beat of the torrential rain. He might as well have tried to stop the wheeling earth. It beat him down, it flattened him, it plowed him forward through the wet sand. He was suddenly aware of a new note in the tumult of sound that beat upon his ears-a dull and continuous mutter, like a far-off humming of bees, that rapidly grew louder. As he glanced about him, the heavens were lighted again by a greenish flame, and looking seaward, he saw a huge, black wall raised high across the roadstead beyond the jutting points of the harbor. About its foot the waves broke in white foam. The lightning ceased, and quick darkness fell, but the humming sound came nearer; then in a returning flash he saw the wall approach the headlands and the headlands melt away. With an inarticulate cry, he tried to rise, but was beaten down by the gale and whirled along the beach with Lyde still in his arms as the black wall of the tidal wave loomed for a moment above their heads and, roaring along the beach, bore them apart in a great rush of on-leaping water. IT was with shame rather than with grief that Jude sat desolate and heedless amid the ruins of his home. All about him his neighbors in Love-Lady Court were busily patching up their wrecked houses, but he was indifferent. The town was well-nigh destroyed, many people had perished, the shipping in the harbor driven. ashore or sunk, and in the general chaos and neglect yellow fever had broken out; but Jude went his own road of sorrow. Bruised, torn, and unconscious, with broken ribs and arm, he had been found in an angle of a wall high up on King Street and carried to his dismantled home. Lyde had not been found. For days, almost without rest, he had searched the littered coast-line for her body. "Ah broke ma wud,” he said; "Ah tol' her Ah 'd nebber leabe her, an' whah is she now? An' Ah am alibe. Ah broke ma wud." "It was er wud yo' could n't keep, boy," Sis' Mame remonstrated, "an' da Lawd done broke it, not yo'. Yo' yen't no match faw Him, big an' strong as yo' is." "Ah yen't tow big faw tow keep ma own wud," he retorted. "An' now Ah "When?" he demanded. He waited three days, and then one night his huge form suddenly blocked Sis' Mame's doorway. It was late, and she was sitting by her brazier brewing a cup of tea, for she was very weary from caring for the sick. She looked up at him with eyes heavy with sleep. "Whah 's dat sign, Sis' Mame?" he demanded. "Ah waited lak yo' said, but it doan' come." "Whah yo' goin'?" she asked. "Tow Lyde," he answered. "How yo' goin'?" she asked again. "She went out on da sea-water, an' Ah 'll foller," he said. "Yo' know da road?" "Ah 'll fin' it." "Huh!" she grunted. She lifted her cup to her lips and gazed at him as she slowly drank. The fixed stare of her deep-set eyes made him uncomfortable. She liked Jude, and was determined to save him from his own resolution to die. "Come in an' shet da do'," she said sharply. He came in hesitatingly. She rose, and from a box in the corner of the room brought forth various small articles which, carefully concealed in her hands, she dropped into the brazier, then seated herself again. As the flames rose higher, and a pungent smoke raised a cloudy veil between them, she said curtly: "Look at da fire, boy! Look at da fire!" He looked, and presently she began to rock on her heels, muttering to herself, "Come sign! Come sign!" with a monotonous iteration that had a curiously rhythmical quality in its sharply accented cadences. The strange, pungent odor seemed presently to numb his brain; the words, monotonously uttered, to become, by some curious transference, merely the excited beat of his own heart given a voice. The beating stifled him. He put his hand weakly to his head and wiped away the great drops of perspiration, which felt cold to his hands; the room grew dark; and he saw the fire and the rising incense only as a mysteriously wavering blur in the general blackness that seemed engulfing him. He moaned, and set his hands to the floor, bracing his swaying body. It was the moment for which Sis' Mame had been covertly watching, and with a swift change from her singing chant and the slow, rocking motion of her body, she leaned over the brazier with a little exclamation of fervid satisfaction. "Da sign! da sign!" she muttered. "Dah she is, er-settin' on er golding throne, an' er-smilin' an' er-wavin' yo' back with her han'! Yo' see, boy-da spit an' image o' Sis' Lyde herse'f! An' she 's er-wavin' yo' back. Da time yen't come faw yo' tow go." And Jude, his imagination made receptive to visions by long fasting and suffering, and now excited by the mysterious obi rites and Sis' Mame's narcotic herbs, saw the vision, and bowed before Sis' Mame's interpretation. "She said she 'd watch faw me an' wait faw me," he groaned. "She will," Sis' Mame replied; "but da time yen't ripe yit. She'll wait in da Lawd's time, not yo's. How come He sabed yo' dat night lak He done, huh? Jes faw meanness? No, seh; yo' gotter wuk tow do firs'." "What wuk?" he asked. "Huh! yo' ask dat when da sick an' da dyin' is er-needin' er big, strong man lak yo'?" she exclaimed. She rose to her feet, and he followed her out of the house and up to the far end of the court. As she turned in toward a door, he put a detaining hand on her arm. It was the house where dwelt a girl of whom Lyde had been jealous, for she had openly shown her liking for Jude. "Ah cyan't do nuthin' faw Sis' Martha, Sis' Mame," he protested. "Lyde would n't stan' faw dat nohow." Sis' Mame looked up to him reproachfully. "Doan' yo' know da dade sees cl'ar?" she demanded. "All dat 's done pass erway with Lyde. What she smile faw, what she wave yo' back faw, huh? Faw tow show she's sorry faw Sis' Martha, an' yo' mus' help her. Now come erlong in." IN the crowded jumble of menacing and distorted figures that in her delirium seemed to Sis' Martha to advance upon her in gigantic shapes, only to contract to mere pin-points and vanish as they drew threateningly near, one figure alone preserved a normal and kindly aspect-the figure of Jude. It became a solace, to be eagerly awaited, and, when at last seen, a potential defense against the oncoming throng of terrifying shapes. It was with no surprise, therefore, that, on awakening to consciousness on the third morning of the fever, Sis' Martha looked up into the anxious and pathetic eyes of Jude as he bent over her in a kindly office. He was bathing her face with a wet cloth, and as she opened her eyes at the cooling touch, he saw that the light of intelligence had returned to them. "Thank da Lawd!" he exclaimed. "Yo' 's better, chile. Da feber 's done broke'." She smiled weakly. "Yo' glad faw dat?" she whispered. "Ah sure is," he replied, with an answering smile. "Den Ah 's glad," she whispered again. "Ah did n't 'spec' tow be glad no mo'." "Doan' talk, chile; jes be glad," he cautioned, and began to bathe her face again. She closed her eyes, and lay there, smiling. She was very weak, but filled with a great content. His mere presence there now, to her childlike nature, seemed an assurance that from his own ruined hopes he had come to her as to a refuge; and as she rapidly grew stronger, she began unconsciously to exercise the coquettish wiles of one who felt she was sought. Her nature was not deep, but she had always admired him, and now she felt that she had become a comfort to him. Once she said: "Boy, yen't yo' bery tired? When yo' done git any res'?" "Ah doan' know," he replied. "Seem' lak Ah yen't needed no res'." She misunderstood, and her eyes filled with tears. "Yas, yo' wo' yo'se'f erway faw me," she said with a look that she tried to make reproachful, but was only undisguised joy. From his great height, as he stood smiling above her, he looked himself over and said: "Seem' lak dah 's somepin' left yit, Sis' Martha." "Yas, er big heaht," she said. "An' Ah 'm goin' try tow match it with mine." "Yo' match it now," he replied. "Honey boy!" she whispered happily. Startled, he saw that she misunderstood the significance of his speech, and he looked at her in dumb pathos; but in the look she read only great weariness. "Now yo' go erway an' res'," she begged. "Ah kin sleep now. Go erway an' res'. Yo' done ernough faw me." He went out silently, but when he had reached his own door he paused in irresolution. "What Ah goin' do?" he muttered. "Foh da Lawd! what Ah goin' do?" He saw Sis' Mame cross the court, going home, and with a sharp resentment against her rising in his heart, he quickly followed her. She turned as his figure darkened her doorway. "Sis' Mame," he said, "yo' done got me in trouble, an' how yo' goin' git me out?" He explained briefly. She glared at him with her narrowed old eyes as she said with a laconic sharpness of speech: "Yen't Sis' Martha er good girl?" "Tow be sure, Sis' Mame," he replied. "Da bes'." "Yen't she pretty?" "Yas, dat 's so, Sis' Mame." "Yen't she er kin' heaht?" out her strength for him as a mother over her child. She never left him; she slept only in brief moments as she watched by his side; and when on the third day of the fever Sis' Martha, wild with apprehension and grief, dragged herself from her own sick bed to Jude's side, Sis' Mame brutally hushed her wailing and set her to work-she set her to work on a white shroud. It was finished at twilight, and as Sis' Mame took it from the girl she walked to the door and gazed down the valley to the roadstead. The long strip of beach under the fringing cocoa-palms gleamed duskily white in the darkening world. A little gleam of her old-time mischief came into her eyes, and she went back to Sis' Martha. "He'll go out with da fallin' tide,” she whispered. "Funny how it draws da breaf o' life outen er man!" She took the weeping girl by the arm, and, lifting her to her feet, gently led her to the door. “Go home, chile, an' res'," she commanded. "Yo' yen't fitten tow stay here. Bumby yo' kin come back." Too weak to resist, Sis' Martha went away, and Sis' Mame softly closed the door behind her. An hour later, as Sis' Martha went down through Love-Lady Court, returning to Sis' Mame's, the desolation of her "Dat 's so, Sis' Mame, jus' lak yo' heart seemed to shadow her whole little say." "Well?" She looked him over with well-simulated scorn. "Den what yo' want? Er queen? Yen't she good ernough faw yo', huh?" He did not answer, and glancing at his face more keenly, she realized that he had not heard. He was slowly rocking on his feet; his face had the blue, pinched look of intense cold. As he weakly passed his hand across his eyes as though to brush away some obscuring mist, he lurched forward, caught himself, and again stood rocking on his feet. "Ah 'm col'," he said thickly. "Whah's da do'? Ah cyan't see it. What 's da matter with me, Sis' Mame?" world. Here and there in the open square still smoldered brushwood fires that had been lighted as a preventive against the spread of the fever. Even before she reached Sis' Mame's house she was aware of what had taken place, for two men with spades over their shoulders came out of the gate and hurried away, and as she quickened her pace, a little group that stood back from the door, with eyes intently directed within, stepped silently back and gazed at her curiously. At the door she paused, and with a little moan clutched at her fast-beating heart, for Jude had passed. He lay on the pallet in the strange majesty of death, clothed in the white shroud that she had made; and even in the first shock of her grief she was not without a certain gratified pride in the mean little pomp and peculiar distinction it gave; for in that dread period of the In the days that followed she poured plague the dead were hurried to their Sis' Mame had sprung to his side, and, leading him toward a pallet, pushed him gently down. In utter collapse he sank back in a huddled heap. Sis' Mame ran to the door, calling for help. hasty burials with little thought for cere- "He done pass, lak Ah said he 'd pass, with da tide," she said sadly. "But come erlong in; yo' place is heeh, chile. We cyan't hab him long; Buddy Joe an' Jim Fawns hab gone tow dig er grabe." The girl sat down near the door, with restlessly roving eyes. She longed to slip away, for the unreasoning repulsion for the physical aspects of death moved her strongly. Sis' Mame, with her hand on the girl's shoulder, gazed at Jude with an eagerly expectant look. But suddenly the girl wrenched herself from Sis' Mame's tense grasp, and rose to her feet. For Sis' Martha it would always lie between them. She would see it henceforth in his eyes; she would feel its uncanny presence brooding over her, chilling her heart, when she stood by his side. With a shudder, she moved softly toward the door. Sis' Mame sharply called her, but she hurried away. Jude seemed not to notice. "Ah 's been down in da Valley o' da Shader, Sis' Mame, but Ah did n' find Lyde," he said in a broken voice. "Seems lak Ah 'd find her in da worl' yet." "Seems so," Sis' Mame said soothingly. He rapidly grew better, and three days later he crept to the door and sat down on the sill, basking contentedly in the warm sun. The fever was dying out in the island, and the dwellers in Love-Lady Court were repairing their wrecked homes. The pleasant sound of bustling activity came to his ears, and once he heard the laugh of a woman. Life was again picking up its dropped threads. Suddenly there fell a hush, and then there came a confused murmur of excited "Ah cyan't stay, Sis' Mame," she fal- voices. He heard the sound of many run tered; "Ah 's afraid." "Yo' wait," commanded Sis' Mame, sharply. "Yen't yo' got no last manners tow da dade?" And Jude heard. The weighting pennies dropped from his eyes as he opened them and gazed dumbly up into Sis' Martha's face, now suddenly stiffened in a terrifying wonder. Then he saw the trappings of death and Sis' Mame bending over him. A quick fear shook him. "Has Ah been dade, Sis' Mame?" he asked in a shaking voice. "Yas, boy," she said glibly. "Yo' done pass' out with da tide, but da Lawd done tu'n yo' back faw Sis' Martha." She She caught up a damp cloth and bathed his face; but when at last she turned away, she glanced at the cloth slyly. It was covered with the gray ash of burned wood. With a smile of grim humor, she dropped the cloth in her smoldering brazier. Sis' Martha and Jude had not stirred: the shadow of death lay between them. ning feet, and Sis' Mame hurried to the door, standing above him. He never knew why, but he dropped his face in his trembling hands and sat waiting. He heard Sis' Mame gasp, and a light footfall approach on the path, and then loving arms caught him and a warm cheek was pressed to his own. "Is it yo', honey chile?" he whispered brokenly. "Is it yo'? Somehow Ah dass n't look up. Ah 's afraid." It was Lyde. Carried out to sea with the wreckage of a sugar-house, she had been caught on the roof, and two days. later had been picked up by a steamer and taken to St. Vincent, coming home at last in a small trading-schooner. "Ah looked and looked and looked, but Ah did n' find yo', honey," he said later. "And Ah looked beyond da grabe." "Ah 'd 'a' found yo' deir if yo' had n't come back," she said, with the faith of great love. "Ah reckons dat 's so," he replied. SHAVIAN RELIGION BY THE REV. P. GAVAN DUFFY T will be admitted that it involves enigma to the general public, a personal on the subject of religion in connection with so startling a personality as Mr. Bernard Shaw. Quite apart from the withering sarcasm such a course might bring from the great man himself, provided one were sufficiently known to merit even his scorn, the attempt to show anything constructive in his attitude to religion is sure to invite protest from those we commonly speak of as the religiousminded. For with the great mass of the orthodox and the nominally orthodox, the terms Shaw and religion have all the sharp emphasis of contradiction. Leaving out those who unhesitatingly declare him positively irreligious and a menace to the morals and established proprieties of Christian orthodoxy, he is viewed in turn as a Schopenhauer pessimist, a Nietzschian disciple, a spiritual iconoclast, a man who, for the sheer fun of the thing, revels in shattering Christian ideals into tiny frag ments. Many have written and spoken of the destructive side of Mr. Shaw's religious philosophy. Therefore, to urge now the possibility of seeing anything constructive will no doubt be regarded as an impudent assumption to interpret the Shavian paradoxes, which, we are told, not only are incapable of interpretation, having none, but which both pall upon and bore the average among intellectual people to-day. For this seems to be the latest attitude of those whose peace Shaw disturbs. People who look at life in a serious way, remarked the London "Times" recently, are "bored with his fireworks, find his jests puerile, his paradoxes mechanical and monotonous, and his vivacity a cover for loose reasoning." All of which must be hugely amusing to Mr. Shaw, who insists that the ponderous seriousness of the Englishman is to be measured by degrees in stupidity, out of which unhappy condition he is trying to shock him. The fact is, Shaw is still a hopeless though brilliant, intellect that mystifies by striking for and against every subject he discusses. Dr. Neville Figgis, himself a high Anglican, in his lecture on Shaw at Columbia University two years ago, both prefaced and closed his remarks with a statement intended to explain the riddle of the man. Said he, "Mr. Shaw was born a north of Ireland Protestant." Much as this might, and undoubtedly does, mean to the mind of a very English priest of the Church of England, it probably serves only to heighten the marvel in the minds of Shaw's sometime fellow-religionists. SHAW'S SERIOUS PURPOSE ONE thing is at least certain, and that is that we cannot dismiss Shaw in these curt or light-hearted ways; for he refuses to be dismissed. Let the conscience of modern religion scream as it may, he sits only the tighter on its shoulders after the manner of the Old Man of the Sea in "Sindbad the Sailor." Frankly, we must bring something more to bear than sorely offended prejudices and outraged conventionalities, whether religious or social, on the one hand; and, on the other, rid ourselves of the affectation that pretends to see in Shaw merely the jester in cap and bells, if we are to arrive at any true estimate of his relation to modern religion. It is only after this manner that we begin to perceive, under the scourge of irony, the play of paradox, the apparently destructive wit, the unrivaled sarcasm— all of which are simply regarded as negation and iconoclasm by the merely superficial reader, the deadly earnestness and serious purpose of the man. This particularly applies when Shaw is assailing the purely conventional in religion, and the conduct that grows out of it. He shows us empty deceits and shams which, masquerading under the disguise of Christianity, only too often represent the antithesis |
