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Title: The Deathless Miracle
Date of first publication: 1931
Author: Jeffery Farnol (1878-1952)
Date first posted: Oct. 17, 2019
Date last updated: Oct. 17, 2019
Faded Page eBook #20191040

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines
This file was produced from images generously made available by www.unz.com/print/Colliers-1931mar21-00028





[Transcriber's note: text surrounded by + signs is +bolded+]



[Source: Collier's, March 21, 1931]



The Deathless Miracle


By Jeffery Farnol


  _+A story of that sweet, beneficent power that
  transforms the commonplace and makes the
  ordinary glorious+_



No one, especially a woman, ever troubled to look at John Martin
twice, until....  But I have begun this narrative at the wrong place.
Let us try again:

John Martin was neither tall nor short, with eyes and hair of no
particular color--a very ordinary young man who, having a passionless
loathing for office work, did as little as possible in an office all
day long.  He caught the 8:35 every morning, trudged the too-familiar
quarter mile to his place of business, got through the day's dull
routine somehow and returned by the 6:15 to a dingy boarding house in
a dismal suburb.  One of a countless host was John, quite lost in the
ruck, a human cipher with no particular ambitions, no dream of nobler
future until upon his purview dawned Princess Charming and the Gross
Animal.

The Princess was a little too thin, much too pale, and slightly
shabby; the Gross Animal rubicund of visage, full-bodied, and loud in
every way.

It was on the crowded 8:35 of a bitter morning and John had just
shaken open his newspaper when he became aware of her, and for two
reasons: first, because she sat in the opposite corner and was
looking at him, and, second, because she shivered in the icy blast of
the open window.  John, not recognizing her (of course) for the
Princess, would have begun to scan his paper but he saw a small hand,
in its worn glove, reach forth a little diffidently and essay quite
vainly to pull up and close the heavy window; therefore, after a
momentary hesitation, John touched the brim of his second-best (or
business) hat and, seizing the strap, jerked up the window.

The Princess in a soft, shy voice had murmured her thanks and John
had turned to his paper when the Gross Animal burst upon the
scene--that is to say, the Plethoric Person, leaning across this
slim, shrinking and very timid Princess, snatched the strap and let
down the window with a crash:

"Sir!" he boomed, glaring round about him truculently.  "Nothing like
fresh air!  Air's life!"

John, about to extinguish himself behind his newspaper, saw that she
still watched him, and, moved by sudden adventurous impulse, he spoke:

"Excuse me, but ... are you cold?"

"Yes, I ... am rather," she answered, in the same shy murmur, "but it
... oh, it doesn't matter, please don't trouble."

Actuated by a second strange, wild impulse, John instantly jerked the
window up again and in the utmost perturbation awaited the expected
outburst.

"Well, of all the confounded insolence!" roared the Gross Animal, and
reached for the window strap; but his plump hand in its natty,
fur-lined glove was struck aside by a bony fist and his scowling eyes
looked into other eyes (of no determinate color) that yet held a
gleam not to be disregarded.



"Go on," said John, his commonplace features desperately grim, "touch
that window and you get a punch right on the snout!"  And John's chin
looked as craggy as his fist.

The Gross Animal half rose in terrific wrath, he snorted, blinked
and--subsided....  Somebody chuckled, papers rustled and the 8:35
sped on while in this thronged compartment reigned that silence which
is, and ever hath been, so typically British.

At Cannon Street, long before the train had reached a standstill,
John swung lightly to the platform and thereafter trudged, slow of
foot and heavy of soul, to his day's labor and thus had passed the
barrier when a soft voice arrested him:

"Please, I ... I should like to thank you."  John took off his hat,
turned from the hurrying throng and pausing beside the bookstall
became aware of two large, brown eyes and a drooping, wistful mouth.
"I think it was awfully ...  brave of you."

"Oh, I don't know," he answered, twiddling his hat.

"But it was, he--that man didn't dare touch the window or say
anything--you scared him."

"Scared him?  Did I?  Me?" said John, forgetting grammar in pleased
amazement.  "I rather expected he'd bounce me one at any moment."

"He was afraid to, you looked so frightfully fierce.  I never saw
anyone so terribly determined."



"I say, do you really mean that?" asked John and caught his breath,
for these brown eyes were so direct and truthful that they inspired
him with a marvelous sense of confidence seldom known till now, so
much so that he squared his shoulders and forgot to slouch.  "I was
certainly ready to try a wallop at the blighter," he nodded, and
cocked his chin; then, stirred by something in these gentle, truthful
eyes, he became truthful also: "Though I was in a blue funk all the
time!" he confessed.  "I'm no Dempsey or Gene Tunney!"  Here John
sighed and his shoulders drooped again.

"That only makes you all the braver!" she murmured.

"Not me!" he answered, shaking his head despondently as they moved
slowly onward again.  "I never fought anyone or ... anything since I
was a kid at school."

"You will!" said she, softly, but with such gentle conviction that
John pondered this until they were descending the steps into Cannon
Street.  "I'm wondering just what you mean?" he inquired.

"I mean you will fight difficulties and win.  You have the look of
success."

"Who?  Me?" said John again, staring his amazement.  "But I'm only
... I've never done anything worth while."

"Because you've never tried, I think," she answered, shaking her head
at him.  "A man can do anything if he's determined enough and
believes in himself."

"But," said John, gloomily, "I'm the sort that needs someone else to
believe in me too--and nobody does, and I don't blame 'em."

"Your own folks?" she questioned.

"Dead!"

"So are mine," said she with a quick sigh.

"That's tough--on a girl!" mused John.

"Yes ... Good-by!"  She nodded.  "I work over there."

"What, here in Walbrook?  So do I," said John.  "I say, will you ...
would you mind ... what I mean is--please, what's your name?"

"Mary--Mary Willis."

"Thanks!  Mine's John Martin.  Perhaps we'll meet again?"

"If you like ... perhaps," she murmured; and was gone.

"Determined!  Me!  Good Lord!" muttered John.  Then, squaring his
shoulders, he strode along the crowded pavement until, catching sight
of a slim, young fellow, a little shabby yet very blithe and
confident of air, he halted suddenly, amazed to see this was his own
reflection cast by a mirror in a shop doorway.



Angier, the head clerk, greeted him with his usual matutinal scowl
and the question:

"Well, what are you so dashed spry about this morning?"

"Old lad," answered John, setting his hat on its customary peg, "I'm
thinking it's about time the boss gave me a raise."

"Have another think, then, my poor fish!" moaned Angier, climbing
wearily upon his lofty stool.

John pulled down his cuffs, moistened and smoothed their rough edges,
and two minutes later was gazing down upon that awesome object, to
wit: the pink cranium of the Olympian--George Dale, Esquire, of Dale,
Peek and Dale--just now spread-eagled above his morning
correspondence.

"Wassmatter?" hissed this demigod, eyes cocked and a-glare beneath
shaggy, white eyebrows.

"Sir, it's about a--"  John swallowed violently, squared his
shoulders again and continued in voice a little louder, "a raise in
my salary, sir."

"Eh--eh?" barked the Olympian.  "Ha, damme, a raise?  How long have
you been with us?"

"Five years, sir."

"How many raises have you had?"

"None, sir."

"See me later!  Tell cashier!  G'tout!"

So came John's first step, and he in such fever to tell Mary that
daily in his luncheon hour he haunted Walbrook and the vicinity until
he espied her at last, and felt himself the more elated because of
the glow in her brown eyes and murmurous commendation.

Within this narrow and busy thoroughfare is, or was, a small sedate
tea-shop wherein moves a sedate and elderly waitress answering to the
name of Sibyl; and here daily it became the custom for this ordinary
young man to break bread with the Princess, who, though she filled
the place with the magic of her gentle, inspiring presence, was for
him only Mary Willis, especially when of a Saturday afternoon (and
the time their own) she would pour his tea and listen with such glad
sympathy, her wise brown eyes upon his preoccupied, commonplace
features, while he told her of his failures or successes and
discussed his problems, relying upon her quick judgment.

So time sped, bringing its changes as time must.  John was greatly
changed, his shoulders seemed broader, his eye bright and purposeful,
his slouching step quick and firm; his clothes were no longer shabby,
his small bedroom had burgeoned into a cozy flat, for John was
climbing apace.

Though pressure of business kept him prisoned all the week or sent
him traveling far and wide, yet every Saturday afternoon brought him
to the humble little teashop and mere Mary.  On this particular
Saturday he was so obsessed with momentous affairs that he was less
aware than ever of the Princess and blind to the trouble in her
gentle eyes.

"I'm glad you've succeeded, John.  I knew you would!"

"But I haven't told you half yet....  Mary, they want me to go
abroad....  Africa!  To open a new branch!"

"Abroad, John!  When?"

"At once!  They're offering me ... fifteen hundred a year!"

"Oh!" said she, very softly, but the teapot clattered as she set it
down.

"Fifteen hundred isn't so bad to begin with, eh, Mary?"

"It's ... wonderful!" she murmured.

"But Africa's a long way off and I don't like leaving old London ...
and you, of course.  Besides, I hate change."

"It's good for us ... sometimes," said she breathlessly.  "And ...
you've changed ... very much since we ... first met."

"Well, I should hope so!" snorted John, glancing down at his
immaculate person.  "But about this offer?  I've a good mind to let
it go.  What do you say, Mary?"  Dumbly she turned to glance across
the little shop, empty now save for themselves and Sibyl crocheting
demurely in her corner, and with head thus averted she whispered:

"Oh, why ask me?"

"Because you will advise me for the best.  You always do, you always
have."  Then, being the Princess, she answered, though with face
still averted:

"You must go ... of course!  This is the chance you've worked for....
And now ... I'll go home."

"Why so early today, Mary?"

"My head aches and I'm ... rather tired."

"I wonder," said John as they stepped into the street, "why you are
so different from other girls?  Lord, Mary, I shall hate to leave
London and--"

"You'll get used to it, John.  Africa must be wonderful ... and
you'll be ... settling down ... getting married--"

"Too busy, Mary!  Besides I've never met--her yet.  I mean the only
woman, the dream girl."

"No, I thought you hadn't, John.  But you'll find her ... in Africa
perhaps.  I wonder what she'll be like?  Beautiful, of course."

"Well, naturally!  Someone with yellow hair and blue eyes.  And
yet--I fancy I'm not the marrying sort--"

"And there's my bus, John ... Good-by!  No, don't come any farther
... I'd rather be alone, my head's cracking!  You'll try to see me
before ... you leave?"

"Good Lord, Mary, of course!"  And when she and the bus had vanished,
John hurried to his cozy flat, there to lay plans for his
ever-brightening future, while Mary, locked within the solitude of
her bare little room, wept long and bitterly because her eyes were
brown.



Ensued a harassing week for John.  Nevertheless on Saturday afternoon
he entered the teashop, bright-eyed and eager, to find it a
wilderness holding no more than an aged man who champed a muffin and
Sibyl busied with her never-ending crocheting; crossing this howling
desolation, John questioned her in tone aggrieved:

"Where is she, Sibyl?  Has she gone?  Couldn't she wait?"

Sibyl sniffed.

"Sir," she answered, "if you mean Miss Mary, she ain't been here
since Monday, she ain't well--"

"Eh, d'you mean she's ill?"

"And, what's more, she's lost her job!  Ah, lost it three weeks ago,
she did--"

"Three ... weeks!" gasped John.  "But ... why didn't she tell me?"

"P'r'aps because you never asked her.  You never do.  And now she's
ill, pining away!  Ain't been herself for a long time, but you never
noticed--not you."

"No, I didn't, Sibyl, I didn't ... damn it, I never even guessed--"

"No, you ain't much of a guesser, Mr. John!  Some folks may think
you're smart, and others, that's me, thinks you're a chump
and--what's more--"  Sibyl stopped, head cocked in romantic
speculation for, with a sort of leap, John was off and away.  He
hailed a taxi and therein was whirled to a grim street of gloomy
houses, into one of which he sped and, climbing many stairs, knocked
upon a door, which had barely opened when:

"Mary!" said he.

"John!" she gasped.

"Why, Mary, how pale you look!  May I come in?  Are you ill?  I never
knew, never guessed--"

"Oh, I'm all right now," she answered breathlessly.  "Do you mind
sitting on the bed?  And you ... you've come to say good-by, of
course--"

"Yes, Mary.  But you see I didn't want to leave London and you, so I
stuck the firm for another two hundred pounds and they agreed!  So I
simply must go, now."

"Yes ... yes, of course you must."

"But I can't leave you like this ...  I mean out of a job.  So I want
you please to let me help you ... I mean to say I'm going to lend you
a hundred pounds--"



"That's sweet of you, John, but there's no need.  I found a situation
yesterday.  I'm going to begin on Monday."

"Fine!" cried he, clasping her nerveless hand.  "I'm frightfully
glad.  Still, I'm going to lend you that hundred--"

"No, John--please, I'd rather not!  Tell me, when do you sail?"

"Next Tuesday ... I say, Mary, will you--I thought perhaps you'd let
me take you out to dinner and a theater--"

"No--no, oh, I couldn't!  I mean ... I'm not quite up to it, John
dear ... but thank you all the same.  And, John, I ... always hate
saying good-by--let's say it and have done."  So John clasped her
slim, cold hands, felt an impulse to kiss her, checked it, muttered,
"Good-by!" and heard the door close behind him.

Having descended the many stairs he paused and stood irresolute, but
this time, obeying impulses, went hurrying back for a last word.
Receiving no answer to his knock he ventured to open the door....
She was kneeling by the open window, her slim body shaken by great
sobs, her pale face agonized with bitter grief.  Now as he stood,
dumb-struck and aghast, he suddenly beheld this forlorn and woeful
figure through a glitter of tears that burned and stung; and these
tears being manly because they were so utterly unselfish wrought such
magic that he visioned her truly at last, seeing not the grief-wrung
features of poor, desolate Mary but the Princess radiant with a
beauty imperishable, the very woman, his ideal and inspiration.

"Mary!" he cried; and, looking up, she saw commonplace John quite
transfigured by the new-born adoration of his eyes, the half-fearful
entreaty of his eager, outstretched arms.

"My dear!" she whispered, "oh, my dear!"

Thus the Princess in her mercy went to him.


[The end of _The Deathless Miracle_ by Jeffery Farnol]