Class Gop}7ightN?____U2i^ CQFmiGHT DEPOSm ®Ij0 (Hvumhth Jtttt ®J|r (Hvnmith 3nn BY JOHN McGAW FOSTER THE PILGRIM PRESS BOSTON CHICAGO Copyright 1918 By JOHN M. FOSTER THE PILGRIM PRESS BOSTON DEC 20 1918 HE keeper of the inn stood in his doorway as the winter sun was declining towards the west. He looked out from the hilltop on which the village stood, over the slopes where shep- herds tended their flocks amid the stretches of vineyard intersected by winding paths. There had been much stir along those path- ways all day, and the innkeeper had profited by it. Many strangers had travelled over the narrow roads, on foot or on donkey-back, and had crowded the khan or inn of the \Tlllage to overflowing. It was needful for them to come, — [1] THE CROWDED INN all who were of the ancient and royal lineage which had its seat in that little town, — ^to have their names enrolled there in obedience to the mandate of the Emperor. Those who had no friends or kin- dred in the town, went to the inn. For many days the innkeeper had welcomed these guests with the elaborate salutations of Oriental hospitahty, and many nights, with like formalities of courtesy, he had told the late comers that all his guest chambers were full and the only place where they could find shelter for the night was in the open court where the travellers' animals were stabled. This after- noon there had been a larger num- ber than usual of those seeking lodging, and already the rooms which were reserved for the use of travellers were occupied. [2] THE CROWDED INN As the innkeeper stood there, slowly up the narrow village street came a man walking by the side of a donkey on which sat a young woman. The man was ap- proaching middle-age, tall, with firm muscles and bronzed hands, and heavy dark-brown hair and beard. The woman was much younger, and as she sat wearily on her saddle, the innkeeper looked at her with something of regret that he must say to these new- comers that he could not provide them with hospitality. And as he looked, his gaze rested on her face. There was something about it which seemed to distinguish it from the faces of the women whom he knew. Not its beauty alone or the pathetic expression of weari- ness held him, but an indefinable radiance which made him instinc- [3] THE CROWDED IXX tively bow his head hi reverence. He wished indeed that he might shelter this strong man and her whose countenance so atfected him. But the iim was full. They stopped before the door, and the man helped his companion to dismomit and seat herself upon a bench. She moved wearily. Then he spoke to the imikeeper. "Peace be to thee and thme house." "And peace to thee." "3Iay we lodge here to-night with youf "Good friend, alas, there is no room in the inn." The stranger's face showed deep disappointment and anxiety. **Xo room?" he said. "Wliat can I dof We had thought to lodge with acquaintances in the town: but their guest-chamber is [4] THE CROWDED INN already taken, so we have come here as the final resort. Can you do nothing for me?" "In the stable, good friend, you can find shelter." "The stable,— but, my wife,—" "^lany women have had worse lodging." "But you do not understand, good innkeeper. You know not whom you turn away." The innkeeper began a spirited retort. But as he was about to speak, his glance turned again to the woman's face, and he checked himself. "I know not who you may be," said he; "but as for her, he who looks can perceive that she is not as most wayfarers whom I street here. I can but regret that my inn is full, — else I might have the THE CROWDED INN pri\nlege of harboring a saintly woman." "You have spoken well, friend innkeeper; though she is my espoused wife, God gives me the right to say that your words tell not half the truth. Receive her, I beg of you; she is weary and ill." "I see," replied the innkeeper. "You have been faring far. Ne- cessity brings you here, as many another pilgrim in these days. As to your request for lodging, if I knew of any of my guests whom I could ask to depart that you might be acconmiodated, I would gladly do so. Here is my porter; I will consult him." The porter, a large, burly man, came out of the door. But to his master's question he replied that he could not think of any of the occupants of the inn who would be [6] THE CROWDED INN likely to be willing to go to the stable for shelter. "Good friend," said the stranger, "you say this is your porter. Cannot we occupy his room? Surely he might better lodge with the beasts than to ask this weary woman to go there." "Ah, traveller, I could not carry on my business were he not in the house. His name is Self-interest. He has always been with me. He has a wonderful faculty of di\an- ing whether any would-be guest is likely to prove profitable or troublesome. I never receive anybody of whom Self-interest does not approve, and many a one who gives trouble or does not pay me his charges he casts out. Xo; I could not ask him to go, even for a night." "Is there not some such un- [7] THE CROWDED INN profitable guest then, whom he can make depart?" The innkeeper thought a mo- ment. "Why, yes," he said and, open- ing the door, showed the figure of a man sleeping on the floor. "Here is one; his name is Indolence. He has occupied a room for a long time, and I really ought to get rid of him." And turning to the por- ter, he bade him cast him out. The porter made an effort to rouse the man. "It is no use, master," he said; "he will not go. After all he is harailess. Why should we put him out?" "True," said the innkeeper, "he does no real harm. Let Indolence remain. He is a comfortable com- panion." THE CROWDED INN "Is there no other?" said the traveller anxiously. "There is one," rephed the inn- keeper; "but I know it is no use to try to cast him out. I have done it many times, and he always re- turns. I have given up trying to get rid of him, and I have learned to like him now. His name is Habit." "So all your rooms are full?" "Yes, and I will tell you who occupies them. In the first are two ladies. One is very fair and beautiful. I love to look at her, and my wife is not jealous, for she, too, admires her. Her name is Vanity. The other lady is not beautiful, but she has wondrous dignity of bearing, and keeps aloof from all but her friend Van- ity. They call her Pride. I could not disturb these ladies, even for [9] THE CROWDED INN you. The next room is occupied by a man and his wife. They are not a gracious pair, but they pay me, and I could never suggest their leaving. The man is large and strong and of terrible coun- tenance. His wife is ill-favored, and speaks bitterly. They are called Anger and Hatred. They have children, Envy and Malice, who occupy the next apartment with their nurse. Jealousy. Some- times I think I should like to have them all leave me; and yet what would my house be if Anger and Hatred, En\y, Malice and Jeal- ousy were not in it? They are a part of my own family, as much as Indolence and Habit, or my good porter, Self-interest. Xo, I can- not ask them to go." "Are these all your guests?" said the stranger, a gleam of hope f 10 1 THE CROWDED INN lighting his face. "Surely you have more rooms than those." "Yes; but I said truth when I told you that all were occupied. Some of the guests are now in the court. Perhaps you will tell them your story and they may consent to oblige you. There are two of them now, seated on the floor over there. They are engaged in their favorite occupations. When they are not eating and drinking they are gambling. Sometimes I feel disgusted with them, and then I forget them for a time. But ever and again I have a longing for their company, and then I am glad that they have not departed. But if you told them to go, perhaps they would do so to oblige you, and then they might not come back, and my house would be bet- ter off." [11] THE CROWDED INN "What are their names, that I may speak to them?" "Appetite and Avarice." The traveller approached the pair. They looked indifferently at him, and turned again to their feasting. "Peace to you, good friends," he said. "The host has given me permission to address you, if per- chance it might please you to take for the night your lodging in the courtyard, that my wife, who is weary and ill from her long jour- ney, may find shelter within." "And, pray, who are you?" "It matters not. We are hum- ble folk, but worthy; and the inn- keeper would be glad to receive us, if he had room in the inn." "But we are well content here, good sir. Why should we go?" "That you may give comfort to [12] THE CROWDED INN a weary woman, and afford oppor- tunity to our friend the host to en- tertain one whose presence will be a blessing to him." They laughed. "That is very fine, my friend, but we are old ac- quaintances, and the innkeeper would be a fool to let us go, that he may entertain some unknown yokel and his wife. You are from Galilee. We know your speech." Discouraged, the traveller was about to turn back to the doorway when his glance fell on the figure of a small man sitting shrinkingly by himself in a comer of the court- yard. "Perhaps here is one who will grant my request," he said to himself. "He does not seem like one who would rudely repel me." He approached the man and told his story. "I ask this of you but for the night," he said. But the [13] THE CROWDED INN man shrank back farther into the dusk of his corner. "Oh," he said, "I should not dare. I cannot leave my room, and pass the night out here. Be sure I would gladly oblige you if I could." "Well," said the traveller. "Be it so. I know not your name that I may thank you for your kind in- tentions." "I am Cowardice," replied the man. At that moment a man came hurriedly across the court. As he approached he smiled benevolently and held out his hand. "You seem to be in trouble, good sir. Can I serve you?" "Oh, if you could leave yom^ room for this night, that a woman weary from a long journey may find rest there." "Gladly, sir, gladly. I go to [141 THE CROWDED INN make ready to leave at once." He turned away without waiting to receive the thanks of the grateful stranger. The porter was stand- ing near by, and to him the trav- eller told of the kindly offer. "Trust him not, sir," was the porter's answer. "He will never go out for you. His name is Hypocrisy. I know too well what his words mean. Even if he should really think of obliging you his companion. Deceit, who shares his room with him, would not per- mit it. Do not count upon his promises, for he will not keep them, nor will he take the trouble even to come back to tell you. You will not see him again." Sadly the traveller returned to the doorway. As he passed out, a woman with a sweet face turned from the bench where his com- [15] THE CROWDED INN p anion sat, and spoke to the inn- keeper. "I beg you," she said, "give these people lodging." "I should be glad to do so, friend Charity," he answered; "but I have no room." Just then a man hurried through the doorway. He seemed to be setting forth on a journey. His figure was tall and lithe, his whole bearing full of eager alertness. The innkeeper looked troubled as he spoke to him; "You are not leaving me, friend Ambi- tion?" "I have a plan which I wish to carry through," the man an- swered. "I had thought to come back to-night. But," he said, as he looked at the travellers, "if these good people need my room I will stay away." [161 THE CROWDED INN "No, no," said the innkeeper, hastily. "I cannot part with you. Others may give up to these new- comers, — not you. Come back." The man passed out, and the stranger turned to his companion. "I fear it is no use, Mary," he said. "There is no room for us." Slowly the woman rose, and lifted her face to his with a smile of heavenly patience. "Let us go," she said. The innkeeper stepped forward. "I am sorry," he said. "Just around the turn of the road you will find a stable in a cave. It is empty, and you will be quieter there. There is straw, too, on which you can rest, and you may have it without charge." The woman he had called Char- ity moved to their side. "I will show you the way," she whispered. [17 1 THE CROWDED INN A shepherd on his way to watch his flock passed by them as they left the inn. He paused a moment and then followed them slowly down the slope of the street. It was nearly night now. As the keeper of the inn watched them till they were out of sight, there passed across his face a shadow which seemed to tell of his feeling that some great opportunity had slipped away from him. Early in the morning the inn- keeper was again at his door. There was bustle then, for some of the transient guests were depart- ing, and men were bringing animals out of the courtyard and loading their packs. The inn- keeper had bowed his low gesture of farewell to one of the parting guests, and turned to place in his bag the coins which he had left [181 THE CROWDED INN with him. As he turned he saw the shepherd who had passed his door the evening before. "Peace to thee," he said. "And peace to this house. Ah, friend innkeeper, I am sorry for you." "And wherefore?" "That you felt constrained to turn away those travellers yester- day afternoon." "You mean the Galilean with the saintly-faced wife?" "Yes." "I was indeed sorry to let them go. But it was a question of room. I even tried to persuade some of the guests to make place for them. But I cannot see why I deserve your sympathy. My inn is full, and I need no extra guests." And he shook the bag in his hand, for f 191 THE CROWDED INN the last one to depart had been bountiful. "Listen," said the shepherd. "Wondrous things have come to Israel. Last night, as some of us watched in the field, we saw a heavenly light and heard the song of angels. It told us that the Saviour of Israel, the Messiah, is bom. And we hastened to the spot the angels told us of, and there, in the manger in the cave, was the holy babe, new-born of the woman whom you sent forth last night from this inn. Oh, if you had only kept them, — if you had only listened to the voice of Char- ity as she begged you to take them in — the Christ-child might have been here, imder your roof, to-day." " 'Tis a strange tale, shepherd. But why should I regret? The unearthly light might have fright- [20 1 THE CROWDED INN ened my guests. The presence of a new-born babe might cause some of them to leave." "Yes, my friend, the presence of the Christ- Child drives out such guests as yours. Pride and Anger, Avarice and Self-interest and all the rest live not where He dwells. He is the richest and the fairest ^uest the world will ever know, and His presence brings peace and salvation and Eternal Life to whomsoever bids Him enter." "But, after all," the innkeeper muttered, "there was no room in the inn." 21] LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 897 047 8