From the Improvement Era, March 1917 –

The Kingdom of Little Children

By Myrtle Young

“There! it is done, and I call it perfect,” said Wallace Marden, and, stepping back, he surveyed his work. “Tomorrow the sculptors and critics shall see it. They will pronounce it a masterpiece and then, ah, then I shall be famous.”

The door of the studio opened and a little bent man came in. He might have been any age from sixty to seventy-five. He seemed as frail as the reed that bows before the gentlest wind. His hair was white as the fleecy clouds that float high up in the summer sky, and his eyes — great and dark they were, and filled with the light of understanding and of peace.

For almost twenty years John Parker had lived at the ”Artist’s Club House,” as a sort of dependent. He served everyone and looked after everything, receiving as compensation the use of a small apartment in the rear of the building and a sum of money that barely covered his needs. Old John as he was affectionately called, took a fatherly interest in every member of the club and especially did he care for the younger men. He sorrowed with them in failure, and rejoiced with them in success. He knew that Marden had worked for months from early morning till long after dark on this piece of sculpture. He knew that the man’s strength was failing and had often cautioned him against working such long and strenuous days but his advice had been unheeded.

Tonight he noticed a change in Wallace. The dogged, determined expression was gone and in its place was one of radiant joy.

“It is late, Mr. Marden,” he said. “Shall I light the gas?”

“Yes, and turn it high. Then, come here and you shall see what it is that has kept me working here night and day for so long. It is finished, John, finished! There, the light makes it better. Well, what do you say? Will it not surpass anything that has been turned out in years?”

Old John gazed in astonishment and admiration. At last he said slowly, “It is wonderful— wonderful. You have almost breathed life into the stone. Ah, my son, what talent you have! You have indeed been greatly blessed.”

“Blessed?” exclaimed the sculptor, “blessed? Yes, that is just what they will say. I tell you it is not blessing that has done this — it is work.” ‘

“But have you not been blessed with ability to work?”

“I had no choice,” Wallace went on hurriedly. “It was work or starve and naturally I did not choose to starve. I, and I alone, have made me what I am. If God had anything to do with this, why did he plant an insane love for beauty and an uncontrollable desire to reproduce it, in the mind of a child who must be reared in poverty? And why, my friend, did he not cause some one to recognize the talent that was within?

“I spent five years as a servant in the home of a great sculptor. I worshiped the skilled hand that used the chisel so deftly. Like a thief I stole into the studio and feasted upon his books in the night. He laughed when I made a crude attempt to ape his work but he never offered to teach me.”

“But surely some one taught you,” interrupted the old man.

“The things I had read filled me with a desire to see the great masterpieces of sculpture. I stowed away on a ship bound for the Old World and when found was forced to work like a slave to pay for my passage, but it was worth while. I had saved a little money and used it for lessons. When that was gone I worked at anything from selling books to loading freight at the wharfs. At last there came the day when the great master told me that he could teach me no more.”

He paused for a moment. Old John stood looking at him in amazement not knowing what to say.

“When I came back to America, the artists and sculptors offered me the hand of fellowship and I came here that I might be among them. A few of them who never have turned out anything worth while have been very patronizing to me but when they see this — ”

Unconsciously he had raised his voice until now it was almost an exultant cry, —

“When they see this,” he repeated, “they will say — ah, they will say as you did,” and the bitterness of disappointment came into his tone, “He has been greatly blessed.”

“And so you have.” There was a calmness in voice that soothed the younger man and he listened, “Whatever you are you owe it to Him, for he has blessed you with health and strength, with great talents, and with an iron will. But after all what is this work of yours? It is far surpassed by the glory of the smallest thing in God’s creation which you can but copy in material which is decidedly inferior to his.”

Walking over to the open window, he reached out.

“See,” he continued, “you can not make even a little leaf like this nor can you comprehend its intricate structure. It is far more wonderful than your statue.” An impatient gesture stopped him.

“You’re tired, Mr. Marden. Pardon me for wearying you. I’ll bring your coat. It is time you were home.”

Old John left the room. Wallace stood staring as if in a trance. He stooped and with trembling fingers, picked up the leaf that had fallen to the floor.

“Ah, Old John, what a philosopher you are!” he murmured. “A little leaf like this. How simple and yet how intricate! How wonderful is its coloring and its construction! My friend, you almost take me back to the kingdom in which I believed when a little child.”

John returned with the coat and while Wallace was slipping into it, he remarked, “I wish I could make you see this as I do. I wish I could lead you back into the fold of the Great Shepherd. Surely some time in your life you believed?”

“It’s no use, John,” Marden answered, but there was a kindliness in his voice that surprised him. “Yes, I did believe when a child but my faith in God faded soon after my belief in fairies crumbled. After all it is but a fairy tale — a beautiful story but one that is hardly plausible to the highly developed mind. The kingdom of heaven is but a kingdom for little children.”

“And O, the joy of knowing that one is like a little child and can enter therein,” replied Old John softly.

“Once I almost believed again,” Wallace resumed, and for a moment it seemed that he had forgotten the other man’s presence. “But even she could not bring me back; and I loved her!”

“You loved her?” John Parker’s voice was eager.

“Why, yes; I was in love once. It seems strange, doesn’t it? But sometime in his life every man meets a woman who makes him dream of her, a home, and babes. I once had those glorious dreams but — well I decided that nothing should interfere with my ambition, so I, well I didn’t marry her.”

Turning he caught sight of the clock on the mantel-piece, “How late it is! Good-night, John.”

The door closed behind him. Old John stood staring after him.

“So he loved her,” he said to himself. “Poor little girl! How happy she could have made him.”

Wallace hurried to his hotel, hastily ate his evening meal, and then retired to his room. Sinking into an easy chair, he picked up the evening paper and tried to read, but no matter where he looked, his eyes saw the same picture, a slight little woman with sunny brown hair and eyes as deep as the violet.

Three years ago he had had a nervous break-down and the doctors had ordered him to the country. It was here that he had met and loved La Rue Woods. As he sat here tonight his thoughts raced back to the happy days he had spent wandering through the fields and over the hills with her. He recalled the day when, after they had searched in vain for violets La Rue had said that perhaps the fairies had gathered them all. And because he loved to see her in this mood of make-believe, he had played fairies, too. Then there came to his mind the day toward the end of his vacation, when La Rue’s mother had been called into the great beyond. The girl had found comfort in her belief in God. She had told him how she looked forward to the day when she, her life’s mission ended, might join her mother. Because it brought consolation to her, he had feigned that he, too, had faith in the divine Creator and had found himself on his return to his work, almost believing as she did.

For a long time he sat there in a reverie of the past. His head began to nod, gradually it sank lower and lower, and then he was fast asleep.

How long he slept, he did not know. He was awakened by a great tumult in the street below. Vehicles of every kind seemed to be rushing by, people were shouting as if they were mad. And above it all came distinctly the warning clang! clang! of the fire department. Stepping to the window he looked out at the excited throng.

“A fire somewhere,” he remarked without emotion.

There came a quick, loud knock at the door and a voice tense with excitement cried, “Mr. Marden, it’s the ‘Artist’s Club House!’ It’s—”

The door was flung open and Marden, hatless and coatless, rushed past him and down the stairs. He had hardly reached the street when a cab drew up.

“Artist’s Club! Rush!” he cried as he sprang into it.

The driver responded eagerly and yet it seemed to the anxious man inside that hours passed before they came to the burning building. It was worse than he had expected. Huge clouds of smoke rolled steadily upward. Great tongues of fire leaped out from the windows. The front arch had caved in, the hall was almost entirely ablaze, but the stairs still remained. Little trails of smoke were rising from them and over them the blaze threw a livid red glare.

All this Wallace saw in an instant. His brain was whirling, but one thing was clear to him. Up those red stairs, two doors to the right was his statue, the dream and the work of years — he must save it.

A moment later a breathless silence fell upon the crowd that had gathered. They stood spellbound, unable to speak or to cry out. A man was climbing the stairs. John Parker was the first to break the silence.

“It’s Marden!” he shouted; “he’s going to his studio. Quick, put the ladder to this window! I’ll go up!”

“No, no, John,” a strong fireman held him back; “that is my place. You couldn’t bring him out.”

Eagerly the crowd watched him climb the ladder and crawl into the window. The minutes dragged slowly by. It seemed like an eternity before he appeared at the window, and the prostrate form of Wallace Marden was lifted out and carried to safety. Some one shouted for a doctor and two came out of the crowd to examine the injured man.

“Is he — he isn’t dead?” John’s voice trembled as he asked the question.

“No, merely overcome,” one of them answered. “He’s quite badly burned, too. Another few minutes would have finished him. We’ll rush him to the hospital where we can give him proper attention.”

Two days later Wallace realized that he was lying in bed in a dark room. There came to him an indistinct murmur of voices, among which he thought he could distinguish that of John Parker.

“John,” he called softly.

“Yes, yes,” he was now sure it was John. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

“O, yes, I’m all right,” he answered. “But it is so dark in here. I can’t — ”

Painfully he raised his hand to his eyes. They were tightly bandaged. He wondered why, and then like a flash it all came back to him. He remembered his statue, the fire, the red glow on the stairs. He remembered reaching the studio door but farther than that he could recall nothing.

“Where am I? What am I doing here?” he demanded.

“You’re in the hospital.” It was the doctor who spoke. “You came very near being in the other world. If you don’t mind we’ll have a look at those eyes.”

Wallace waited patiently till the bandages were removed and then opened his eyes. He saw nothing. A terrible fear clutched him. He felt almost that his blood froze and his heart stopped beating. Raising his sightless eyes toward heaven, in the agony of despair, he breathed the first prayer that had passed his lips in years — “God help me! I am blind.”

Old John took the hand that had fallen limply on the covers and in a choked voice he whispered, “My boy, my boy.”

“Don’t, John. It wouldn’t seem so bad but the fire has taken all I hold dear except the girl for whom I would find no place in my life. Leave me and let me think, and John, I wonder — do you think — a — a will you pray for me?”

“Yes, my son, I will, and God in his mercy will hear. The blindness has left your soul and now affects your body, but of the two, it were far better that the soul should see the light.”

One week later John Parker and a young girl with sunny brown hair and eyes that seemed to have borrowed their color from the violet, stood in the corridor of the hospital and waited to be admitted into Wallace Marden’s room.

“O, Uncle John,” exclaimed the girl. “How could you keep from telling him that you saved his statue first of all? It seems cruel not to give him that much comfort, at least.”

“There, there, girlie, don’t you scold me. I didn’t tell him because I wanted you to have that honor.”

“Do you think he will be very much surprised when he knows I am here?”

“Surprised? Well, you just wait and see.”

“Mr. Marden will see you, Mr. Parker,” the nurse announced.

“Go on, honey, go right in,” whispered Old John. “I’ll come after awhile.”

With unfaltering footsteps she walked over to the big chair in which Wallace was reclining. As she looked at him the tears came into her eyes but she brushed them hastily away. “Wallace,” she called softly.

He turned his head quickly. There was a puzzled, doubtful look on his face. He reached out his hands to her.

“Why, it is — no, it can’t be you, La Rue?” he cried.

“Yes, it is I,” she answered as she took his hands in hers.

Quickly he withdrew them and the expression of pleasure faded from his face as he asked abruptly, almost angrily, “Who told you I was here? Why did you come?”

She sat down on the arm of his chair and slipped her arm around his neck.

“No — no,” he protested, but she did not heed him.

“Uncle John wrote and told me all about you.”

“Uncle John?” he queried.

“Yes. You didn’t know it, but John Parker is my mother’s adopted brother. He sent for me and I came just as any good fairy god-mother would come. In fairy tales they always come to grant a wish or to bring a message and then they go away again, but I am bringing you two messages and I’m going to stay because — you need me.”

“But it is folly, La Rue. Just these few moments with you is going to make it harder for me to bear my burden. You can’t stay.”

“I’m going to talk,” she went on, “and you’re going to listen. If you have anything to say, you must wait till I am through. Once you crushed me out of your life because you wanted fame and feared that a wife might interfere with your achieving it. You told me that you loved me and you made me confess that I loved you, but did not ask me to become your wife. You did not need me then but now you can’t get along without someone, and I want to stay. May I?”

He caressed her hand but his lips shaped no answer.

“Of course, if you don’t love me or — ”

“It isn’t that,” he interrupted; “I do love you, little girl, more than I can tell you, and more than you will ever know, but I can’t ask you to become my wife now.”

There was a sob in her voice as she answered bravely, “Wallace, I’m asking you.”

His arms went around her and drawing her close to him, he whispered, “You may stay.”

“And now for my message. I can’t wait another minute to tell you. The first is that your statue was not destroyed in the fire. Uncle John saved it. Yesterday he showed it to some of your friends and they say it will make you famous.”

“Do you mean it?” Can it be true?” he asked breathlessly.

“It is true,” she continued, “but the second message is still better. This morning when Dr. Andrews came to dress your eyes he brought another man with him. Dr. Brooks.”

“Yes, yes. They say that it is a rather peculiar case and all the doctors are anxious to study it.”

“But this Dr. Brooks is a wonderful eye specialist. He is one of Uncle John’s oldest friends and he says that he is almost sure he can restore your sight, at least partially.”

The man’s frame was trembling and it was some moments before he could speak. In his voice awe, reverence, and thankfulness were mingled as he said:

“How greatly God has blessed me. I denied his very existence until a short time ago, but since I have been here I have had time to think, and I marvel that I failed to see his hand in everything. Every flower, leaf, or blade of grass, every bird, every brook, every stone proclaims his love and handiwork, if we will but see aright.”

For a long time they sat there in silence. Words failed to express the joy that each one felt. Old John entered unobserved and was just going to tip-toe out when Wallace said: “Oh, little girl, if my sight is restored what wonderful, wonderful things I shall carve with the aid of God’s blessing and your inspiration; but if it is not — ” His voice became choked and he stopped.

“And if it is not restored,” the calmness of resignation filled Wallace Marden’s soul as Old John spoke, “you will go on together and you will place your hand in hers and she will lead you back to the kingdom of little children.”