We worked for half an hour clearing the snow away from the door. It was more than five feet deep there. My landlord climbed out first. He had a shovel in his hand. He dropped it, flung out his arms, and disappeared. 'Hello!' I said. 'Is it as deep as that?' But there was no reply. I climbed after him to see what had happened. The next moment I was on my back, gazing at a cloudless sky, and gliding at tremendous speed down a long slope of ice-encrusted snow. I would not have believed that any ice not even Iceland ice could be so slippery. I thought I should never stop sliding and did n't stop, in fact, until far out on the fjord; and the best of the journey was that, in mid-course of it, boredom left me. I felt it go, suddenly, as though an immense weight on the spirit had volatilized, leaving me lighter than air. It was a glorious release. My landlord was sitting on the ice, not far from where I came to a stop. Tears were running down his cheeks. 'Please forgive me!' he said. 'I can't help it. You don't know how funny you looked and he broke down again. 'How are we to get back?' I asked, when he had somewhat regained composure. 'I'll get the shovel. Maybe we can dig our way up.' The shovel was farther out on the fjord. My landlord rose cautiously and was about to make his way toward it when we saw the old housekeeper - a mere speck at that distance - climbing out at the doorway. posture, but as the wind billowed out her skirts she reversed and came on head foremost. Blessed, misnamed law of gravity! Before half an hour had passed, most of the village-old men and maidens, housewives and housekeepers, children, babies in and out of arms slid down the mountainside to the fjord. There we all were, like ants at the bottom of a huge bowl: minute black figures trying to scramble up the slippery sides. 'My landlord is right,' I thought, as I watched the others. 'I'll never be able to leave this place.' The mountains, rising so steeply overhead, looked immeasurably high, and over the ridges poured the light from the hidden sun. Taking turns with the shovel, we dug footholds up the slope. The housekeeper followed warily. I looked back from time to time, to see how she was progressing, more than half hoping that she would lose her balance; but we all three regained the house without mishap. 'Well, what do you think of Iceland now?' said my landlord. 'It's a beautiful country,' I replied. 'And what a place this would be for winter sports!' He grew thoughtful at once. 'It would!' he said. 'I had n't thought of that! As good as Switzerland or Norway! It's a wonderful idea! And in all these years it has never occurred to me!' All that day he was more than usually preoccupied. During the night there was a wet snowstorm which covered the glare of ice. The next morning it was again 'Look!' said he. 'If she is n't clear and moderately cold, and so the careful Then she too threw up her arms and sat down. Two years have passed since I witnessed her descent, but at thought of it my diaphragm quivers spasmodically. She started in a sitting weather continued. Three days later a cargo-boat arrived unexpectedly from England, with coal. When I learned that she was to put in at Reykjavik, the capital, and that I could go with her that far if I chose, I did not know whether to be glad or sorry; for clear crisp weather has wonderful curative properties for body and spirit, and I was now convalescent from my attack of boredom. Nevertheless, remembering my long imprisonment, the two boys wrestling on the sofa, the phonograph with the three Harry Lauder records, the hours I had spent playing solitaire, it seemed best not to tempt Fate too far. So I packed my haversack and set out, with my landlord, for the wharf. A pathway had been dug that far, and the snow on either side was higher than our heads. The steamer had not been able to reach the wharf. It was tied up at the edge of the ice about two hundred yards away. A grimy pathway led to the beach, where the coal had been piled. The last of it was now ashore, and we were nearly ready to leave. 'I wish I were going with you,' said my landlord. 'I have n't been to Reykjavik in four years.' 'Why don't you come?' I urged. "The change would do you good.' He shook his head gloomily. 'No, no! Don't tempt me. It's impossible. I have too much to do here.' 'Well, good-bye,' I said. He was silent. The steamer gave a long blast of the whistle. He roused himself with an effort. 'About winter sports here,' he said. "That is a really splendid idea! I've been thinking of it a great deal. Do you suppose we could? But the weather is so changeable in Iceland. You know how it is raining one day and snowing the next. I'm afraid we haven't enough snow?' He looked at me wistfully, as though in the hope of a confident denial of the statement. And indeed at the moment it seemed an absurd one, for the snow lay everywhere to a depth of three or four feet. 'I'm not so sure,' I replied; but knowing the peculiar geographical conditions of Iceland I could not bring myself to give further encouragement. The lines were being cast off. A bell jangled in the engine-room. It was necessary to go aboard at once. The steamer backed away and stood down the fjord. My landlord waved his hand; then, turning his back to us, he tramped across the ice in the direction of the hotel site. Very small and lonely he looked, beneath the encircling mountains. Of a sudden he disappeared behind a rise of snowy ground. Winter seemed to have engulfed him, finally and irrevocably, together with the rusty boiler - 'for my hot-water system.' O THEOPHILUS BY CAROLINE ATWATER MASON THE man had landed from a small steamer the evening before. He had been able to make his way through the customs without delay, and from the docks he had gone into the southern part of the city for lodging. There such quarters as he could have found must have been of the humblest. It was late in May, and Sunday morning. The stranger walked alone through the streets, and as he went he directed earnest glances on either side, as if expecting something which thus far he had not found. The few persons who met him turned, some even stood, to look after him. Quite without consciousness of the fact, the man was a noteworthy figure in this part of the world. He wore a long woolen mantle of pale grayish hue and upon his head was a close cap of the same fabric. He walked with a long stride and with a light step, having sandals on his feet. His search at last brought him, as the bells were ringing for nine o'clock, before a pillared façade. Here he halted, his eyes fixed on a cross above tall iron gates. These, at the moment, were thrown open. He bent to read a printed card attached to the gate. It bore a notice to the effect that, to enable the worshipers to secure time and freedom for recreation, the hour of service had been changed to half-past nine. 'Re-creation!' The stranger pronounced the word slowly and with evident satisfaction. "Though our out I ward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day,' he murmured to himself; then, 'Sir, may I enter here?' This question was asked of the attendant at the gate with grave courtesy. 'Sure, sure,' was the reply. "That's what we 're here for.' "This is the house of God?' 'You 've said it. St. Cyprian's. All right. Walk in. You can take any seat you 're a mind to.' With this the stranger was ushered into the church. II The service over, the man was observed standing within the entrance of the church, aloof, but in no way ill at ease. In fact, the repose and distinction of his person and bearing were commented upon as singularly impressive. A group of girls stood for a time outside the church door, glancing in furtively at the stranger. Question and conjecture were exchanged concerning the man's race and calling. 'How can you think for a minute,' urged one of the group, 'that that lordly being could be a Swami, or anything but a Greek? Take one glance at his profile. Clearly classic! There! Someone is going up to speak to him. We must stop staring.' A gentleman, who had stopped at the book-table in the vestibule to make a purchase, did, at that moment, approach the stranger. Holding out his hand, he said with the American's careless cordiality, 'My name is Fellows. Connected with the Chamber of Commerce. I may have met you before, but the name 'I thank you. I am Theophilus, formerly of Rhodes.' 'Well, Mr. Theophilus, we are very glad to see you here this morning. Hope you enjoyed the service?' The response was a detached smile of assent. Then the stranger, a sudden glow on his face, volunteered a remark in precise, formal English. 'I noticed with pleasure, as I entered here, that the hour of worship has been so arranged that each worshiper shall have time on the Lord's Day for his own re-creation.' ""Re-creation"? Oh yes, yes. Exactly. Our American short cut is "recreation," but I know what you mean, sir - that card on the gate. Yes, it's a new thing, and it takes wonderfully. First attend early service, then recreate the rest of the day. That's the programme, and I am starting myself now on Number Two. My car is waiting just over there. Say-how would you like to motor with me down to the shore?' Theophilus inclined his head with an air vaguely suggesting one who considers the granting, rather than the acceptance, of a favor. Mr. Fellows persisted along the line on which he had started, although why he chose it he hardly knew. There was something about the man III As they drove on through the city streets, Fellows, reflecting that more likely than not this foreigner might never have seen the inside of a car like his, if indeed of any car, felt a faint irritation at his impassive silence. This was broken, however, after they had passed several churches which many persons were entering. 'In very deed,' he exclaimed, 'this is the Christian city which I have traveled far to find!' The smile with which these words were spoken suddenly awoke a cordial desire in Fellows to see the mayor Monday morning, and get him to give Theophilus the freedom of the city in return for the honor of his presence. He was certainly a personage, a man of no small consequence. Lawns and woodland slope away from the verandah of the Merrymount Country Club. Beyond and below these the ocean surf that Sunday morning ran with music to break upon the sands. Theophilus, who supposed himself now to have arrived at the home of his new acquaintance, Mr. Fellows, watched the scene in still delight from the porch in which they sat together. Few moments passed, however, before interruption came with the entrance upon the scene of a gentleman attired in a sporting-suit, carrying under his arm a long leather case. At his jovial challenge Fellows rose at once and conferred with him for a moment apart. Theophilus, meanwhile, looked with mild perplexity at the implements protruding from the leather case. Were these to have part in some unfamiliar ritual of that spiritual re-creation to which, as he supposed, the later hours of the Lord's Day were dedicated? Fellows, now ready to leave, paused to explain to Theophilus the necessity he was under of 'keeping a date' made a week ago. He would return soon after noon, and they would have luncheon together. Meanwhile, as he happened to have with him a new book by his pastor, the clergyman to whose sermon Theophilus had just listened, he would leave that for his diversion. Left alone, Theophilus sat, the book unopened, his hands clasped upon his breast; his look withdrawn, touched by some inner radiance. Two hours passed. Looking up at the sound of a car, he recognized in the man now coming up the steps the pastor of the Church of St. Cyprian. The recognition was mutual. 'I am glad, my good friend, to find you here,' exclaimed the Parson. 'I saw you this morning at a distance, after service, with Mr. Fellows, but I lost the chance I wished to speak with you. This is an unexpected pleasure.' "Your friend has received me graciously into his home, for a quiet hour,' returned Theophilus. On near approach the Parson gained a sense of an unlooked-for quality in this stranger, something not connected with his costume or even with his person. Unconsciously he dropped his manner of patronizing kindliness. All attempt to explain the guest's mistake regarding the Club was given up as irrelevant, as they sat down together. 'I recognized by your garb, sir,' the Parson began anew, 'back there in the church, that you are a native of classic lands. I have been in Greece and Rome myself. You have won distinction - is it in philosophy? I am not quite sure.' 'My public connection was with one of the military orders,' the other replied; 'but it is true that I have given much time to philosophy. I follow it now no longer, however.' 'Oh yes,' said the Parson wearily, 'that is the way it with us allgoes over here anyway. What chance has a professional man in these days - even one in the ministry for the pursuit of for the pursuit of abstract thought? The one thing demanded of us now, over and beyond incessant social obligations, is to work up some new financial campaign. That is what brings me here to-day. I expected to find Mr. Fellows here. We must have his name to head the list of subscriptions to our new Mass Movement for Missions. It comes on to-night. Where is my friend, I wonder?' Theophilus not replying, the Parson answered himself. 'Oh, to be sure! I might have known golfing. He would be at this hour. I suppose he will return for luncheon?' 'I believe so. Are your Christian people then very poor, if I may ask?' 'Oh, my dear sir-poor? They are rich. No trouble on that point. The trouble is to persuade them to give their money for the spread of the Gospel, or any such object.' 'What, then, do your Christians with their money?' 'Oh, they give liberally enough along certain lines-educational, civic improvement, and such. But, in the main, money over here goes for luxury, extravagance, high living. I have touched up that point pretty plainly in one of the chapters of my new book. By the way, I see you have a copy of it there.' Instead of passing the book to its author at once, Theophilus, with a word of apology, opened it himself. 'I was looking into this book at the moment you came,' he remarked, 'and if I may detain you a little I wish to inquire concerning this chapter, the title of which caught my eye-"Jesus, as Viewed by the Modern World."' 'Oh yes. That would, of course, appeal to you, coming as you do from Bible lands.' The Parson, the book now in his own hand, glanced over the pages with animated interest. 'You have mentioned a difficulty in persuading the people of your church to give freely of their money for the spread of the Gospel,' volunteered Theophilus. 'Is not the cause made plain in your chapter there? If there is not a Gospel worthy of acceptation — ?' 'Sir, you have asked a crucial question. It is one which I should be glad to discuss with you, for it goes deep.' |