“Oh, not so broad as that! But there are good influences at work in the world—you see evidences of them all around—and they are increasing all the time. And they make things harder for the ambitious sinner; he’s engaged in a sort of obstacle race.”
“Um,” was Walsh’s only comment. He threw up the window of his cage that looked upon the wintry street and watched Wingfield and the clergyman picking their way cautiously through a battery of noisy trucks. The porters and clerks saw his bald pate hanging ominously above them in the crisp air, but the window closed with a bang without the usual malediction. Walsh growled to himself for a while and then, seeking an outlet for his emotions, summoned a frightened little stenographer whom he had threatened with dismissal that morning and raised her wages two dollars a week.
Wayne Craighill followed Paddock from the train at a station high in the Virginia hills. The poison had been steamed out of him, but his mind was still dull from its latest punishment. He had been glad in the first hours of his reaction to have Paddock’s sympathy and he had agreed to leave town with the minister without quite comprehending where they were going.
A buckboard was waiting and they were soon off, threading their way through the snowy hills. Wayne stared ahead indifferently, and when they reached a lonely stone house, perched high on a rough crag, he accepted this as their destination unquestioningly. And so he came to the house of the Brothers of Bethlehem.
Stoddard himself flung the door open—a tall man of thirty-five, alert, quick of movement and ready of speech. It was, it seemed, the most natural thing in the world that Wayne Craighill should be there—no questions asked, no discussion of the reasons for his coming, no time fixed for his departure, no laying down of rules.
“We want you to make yourself perfectly at home, Mr. Craighill. The walks are fairly well cleared in the neighbourhood and the air is the finest on earth. We call this the House of Peace—no newspapers, mail once a week, and telegrams are almost unknown. We have the place for ourselves and our friends to rest in. You will find a schedule of the day’s events in your room but don’t let the religious offices disturb you. They go on all the time and it is not in the least necessary for you to attend them. Please be free to do as you like. You and Paddock are St. John’s boys—I’m one, too—five years ahead of you, though.”
He led the way to a small bedroom on the second floor, whose windows framed at the moment the ruddy winter sunset. The room was severely simple, its woodwork white and scrupulously clean, the furniture limited to essentials.
“The best thing about the room is the view,” observed Stoddard and in a moment he had gone, for it was the hour of vespers and the brothers were already assembling in the little chapel below.
Wayne turned gloomily from the window.