One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 19

morning sun was streaming into Derring's private office. Two young men were waiting for him. They had come to consult him about a piece of work in the slums.

Derring himself kept out of slum work. He always answered, when pressed to give himself to it, that he had no call that way—and a man needed a very strong call or a great deal of cheek to thrust himself unasked into a man's home—even though the home happened to be a poor one. A man's castle might be only one corner of a room, but it was his castle still, fortified by all the laws of identity and individuality. For himself, Derring declared, he had not the courage to invade it. If a man had a genuine call to the work, let him do it and thank the Lord that called him.

For the dilettante philanthropists who posed amid the picturesque squalor of the slums he had only the keenest shaft of ridicule. It was his insight that made those who were taking up the work in earnest seek his advice. While he had not gone into it in person, he was cognizant of every step taken, and often, by his shrewd counsel, balanced the sentimentality of over-enthusiasm.

The young men were waiting to consult him as to the best way of dealing with a pair of philanthropic cranks who persisted in thrusting themselves into the work and who, by their obtuseness, were undoing the best results of the past year. While waiting for Derring and discussing the situation, they had drifted into talking of his fitness for the work and of the strange delicacy that kept him from it.

“He stands ready enough to help any of us fellows that come to him. But I suppose that's just it—these people don't get in his way and we do. Lucky for me, I did!”

A laugh rippled the undercurrent of the speaker's words. He was seated in an office-chair, his hat thrust back, a shock of reddish-brown hair rising straight above the broad white forehead. He looked as if he might be the driver of an express cart or of any vehicle that rumbled and rattled. In reality, he was an artist of much promise. His sketches had in them depth of sentiment that gave even greater promise than their technique. Three years ago no one had believed that he would ever be anything more than a dabbler in art. He had had plenty of money and was leading a free, devil-may-care life, sowing to the wind and complacently looking forward to the whirlwind. Now his success was spoken of as a thing assured. He had, as he put it, “got in Derring's way,” and, once there, he had found surrender easier than escape.

“I wonder,” he went on thoughtfully, “what it is about him that holds you so? He doesn't seem to do anything in particular. But somehow after you once know him you can't get along without him.”

His companion sat lost in thought. “I think it is because Derring needs us,” he said at last.

“Needs us?”

“Yes. I never knew a man that needed people as he does. He gives himself and never asks. But a love like that must carry with it a need. If Derring so much as lays his hand on my arm, I feel a power between us—a sort of spiritual magnetism that I can no more resist than I can resist my own heart. It somehow asks as well as gives.”

“Oh, well, Conway, you're a poet. You can't expect a mere artist like me to understand anything that can't be put into black and white. But he's good enough for me.”

“For your philanthropic cranks,” said Derring as they laid the case before him, “you must have an organization.”

They protested in one breath.

“I know. You think that as soon as a movement has taken on organization it has lost its vitality. That is a mistaken view of the case, my young friends. Organizations were invented to give employment to cranks. You must make offices and put them in. They will have so much to do running the offices that they will let “the poor” alone for awhile. When a movement is well under way it must have an organization as a life-preserver.”

“I suppose it must,” said the artist with a sigh. “Can you help us about the constitution if we come around to-morrow?”

“Come to my room at ten. I'll be free then.”

They rose to go. But the poet lingered a minute.

Derring looked jt him inquiringly.

“It's nothing,” he said, smiling, “I was only wondering if I might come a little early?”

“To-night?”

“There's something I want to ask you about—if I may.”

“Of course. Come” He paused. “I was going to take a walk beforehand,” he said. “Why couldn't you”

“Meet you?”

“At the breakwater—yes. At nine-thirty.”

The poet's face lighted. “I will be there. It's something I can't decide for myself”

“Then don't expect me to.”

“No. You will help me to see it. I am not sure of myself.”