The Inside of the Cup — Volume 05

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Project Gutenberg's The Inside of the Cup, Volume 5, by Winston ChurchillThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Inside of the Cup, Volume 5Author: Winston ChurchillRelease Date: October 17, 2004 [EBook #5360]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INSIDE OF THE CUP, VOLUME 5 ***Produced by David WidgerTHE INSIDE OF THE CUPBy Winston ChurchillVolume 5.XVII. RECONSTRUCTION XVIII. THE RIDDLE OF CAUSATION XIX. MR. GOODRICH BECOMES A PARTISANCHAPTER XVIIRECONSTRUCTIONILife had indeed become complicated, paradoxical. He, John Hodder, a clergyman, rector of St. John's by virtue of nothaving resigned, had entered a restaurant of ill repute, had ordered champagne for an abandoned woman, and had nosense of sin when he awoke the next morning! The devil, in the language of orthodox theology, had led him there. He hadfallen under the influence of the tempter of his youth, and all in him save the carnal had been blotted out.More paradoxes! If the devil had not taken possession of him and led him there, it were more than probable that he couldnever have succeeded in any other way in getting on a footing of friendship with this woman, Kate Marcy. Her future, tobe sure, was problematical. Here was no simple, sentimental case he ...

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THE INSIDE OF THECUPBy Winston ChurchillVolume 5.XVII. RECONSTRUCTION XVIII. THE RIDDLE OFCAUSATION XIX. MR. GOODRICH BECOMES APARTISAN

CHAPTER XVIIRECONSTRUCTIONILife had indeed become complicated, paradoxical.He, John Hodder, a clergyman, rector of St. John'sby virtue of not having resigned, had entered arestaurant of ill repute, had ordered champagne foran abandoned woman, and had no sense of sinwhen he awoke the next morning! The devil, in thelanguage of orthodox theology, had led him there.He had fallen under the influence of the tempter ofhis youth, and all in him save the carnal had beenblotted out.More paradoxes! If the devil had not takenpossession of him and led him there, it were morethan probable that he could never have succeededin any other way in getting on a footing offriendship with this woman, Kate Marcy. Her future,to be sure, was problematical. Here was no simple,sentimental case he might formerly have imagined,of trusting innocence betrayed, but a mixture ofgood and evil, selfishness and unselfishness. Andshe had, in spite of all, known the love whicheffaces self! Could the disintegration, in her case,be arrested?Gradually Hodder was filled with a feeling which

may be called amazement because, although hisbrain was no nearer to a solution than before, hewas not despondent. For a month he had notpermitted his mind to dwell on the riddle; yet thismorning he felt stirring within him a new energy forwhich he could not account, a hope unconnectedwith any mental process! He felt in touch, oncemore, faintly but perceptibly, with something stablein the chaos. In bygone years he had not seen thechaos, but the illusion of an orderly world, acontinual succession of sunrises, 'couleur de rose',from the heights above Bremerton. Now were thescales fallen from his eyes; now he saw the evil,the injustice, the despair; felt, in truth, the weight ofthe sorrow of it all, and yet that sorrow wasunaccountably transmuted, as by a chemicalprocess, into something which for the first time hada meaning—he could not say what meaning. Thesting of despair had somehow been taken out of it,and it remained poignant!Not on the obsession of the night before, when hehad walked down Dalton Street and beheld ittransformed into a realm of adventure, but uponhis past life did he look back now with horror, uponthe even tenor of those days and years in thebright places. His had been the highroad of afancied security, from which he had feared tostray, to seek his God across the rough face ofnature, from black, forgotten capons to the flyingpeaks in space. He had feared reality. He hadinsisted upon gazing at the universe through thecoloured glasses of an outworn theology, insteadof using his own eyes.

So he had left the highroad, the beaten way ofsalvation many others had deserted, had flung offhis spectacles, had plunged into reality, to bescratched and battered, to lose his way. Not untilnow had something of grim zest come to him, ofan instinct which was the first groping of a vision,as to where his own path might lie. Through whatthickets and over what mountains he knew not asyet—nor cared to know. He felt resistance,whereas on the highroad he had felt none. On thehighroad his cry had gone unheeded and unheard,yet by holding out his hand in the wilderness hehad helped another, bruised and bleeding, to herfeet! Salvation, Let it be what it might be, he wouldgo on, stumbling and seeking, through reality.Even this last revelation, of Eldon Parr's agency inanother tragedy, seemed to have no further powerto affect him. . . Nor could Hodder think of Alisonas in blood-relationship to the financier, or even tothe boy, whose open, pleasure-loving face he hadseen in the photograph.IIA presage of autumn was in the air, and a fine,misty rain drifted in at his windows as he sat at hisbreakfast. He took deep breaths of the moisture,and it seemed to water and revive his parchingsoul. He found himself, to his surprise, surveyingwith equanimity the pile of books in the corner

which had led him to the conviction of theemptiness of the universe—but the universe wasno longer empty! It was cruel, but a warring forcewas at work in it which was not blind, but directed.He could not say why this was so, but he knew it,he felt it, sensed its energy within him as he set outfor Dalton Street.He was neither happy nor unhappy, but inequilibrium, walking with sure steps, and theanxiety in which he had fallen asleep the nightbefore was gone: anxiety lest the woman shouldhave fled, or changed her mind, or committedsome act of desperation.In Dalton Street a thin coat of yellow mud glistenedon the asphalt, but even the dreariness of thisneighbourhood seemed transient. He rang the bellof the flat, the door swung open, and in the hallabove a woman awaited him. She was clad inblack."You wouldn't know me, would you?" she inquired."Say, I scarcely know myself. I used to wear thisdress at Pratt's, with white collars and cuffs and—well, I just put it on again. I had it in the bottom ofmy trunk, and I guessed you'd like it.""I didn't know you at first," he said, and thepleasure in his face was her reward.The transformation, indeed, was more remarkablethan he could have believed possible, forrespectability itself would seem to have beenregained by a costume, and the abundance of her

regained by a costume, and the abundance of herremarkable hair was now repressed. The absenceof paint made her cheeks strangely white, thehollows under the eyes darker. The eyesthemselves alone betrayed the woman ofyesterday; they still burned."Why," he exclaimed, looking around him, "youhave been busy, haven't you?""I've been up since six," she told him proudly. Theflat had been dismantled of its meagre furniture,the rug was rolled up and tied, and a trunkstrapped with rope was in the middle of the floor.Her next remark brought home to him the fullresponsibility of his situation. She led him to thewindow, and pointed to a spot among the drenchedweeds and rubbish in the yard next door. "Do yousee that bottle? That's the first thing I did—flung itout there. It didn't break," she added significantly,"and there are three drinks in it yet."Once more he confined his approval to his glance.""Now you must come and have some breakfast,he said briskly. "If I had thought about it I shouldhave waited to have it with you.""I'm not hungry." In the light of his new knowledge,he connected her sudden dejection with the sightof the bottle."But you must eat. You're exhausted from all thiswork. And a cup of coffee will make all thedifference in the world."

She yielded, pinning on her hat. And he led her,holding the umbrella over her, to a restaurant inTower Street, where a man in a white cap andapron was baking cakes behind a plate-glasswindow. She drank the coffee, but in herexcitement left the rest of the breakfast almostuntasted."Say," she asked him once, "why are you doingthis?""I don't know," he answered, "except that it givesme pleasure.""Pleasure?""Yes. It makes me feel as if I were of some use."She considered this."Well," she observed, reviled by the coffee, "you'rethe queerest minister I ever saw."When they had reached the pavement she askedhim where they were going."To see a friend of mine, and a friend of yours," hetold her. "He does net live far from here."She was silent again, acquiescing. The rain hadstopped, the sun was peeping out furtively throughthe clouds, the early loiterers in Dalton Streetstared at them curiously. But Hodder was thinkingof that house whither they were bound with a newgratitude, a new wonder that it should exist. Thus

they came to the sheltered vestibule with itsglistening white paint, its polished name plate anddoorknob. The grinning, hospitable darky appearedin answer to the rector's ring."Good morning, Sam," he said; "is Mr. Bentley in?"Sam ushered them ceremoniously into the library,and gate Marcy gazed about her with awe, as atsomething absolutely foreign to her experience: theNew Barrington Hotel, the latest pride of the city,recently erected at the corner of Tower andJefferson and furnished in the French style, shemight partially have understood. Had she beenmarvellously and suddenly transported andestablished there, existence might still haveevinced a certain continuity. But this house! . .Mr. Bentley rose from the desk in the corner."Oh, it's you, Hodder," he said cheerfully, laying hishand on the rector's arm. "I was just thinking aboutyou.""This is Miss Marcy, Mr. Bentley," Hodder said.Mr. Bentley took her hand and led her to a chair."Mr. Hodder knows how fond I am of youngwomen," he said. "I have six of them upstairs,—soI am never lonely".Mr. Bentley did not appear to notice that her lipsquivered.

Hodder turned his eyes from her face. "Miss Marcyhas been lonely," he explained, "and I thought wemight get her a room near by, where she might.see them often. She is going to do embroidery""Why, Sally will know of a room," Mr. Bentleyreplied. "Sam!" he called."Yessah—yes, Mistah Ho'ace."Sam appeared at the door."Ask Miss Sally to come down, if she's not busy."Kate Marcy sat dumbly in her chair, her handsconvulsively clasping its arms, her breast heavingstormily, her face becoming intense with the effortof repressing the wild emotion within her: emotionthat threatened to strangle her if resisted, or tosweep her out like a tide and drown her in deepwaters: emotion that had no one mewing, and yetsummed up a life, mysteriously andoverwhelmingly aroused by the sight of a room,and of a kindly old gentleman who lived in it!Mr. Bentley took the chair beside her."Why, I believe it's going to clear off, after all," heexclaimed. "Sam predicted it, before breakfast. Hepretends to be able to tell by the flowers. After awhile I must show you my flowers, Miss Marcy,and what Dalton Street can do by way of a garden—Mr. Hodder could hardly believe it, even when hesaw it." Thus he went on, the tips of his fingerspressed together, his head bent forward in familiarattitude, his face lighted, speaking naturally of