The Inside of the Cup
Life had indeed become complicated, paradoxical. He, John Hodder, a
clergyman, rector of St. John's by virtue of not having resigned, had entered a
restaurant of ill repute, had ordered champagne for an abandoned woman, and had
no sense of sin when he awoke the next morning! The devil, in the language of
orthodox theology, had led him there. He had fallen 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 could never have succeeded in any
other way in getting on a footing of friendship 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 of
good and evil, selfishness and unselfishness. And she had, in spite of all,
known the love which effaces self! Could the disintegration, in her case, be
Gradually Hodder was filled with a feeling which may be called amazement
because, although his brain was no nearer to a solution than before, he was not
despondent. For a month he had not permitted his mind to dwell on the riddle;
yet this morning he felt stirring within him a new energy for which he could not
account, a hope unconnected with any mental process! He felt in touch, once
more, faintly but perceptibly, with something stable in the chaos. In bygone
years he had not seen the chaos, but the illusion of an orderly world, a
continual succession of sunrises, 'couleur de rose', from the heights above
Bremerton. Now were the scales fallen from his eyes; now he saw the evil, the
injustice, the despair; felt, in truth, the weight of the sorrow of it all, and
yet that sorrow was unaccountably transmuted, as by a chemical process, into
something which for the first time had a meaning—he could not say what meaning.
The sting of despair had somehow been taken out of it, and it remained poignant!
Not on the obsession of the night before, when he had walked down Dalton
Street and beheld it transformed into a realm of adventure, but upon his past
life did he look back now with horror, upon the even tenor of those days and
years in the bright places. His had been the highroad of a fancied security,
from which he had feared to stray, to seek his God across the rough face of
nature, from black, forgotten capons to the flying peaks in space. He had feared
reality. He had insisted upon gazing at the universe through the coloured
glasses of an outworn theology, instead of using his own eyes.
So he had left the highroad, the beaten way of salvation many others had
deserted, had flung off his spectacles, had plunged into reality, to be
scratched and battered, to lose his way. Not until now had something of grim
zest come to him, of an instinct which was the first groping of a vision, as to
where his own path might lie. Through what thickets and over what mountains he
knew not as yet—nor cared to know. He felt resistance, whereas on the highroad
he had felt none. On the highroad his cry had gone unheeded and unheard, yet by
holding out his hand in the wilderness he had helped another, bruised and
bleeding, to her feet! Salvation, Let it be what it might be, he would go on,
stumbling and seeking, through reality.
Even this last revelation, of Eldon Parr's agency in another tragedy, seemed
to have no further power to affect him... Nor could Hodder think of Alison as in
blood-relationship to the financier, or even to the boy, whose open,
pleasure-loving face he had seen in the photograph.
A presage of autumn was in the air, and a fine, misty rain drifted in at his
windows as he sat at his breakfast. He took deep breaths of the moisture, and it
seemed to water and revive his parching soul. He found himself, to his surprise,
surveying with equanimity the pile of books in the corner which had led him to
the conviction of the emptiness of the universe—but the universe was no longer
empty! It was cruel, but a warring force was 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 out for Dalton Street.
He was neither happy nor unhappy, but in equilibrium, walking with sure
steps, and the anxiety in which he had fallen asleep the night before was gone:
anxiety lest the woman should have fled, or changed her mind, or committed some
act of desperation.
In Dalton Street a thin coat of yellow mud glistened on the asphalt, but even
the dreariness of this neighbourhood seemed transient. He rang the bell of the
flat, the door swung open, and in the hall above a woman awaited him. She was
clad in black.
"You wouldn't know me, would you?" she inquired. "Say, I scarcely know
myself. I used to wear this dress at Pratt's, with white collars and cuffs
and—well, I just put it on again. I had it in the bottom of my trunk, and I
guessed you'd like it."
"I didn't know you at first," he said, and the pleasure in his face was her
The transformation, indeed, was more remarkable than he could have believed
possible, for respectability itself would seem to have been regained by a
costume, and the abundance of her remarkable hair was now repressed. The absence
of paint made her cheeks strangely white, the hollows under the eyes darker. The
eyes themselves alone betrayed the woman of yesterday; they still burned.
"Why," he exclaimed, looking around him, "you have been busy, haven't you?"
"I've been up since six," she told him proudly. The flat had been dismantled
of its meagre furniture, the rug was rolled up and tied, and a trunk strapped
with rope was in the middle of the floor. Her next remark brought home to him
the full responsibility of his situation. She led him to the window, and pointed
to a spot among the drenched weeds and rubbish in the yard next door. "Do you
see that bottle? That's the first thing I did—flung it out 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 should have waited to have it with you."
"I'm not hungry." In the light of his new knowledge, he connected her sudden
dejection with the sight of the bottle.
"But you must eat. You're exhausted from all this work. And a cup of coffee
will make all the difference in the world."
She yielded, pinning on her hat. And he led her, holding the umbrella over
her, to a restaurant in Tower Street, where a man in a white cap and apron was
baking cakes behind a plate-glass window. She drank the coffee, but in her
excitement left the rest of the breakfast almost untasted.
"Say," she asked him once, "why are you doing this?"
"I don't know," he answered, "except that it gives me pleasure."
"Yes. It makes me feel as if I were of some use."
She considered this.
"Well," she observed, reviled by the coffee, "you're the queerest minister I
When they had reached the pavement she asked him where they were going.
"To see a friend of mine, and a friend of yours," he told her. "He does net
live far from here."
She was silent again, acquiescing. The rain had stopped, the sun was peeping
out furtively through the clouds, the early loiterers in Dalton Street stared at
them curiously. But Hodder was thinking of that house whither they were bound
with a new gratitude, a new wonder that it should exist. Thus they came to the
sheltered vestibule with its glistening white paint, its polished name plate and
doorknob. The grinning, hospitable darky appeared in answer to the rector's
"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 at something absolutely foreign to her experience: the New
Barrington Hotel, the latest pride of the city, recently erected at the corner
of Tower and Jefferson and furnished in the French style, she might partially
have understood. Had she been marvellously and suddenly transported and
established there, existence might still have evinced a certain continuity. But
Mr. Bentley rose from the desk in the corner.
"Oh, it's you, Hodder," he said cheerfully, laying his hand on the rector's
arm. "I was just thinking about you."
"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 young women," he said. "I have six of them
upstairs,—so I am never lonely."
Mr. Bentley did not appear to notice that her lips quivered.
Hodder turned his eyes from her face. "Miss Marcy has been lonely," he
explained, "and I thought we might 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. Bentley replied. "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 hands convulsively clasping its arms,
her breast heaving stormily, her face becoming intense with the effort of
repressing the wild emotion within her: emotion that threatened to strangle her
if resisted, or to sweep her out like a tide and drown her in deep waters:
emotion that had no one mewing, and yet summed up a life, mysteriously and
overwhelmingly 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," he exclaimed. "Sam
predicted it, before breakfast. He pretends to be able to tell by the flowers.
After a while 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 he saw it."
Thus he went on, the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head bent forward
in familiar attitude, his face lighted, speaking naturally of trivial things
that seemed to suggest themselves; and careful, with exquisite tact that did not
betray itself, to address both. A passing automobile startled her with the blast
of its horn. "I'm afraid I shall never get accustomed to them," he lamented. "At
first I used to be thankful there were no trolley cars on this street, but I
believe the automobiles are worse."
A figure flitted through the hall and into the room, which Hodder recognized
as Miss Grower's. She reminded him of a flying shuttle across the warp of Mr.
Bentley's threads, weaving them together; swift, sure, yet never hurried or
flustered. One glance at the speechless woman seemed to suffice her for a
knowledge of the situation.
"Mr. Hodder has brought us a new friend and neighbour, Sally,—Miss Kate
Marcy. She is to have a room near us, that we may see her often."
Hodder watched Miss Grower's procedure with a breathless interest.
"Why, Mrs. McQuillen has a room—across the street, you know, Mr. Bentley."
Sally perched herself on the edge of the armchair and laid her hand lightly
on Kate Marcy's.
Even Sally Grover was powerless to prevent the inevitable, and the touch of
her hand seemed the signal for the release of the pent-up forces. The worn body,
the worn nerves, the weakened will gave way, and Kate Marcy burst into a
paroxysm of weeping that gradually became automatic, convulsive, like a child's.
There was no damming this torrent, once released. Kindness, disinterested
friendship, was the one unbearable thing.
"We must bring her upstairs," said Sally Grover, quietly, "she's going to
Hodder helping, they fairly carried her up the flight, and laid her on Sally
Grover's own bed.
That afternoon she was taken to Mrs. McQuillen's.
The fiends are not easily cheated. And during the nights and days that
followed even Sally Grower, whose slight frame was tireless, whose stoicism was
amazing, came out of the sick room with a white face and compressed lips.
Tossing on the mattress, Kate Marcy enacted over again incident after incident
of her past life, events natural to an existence which had been largely devoid
of self-pity, but which now, clearly enough, tested the extreme limits of
suffering. Once more, in her visions, she walked the streets, wearily measuring
the dark, empty blocks, footsore, into the smaller hours of the night; slyly,
insinuatingly, pathetically offering herself—all she possessed—to the hovering
beasts of prey. And even these rejected her, with gibes, with obscene jests that
sprang to her lips and brought a shudder to those who heard.
Sometimes they beheld flare up fitfully that mysterious thing called the
human spirit, which all this crushing process had not served to extinguish. She
seemed to be defending her rights, whatever these may have been! She
expostulated with policemen. And once, when Hodder was present, she brought back
vividly to his mind that first night he had seen her, when she had defied him
and sent him away. In moments she lived over again the careless, reckless days
when money and good looks had not been lacking, when rich food and wines had
been plentiful. And there were other events which Sally Grower and the
good-natured Irishwoman, Mrs. McQuillen, not holding the key, could but dimly
comprehend. Education, environment, inheritance, character—what a jumble of
causes! What Judge was to unravel them, and assign the exact amount of
There were other terrible scenes when, more than semiconscious, she cried out
piteously for drink, and cursed them for withholding it. And it was in the midst
of one of these that an incident occurred which made a deep impression upon
young Dr. Giddings, hesitating with his opiates, and assisting the indomitable
Miss Grower to hold his patient. In the midst of the paroxysm Mr. Bentley
entered and stood over her by the bedside, and suddenly her struggles ceased. At
first she lay intensely still, staring at him with wide eyes of fear. He sat
down and took her hand, and spoke to her, quietly and naturally, and her pupils
relaxed. She fell into a sleep, still clinging to his fingers.
It was Sally who opposed the doctor's wish to send her to a hospital.
"If it's only a question of getting back her health, she'd better die," she
declared. "We've got but one chance with her, Dr. Giddings, to keep her here.
When she finds out she's been to a hospital, that will be the end of it with her
kind. We'll never get hold of her again. I'll take care of Mrs. McQuillen."
Doctor Giddings was impressed by this wisdom.
"You think you have a chance, Miss Grower?" he asked. He had had a hospital
Miss Grower was wont to express optimism in deeds rather than words.
"If I didn't think so, I'd ask you to put a little more in your hypodermic
next time," she replied.
And the doctor went away, wondering....
Drink! Convalescence brought little release for the watchers. The fiends
would retire, pretending to have abandoned the field, only to swoop down again
when least expected. There were periods of calm when it seemed as though a new
and bewildered personality were emerging, amazed to find in life a kindly thing,
gazing at the world as one new-born. And again, Mrs. McQuillen or Ella Finley
might be seen running bareheaded across the street for Miss Grower. Physical
force was needed, as the rector discovered on one occasion; physical force, and
something more, a dauntlessness that kept Sally Grower in the room after the
other women had fled in terror. Then remorse, despondency, another fear....
As the weeks went by, the relapses certainly became fewer. Something was at
work, as real in its effects as the sunlight, but invisible. Hodder felt it, and
watched in suspense while it fought the beasts in this woman, rending her frame
in anguish. The frame might succumb, the breath might leave it to moulder, but
the struggle, he knew, would go until the beasts were conquered. Whence this
knowledge?—for it was knowledge.
On the quieter days of her convalescence she seemed, indeed, more Madonna
than Magdalen as she sat against the pillows, her red-gold hair lying in two
heavy plaits across her shoulders, her cheeks pale; the inner, consuming fires
that smouldered in her eyes died down. At such times her newly awakened
innocence (if it might be called such—pathetic innocence, in truth!) struck awe
into Hodder; her wonder was matched by his own. Could there be another meaning
in life than the pursuit of pleasure, than the weary effort to keep the body
Such was her query, unformulated. What animated these persons who had
struggled over her so desperately, Sally Grower, Mr. Bentley, and Hodder
himself? Thus her opening mind. For she had a mind.
Mr. Bentley was the chief topic, and little by little he became exalted into
a mystery of which she sought the explanation.
"I never knew anybody like him," she would exclaim.
"Why, I'd seen him on Dalton Street with the children following him, and I
saw him again that day of the funeral. Some of the girls I knew used to laugh at
him. We thought he was queer. And then, when you brought me to him that morning
and he got up and treated me like a lady, I just couldn't stand it. I never felt
so terrible in my life. I just wanted to die, right then and there. Something
inside of me kept pressing and pressing, until I thought I would die. I knew
what it was to hate myself, but I never hated myself as I have since then.
"He never says anything about God, and you don't, but when he comes in here
he seems like God to me. He's so peaceful,—he makes me peaceful. I remember the
minister in Madison,—he was a putty-faced man with indigestion,—and when he
prayed he used to close his eyes and try to look pious, but he never fooled me.
He never made me believe he knew anything about God. And don't think for a
minute he'd have done what you and Miss Grower and Mr. Bentley did! He used to
cross the street to get out of the way of drunken men—he wouldn't have one of
them in his church. And I know of a girl he drove out of town because she had a
baby and her sweetheart wouldn't marry her. He sent her to hell. Hell's
These sudden remarks of hers surprised and troubled him. But they had another
effect, a constructive effect. He was astonished, in going over such
conversations afterwards, to discover that her questions and his efforts to
answer them in other than theological terms were both illuminating and
stimulating. Sayings in the Gospels leaped out in his mind, fired with new
meanings; so simple, once perceived, that he was amazed not to have seen them
before. And then he was conscious of a palpitating joy which left in its wake a
profound thankfulness. He made no attempt as yet to correlate these increments,
these glimpses of truth into a system, but stored them preciously away.
He taxed his heart and intellect to answer her sensible and helpfully, and
thus found himself avoiding the logic, the Greek philosophy, the outworn and
meaningless phrases of speculation; found himself employing (with extraordinary
effect upon them both) the simple words from which many of these theories had
been derived. "He that hath seen me hath seen the Father." What she saw in
Horace Bentley, he explained, was God. God wished us to know how to live, in
order that we might find happiness, and therefore Christ taught us that the way
to find happiness was to teach others how to live,—once we found out. Such was
the meaning of Christ's Incarnation, to teach us how to live in order that we
might find God and happiness. And Hodder translated for her the word
Now, he asked, how were we to recognize God, how might we know how he wished
us to live, unless we saw him in human beings, in the souls into which he had
entered? In Mr. Bentley's soul? Was this too deep?
She pondered, with flushed face.
"I never had it put to me like that," she said, presently. "I never could
have known what you meant if I hadn't seen Mr. Bentley."
Here was a return flash, for him. Thus, teaching he taught. From this germ he
was to evolve for himself the sublime truth that the world grown better, not
through automatic, soul-saving machinery, but by Personality.
On another occasion she inquired about "original sin;"—a phrase which had
stuck in her memory since the stormings of the Madison preacher. Here was a
demand to try his mettle.
"It means," he replied after a moment, "that we are all apt to follow the
selfish, animal instincts of our matures, to get all we can for ourselves
without thinking of others, to seek animal pleasures. And we always suffer for
"Sure," she agreed. "That's what happened to me."
"And unless we see and know some one like Mr. Bentley," he went on, choosing
his words, "or discover for ourselves what Christ was, and what he tried to tell
us, we go on 'suffering, because we don't see any way out. We suffer because we
feel that we are useless, that other persons are doing our work."
"That's what hell is!" She was very keen. "Hell's here," she repeated.
"Hell may begin here, and so may heaven," he answered.
"Why, he's in heaven now!" she exclaimed, "it's funny I never thought of it
before." Of course she referred to Mr. Bentley.
Thus; by no accountable process of reasoning, he stumbled into the path which
was to lead him to one of the widest and brightest of his vistas, the secret of
eternity hidden in the Parable of the Talents! But it will not do to anticipate
The divine in this woman of the streets regenerated by the divine in her
fellow-creatures, was gasping like a new-born babe for breath. And with what
anxiety they watched her! She grew strong again, went with Sally Drover and the
other girls on Sunday excursions to the country, applied herself to her
embroidery with restless zeal for days, only to have it drop from her nerveless
fingers. But her thoughts were uncontrollable, she was drawn continually to the
edge of that precipice which hung over the waters whence they had dragged her,
never knowing when the vertigo would seize her. And once Sally Drover, on the
alert for just such an occurrence, pursued her down Dalton Street and forced her
Justice to Miss Drover cannot be done in these pages. It was she who bore the
brunt of the fierce resentment of the reincarnated fiends when the other women
shrank back in fear, and said nothing to Mr. Bentley or Hodder until the
incident was past. It was terrible indeed to behold this woman revert—almost in
the twinkling of an eye—to a vicious wretch crazed for drink, to feel that the
struggle had to be fought all over again. Unable to awe Sally Drover's spirit,
she would grow piteous.
"For God's sake let me go—I can't stand it. Let me go to hell—that's where I
belong. What do you bother with me for? I've got a right."
Once the doctor had to be called. He shook his head but his eye met Miss
Grower's, and he said nothing.
"I'll never be able to pull out, I haven't got the strength," she told
Hodder, between sobs. "You ought to have left me be, that was where I belonged.
I can't stand it, I tell you. If it wasn't for that woman watching me
downstairs, and Sally Grower, I'd have had a drink before this. It ain't any
use, I've got so I can't live without it—I don't want to live."
And then remorse, self-reproach, despair,—almost as terrible to contemplate.
She swore she would never see Mr. Bentley again, she couldn't face him.
Yet they persisted, and gained ground. She did see Mr. Bentley, but what he
said to her, or she to him, will never be known. She didn't speak of it....
Little by little her interest was aroused, her pride in her work stimulated.
None was more surprised than Hodder when Sally Grower informed him that the
embroidery was really good; but it was thought best, for psychological reasons,
to discard the old table-cover with its associations and begin a new one. On
occasional evenings she brought her sewing over to Mr. Bentley's, while Sally
read aloud to him and the young women in the library. Miss Grower's taste in
fiction was romantic; her voice (save in the love passages, when she forgot
herself ) sing-song, but new and unsuspected realms were opened up for Kate
Marcy, who would drop her work and gaze wide-eyed out of the window, into the
And it was Sally who must be given credit for the great experiment, although
she took Mr. Bentley and Hodder into her confidence. On it they staked all. The
day came, at last, when the new table-cover was finished. Miss Grower took it to
the Woman's Exchange, actually sold it, and brought back the money and handed it
to her with a smile, and left her alone.
An hour passed. At the end of it Kate Marcy came out of her room, crossed the
street, and knocked at the door of Mr. Bentley's library. Hodder happened to be
"Come in," Mr. Bentley said.
She entered, breathless, pale. Her eyes, which had already lost much of the
dissipated look, were alight with exaltation. Her face bore evidence of the
severity of the hour of conflict, and she was perilously near to tears. She
handed Mr. Bentley the money.
"What's this, Kate?" he asked, in his kindly way.
"It's what I earned, sir," she faltered. "Miss Grower sold the table-cover. I
thought maybe you'd put it aside for me, like you do for the others.
"I'll take good care of it," he said.
"Oh, sir, I don't ever expect to repay you, and Miss Grower and Mr. Hodder!
"Why, you are repaying us," he replied, cutting her short, "you are making us
all very happy. And Sally tells me at the Exchange they like your work so well
they are asking for more. I shouldn't have suspected," he added, with a humorous
glance at the rector, "that Mr. Hodder knew so much about embroidery."
He rose, and put the money in his desk,—such was his genius for avoiding
situations which threatened to become emotional.
"I've started another one," she told them, as she departed.
A few moments later Miss Grower appeared.
"Sally," said Mr. Bentley, "you're a wise woman. I believe I've made that
remark before. You have managed that case wonderfully."
"There was a time," replied Miss Grower, thoughtfully, "when it looked pretty
black. We've got a chance with her now, I think."
"I hope so. I begin to feel so," Mr. Bentley declared.
"If we succeed," Miss Grower went on, "it will be through the heart. And if
we lose her again, it will be through the heart."
Hodder started at this proof of insight.
"You know her history, Mr. Hodder?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I don't. And I don't care to. But the way to get at Kate Marcy, light
as she is in some respects, is through her feelings. And she's somehow kept 'em
alive. We've got to trust her, from now on—that's the only way. And that's what
God does, anyhow."
This was one of Miss Grover's rare references to the Deity.
Turning over that phrase in his mind, Hodder went slowly back towards the
parish house. God trusted individuals—even such as Kate Marcy. What did that
mean? Individual responsibility! He repeated it. Was the world on that
principle, then? It was as though a search-light were flung ahead of him and he
saw, dimly, a new order—a new order in government and religion. And, as though
spoken by a voice out of the past, there sounded in his ears the text of that
sermon which had so deeply moved him, "I will arise and go to my Father."
The church was still open, and under the influence of the same strange
excitement which had driven him to walk in the rain so long ago, he entered and
went slowly up the marble aisle. Through the gathering gloom he saw the figure
on the cross. And as he stood gazing at it, a message for which he had been
waiting blazed up within him.
He would not leave the Church!