about to do, were questions never considered, either by Kelsey or by his friends. That he was part of the driftwood left stranded and unrecognized on the intellectual sh.o.r.e was enough. All that any of them asked for was brains, and Felix, even before the first evening had ended, had uncovered a stock so varied, and of such unusual proportions, and of so brilliant a character that he was always accorded the right of way whenever he took charge of the talk.

And a queer lot they were who listened, and a queer lot they had to be, to enjoy Kelsey's confidence. "Men are like books," he would often say to Felix. "It is their insides I care for, no matter how badly they are bound. The half-calf or all-morocco sort never appeal to me. Shelf fellows seldom handled, I call them, and a man who is not handled and rubbed up against, with a corner worn off here and there, is like a book kept under gla.s.s. n.o.body cares anything about it except as an ornament, and I have no room for ornaments."

That is why the door was kept shut at night, when some half-calf rapped and Tim would get a look at his binding through the shutter and tiptoe back, closing the door of the inner room behind him.

Among Kelsey's collection was old Silas Murford, the custom-house clerk--a fat, stupid-looking old fellow whose chin rested on his shirt-front and whose middle rested on his knees, the whole of him, when seated, filling Tim's biggest chair. Tim prized this volume most, for when Silas began to talk, the sheepish look would fade out of his placid face, his little pig eyes would vanish, and the listener would discover to his astonishment that not only was this lethargic lump of flesh a delightful conversationalist but that he had spent every hour he could spare from his custom-house in a study of the American system of immigration--and had at his tongue's end a ma.s.s of statistics about which few men knew anything.

Crackburn, an authority on the earlier printers, then in charge of the prints in the Astor Library, and who, for diversion, ground lenses on the sly, was another prize doc.u.ment. And so was Lockwood, the lapidary, famous as a designer of medals and seals; and many more such oddities.

"Fine old copies," Kelsey would say of them, "hand-printed, all of them; one or two, like old Silas, extremely rare."

That he considered Felix ent.i.tled to a place in his private collection had been decided at their first meeting. "Met a mask with a man behind it," he had announced to his intimates that same night. "Got a fine nose for what's worth having. Located that chant book as soon as he laid his hands on it. I didn't get any farther than the skin of his face and you won't, either. He has promised to come over, and when you have rubbed up against him for half an hour, as I did this morning, you will think as I do."

Since that time, Felix had spent many comforting hours in Kelsey's little back room. Sometimes he would drop in about nine and remain until half past ten; at other times, it would be nearer midnight before he would turn the k.n.o.b.

As for the shop itself, nothing up and down "The Avenue" was quite as odd, quite as ramshackly, or quite as picturesque. What the public saw, on either side of the down-two-steps entrance, was a bench with slanting shelves, holding a double row of books and two patched gla.s.s windows, protecting disordered heaps of prints, stained engravings, and old etchings, the whole embedded in dust.

What the owner's intimates saw, once they got inside and continued to the end of the building, was a low-ceiled room warmed by an old-fashioned Franklin stove and lighted by a drop covered by a green shade. All about were easy chairs, a table or two, a sideboard, some long shelves loaded down with books, and an iron safe which held some precious ma.n.u.scripts and one or two early editions.

When the room was shut the shop was open, and when the shop was shut, the shutters fastened, and the two benches with their books lifted bodily and brought inside, the little back room, smoke-dried as an old ham, and as savory and inviting, once you got its flavor, was ready for his guests.

On one of these rare nights when the room was full, it happened that the same fifteenth-century chant book, which had brought Tim and Felix together, was lying on the table. The discussion which followed easily drifted into the influence of the Roman Catholic church on the art of the period; Felix maintaining that but for the impetus it gave, neither the art of illumination nor any of the other arts would at the time have reached the heights they attained.

"This missal is but an example of it," he continued, drawing the battered, yellow-stained book toward him. "Whatever these old monks, with their religious fervor, touched they enriched and glorified, whether it were an initial letter, as you see here, or an altar-piece; and more than that, many of them painted wonderfully well."

"And a narrow-minded, bigoted lot they were," broke in Crackburn. "If they'd had their way there would not have been a printing-press in existence. If you are going to canonize anybody, begin with Aldus Minutius."

"Only a difference in patrons," chimed in Lockwood, "the difference between a pope and a doge."

"And it's the same to-day," echoed Kelsey, taking the book from O'Day's hand, to keep the leaves from buckling. "Only it's neither pope nor doge, but the money king who's the patron. We should all starve to death but for him. I've been waiting for Mr. O'Day to hunt one down and make him buy this," he added, closing the book carefully. "n.o.body else around here appreciates its rarity or would give a five-dollar bill for it."

"Go slow," puffed old Silas, hunched up in his chair. "Money kings are good in their way, and so perhaps were popes and doges, but give me a plain priest every time. You wonder, Mr. O'Day, what those great masters in art could have done without the protection of the church. I wonder what the poor of to-day would do without their priests. Go up to 28th Street and look in at St. Barnabas's. Its doors are open from before sunrise until near midnight. When you are in trouble, either hungry or hunted, and most of the poor are both, walk in and see what will happen.

You'll find that a priest in New York is everything from a policeman to a hospital nurse, and he is always on his job. When n.o.body else listens, he listens; when n.o.body else helps, he holds out a hand. I haven't lived here sixty years for nothing."

"When you say 'listen,'" asked Felix, whose attention to the conversation had never wavered, "do you refer to the confessional?"

"I do not. That's the least part of it. So are the ma.s.s and the candles and choir-boys and the rest of the outfit, all very well in their way, for Sundays and fast-days, but just so much stage scenery to me, though its heaven to the poor devils who get color and music and restful quiet in contrast to their barren homes. But praying before the altar is only one-quarter of what these priests are doing every hour of the day and night. It's part of my business to follow them around, and I know. Hand me a light, Tim, my pipe's out."

Felix, being nearest the box, struck a match and held it close to Silas's bowl, a cloud of smoke rising between them. When it had cleared, O'Day remarked quietly: "Don't stop, Mr. Murford; go on, I am listening.

You have, as you said, only told us one-quarter of what these priests are doing. Where do the other three-quarters come in?"

Silas rapped the bowl against the arm of his chair to clear it the better, and, twisting his great bulk toward O'Day, said slowly: "If I tell you, will you listen and keep on listening until I get through?"

Felix bowed his head in acquiescence. The others, knowing what a story from Silas meant, craned their necks in his direction.

"Well! One night last winter--over on Avenue A, snow on the ground, mind you, and cold as Greenland--a row broke out on the third floor of a tenement house. In the snow on the sidewalk shivered a half-naked girl.

She was sobbing. Her father had come in from his night shift at the gas house, crazy drunk, a piece of lead pipe in his hand.

"Two or three people had stopped, gazed at the girl, and pa.s.sed her by. Tenement-house rows are too common in some districts to be bothered over. A policeman crossed the street, peered up the stairway, listened to the screams inside, looked the sobbing girl over, and kept on his way, swinging his club. A priest came along--one I know, a well-set-up man, who can take care of himself, no matter where. He touched the girl's arm and drew her inside the doorway, his head bent to hear her story. Then he went up--in jumps--two steps at a time--stumbling in the dark, picking himself up again, catching at the rail to help him mount the quicker, the screams overhead increasing at every step. When he reached the door, it was bolted on the inside. He let drive with his shoulder and in it went. The girl's mother was crouching in the far corner of the room, behind a heavy sofa. The drunken husband stood over her, trying to get at her skull with the piece of lead pipe.

"At the bursting in of the door the brute wheeled and, with an oath, made straight for the priest, the weapon in his fist.

"The priest stepped clear of the door-jamb, moved under the single gas-jet, drew out his crucifix, and held it up.

"The drunkard stood staring.

"The priest advanced step by step. The brute cowered, staggered back, and fell in a heap on the floor."

"Magnificent," broke out Lockwood. "Superb! And well told. You would make a great actor, Murford."

"Perhaps," answered Silas with a reproving look, "but don't forget that it HAPPENED."

"I haven't a doubt of it," exclaimed Felix quietly, "but please go on, Mr. Murford. To me your story has only begun. What happened next?"

Silas's eyes glistened. Lockwood's criticism had gone over his head; he was accustomed to that sort of thing. What pleased him was the interest O'Day had shown in his pet subject--the sufferings of the poor being one of his lifelong topics of thought and conversation.

"The confessional happened next," replied Silas. "Then a sober husband, a sober wife, and a girl at work--and they are still at it--for I got the man a job as night-watchman in the custom-house, at Father Cruse's request."

Felix started forward. "You surely don't mean Father Cruse of St.

Barnabas's?" he exclaimed eagerly.

"Exactly."