THE INSIDE OF THE CUP

By Winston Churchill

Volume 3. 

IX. THE DIVINE DISCONTENTX. THE MESSENGER IN THE CHURCHXI. THE LOST PARISHIONERXII. THE WOMAN OF THE SONG

CHAPTER IX

THE DIVINE DISCONTENT

I

It was the last Sunday in May, and in another week the annual flight tothe seashore and the mountains would have begun again. The breezesstealing into the church through the open casements wafted hither andthither the odours of the chancel flowers, and mingled with those fainterand subtler perfumes set free by the rustling of summer gowns. 

As on this day he surveyed his decorous and fashionable congregation, Hodder had something of that sense of extremity which the great apostleto the Gentiles himself must have felt when he stood in the midst of theAreopagus and made his vain yet sublime appeal to Athenian indifferenceand luxury. "And the times of this ignorance God winked at; but nowcommandeth all men everywhere to repent. " . . Some, indeed, stirreduneasily as the rector paused, lowering their eyes before the intensityof his glance, vaguely realizing that the man had flung the whole passionof his being into the appeal. 

Heedlessness--that was God's accusation against them, against the age. Materialism, individualism! So absorbed were they in the pursuit ofwealth, of distraction, so satisfied with the current philosophy, sointent on surrounding themselves with beautiful things and thus shuttingout the sterner view, that they had grown heedless of the divine message. How few of them availed themselves of their spiritual birthright to renewtheir lives at the altar rail! And they had permitted their own childrento wander away . . . . Repent!

There was a note of desperation in his appeal, like that of the hermitwho stands on a mountain crag and warns the gay and thoughtless of thevalley of the coming avalanche. Had they heard him at last? There werea few moments of tense silence, during which he stood gazing at them. Then he raised his arm in benediction, gathered up his surplice, descended the pulpit steps, and crossed swiftly the chancel . . . . 

He had, as it were, turned on all the power in a supreme effort to reachthem. What if he had failed again? Such was the misgiving that besethim, after the service, as he got out of his surplice, communicated bysome occult telepathy . . . . Mr. Parr was awaiting him, andsummoning his courage, hope battling against intuition, he opened thedoor into the now empty church and made his way toward the porch, wherethe sound of voices warned him that several persons were lingering. Thenature of their congratulations confirmed his doubts. Mrs. Plimpton, resplendent and looking less robust than usual in one of her summer Parisgowns, greeted him effusively. 

"Oh, Mr. Hodder, what a wonderful sermon!" she cried. "I can't expresshow it made me feel--so delinquent! Of course that is exactly the effectyou wished. And I was just telling Wallis I was so glad I waited untilTuesday to go East, or I should have missed it. You surely must come onto Hampton and visit us, and preach it over again in our little stonechurch there, by the sea. Good-by and don't forget! I'll write you, setting the date, only we'd be glad to have you any time. "

"One of the finest I ever heard--if not the finest, " Mr. Plimptondeclared, with a kind of serious 'empressement', squeezing his hand. 

Others stopped him; Everett Constable, for one, and the austere Mrs. Atterbury. Hodder would have avoided the ever familiar figure of herson, Gordon, in the invariable black cutaway and checked trousers, but he was standing beside Mr. Parr. 

"Ahem! Why, Mr. Hodder, " he exclaimed, squinting off his glasses, "that was a magnificent effort. I was saying to Mr. Parr that it isn'toften one hears a sermon nowadays as able as that, and as sound. Manyclergymen refrain from preaching them, I sometimes think, because theyare afraid people won't like them. "

"I scarcely think it's that, " the rector replied, a little shortly. "We're afraid people won't heed them. "

He became aware, as he spoke, of a tall young woman, who had cast anenigmatic glance first at Gordon Atterbury, and then at himself. 

"It was a good sermon, " said Mr. Parr. "You're coming to lunch, Hodder?"

The rector nodded. "I'm ready when you are, " he answered. 

"The motor's waiting, " said the banker, leading the way down the steps tothe sidewalk, where he turned. "Alison, let me introduce Mr. Hodder. This is my daughter, " he added simply. 

This sudden disclosure of the young woman's identity had upon Hodder acertain electric effect, and with it came a realization of the extent towhich--from behind the scenes, so to speak--she had gradually aroused himto a lively speculation. She seemed to have influenced, to a greater orless degree, so many lives with which he had come into touch! Compelledpersons to make up their minds about her! And while he sympathizedwith Eldon Parr in his abandonment, he had never achieved the fullcondemnation which he felt--an impartial Christian morality would havemeted out. 

As he uttered the conventional phrase and took her hand, he asked himselfwhether her personality justified his interest. Her glance at GordonAtterbury in the midst of that gentleman's felicitations on the sermonhad been expressive, Hodder thought, of veiled amusement slightlytinctured with contempt; and he, Hodder, felt himself to have grown warmover it. He could not be sure that Alison Parr had not included, in herinner comment, the sermon likewise, on which he had so spent himself. What was she doing at church? As her eyes met his own, he seemed toread a challenge. He had never encountered a woman--he decided--whoso successfully concealed her thought, and at the same time so incitedcuriosity about it. 

The effect of her reappearance on Gordon Atterbury was painfullyapparent, and Mrs. Larrabbee's remark, "that he had never got over it, "recurred to Hodder. He possessed the virtue of being faithful, at least, in spite of the lady's apostasy, and he seemed to be galvanized into atenfold nervousness as he hustled after them and handed her, with theelaborate attention little men are apt to bestow upon women, into themotor. 

"Er--how long shall you be here, Alison?" he asked. "I don't know, " sheanswered, not unkindly, but with a touch of indifference. 

"You treat us shamefully, " he informed her, "upon my word! But I'mcoming to call. "

"Do, " said Alison. Hodder caught her eye again, and this time he wassure that she surprised in him a certain disdain of Mr. Atterbury's zeal. Her smile was faint, yet unmistakable. 

He resented it. Indeed, it was with a well-defined feeling of antagonismthat he took his seat, and this was enhanced as they flew westward, Mr. Parr wholly absorbed with the speaking trumpet, energetically rebuking atevery bounce. In the back of the rector's mind lay a weight, which heidentified, at intervals, with what he was now convinced was the failureof his sermon. . . Alison took no part in the casual conversation thatbegan when they reached the boulevard and Mr. Parr abandoned the trumpet, but lay back in silence and apparently with entire comfort in a corner ofthe limousine. 

At the lunch-table Mr. Parr plunged into a discussion of some of thestill undecided details of the new settlement house, in which, as theplan developed, he had become more and more interested. He had madehimself responsible, from time to time, for additional sums, until theoriginal estimate had been almost doubled. Most of his suggestions hadcome from Hodder, who had mastered the subject with a thoroughness thatappealed to the financier: and he had gradually accepted the rector'sidea of concentrating on the children. Thus he had purchased anadjoining piece of land that was to be a model playground, in connectionwith the gymnasium and swimming-pool. The hygienic department was to beall that modern science could desire. 

"If we are going to do the thing, " the banker would, remark, "we may aswell do it thoroughly; we may as well be leaders and not followers. "

So, little by little, the scheme had grown to proportions that sometimesappalled the rector when he realized how largely he had been responsiblefor the additions, --in spite of the lukewarmness with which he had begun. And yet it had occasionally been Mr. Parr who, with a sweep of his hand, had added thousands to a particular feature: thus the dance-hall hadbecome, in prospect, a huge sun-parlour at the top of the building, wherethe children were to have their kindergartens and games in winter; andwhich might be shaded and opened up to the breezes in summer. What hadreconciled Hodder to the enterprise most of all, however, was the chapel--in the plan a beautiful Gothic church--whereby he hoped to make thereligious progress keep pace with the social. Mr. Parr was decidedly insympathy with this intention, and referred to it now. 

"I was much impressed by what you said in your sermon to-day as to theneed of insisting upon authority in religious matters, " he declared, "andI quite agree that we should have a chapel of some size at the settlementhouse for that reason. Those people need spiritual control. It's whatthe age needs. And when I think of some of the sermons printed in thenewspapers to-day, and which are served up as Christianity, there is onlyone term to apply to them--they are criminally incendiary. "

"But isn't true Christianity incendiary, in your meaning of the word?"

It was Alison who spoke, in a quiet and musical voice that was instriking contrast to the tone of Mr. Parr, which the rector had thoughtunusually emphatic. It was the first time she had shown an inclinationto contribute to the talk. But since Hodder had sat down at the tableher presence had disturbed him, and he had never been wholly free from anuncomfortable sense that he was being measured and weighed. 

Once or twice he had stolen a glance at her as she sat, perfectly atease, and asked himself whether she had beauty, and it dawned upon himlittle by little that the very proportion she possessed made for physicalunobtrusiveness. She was really very tall for a woman. At first hewould have said her nose was straight, when he perceived that it had adelicate hidden curve; her eyes were curiously set, her dark hair partedin the middle, brought down low on each side of the forehead and tied ina Grecian knot. Thus, in truth, he observed, were seemingly all theelements of the classic, even to the firm yet slender column of the neck. How had it eluded him?

Her remark, if it astonished Hodder, had a dynamic effect on Eldon Parr. And suddenly the rector comprehended that the banker had not so much beentalking to him as through him; had been, as it were, courting opposition. 

"What do you mean by Christianity being incendiary?" he demanded. 

"Incendiary, from your point of view--I made, the qualification, "Alison replied, apparently unmoved by his obvious irritation. "I don'tpretend to be a Christian, as you know, but if there is one elementin Christianity that distinguishes it, it is the brotherhood of man. That's pure nitroglycerin, though it's been mixed with so much sawdust. Incendiary is a mild epithet. I never read the sermons you refer to;I dare say they're crude, but they're probably attempts to release anexplosive which would blow your comfortable social system and itsauthority into atoms. "

Hodder, who had listened in amazement, glanced at the banker. He hadnever before heard him opposed, or seen him really angry. 

"I've heard that doctrine, " cried Mr. Parr. "Those who are dissatisfiedwith things as they are because they have been too stupid or too weakor self-indulgent to rise, find it easy to twist the principles ofChristianity into revolutionary propaganda. It's a case of the devilquoting Scripture. The brotherhood of man! There has never been an agewhen philanthropy and organized charity were on such a scale as to-day. "

A certain gallant, indomitable ring crept into Alison's voice; she didnot seem in the least dismayed or overborne. 

"But isn't that just where most so-called Christians make their mistake?"she asked. "Philanthropy and organized charity, as they exist to-day, have very little to do with the brotherhood of man. Mightn't it be youwho are fooling yourselves instead of the incendiaries fooling themselvesSo long as you can make yourselves believe that this kind of charity isa logical carrying out of the Christian principles, so long are yourconsciences satisfied with the social system which your class, verynaturally, finds so comfortable and edifying. The weak and idiotic oughtto be absurdly grateful for what is flung to them, and heaven is gainedin the throwing. In this way the rich inevitably become the elect, bothhere and hereafter, and the needle's eye is widened into a gap. "

There was on Mr. Parr's lips a smile not wholly pleasant to see. Indeed, in the last few minutes there had been revealed to Hodder a side of thebanker's character which had escaped him in the two years of theiracquaintance. 

"I suppose, " said Mr. Parr, slowly, drumming on the table, "you would saythat of the new settlement house of St. John's, whereby we hope to raisea whole neighbourhood. "

"Yes, I should, " replied Alison, with spirit. "The social system bywhich you thrive, and which politically and financially you strive tomaintain, is diametrically opposed to your creed, which is supposed to bethe brotherhood of man. But if that were really your creed, you wouldwork for it politically and financially. You would see that your Churchis trying to do infinitesimally what the government, but for youropposition, might do universally. Your true creed is the survival of thefittest. You grind these people down into what is really an economicslavery and dependence, and then you insult and degrade them by invitingthem to exercise and read books and sing hymns in your settlement house, and give their children crackers and milk and kindergartens and sunlight!I don't blame them for not becoming Christians on that basis. Why, thevery day I left New York a man over eighty, who had been swindled outof all he had, rather than go to one of those Christian institutionsdeliberately forged a check and demanded to be sent to the penitentiary. He said he could live and die there with some self-respect. "

"I might have anticipated that you would ultimately become a Socialist, Alison, " Mr. Parr remarked--but his voice trembled. 

"I don't know whether I'm a Socialist or an Anarchist, " she answered. Hodder thought be detected a note of hopelessness in her voice, and thespirit in it ebbed a little. Not only did she seem indifferent to herfather's feeling--which incidentally added fuel to it--but her splendiddisregard of him, as a clergyman, had made an oddly powerful appeal. And her argument! His feelings, as he listened to this tremendousarraignment of Eldon Parr by his daughter, are not easily to bedescribed. To say that she had compelled him, the rector of St. John's, at last to look in the face many conditions which he had refused torecognize would be too definite a statement. Nevertheless, some suchthing had occurred. Refutations sprang to his lips, and died there, though he had no notion of uttering them. He saw that to admit hercontentions would be to behold crumble into ruins the structure thathe had spent a life in rearing; and yet something within him respondedto her words--they had the passionate, convincing ring of truth. 

By no means the least of their disturbing effects was due to the factthat they came as a climax to, as a fulfilment of the revelation he hadhad at the Fergusons', when something of the true nature of Mr. Plimptonand others of his congregation had suddenly been laid bare. And nowHodder looked at Eldon Parr to behold another man from the one he hadknown, and in that moment realized that their relationship could neveragain be the same. . . Were his sympathies with the daughter?

"I don't know what I believe, " said Alison, after a pause. "I've ceasedtrying to find out. What's the use!" She appeared now to be addressingno one in particular. 

A servant entered with a card, and the banker's hand shook perceptiblyas he put down his claret and adjusted his glasses. 

"Show him into my office upstairs, and tell him I'll see him at once, " hesaid, and glanced at the rector. But it was Alison whom he addressed. "I must leave Mr. Hodder to answer your arguments, " he added, with anattempt at lightness; and then to the rector: "Perhaps you can convinceher that the Church is more sinned against than sinning, and thatChristians are not such terrible monsters after all. You'll excuse me?"

"Certainly. " Hodder had risen. 

II

"Shall we have coffee in the garden?" Alison asked. "It's much niceroutside this time of year. "

For an instant he was at a loss to decide whether to accede, or to makean excuse and leave the house. Wisdom seemed to point to flight. Butwhen he glanced at her he saw to his surprise that the mood ofabstraction into which she had fallen still held her; that the discussionwhich had aroused Eldon Parr to such dramatic anger had left her seriousand thoughtful. She betrayed no sense of triumph at having audaciouslyand successfully combated him, and she appeared now only partially to beaware of Hodder's presence. His interest, his curiosity mounted suddenlyagain, overwhelming once more the antagonism which he had felt come andgo in waves; and once more his attempted classification of her was sweptaway. She had relapsed into an enigma. 

"I like the open air, " he answered, "and I have always wished to see thegarden. I have admired it from the windows. "

"It's been on my mind for some years, " she replied, as she led the waydown a flight of steps into the vine-covered pergola. "And I intend tochange parts of it while I am out here. It was one of my first attempts, and I've learned more since. "

"You must forgive my ignorant praise, " he said, and smiled. "I havealways thought it beautiful: But I can understand that an artist is neversatisfied. "

She turned to him, and suddenly their eyes met and held in a momentary, electric intensity that left him warm and agitated. There was nothingcoquettish in the glance, but it was the first distinct manifestationthat he was of consequence. She returned his smile, without levity. 

"Is a clergyman ever satisfied?" she asked. 

"He ought not to be, " replied Hodder, wondering whether she had read him. 

"Although you were so considerate, I suppose you must have thought itpresumptuous of me to criticize your, profession, which is religion. "

"Religion, I think, should be everybody's, " he answered quietly. 

She made no reply. And he entered, as into another world, the circulararbour in which the pergola ended, so complete in contrast was itsatmosphere to that of the house. The mansion he had long since grown torecognize as an expression of the personality of its owner, but thisclassic bower was as remote from it as though it were in Greece. He wassensitive to beauty, yet the beauty of the place had a perplexingquality, which he felt in the perfect curves of the marble bench, in themarble basin brimming to the tip with clear water, --the surface of which, flecked with pink petals, mirrored the azure sky through the leafynetwork of the roof. In one green recess a slender Mercury hastilyadjusted his sandal. 

Was this, her art, the true expression of her baffling personality? Asshe had leaned back in the corner of the automobile she had given him theimpression of a languor almost Oriental, but this had been startlinglydispelled at the lunch-table by the revelation of an animation and avitality which had magically transformed her. But now, as under thespell of a new encompassment of her own weaving, she seemed to revert toher former self, sinking, relaxed, into a wicker lounge beside the basin, one long and shapely hand in the water, the other idle in her lap. Hereyes, he remarked, were the contradiction in her face. Had they beenlarger, and almond-shaped, the illusion might have been complete. Theywere neither opaque nor smouldering, --but Western eyes, amber-coloured, with delicately stencilled rays and long lashes. And as they gazed up athim now they seemed to reflect, without disclosing the flitting thoughtsbehind them. He felt antagonism and attraction in almost equal degree--the situation transcended his experience. 

"You don't intend to change this?" he asked, with an expressive sweep ofhis hand. 

"No, " she said, "I've always liked it. Tell me what you feel about it. "

He hesitated. 

"You resent it, " she declared. 

"Why do you say that?" he demanded quickly. 

"I feel it, " she answered calmly, but with a smile. 

"'Resent' would scarcely be the proper word, " he contended, returning hersmile, yet hesitating again. 

"You think it pagan, " she told him. 

"Perhaps I do, " he answered simply, as though impressed by her felicitousdiscovery of the adjective. 

Alison laughed. 

"It's pagan because I'm pagan, I suppose. "

"It's very beautiful--you have managed to get an extraordinaryatmosphere, " he continued, bent on doing himself an exact justice. ButI should say, if you pressed me, that it represents to me the deificationof beauty to the exclusion of all else. You have made beauty the Alphaand Omega. "

"There is nothing else for me, " she said. 

The coffee-tray arrived and was deposited on a wicker table beside her. She raised herself on an elbow, filled his cup and handed it to him. 

"And yet, " he persisted, "from the manner in which you spoke at thetable--"

"Oh, don't imagine I haven't thought? But thinking isn't--believing. "

"No, " he admitted, with a touch of sadness, "you are right. There werecertain comments you made on the Christian religion--"

She interrupted him again. 

"As to the political side of it, which is Socialism, so far as I cansee. If there is any other side, I have never been able to discover it. It seems to me that if Christians were logical, they should beSocialists. The brotherhood of man, cooperation--all that is Socialism, isn't it? It's opposed to the principle of the survival of the fittest, which so many of these so-called Christians practise. I used to think, when I came back from Paris, that I was a Socialist, and I went to a lotof their meetings in New York, and to lectures. But after a while I sawthere was something in Socialism that didn't appeal to me, somethingsmothering, --a forced cooperation that did not leave one free. I wantedto be free, I've been striving all my life to be free, " she exclaimedpassionately, and was silent an instant, inspecting him. "Perhaps I oweyou an apology for speaking as I did before a clergyman--especiallybefore an honest one. "

He passed over the qualification with a characteristic smile. 

"Oh, if we are going to shut our ears to criticism we'd better give upbeing clergymen, " he answered. "I'm afraid there is a great deal oftruth in what you said. "

"That's generous of you!" she exclaimed, and thrilled him with thetribute. Nor was the tribute wholly in the words: there had comespontaneously into her voice an exquisite, modulated note that hauntedhim long after it had died away . . . . 

"I had to say what I thought, " she continued earnestly; "I stood it aslong as I could. Perhaps you didn't realize it, but my father wasstriking at me when he referred to your sermon, and spiritual control--and in other things he said when you were talking about thesettlement-house. He reserves for himself the right to do as he pleases, but insists that those who surround him shall adopt the subserviencywhich he thinks proper for the rest of the world. If he were a Christianhimself, I shouldn't mind it so much. "

Hodder was silent. The thought struck him with the force of a greatwind. 

"He's a Pharisee, " Alison went on, following the train of her thought. "I remember the first time I discovered that--it was when I was readingthe New Testament carefully, in the hope of finding something inChristianity I might take hold of. And I was impressed particularly bythe scorn with which Christ treated the Pharisees. My father, too, if hehad lived in those days, would have thought Christ a seditious person, animpractical, fanatical idealist, and would have tried to trip him up withliteral questions concerning the law. His real and primary interest--isin a social system that benefits himself and his kind, and because thisis so, he, and men like him, would have it appear that Christianity ison the side of what they term law and order. I do not say that they arehypocritical, that they reason this out. They are elemental; and theyfeel intuitively that Christianity contains a vital spark which, ifallowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. Thetheologians have helped them to cover the spark with ashes, and naturallythey won't allow the ashes to be touched, if they can help it. "

She lay very still. 

The rector had listened to her, at first with amazement, then with morecomplicated sensations as she thus dispassionately discussed the foremostmember of his congregation and the first layman of the diocese, who wasincidentally her own father. In her masterly analysis of Eldon Parr, shehad brought Hodder face to face with the naked truth, and compelled himto recognize it. How could he attempt to refute it, with honesty?

He remembered Mr. Parr's criticism of Alison. There had been hardness inthat, though it were the cry of a lacerated paternal affection. In that, too, a lack of comprehension, an impotent anger at a visitation notunderstood, a punishment apparently unmerited. Hodder had pitied himthen--he still pitied him. In the daughter's voice was no trace ofresentment. No one, seemingly, could be farther removed from him (therector of St. John's) in her opinions and views of life, than AllisonParr; and yet he felt in her an undercurrent, deep and strong, whichmoved him strangely, strongly, irresistibly; he recognized a passionatedesire for the truth, and the courage to face it at any cost, and acapacity for tenderness, revealed in flashes. 

"I have hurt you, " she exclaimed. "I am sorry. "

He collected himself. 

"It is not you who have hurt me, " he replied. "Reflections on thecontradictions and imperfections of life are always painful. And sinceI have been here, I have seen a great deal of your father. "

"You are fond of him!"

He hesitated. It was not an ordinary conversation they were dealing withrealities, and he had a sense that vital issues were at stake. He had, in that moment, to make a revaluation of his sentiments for thefinancier--to weigh the effect of her indictment. 

"Yes, " he answered slowly, "I am fond of him. He has shown me a side ofhimself, perhaps, that other men have not seen, --and he is very lonely. "

"You pity him. " He started at her word. "I guessed that from anexpression that crossed your face when we were at the table. But surelyyou must have observed the incongruity of his relationship with yourChurch! Surely, in preaching as you did this morning againstmaterialism, individualism, absorption in the pursuit of wealth, you musthave had my father in mind as the supreme example! And yet he listenedto you as serenely as though he had never practised any of these things!

"Clergymen wonder why Christianity doesn't make more progress to-day;well, what strikes the impartial observer who thinks about the subject atall, as one reason, is the paralyzing inconsistency of an alliancebetween those who preach the brotherhood of man and those who are opposedto it. I've often wondered what clergymen would say about it, if theywere frank--only I never see any clergymen. "

He was strongly agitated. He did not stop--strangely enough--to reflecthow far they had gone, to demand by what right she brought him to thebar, challenged the consistency of his life. For she had struck, with aruthless precision, at the very core of his trouble, revealed it for whatit was. 

"Yes, " he said, "I can see how we may be accused of inconsistency, andwith much justice. "

His refusal to excuse and vindicate himself impressed her as no attemptat extenuation could have done. Perhaps, in that moment, her quickinstinct divined something of his case, something of the mental sufferinghe strove to conceal. Contrition shone in her eyes. 

"I ought not to have said that, " she exclaimed gently. "It is so easyfor outsiders to criticize those who are sincere--and I am sure you are. We cannot know all the perplexities. But when we look at the Church, weare puzzled by that--which I have mentioned--and by other things. "

"What other things?" he demanded. 

She hesitated in her turn. 

"I suppose you think it odd, my having gone to church, feeling as I do, "she said. "But St. John's is now the only place vividly associated withmy mother. She was never at home here, in this house. I always go atleast once when I am out here. And I listened to your sermon intently. "

"Yes. "

"I wanted to tell you this: you interested me as I had not beeninterested since I was twenty, when I made a desperate attempt to becomea Christian--and failed. Do you know how you struck me? It was as a manwho actually had a great truth which he was desperately trying to impart, and could not. I have not been in a church more than a dozen times inthe last eight years, but you impressed me as a man who felt something--whatever it is. "

He did not speak. 

"But why, " she cried, "do you insist on what you cell authority? As amodern woman who has learned to use her own mind, I simply can't believe, if the God of the universe is the moral God you assert him to be, that hehas established on earth an agency of the kind you infer, and delegatedto it the power of life and death over human souls. Perhaps you do notgo so far, but if you make the claim at all you must make it in itsentirety. There is an idea of commercialism, of monopoly in thatconception which is utterly repugnant to any one who tries to approachthe subject with a fresh mind, and from an ideal point of view. Andreligion must be idealism--mustn't it?

"Your ancient monks and saints weren't satisfied until they hadsettled every detail of the invisible world, of the past and future. They mapped it out as if it were a region they had actually explored, like geographers. They used their reason, and what science they had, tomake theories about it which the churches still proclaim as the catholicand final truth. You forbid us to use our reason. You declare, in orderto become Christians, that we have to accept authoritative statements. Oh, can't you see that an authoritative statement is just what anethical person doesn't want? Belief--faith doesn't consist in the mereacceptance of a statement, but in something much higher--if we canachieve it. Acceptance of authority is not faith, it is mere credulity, it is to shirk the real issue. We must believe, if we believe at all, without authority. If we knew, there would be no virtue in striving. If I choose a God, " she added, after a pause, "I cannot take a consensusof opinion about him, --he must be my God. "

Hodder did not speak immediately. Strange as it may seem, he hadnever heard the argument, and the strength of it, reenforced by theextraordinary vitality and earnestness of the woman who had uttered it, had a momentary stunning effect. He sat contemplating her as she layback among the cushions, and suddenly he seemed to see in her therebellious child of which her father had spoken. No wonder Eldon Parrhad misunderstood her, had sought to crush her spirit! She was to bedealt with in no common way, nor was the consuming yearning he discernedin her to be lightly satisfied. 

"The God of the individualist, " he said at length--musingly, notaccusingly. 

"I am an individualist, " she admitted simply. "But I am at least logicalin that philosophy, and the individualists who attend the churches to-dayare not. The inconsistency of their lives is what makes those of us whodo not go to church doubt the efficacy of their creed, which seems tohave no power to change them. The majority of people in St. John's areno more Christians than I am. They attend service once a week, and therest of the time they are bent upon getting all they can of pleasureand profit for themselves. Do you wonder that those who consider thisspectacle come inevitably to the conclusion that either Christianityis at fault, is outworn, or else that it is presented in the wrong way?"

The rector rose abruptly, walked to the entrance of the arbour, and stoodstaring out across the garden. Presently he turned and came back andstood over her. 

"Since you ask me, " he said slowly, "I do not wonder at it. "

She raised her eyes swiftly. 

"When you speak like that, " she exclaimed with an enthusiasm thatstirred him, despite the trouble of his mind, "I cannot think of you asa clergyman, --but as a man. Indeed, " she added, in the surprise of herdiscovery, "I have never thought of you as a clergyman--even when I firstsaw you this morning. I could not account then for a sense of dualityabout you that puzzled me. Do you always preach as earnestly as that?"

"Why?"

"I felt as if you were throwing your whole soul into the effort-=oh, I felt it distinctly. You made some of them, temporarily, a littleuncomfortable, but they do not understand you, and you didn't changethem. It seemed to me you realized this when Gordon Atterbury spoke toyou. I tried to analyze the effect on myself--if it had been in theslightest degree possible for my reason to accept what you said youmight, through sheer personality, have compelled me to reconsider. As it was, I found myself resisting you. "

With his hands clasped behind him, he paced across the arbour and backagain. 

"Have you ever definitely and sincerely tried to put what the Churchteaches into practice?" he asked. 

"Orthodox Christianity? penance, asceticism, self-abnegation--repression--falling on my knees and seeking a forgiveness out of all proportion tothe trespass, and filled with a sense of total depravity? If I did thatI should lose myself--the only valuable thing I've got. "

Hodder, who had resumed his pacing, glanced at her involuntarily, andfought an inclination to agree with her. 

"I see no one upon whom I can rely but myself, " she went on with theextraordinary energy she was able to summon at will, "and I amconvinced that self-sacrifice--at least, indiscriminate, unreasoningself-sacrifice--is worse than useless, and to teach it is criminalignorance. None of the so-called Christian virtues appeals to me: I hatehumility. You haven't it. The only happiness I can see in the world liesin self-expression, and I certainly shouldn't find that in sewinggarments for the poor. 

"The last thing that I could wish for would be immortality as orthodoxChristianity depicts it! And suppose I had followed the advice of myChristian friends and remained here, where they insisted my duty was, what would have happened to me? In a senseless self-denial I shouldgradually have, withered into a meaningless old maid, with no opinionsof my own, and no more definite purpose in life than to write checks forcharities. Your Christianity commands that women shall stay at home, anddeclares that they are not entitled to seek their own salvation, to haveany place in affairs, or to meddle with the realm of the intellect. Those forbidden gardens are reserved for the lordly sex. St. Paul, yousay, put us in our proper place some twenty centuries ago, and we are toremain there for all time. "

He felt sweeping through him the reverse current of hostility. 

"And what I preach, " he asked, "has tended to confirm you in such a meanconception of Christianity?"

Her eye travelled over the six feet of him--the kindling, reflecting eyeof the artist; it rested for a moment on the protesting locks of hishair, which apparently could not be cut short enough to conform; on thehands, which were strong and sinewy; on the wide, tolerant mouth, withits rugged furrows, on the breadth and height of the forehead. She layfor a moment, inert, considering. 

"What you preach--yes, " she answered, bravely meeting his look. "Whatyou are--no. You and your religion are as far apart as the poles. Oh, this old argument, the belief that has been handed down to the man, theauthority with which he is clothed, and not the man himself! How can onebe a factor in life unless one represents something which is the fruit ofactual, personal experience? Your authority is for the weak, the timid, the credulous, --for those who do not care to trust themselves, who runfor shelter from the storms of life to a 'papier-mache' fortress, made tolook like rock. In order to preach that logically you should be a whiteascetic, with a well-oiled manner, a downcast look lest you stumble inyour pride; lest by chance you might do something original that sprangout of your own soul instead of being an imitation of the saints. And ifyour congregation took your doctrine literally, I can see a whole army ofwhite, meek Christians. But you are not like that. Can't you see it foryourself?" she exclaimed. 

"Can't you feel that you are an individual, a personality, a force thatmight be put to great uses? That will be because you are open-minded, because there is room in you for growth and change?"

He strove with all his might to quell the inner conflagration which shehad fanned into leaping flames. Though he had listened before to doubtand criticism, this woman, with her strange shifting moods of calm andpassion, with her bewildering faculty of changing from passive to activeresistance, her beauty (once manifest, never to be forgotten), her uniqueindividuality that now attracted, now repelled, seemed for the moment thevery incarnation of the forces opposed to him and his religion. Holder, as he looked at her, had a flash of fierce resentment that now, of alltimes, she should suddenly have flung herself across his path. For shewas to be reckoned with. Why did he not tell her she was an egoist? Whydidn't he speak out, defend his faith, denounce her views as prejudicedand false?

"Have I made you angry?" he heard her say. "I am sorry. "

It was the hint of reproach in her tone to which the man in him instantlyresponded. And what he saw now was his portrait she had painted. Thethought came to him: was he indeed greater, more vital than the religionhe professed? God forbid! Did he ring true, and it false?

She returned his gaze. And gradually, under her clear olive skin, he sawthe crimson colour mounting higher . . . . She put forth her hand, simply, naturally, and pressed his own, as though they had been friendsfor a lifetime . . . . 

CHAPTER X

THE MESSENGER IN THE CHURCH

I

The annual scourge of summer had descended pitilessly upon the city oncemore, enervating, depressing, stagnating, and people moved languidly inthe penetrating heat that steamed from the pores of the surrounding riverbottoms. 

The rector of St. John's realized that a crisis had come in his life, --a crisis he had tried to stave off in vain. And yet there was a periodduring which he pursued his shrunken duties as though nothing hadhappened to him; as a man who has been struck in battle keeps on, loathto examine, to acknowledge the gravity of his wound; fearing to, perhaps. Sometimes, as his mind went back to the merciless conflict of his past, his experience at the law school, it was the unchaining of that other manhe dreaded, the man he believed himself to have finally subdued. Butnight and day he was haunted by the sorrowful and reproachful face ofTruth. 

Had he the courage, now, to submit the beliefs which had sustained himall these years to Truth's inexorable inspection? Did he dare to turnand open those books which she had inspired, --the new philosophies, thehistorical criticisms which he had neglected and condemned, which he hadflattered himself he could do without, --and read of the fruit ofKnowledge? Twice, thrice he had hesitated on the steps of the biglibrary, and turned away with a wildly beating heart. 

Day by day the storm increased, until from a cloud on the horizon itgrew into a soul-shaking tempest. Profoundly moved Parr's he had been onthat Sunday afternoon, in Eldon Parr's garden, he had resolutely resolvedto thrust the woman and the incident from his mind, to defer theconsideration of the questions she had raised--grave though they were--toa calmer period. For now he was unable to separate her, to eliminate theemotion--he was forced to acknowledge--the thought of her aroused, fromthe problems themselves. Who was she? At moments he seemed to see hershining, accusing, as Truth herself, and again as a Circe who had drawnhim by subtle arts from his wanderings, luring him to his death; or, atother times, as the mutinous daughter of revolt. But when he felt, inmemory, the warm touch of her hand, the old wildness of his natureresponded, he ceased to speculate or care, and he longed only to crushand subdue her by the brute power of the man in him. For good or bad, she had woven her spell. 

Here was the old, elemental, twofold contest, carnal and spiritual, thoroughly revived! . . . 

He recalled, in his musings, the little theological school surroundedby southern woods and fields, where he had sometime walked under autumnfoliage with the elderly gentleman who had had such an influence on hislife--the dean. Mild-mannered and frail, patient in ordinary converse, --a lion for the faith. He would have died for it as cheerfully as anymartyr in history. By the marvels of that faith Holder had beheld, fromhis pew in the chapel, the little man transformed. He knew young men, their perplexities and temptations, and he dealt with them personally, like a father. Holder's doubts were stilled, he had gained power of histemptations and peace for his soul, and he had gone forth inspired by thereminder that there was no student of whom the dean expected betterthings. Where now were the thousands of which he had dreamed, and whichhe was to have brought into the Church? . . . 

Now, he asked himself, was it the dean, or the dean's theology throughwhich his regeneration had come? Might not the inherent goodness of thedean be one thing, and his theology quite another? Personality again!He recalled one of the many things which Alison Parr had branded on hismemory, --"the belief, the authority in which the man is clothed, and notthe man!" The dean's God had remained silent on the subject ofpersonality. Or, at the best, he had not encouraged it; and there were--Hodder could not but perceive--certain contradictions in his character, which were an anomalistic blending of that of the jealous God of Mosesand of the God of Christ. There must be continuity--God could notchange. Therefore the God of infinite love must retain the wrath whichvisited sins of the fathers on the children, which demanded sacrifice, atonement, --an exact propitiation for his anger against mankind. Aninnocent life of sorrow and suffering!

And again, "You and your religion are as far apart as the poles!" Hadhe, Hodder, outgrown the dean's religion, or had it ever been his own?Was there, after all, such a thing as religion? Might it not be merely afigment of the fertile imagination of man? He did not escape the terrorof this thought when he paused to consider his labour of the past twoyears and the vanity of its results. And little by little the feelinggrew upon him, such being the state of his mind, that he ought not tocontinue, for the present at least, to conduct the services. Should heresign, or go away for a while to some quiet place before he made such amomentous decision? There was no one to whom he could turn; no layman, and no clergyman; not even the old bishop, whom he had more than oncementally accused of being, too broad and too tolerant! No, he did notwish a clergyman's solution. The significance of this thought flashedthrough him--that the world itself was no longer seeking clergymen'ssolutions. He must go off alone, and submit his faith to the impartialtest. 

It was in a vigil of the night, when he lay in the hot darkness, unableto sleep, that he came at length to this resolve. And now that he hadcut the knot he was too just to blame Alison Parr for having pointed out--with what often had seemed a pitiless cruelty--something of which hehad had a constantly growing perception yet had continually sought toevade. And he reviewed, as the church bells recorded the silent hours, how, little by little, his confidence had crumbled before the shocks ofthe successive revelations--some of them so slight that they had passedunnoticed: comparisons, inevitably compelled; Dalton Street; theconfessions of Eleanor Goodrich and Mrs. Constable; Mr. Plimpton and hisviews of life--Eldon Parr! Even the slamming of the carriage doors inBurton Street had had a significance!

Might it not prove that this woman had let fall into the turbid waters ofhis soul the drop that was to clear them forever? He would go away. Hewould not see her again. 

Over the sleeping city, unapprehended, stole the dawn. 

He arose, but instead of falling on his knees he went to the window andlifted his face to the whitening sky . . . . Slowly out of theobscurity of the earth's shadow emerged the vague outlines of familiarthings until they stood sharply material, in a silence as of death. Asparrow twittered, and suddenly the familiar, soot-grimed roofs werebathed in light, and by a touch made beautiful . . . . 

Some hours later the city was wide awake. And Hodder, bathed anddressed, stood staring down from his study window into the street below, full now of young men and girls; some with set faces, hurrying, intent, others romping and laughing as they dodged the trucks and trolley cars;all on their way to the great shoe factory around the corner, the hugefunnels of which were belching forth smoke into the morning air. Thestreet emptied, a bell rang, a whistle blew, the hum of distant machinerybegan . . . . 

II

Later that morning Hodder sat in his study. The shutters were closed, and the intensity of the tropical glare without was softened and diffusedby the slanting green slats. His eye wandered over the long andcomfortable room which had been his sanctuary in the feverish days ofhis ministry, resting affectionately on the hospitable chairs, the widefireplace before which he had been wont to settle himself on winternights, and even on the green matting--a cooling note in summer. Andthere, in the low cases along the walls, were the rows of his preciousbooks, --his one hobby and extravagance. He had grown to love the room. Would he ever come back to it?

A step sounded in the hall, a knock, and the well-known gaunt form andspectacled face of McCrae appeared in the doorway. 

"Ye wished to see me?" he asked. 

"McCrae, " said the rector, "I am going off for a while. "

His assistant regarded him a moment in silence. Although Hodder had nointention of explaining his reasons, he had a curious conviction that itwere superfluous to do so, that McCrae had guessed them. 

"Why shouldn't ye? There's but a handful left to preach to in thisweather. "

"I wouldn't go, in this sudden way, if it were not imperative, " Hodderadded, trying to speak calmly. 

"Why shouldn't ye?" McCrae repeated, almost fiercely. 

Hodder smiled in spite of himself. 

"There's no reason, " he said, "except the added work put on you withoutwarning, and in this heat. "

"Ye'll not need to worry, " his assistant assured him, "the heat's nothingto me. " McCrae hesitated, and then demanded abruptly, "Ye'll not bevisiting?"

The question took Hodder by surprise. 

"No, " he answered quickly, and not quite steadily, and hesitated in histurn, "I shan't be visiting. "

"It's a rest ye need, I've been wanting to say it. " McCrae took a stepforward, and for a moment it seemed as though he were at last about tobreak the bonds of his reserve. Perhaps he detected an instinctiveshrinking on the rector's part. At any rate, there was another instantof silence, in which the two men faced each other across the desk, andMcCrae held out his hand. "Good luck to ye, " he said, as Hodder took it, "and don't have the pariah on your mind. Stay till ye're rested, andcome back to us. "

He left the room abruptly. Hodder remained motionless, looking afterhim, and then, moved apparently by a sudden impulse, started toward thedoor, --only to halt and turn before he got to it. Almost he had openedhis lips to call his assistant back. He could not do it--the moment hadcome and fled when it might have been possible. Did this man hide, underhis brusqueness and brevity of speech, the fund of wisdom and the widersympathy and understanding he suspected? Hodder could have vouched forit, and yet he had kept his own counsel. And he was struck suddenly bythe significance of the fact, often remarked, that McCrae in his briefand common-sense and by no means enlivening sermons had never oncereferred in any way to doctrine or dogma!

He spent half an hour in collecting and bestowing in two large valisessuch articles as his simple needs would demand, and then set out for arailroad office in the business portion of the city, where he bought histicket and berth. Then, after a moment of irresolution on the thresholdof the place, he turned to the right, thrusting his way through thesluggish crowds on Tower Street until he came to the large bookstorewhere he had been want to spend, from time to time, some of his leisuremoments. A clerk recognized him, and was about to lead the way to therear, where the precious editions were kept, when Hodder stopped him. 

In casting about for a beginning in his venture over unknown seas, therehad naturally come into his mind three or four works which were anathemato the orthodox; one of which, in seven volumes, went back to hisseminary days, and had been the subject of a ringing, denunciatory sermonby the dean himself. Three of them were by Germans of establishedreputations, another by a professor of the University of Paris. Thehabit of years is strong. 

And though he knew that many clergymen read these books, Hodder found itimpossible to overcome a nervous sense of adventure, --nay (knowing hisresolution), of apostasy, almost of clandestine guilt when he mentionedthem. And it seemed to him that the face of the clerk betrayed surprise. One of the works was not in stock; he would send the others thatafternoon. Mr. Hodder would take them? They made a formidable parcel, but a little handle was supplied and the rector hurried out, swinginghimself on a Tower Street car. 

It must not be thought that the whole of what is called modern criticismwas new to Hodder. This would indeed be too much of a reflection on theopen-mindedness of the seminary from which he had graduated. But he found himself, now, pondering a little cynically on that"open-mindedness"; on that concession--if it had been a concession--to themethods of science. There had been in truth a course of lectures on thissubject; but he saw now, very clearly, what a concerted effort had beenput forward in the rest of the teaching to minimize and discredit it. Even the professor who gave the lectures had had the air of deploringthem. Here it is, but on the whole one would better let it alone, --suchwas the inference. And he had let it alone, through all these years. 

In the seminary, too, volumes by semi-learned clergymen had been thrustinto his hands, efforts which Hodder recalled now, in spite of his mentalstate, with a smile. These invariably championed the doctrine of thevirgin birth as the pillar on which the Incarnation depended. A favourite argument declared that although the Gospel texts in regard toit might be proven untrustworthy, the miraculous birth must have happenedanyway! And one of these clerical authors whom he had more recentlyread, actually had had the audacity to turn the weapons of the archenemy, science, back upon itself. The virgin birth was an established fact innature, and had its place in the social economy of the bee. And did notparthenogenesis occur in the silk moth?

In brief, the conclusion impressed upon him by his seminary instructionwas this: that historical criticism had corrected some ideas and putsome things in their right place. What these things were remainedsufficiently vague. But whenever it attacked a cherished dogma it was, on general principles, wrong. 

Once again in his cool study, he cut the cord with a trembling hand, andwhile he was eating the lunch his housekeeper had prepared, dipped intoone of the larger volumes. As he read again the critical disproofs hefelt an acute, almost physical pain, as though a vital part of him werebeing cut away, as his mind dwelt upon those beautiful legends to whichhe had so often turned, and which had seemed the very fountain of hisfaith. Legends! . . . . 

He closed the book. The clock on the mantel struck three; his train wasto leave at five. He rose and went down into the silent church he hadgrown to love, seating himself in one of the carved stalls of the choir, his eye lingering in turn on each beautiful object: on the glowinglandscape in the window in memory of Eliza Parr, portraying thedelectable country, with the bewildered yet enraptured faces of thepilgrims in the foreground; on the graceful, shining lectern, theaspiring arches, the carved marble altar behind the rail, and aboveit the painting of the Christ on the cross. 

The hours of greatest suffering are the empty hours. 'Eloi, Eloi, lamasabachthani?' The hours when the mysterious sustaining and driving forceis withdrawn, and a lassitude and despair comes over us like that of adeserted child: the hours when we feel we have reached the limit ofservice, when our brief span of usefulness is done. Had God brought him, John Hodder, to the height of the powers of his manhood only to abandonhim, to cast him adrift on the face of the waters--led him to this greatparish, with all its opportunities, only that he might fail and flee?

He sat staring at the face of the Man on the cross. Did he, in hisoverwrought state, imagine there an expression he had never beforeremarked, or had the unknown artist of the seventies actually risen abovethe mediocrity of the figure in his portrayal of the features of theChrist? The rector started, and stared again. There was no weakness inthe face, no meekness, no suggestion of the conception of the sacrificedLamb, no hint of a beatific vision of opening heavens--and yet noaccusation, no despair. A knowing--that were nearer--a knowing of allthings through the experiencing of all things, the suffering of allthings. For suffering without revelation were vain, indeed! A perfectedwisdom that blended inevitably with a transcendent love. Love and wisdomwere one, then? To reach comprehension through conquering experience wasto achieve the love that could exclaim, "they know not what they do!"

Human or divine? Man or God? Hodder found himself inwardly repeatingthe words, the controversy which had raged for nineteen hundred years, and not yet was stilled. Perfection is divine. Human! Hodder repeatedthe word, as one groping on the threshold of a great discovery . . . . 

III

He was listening--he had for a long time been listening to a sound whichhad seemed only the natural accompaniment of the drama taking place inhis soul, as though some inspired organist were expressing in exquisitemusic the undercurrent of his agony. Only gradually did he become awarethat it arose from the nave of the church, and, turning, his eyes fellupon the bowed head and shoulders of a woman kneeling in one of the pews. She was sobbing. 

His movement, he recalled afterward, did not come of a consciousvolition, as he rose and descended the chancel steps and walked towardher; he stood for what seemed a long time on the white marble of theaisle looking down on her, his heart wrung by the violence of her grief, which at moments swept through her like a tempest. She seemed stillyoung, but poverty had marked her with unmistakable signs. The white, blue-veined hands that clung to the railing of the pew were thin; and theshirtwaist, though clean, was cheap and frayed. At last she rose fromher knees and raised a tear-stained face to his, staring at him in a dumbbewilderment. 

"Can I do anything for you?" he said gently, "I am the rector here. "She did not answer, but continued to stare uncomprehendingly. He satdown beside her in the pew. 

"You are in trouble, " he said. "Will you let me try to help you?"A sob shook her--the beginning of a new paroxysm. He waited patientlyuntil it was over. Suddenly she got rather wildly and unsteadily to herfeet. 

"I must go!" she cried. "Oh, God, what would I do if--if he wasn'tthere?"

Hodder rose too. She had thrust herself past him into the aisle, but ifhe had not taken her arm she would have fallen. Thus they went togetherto the door of the church, and out into the white, burning sunlight. Inspite of her weakness she seemed actually to be leading him, impelled bya strange force and fled down the steps of the porch to the sidewalk. And there she paused, seeing him still beside her. Fortunately he hadhis hat in his hand. 

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

"To take you home, " he replied firmly, "you ought not to go alone. "

A look of something like terror came into her eyes. 

"Oh, no!" she protested, with a vehemence that surprised him. "I amstrong. Oh, thank you, sir, --but I can go alone. It's Dicky--my littleboy. I've never left him so long. I had gone for the medicine and I sawthe church. I used to go to church, sir, before we had our troubles--andI just went in. It suddenly came over me that God might help me--thedoctor can do nothing. "

"I will go with you, " he said. 

She ceased to resist, as one submitting to the fatality of a superiorwill. 

The pavements that afternoon, as Hodder and the forlorn woman left thecool porticoes of St. John's, were like the floor of a stone oven, andthe work horses wore little bonnets over their heads. Keeping to theshady side, the rector and his companion crossed Tower Street with itstrolley cars and its awninged stores, and came to that depressingdistrict which had reproached him since the first Sunday of his ministrywhen he had traversed it with Eldon Parr. They passed the onceprosperous houses, the corner saloons pandering to two vices, decked withthe flamboyant signs of the breweries. The trees were dying along theasphalt and in the yards, the iron fences broken here and there, thecopings stained with rust and soot. Hodder's thoughts might have beenlikened to the heated air that simmered above the bricks. 

They were in Dalton Street! She seemed to have forgotten his presence, her pace quickened as she turned into a gate and flew up a flight ofdirty stone steps, broken and sagging. Hodder took in, subconsciously, that the house was a dingy grey, of three stories and a Mansard roof, with a bay window on the yard side, and a fly-blown sign, "Rooms to Rent"hanging in one window. Across the street, on a lot that had once held asimilar dignified residence, was the yellow brick building of the "AlbertHotel, " and next door, on the east, a remodelled house of "apartments"with speaking tubes in the doorway. 

The woman led him up another flight of steps to the open door ofthe house, through a hallway covered with a ragged carpet, where adilapidated walnut hat-rack stood, up the stairs, threading a darkpassage that led into a low-ceiled, stifling room at the very back. A stout, slatternly person in a wrapper rose as they entered, but themother cast herself down beside the lounge where the child was. Hodderhad a moment of fear that she was indeed too late, so still the boy lay, so pathetically wan was the little face and wasted the form under thecotton nightgown. The mother passed her hand across his forehead. 

"Dicky!" she whispered fearfully, "Dicky!"

He opened his eyes and smiled at her; feebly. 

The, stout woman, who had been looking on with that intensity of sympathyof which the poor are capable, began waving gently the palm-leaf fan. She was German. 

"He is so good, is Dicky. He smile at me when I fan him--once, twice. He complains not at all. "

The mother took the fan from her, hand. 

"Thank you for staying with him, Mrs. Breitmann. I was gone longer thanI expected. " The fact that the child still lived, that she was again inhis presence, the absorbing act of caring for him seemed to have calmedher. 

"It is nothing, what I do, " answered Mrs. Breitmann, and turned awayreluctantly, the tears running on her cheeks. "When you go again, I comealways, Mrs. Garvin. Ach!"

Her exclamation was caused by the sight of the tall figure and black coatof the rector, and as she left the room, Mrs. Garvin turned. And henoticed in her eyes the same expression of dread they had held when shehad protested against his coming. 

"Please don't think that I'm not thankful--" she faltered. 

"I am not offering you charity, " he said. "Can you not take from otherhuman beings what you have accepted from this woman who has just left?"

"Oh, sir, it isn't that!" she cried, with a look of trust, of appeal thatwas new, "I would do anything--I will do anything. But my husband--he isso bitter against the church, against ministers! If he came home andfound you here--"

"I know--many people feel that way, " he assented, "too many. But youcannot let a prejudice stand in the way of saving the boy's life, Mrs. Garvin. "

"It is more than that. If you knew, sir--"

"Whatever it is, " he interrupted, a little sternly, "it must notinterfere. I will talk to your husband. "

She was silent, gazing at him now questioningly, yet with the dawninghope of one whose strength is all but gone, and who has found at last astronger to lean upon. 

The rector took the fan from her arrested hand and began to ply it. 

"Listen, Mrs. Garvin. If you had come to the church half an hour later, I should have been leaving the city for a place far distant. "

"You were going away? You stayed on my account?"

"I much prefer to stay, if I can be of any use, and I think I can. I amsure I can. What is the matter with the child?"

"I don't know, sir--he just lies there listless and gets thinner andthinner and weaker and weaker. Sometimes he feels sick, but not often. The doctor don't seem to know. "

What doctor have you?"

"His name is Welling. He's around the corner. "

"Exactly, " said the rector. "This is a case for Dr. Jarvis, who is thebest child specialist in the city. He is a friend of mine, and I intendto send for him at once. And the boy must go to a hospital--"

"Oh, I couldn't, sir. "

He had a poignant realization of the agony behind the cry. She breathedquickly through her parted lips, and from the yearning in her tired eyes--as she gazed at the poor little form--he averted his glance. 

"Now, Mrs. Garvin, you must be sensible, " he said. "This is no place fora sick child. And it is such a nice little hospital, the one I have inmind, and so many children get well and strong there, " he added, cheerfully. 

"He wouldn't hear of it. " Hodder comprehended that she was referring toher husband. She added inconsequently: "If I let him go, and he nevercame back! Oh, I couldn't do it--I couldn't. "

He saw that it was the part of wisdom not to press her, to give her timeto become accustomed to the idea. Come back--to what? His eye wanderedabout the room, that bespoke the last shifts of poverty, for he knew thatnone but the desperate were driven to these Dalton Street houses, oncethe dwellings of the well-to-do, and all the more pitiful for thecontrast. The heated air reeked with the smell of stale cooking. There was a gas stove at one side, a linoleum-covered table in thecentre, littered with bottles, plates, and pitchers, a bed and chairswhich had known better days, new obviously bruised and battered by manyenforced movings. In one corner was huddled a little group of toys. 

He was suddenly and guiltily aware that the woman had followed hisglance. 

"We had them in Alder Street, " she said. "We might have been there yet, if we hadn't been foolish. It's a pretty street, sir--perhaps you knowit--you take the Fanshawe Avenue cars to Sherman Heights. The air islike the country there, and all the houses are new, and Dicky had a yardto play in, and he used to be so healthy and happy in it. . . We wererich then, --not what you'd call rich, " she added apologetically, "but weowned a little home with six rooms, and my husband had a good place asbookkeeper in a grocery house, and every year for ten years we putsomething by, and the boy came. We never knew how well off we were, until it was taken away from us, I guess. And then Richard--he's myhusband--put his savings into a company--he thought it was so safe, andwe were to get eight per cent--and the company failed, and he fell sickand lost his place, and we had to sell the house, and since he got wellagain he's been going around trying for something else. Oh, he's triedso hard, --every day, and all day long. You wouldn't believe it, sir. And he's so proud. He got a job as porter, but he wasn't able to holdit--he wasn't strong enough. That was in April. It almost broke myheart to see him getting shabby--he used to look so tidy. And folksdon't want you when you're shabby. " . . . 

There sprang to Hodder's mind a sentence in a book he had recently read:"Our slums became filled with sick who need never have been sick; withderelicts who need never have been abandoned. "

Suddenly, out of the suffocating stillness of the afternoon a woman'svoice was heard singing a concert-hall air, accompanied by a piano playedwith vigour and abandon. And Hodder, following the sound, looked outacross the grimy yard--to a window in the apartment house opposite. 

"There's that girl again, " said the mother, lifting her head. "She doessing nice, and play, poor thing! There was a time when I wouldn't havewanted to listen. But Dicky liked it so . . . . It's the very tunehe loved. He don't seem to hear it now. He don't even ask for Mr. Bentley any more. "

"Mr. Bentley?" the rector repeated. The name was somehow familiar tohim. 

The piano and the song ceased abruptly, with a bang. 

"He lives up the street here a way--the kindest old gentleman you eversaw. He always has candy in his pockets for the children, and it's asight to see them follow him up and down the sidewalk. He takes them tothe Park in the cars on Saturday afternoons. That was all Dicky couldthink about at first--would he be well enough to go with Mr. Bentley bySaturday? And he was forever asking me to tell Mr. Bentley he was sick. I saw the old gentleman on the street to-day, and I almost went up tohim. But I hadn't the courage. "

The child moaned, stirred, and opened his eyes, gazing at themfeverishly, yet without seeming comprehension. She bent over him, calling his name . . . . Hodder thrust the fan into her hand, androse. 

"I am going to telephone Dr. Jarvis, " he said, "and then I shall comeback, in order to be here when he arrives. "

She looked up at him. 

"Oh, thank you, sir, --I guess it's for the best--"

Her voice died away, and the rector, seeking for the cause, saw that aman had entered the room. He walked up to the couch and stood for amoment staring moodily at the child, while the woman watched him, transfixed. 

"Richard!" she said. 

He paid no attention to her. She turned to Hodder. "This is my husband, sir. . . . Richard, I went into the church--just for a moment--I--Icouldn't help it, and this gentleman--the minister--came home with me. He wanted to--he thought I was sick. And now he's going out to get thebest doctor in the city for Dicky. "

The man turned suddenly and confronted the rector. 

"Why don't you let him die, you and your church people?" he asked. "You've done your worst to kill him. "

The woman put her hand fearfully, imploringly on the man's arm. 

"Richard!" she whispered. 

But as Hodder glanced from the derelict beside him a wave ofcomprehension passed through him that swept him clean of indignation, of resentment. And this man had been prosperous and happy!

"There is but one way to save the boy's life, Mr. Garvin, " he said, "andthat is to put him in charge of Dr. Jarvis. "

The man made no reply, but went over to the window, staring out into theyard. There was something vaguely ominous in his attitude. The rectorwatched him a moment, and then turned to the mother. 

"You must not lose hope, " he told her. 

She looked at him with terror-stricken eyes that sought to be grateful. He had picked up his hat from a corner of the littered table, and startedto leave, when Garvin, by a sudden movement, planted himself in thedoorway. Whether he had been drinking, or whether he were merely crazedby misfortune and the hopeless search in the heat for employment, and bylack of proper nourishment, Hodder could not say. There was a light inhis eyes like that in a wounded animal's; and although he was thin andslight, he had the concentrated power of desperation. 

"Say, what church do you come from?" he demanded. 

"From St. John's, " said the rector. 

"Eldon Parr's church?"

Hodder started, in spite of himself, at the name. 

"Mr. Parr is a member of the congregation. "

"Come off! He owns it and runs it, the same as he does everything elsein this town. Maybe you don't think I read the Sunday papers. Say, Iwas respectable once, and had a good place. You wouldn't believe it, would you?"

Hodder hesitated. There was obviously no way to pass the man except byusing physical force. 

"If you have anything to say to me, Mr. Garvin, I shall be glad to talkto you later. You must not stop me now, " he said with a touch ofseverity. 

"You'll listen to me, right here and now, " cried Garvin. "If you think Iam going to let Eldon Parr's minister, or any one else belonging to him, save that boy's life, you've got another guess comin'. That's all. I'drather have him die--d'ye hear? I'd rather have him die. "

The woman behind them whimpered . . . . The name was ringing like aknell in Hodder's head--Eldon Parr! Coming, as it had, like a curse fromthe lips of this wretched, half-demented creature, it filled his soulwith dismay. And the accusation had in it the profound ring of truth. He was Eldon Parr's minister, and it was Eldon Parr who stood between himand his opportunity. 

"Why do you speak of Mr. Parr?" he asked, though the question cost him asupreme effort. 

"Why do I speak of him? My God, because he ruined me. If it hadn't beenfor him, damn him, I'd have a home, and health and happiness to-day, andthe boy would be well and strong instead of lying there with the life allbut gone out of him. Eldon Parr did for me, and now he's murdered myson--that's why I mention him. "

In the sudden intensity of his feeling, Hodder seized Garvin by the arms--arms that were little more than skin and bone. The man might becrazed, he might be drunk: that he believed what he was saying therecould be no question. He began to struggle violently, but the rector wasstrong. 

"Be still, " he commanded. And suddenly, overcome less by the physicalpower than by the aspect of the clergyman, an expression of bewildermentcame into his eyes, and he was quiet. Hodder dropped his arms. "I donot intend to go until I hear what you have to say. It would be useless, at any rate, since your child's life is at stake. Tell me how Mr. Parrhas ruined you. "

Garvin stared at him, half in suspicion, half in amazement. 

"I guess you never knew of his ruining anybody, did you?" he demandedsullenly. "Well, I'll tell you all right, and you can go and tell him. He won't care much--he's used to it by this time, and he gets square withGod by his churches and charities. Did you ever hear of a stock calledConsolidated Tractions?"

Consolidated Tractions! In contrast to the sordid misery and degradationof this last refuge of the desperate Hodder saw the lofty, panelledsmoking room at Francis Ferguson's, and was listening again to WallisPlimpton's cynical amusement as to how he and Everett Constable and EldonParr himself had "gat out" before the crash; "got out" with all the moneyof the wretch who now stood before him! His parishioners! hisChristians! Oh God!

The man was speaking in his shrill voice. 

"Well, I was a Traction sucker, all right, and I guess you wouldn't haveto walk more than two blocks to find another in this neighbourhood. Youthink Eldon Parr's a big, noble man, don't you? You're proud to run hischurch, ain't you? You wouldn't believe there was a time when I thoughthe was a big man, when I was kind of proud to live in the same city withhim. She'll tell you how I used to come home from the store and talkabout him after supper, and hope that the kid there would grow up into afinancier like Eldon Parr. The boys at the store talked about him: hesort of laid hold on our imaginations with the library he gave, andElmwood Park, and the picture of the big organ in your church in thenewspapers--and sometimes, Mary and me and the boy, in the baby carriage, on Sunday afternoons we used to walk around by his house, just to look atit. You couldn't have got me to believe that Eldon Parr would put hisname to anything that wasn't straight. 

"Then Consolidated Tractions came along, with Parr's, name behind it. Everybody was talking about it, and how it was payin' eight per cent. From the start, and extra dividends and all, and what a marvel of financeit was. Before the kid came, as soon as I married her, we began to saveup for him. We didn't go to the theatres or nothing. Well, I put itall, five thousand dollars, into Consolidated. She'll tell you how wesat up half the night after we got the first dividend talking about howwe'd send the kid to college, and after we went to bed we couldn't sleep. It wasn't more than a year after that we began to hear things--and wecouldn't sleep for sure, and the dividends stopped and the stock tumbled. Even then I wouldn't believe it of him, that he'd take poor people'smoney that way when he had more than he knew what to do with. I made upmy mind if I went down to see him and told him about it, he'd make itright. I asked the boss for an hour off, and headed for the Parrbuilding--I've been there as much as fifty times since--but he don'tbother with small fry. The clerks laugh when they see me comin' . . . I got sick worryin', and when I was strong enough to be around they'dfilled my job at the grocery, and it wasn't long before we had to moveout of our little home in Alder Street. We've been movin' ever since, "he cried, and tears of weakness were in his eyes, "until we've come tothis, and we'll have to get out of here in another week. God knows wherewe'll go then. "

Hodder shuddered. 

"Then I found out how he done it--from a lawyer. The lawyer laughed atme, too. Say, do you wonder I ain't got much use for your church people?Parr got a corporation lawyer named Langmaid--he's another one of yourmillionnaire crooks--to fix it up and get around the law and keep him outof jail. And then they had to settle with Tim Beatty for something likethree hundred thousand. You know who Beatty is--he owns this city--hissaloon's around here on Elm Street. All the crooks had to be squared. Say, " he demanded aggressively, "are Parr and Langmaid any better thanBeatty, or any of the hold-up men Beatty covers? There's a street-walkerover there in those flats that's got a million times more chance to getto heaven--if there is any--than those financiers, as they call 'emselves--I ain't much on high finance, but I've got some respect for a secondstory man now--he takes some risks! I'll tell you what they did, theybought up the short car lines that didn't pay and sold 'em to themselvesfor fifty times as much as they were worth; and they got controllinginterests in the big lines and leased 'em to themselves with dividendsguaranteed as high as eighteen per cent. They capitalized theConsolidated for more millions than a little man like me can think of, and we handed 'em our money because we thought they were honest. Wethought the men who listed the stock on the Exchange were honest. Andwhen the crash came, they'd got away with the swag, like any commonhousebreakers. There were dummy directors, and a dummy president. EldonParr didn't have a share--sold out everything when she went over twohundred, but you bet he kept his stock in the leased lines, whichguarantee more than they earn. He cleaned up five million, they say. .. . My money--the money that might give that boy fresh air, and good doctors. .. . Say, you believe in hell, don't you? You tell Eldon Parr to keep hischarity, --he can't send any of it in here. And you'd better go back tothat church of his and pray to keep his soul out of hell. " . . . 

His voice, which had risen even to a higher pitch, fell silent. And allat once, without warning, Garvin sank, or rather tumbled upon the bed, sobbing in a way that was terrible to see. The wife stole across theroom, sat down beside him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. . . . 

In spite of the intensity of his own anguish, Hodder was conscious of acurious detachment; and for months afterward particular smells, the sightof a gasoline stove, a certain popular tune gave him a sharp twinge ofpain. The acid distilling in his soul etched the scene, the sounds, theodours forever in his memory: a stale hot wind from the alley rattled theshutter-slats, and blew the door to; the child stirred; and above thestrident, irregular weeping rose main, in ironical contrast, the pianoand the voice across the yard. In that glimpse he had into the heart oflife's terrible mystery he momentarily understood many things: he knewthat behind the abandon of the woman's song was the same terror whichreigned in the room in which he stood . . . . 

There were voices in the passageway without, a woman saying in a Germanaccent, --"It is here, sir. "

There was a knock at the door . . . . 

CHAPTER XI

THE LOST PARISHIONER

I

Hodder opened the door. In the dingy passageway he perceived a tallfigure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman. Inspite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate, pleatedlinen. In one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat ofwhich the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel, thebrown paper wrapping of which was soaked: in the other, a manila bagcontaining lemons. 

His head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald, but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples. The face wasclean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating, distinctly philanthropic. And the blue eyes rested on the clergyman witha benevolence unfeigned. 

"Good afternoon, sir, " the old gentleman said; "I am told Mrs. Garvinlives here. "

Before the rector could reply Mrs. Garvin herself stood between them. 

"It's Mr. Bentley!" she exclaimed. 

"I fear I'm intruding, ma'am, " he said. "But some of Dicky's littlefriends have just informed me that he is ill, and I have taken theliberty of calling to inquire. "

Mr. Bentley entered the room, --simple words to express that which wasin some sort an event. He laid his parcels on the table, his hat andstick on a chair, and stood looking down in silence at the thin littleform on the couch. Presently he turned. 

"I'm afraid he's very ill, ma'am, " he said gently. "You have your owndoctor, no doubt. But if you will permit me, as a friend, to make asuggestion, we have in the city one of the best child specialists in theUnited States, who is never weary of curing these little ones, --Dr. Jarvis, and I shall be happy to ask him to come and see Dicky. "

Mrs. Garvin glanced at Hodder, who came forward. 

"I was just about to telephone for Dr. Jarvis, Mr. Bentley, when youarrived. I am Mr. Hodder, of St. John's. "

"How do you do, sir?" The kindly eyes, alight with a gentle flame, restedupon the rugged figure of the rector. "I am glad that you, too, agreethat Dr. Jarvis is advisable, Mr. Hodder. "

There was a sound from the bed. Garvin had got to his feet and wasstaring wildly, with reddened lids. 

"Are you Horace Bentley?" he demanded. 

"That is my name, sir, " Mr. Bentley replied. His expression of surprisewas only momentary. And in all his life Hodder had never beheld agreater contrast in human beings than between that gracious and courtlyold man and the haggard, unkempt, unshaved, and starving outcast facinghim. Something like a film came over Garvin's eyes. 

"He ruined you, too, twenty years back--Eldon Parr did for you, too. Oh, I know his record, I've followed his trail--he got all the Grantham stockthat would have made you a millionnaire!"

"Ah, " replied Mr. Bentley, smiling to humour him, "that's something Ihave no wish to be, sir, --a millionaire. " He met the frightened gaze ofthe wife. "Good day, ma'am. If you will allow me, I'll come to-morrowmorning to learn what Dr. Jarvis will have had to say. Have courage, ma'am, have courage. You may have faith in Dr. Jarvis. "

The poor woman was incapable of speech. Mr. Bentley picked up his hatand stick. 

"I've taken the liberty of bringing Dicky a little ice and a few lemons. "His eyes rested again on the couch by the window. Then he turned toGarvin, who stood mutely, staring. "Good evening, sir, " he said. "We must look for the best. "

II

They went down the stairs of the shabby and battered house, stairs by theside of which holes had been knocked through the faded wall-paper--scarsof frequent movings. The sound and smell of frying came out of the opendoor of what once had been the parlour, and on the front steps a littlegirl darted past them with a pitcher of beer. When they reached thesidewalk Mr. Bentley halted. 

"If you were intending to telephone Dr. Jarvis, Mr. Hodder, there is apublic station in the drug store just above here. I know that clergymenare busy persons, and I am passing it, if you are pressed for time. "

"My only concern is to get Jarvis here, " said the rector. "If I may go with you--"

Once again in the hot sunlight, reaction had set in. Hodder was suddenlyunstrung, and the kindly old gentleman beside him seemed for the instantthe only fixture in a chaotic universe. It was not until laterreflection that he realized Mr. Bentley might, by an intuitive sympathy, a depth of understanding, have drained something of his state, since theincidents which followed were to be accounted for on no other grounds. In such elemental moments the frail conventions are swept away: Mr. Bentley, whoever he might be, was no longer a stranger; and it seemedwholly natural to be walking with him up the street, to hear him saying, --not with perfunctory politeness but in a tone that was itself aninvitation, --"With pleasure, sir, we'll go together. And let us trustthat the doctor will be at home. "

Nor did Hodder stop to wonder, then, why Mr. Bentley should have soughtin his conversation to dissipate something of the hideous blackness of atragedy which must have moved him profoundly. How fortunate, hedeclared, that they should have arrived before it was too late! Forit was plain to be seen that these Garvins were good people who had beenbroken by adversity . . . . The boy had struck him particularly--alovable, merry little fellow whose clothes, Mr. Bentley observed, werealways neatly mended, betokening a mother with self-respect andcharacter. He even spoke of Garvin: adversity, worry, the heat, constantbrooding over a happier past and an uncertain future--was it surprisingthat the poor man's mind had become unhinged? They must make some planfor Garvin, said Mr. Bentley, get the man and his wife into the countryfor a while amongst kindly people. This might no doubt be arranged. .. . 

"Here we are, sir. "

The familiar smell of drugs, the sound of the trickling water in the sodafountain roused Hodder to reality, to action, and he hurried into thetelephone booth, fumbled in the dog-eared book, got Dr. Jarvis's numberand called it. An eternity seemed to elapse before he had a reply, heardhis coin jangling in the bog, recognized the voice of the great doctor'ssecretary. Yes, the doctor was in would he speak to Mr. Hodder, of St. John's? . . . An interval, during which Hodder was suddenly struckwith this designation of himself. Was he still of St. John's, then? Anaeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white marble of itsaisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. He was not that man, butanother--and still Mr. Hodder, of St. John's. . . . Then he heard thespecialist say, "Hello, Mr. Hodder, what can I do for you?" Heard hisown voice in reply, explaining the case. Could the doctor find time?The doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the poor, --though hedid not say so: he would be there--by half-past six. The rector hung upthe receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped his brow, for theheat was stifling. 

"The doctor will go, " he explained in answer to Mr. Bentley's inquiringlook. 

"Now, sir, " said the old gentleman, when they were out of the store, "wehave done all that we can for the time being. I do not live far fromhere. Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking supper with me, if you have no other engagement. "

No other engagement! Not until then did Hodder remember his empty roomsin the parish house, and the train which was to have borne him away fromall this already speeding northward. He accepted gratefully, nor did hepause to speculate upon the mystery by which the stream of his lifeseemed so suddenly to have been diverted. He had, indeed, no sense ofmystery in the presence of this splendidly sane, serene old man, any morethan the children who ran after him from the dingy yards and passages, calling his name, clinging to the skirts of his coat. These acceptedhim simply as an anomalous fact in their universe, grinned at hispleasantries, and held up grimy little hands for the kidney-shaped candybeans he drew forth from his capacious pockets. In the intervals hereminisced to the rector about the neighbourhood. 

"It seems but a short while ago when the trees met overhead--magnificenttrees they were. The asphalt and the soot killed them. And there werefruit trees in that yard"--he pointed with his stick to a littered sunparched plot adjoining a battered mansion--"all pink and white withblossoms in the spring. Mr. Hadley lived there--one of our forgottencitizens. He is dead and gone now and his family scattered. That otherhouse, where the boy lies, belonged to Mr. Villars, a relation of theAtterbury family, and I can recall very well a little girl with a pinksash and a white dress who used to come running out to meet me withflowers in her hands. Incredible as it may seem, she picked them in thatyard. I thought of her as I went in, how fresh and happy she used to be, and what a different place this was for children then. She must havesome of her own by this time. "

The character of the street had changed to what might be calledshabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house--oneof a row--that showed signs of scrupulous care. The steps were newlyscrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted. 

"This is where I live, sir, " said Mr. Bentley, opening the door with alatchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened andcool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture. It wasfitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. 

An old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. His hair was aswhite as his master's, and his face creased with age. 

"Sam, " said Mr. Bentley, "I have brought home a gentleman for supper. "

"Yassah, Misteh Ho'ace. I was jest agwine to open up de blin's. "

He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamedon the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired. Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in Hodderspeculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before: everyobject in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealthwas honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashionedframes bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marblemantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of thethirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley's. Who was she?

Hodder wondered. Presently he found himself before a photograph on thewall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously. 

"Ah, you recognize it, " said Mr. Bentley. 

"St. John's!"

"Yes, " Mr. Bentley repeated, "St. John's. " He smiled at Hodder's glanceof bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "Thatpicture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say--in 1869. I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see. That was Mr. Gore's house"--he indicated a square, heavily cornicedmansion--"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next thechurch, where you see the trees above the wall. "

The rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at thepicture thoughtfully. 

"I ought to have remembered, " he said. "I have seen your name in thechurch records, sir, and I have heard Mr. Waring speak of you. "

"My dear Mr. Hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me. A great many years have passed since I was a parishioner of St. John's--a great many years. "

"But it was you, " the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke withconviction, "it was you who chose the architect, who did more than othermen to make the church what it is. "

"Whatever I may have done, " replied Mr. Bentley, with simple dignity, "has brought its reward. To this day I have not ceased to derivepleasure from it, and often I go out of my way, through Burton Street, although the view is cramped. And sometimes, " he added, with the hint ofa twinkle in his eye, "I go in. This afternoon is not the first time Ihave seen you, Mr. Hodder. "

"But--?" said the rector. He stared at the other's face, and thequestion died on his lips. 

"You wonder why I am no longer a parishioner. The time came whenI could not afford to be. " There was no hint of reproach in his voice, of bitterness. He spoke regretfully, indeed, but as one stating anincontrovertible fact. "I lost my fortune, I could not keep my pew, so I deeded it back to the church. My old friends, Mrs. Dimock and AsaWaring, and others, too, were very kind. But I could not accept theirhospitality. "

Hodder bowed his head in silence. What thundered indictment of theChurch of Christ could have been as severe, as wholly condemning as thesefew words so dispassionately uttered by the man beside him?

The old darky entered, and announced supper. 

Hodder had lost his way, yet a hand had been held out to him, and heseized it. With a sense of being led, psychically as well as physically, he followed Mr. Bentley into a large bedroom, where a high, four-postedbed lifted a pleated canopy toward the ceiling. And after he had washedhis hands they entered a dining-room looking out upon a little yard inthe rear, which had been transformed into a garden. Roses, morningglories, and nasturtiums were growing against the walls; a hose laycoiled upon the path; the bricks, baked during the day, were splashedwith water; the leaves and petals were wet, and the acrid odour of moistearth, mingling with perfumes, penetrated the room. Hodder paused in thewindow. 

"Sam keeps our flowers alive, " he heard Mr. Bentley say, "I don't knowhow. "

"I scrubs 'em, sah, " said Sam. "Yassah, I washes 'em like chilluns. "

He found himself, at Mr. Bentley's request, asking grace, the old darkywith reverently bent head standing behind his master; sitting down at amahogany table that reflected like a mirror the few pieces of old silver, to a supper of beaten biscuits that burned one's fingers, of 'broiledchicken and coffee, and sliced peaches and cream. Mr. Bentley wastalking of other days--not so long gone by when the great city had been avillage, or scarcely more. The furniture, it seemed, had come from hisown house in what was called the Wilderness Road, not far from the riverbanks, over the site of which limited trains now rolled on their wayeastward toward the northernmost of the city's bridges. He mentionedmany names, some remembered, some forgotten, like his own; dwelt onpleasures and customs gone by forever. 

"A little while after I moved in here, I found that one old man could notfill the whole of this house, so I let the upper floors, " he explained, smilingly. "Some day I must introduce you to my tenants, Mr. Hodder. "

By degrees, as Hodder listened, he became calm. Like a child, he foundhimself distracted, talking, asking questions: and the intervals grewlonger between the recurrent surges of fear when the memory rose beforehim of the events of the day, --of the woman, the child, and the man: ofEldon Parr and this deed he had done; hinting, as it did, of closedchambers of other deeds yet to be opened, of countless, hidden miseriesstill to be revealed: when he heard once more the tortured voice of thebanker, and the question: "How would you like to live in this house--alone?" In contrast, now he beheld the peace in the face of the manwhose worldly goods Eldon Parr had taken, and whom he had driven out ofthe church. Surely, this man had found a solution! . . . What was it?

Hodder thought of the child, of the verdict of Dr. Jarvis, but helingered on, loth to leave, --if the truth be told--afraid to leave;drawing strength from his host's calm, wondering as to the source of it, as to the life which was its expression; longing, yet not presuming, toquestion. The twilight deepened, and the old darky lit a lamp and ledthe way back to the library. 

"Sam, " said Mr. Bentley, "draw up the armchair for Mr. Hodder beside thewindow. It is cooler there. "

"I ought to go, " Hodder said. "I ought to see how the child is. Jarviswill have been there by this time, and there may be necessaries--"

"Jarvis will have attended to that, " Mr. Bentley replied. "Sit down, Mr. Hodder. I am not sure that, for the present, we have not done all inthis case that is humanly possible. "

"You mean, " said the rector, "that they will accept nothing from me. "It came from him, spontaneously, like a cry. He had not meant to say it. "I don't blame them. I don't blame them for losing their faith in Godand man, in the Church. I ought to have seen it before, but I was blind, incredibly blind--until it struck me in the face. You saw it, sir, andyou left a church from which the poor are thrust out, which refuses toheed the first precept of its Master. "

"I saw it, " answered Mr. Bentley, "but I could do nothing. Perhaps youcan do--something. "

"Ah!" Hodder exclaimed sharply, "why do you say that? The Church isparalyzed, chained. How can she reach these wretched people who are thevictims of the ruthless individualism and greed of those who control her?You know--that man, Mr. Bentley. " (Hodder could not bring himself topronounce Eldon Parr's name. ) "I had an affection for him, I pitied him, because he suffers--"

"Yes, " echoed Mr. Bentley, "he suffers. "

Hodder was momentarily arrested by the sadness of his tone. 

"But he doesn't know why he suffers--he cannot be made to see, " therector went on. "And he is making others suffer, --hideously, while heimagines himself a Christian. He is the Church to that miserable, hopeless wretch we saw to-day, and to hundreds of the same kind whom hehas driven to desperation. And I--who am supposed to be the vicar ofGod--I am powerless. They have a contempt for me, a just contempt. Theythrust me out of their doors, bid me to return and minister to theiroppressors. You were right to leave, and I should have left long since. "

He had not spoken with violence, or with a lack of control. He seemedrather to have regained a mastery of himself, and felt as a man from whomthe shackles have been struck, proclaiming his freedom. Mr. Bentley'seyes lighted in involuntary response as he gazed at the figure and facebefore him. He pressed his hands together. 

"If you will forgive a curiosity, Mr. Hodder, that is somewhat due to myinterest in a church with which I have many precious associations, may Iask if this is a sudden determination on your part?"

"No, " Hodder said. "I have known ever since I came here that somethingwas wrong, but at first I couldn't see it, and after that I wouldn't seeit. That is about what happened, as I look back on it. 

"But the farther in I went, " Hodder continued, "the more tangled andbewildered I became. I was hypnotized, I think, " he added with agesture, --"hypnotized, as a man is who never takes his eyes from apattern. I wanted to get at this neighbourhood--Dalton Street--I mean, and finally I agreed to the establishment of a settlement house overhere, to be paid for largely by Eldon Parr and Francis Ferguson. Icouldn't see the folly of such an undertaking--the supreme irony of it, until--until it was pointed out to me. " He hesitated; the remembrance ofAlison Parr ran through him, a thread of pain. "And even then I tried tododge the issue, I tried to make myself believe that good might flow outof evil; that the Church, which is supposed to be founded on the highestideal ever presented to man, might compromise and be practical, thatshe might accept money which had been wrung from a trusting public byextortion, by thinly disguised thievery such as this ConsolidatedTractions Company fraud, and do good with it! And at last I made upmy mind to go away, to-day, to a quiet place where I might be alone, and reflect, when by a singular circumstance I was brought into contactwith this man, Garvin. I see now, clearly enough, that if I had gone, I should never have come back. "

"And you still intend to go?" Mr. Bentley asked. 

Hodder leaned his elbow against the mantel. The lamplight had a curiouseffect on Mr. Bentley's face. 

"What can I do?" he demanded. The question was not aimed directly at hishost--it was in the nature of a renewed appeal to a tribunal which hadbeen mute, but with which he now seemed vaguely aware of a certaincontact. "Even supposing I could bring myself to accept the compromise--now that I see it clearly, that the end justifies the means--what goodcould I accomplish? You saw what happened this afternoon--the man wouldhave driven me out if, it hadn't been for you. This whole conception ofcharity is a crime against civilization--I had to have that pointed outto me, too, --this system of legalized or semi-legalized robbery and thedistribution of largesse to the victims. The Church is doing wrong, is stultifying herself in encouraging it. She should set her facerigidly against it, stand for morality and justice and Christianity ingovernment, not for pauperizing. It is her mission to enlighten thesepeople, all people--to make them self-respecting, to give them somenotion of the dignity of their souls and their rights before God andman. "

"Aren't you yourself suggesting, " said Mr. Bentley, "the course whichwill permit you to remain?"

Hodder was silent. The thought struck him with tremendous force. Had hesuggested it? And how--why? Could it be done? Could he do it or beginit?

"We have met at last in a singular way, " he heard Mr. Bentley going on, "in a way that has brushed aside the conventions, in a way--I am happy tosay--that has enabled you to give me your confidence. And I am an oldman, --that has made it easier. I saw this afternoon, Mr. Hodder, thatyou were troubled, although you tried to hide it. "

"I knew that you saw it, " Hodder said. 

"Nor was it difficult for me to guess something of the cause of it. Thesame thing has troubled me. "

"You?"

"Yes, " Mr. Bentley answered. "I left St. John's, but the habits andaffections of a lifetime are not easily severed. And some time beforeI left it I began to have visions of a future for it. There was aquestion, many years ago, as to whether a new St. John's should not bebuilt in the West End, on a site convenient to the parishioners, and thisremoval I opposed. Mr. Waring stood by me. We foresaw the day whenthis district would be--what it is now--the precarious refuge of theunfortunate in the battle of life, of just such unhappy families as theGarvins, of miserable women who sell themselves to keep alive. I thoughtof St. John's, as you did, as an oasis in a desert of misery and vice. At that time I, too, believed in the system of charities which you haveso well characterized as pauperizing. "

"And now?"

Mr. Bentley smiled, as at a reminiscence. 

"My eyes were opened, " he replied, and in these simple words summed upand condemned it all. "They are craving bread, and we fling them atones. I came here. It was a house I owned, which I saved from the wrecks, andas I look back upon what the world would call a misfortune, sir, I cansee that it was a propitious event, for me. The street 'ran down, 'as the saying goes. I grew gradually to know these people, my newneighbours, largely through their children, and I perceived many thingsI had not dreamed of--before then. I saw how the Church was hampered, fettered; I saw why they disliked and distrusted it. "

"And yet you still believed that it had a mission?" Hodder interrupted. He had been listening with rapt attention. 

"I still believed it, " said Mr. Bentley. "My conception of that missionchanged, grew, and yet it seemed further and further from fulfilment. And then you came to St. John's. "

"I!" The cry was involuntary. 

"You, " Mr. Bentley repeated. "Sometimes, " he added whimsically, "I gothere, as I have told you. I saw you, I heard you preach. I talked tomy friend Waring about you. I saw that your eyes were not opened, but Ithink I had a certain presentiment, for which I do not pretend toaccount, that they would be opened. "

"You mean, " said the rector, "that if I believe in the mission of theChurch as I have partially stated it here tonight, I--should stay andfight for it. "

"Precisely, " Mr. Bentley replied. 

There was a note of enthusiasm, almost of militancy in the oldgentleman's tone that surprised and agitated Hodder. He took a turnup and down the room before he answered. 

"I ought to tell you that the view I expressed a moment ago is new to me. I had not thought of it before, and it is absolutely at variance with anyprevious ideas I have held. I can see that it must involve, if carriedto its logical conclusion, a change in the conception of Christianity Ihave hitherto held. "

He was too intent upon following up the thought to notice Mr. Bentley'sexpression of assent. 

"And suppose, " he asked, "I were unable to come to any conclusion?I will be frank, Mr. Bentley, and confess to you that at present I cannotsee my way. You have heard me preach--you know what my beliefs havebeen. They are shattered. And, while I feel that there is some definiteconnection between the view of the Church which I mentioned and hermessage to the individual, I do not perceive it clearly. I am notprepared at present to be the advocate of Christianity, because I donot know what Christianity is. I thought I knew. 

"I shall have to begin all over again, as though I had never takenorders, submit to a thorough test, examine the evidence impartially. Itis the only way. Of this much I am sure, that the Church as a whole hasbeen engaged in a senseless conflict with science and progressivethought, that she has insisted upon the acceptance of facts which are inviolation of reason and which have nothing to do with religion. She hastaught them to me--made them, in fact, a part of me. I have clung tothem as long as I can, and in throwing them over I don't know where Ishall land. "

His voice was measured, his words chosen, yet they expressed a witheringindignation and contempt which were plainly the culmination of months ofbewilderment--now replaced by a clear-cut determination. 

"I do not blame any individual, " he continued, "but the system by whichclergymen are educated. 

"I intend to stay here, now, without conducting any services, and findout for myself what the conditions are here in Dalton Street. You knowthose people, Mr. Bentley, you understand them, and I am going to ask youto help me. You have evidently solved the problem. "

Mr. Bentley rose. And he laid a hand, which was not quite steady, on therector's shoulder. 

"Believe me, sir, " he replied, "I appreciate something of what such acourse must mean to you--a clergyman. " He paused, and a look came uponhis face, a look that might scarce have been called a smile--Hodderremembered it as a glow--reminiscent of many things. In it a life wassummed ups in it understanding, beneficence, charity, sympathy, were allexpressed, yet seemingly blended into one. "I do not know what mytestimony may be worth to you, my friend, but I give it freely. Isometimes think I have been peculiarly fortunate. But I have lived agreat many years, and the older I get and the more I see of human naturethe firmer has grown my conviction of its essential nobility andgoodness. "

Hodder marvelled, and was silent. 

"You will come here, often, --every day if you can. There are many menand women, friends of mine, whom I should like you to know, who wouldlike to know you. "

"I will, and thank you, " Hodder answered. Words were inadequate for theoccasion . . . . 

CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN OF THE SONG

On leaving Mr. Bentley, Hodder went slowly down Dalton Street, wonderingthat mere contact with another human being should have given him theresolution to turn his face once again toward the house whither he wasbound. And this man had given him something more. It might hardly havebeen called faith; a new courage to fare forth across the Unknown--thatwas it; hope, faint but revived. 

Presently he stopped on the sidewalk, looked around him, and read a signin glaring, electric letters, Hotel Albert. Despite the heat, the placewas ablaze with lights. Men and women were passing, pausing--going in. A motor, with a liveried chauffeur whom he remembered having seen before, was standing in front of the Rathskeller. The nightly carousal wasbeginning. 

Hodder retraced his steps, crossed the street diagonally, came to thedilapidated gate he remembered so well, and looked up through the dusk atthe house. If death had entered it, there was no sign: death must be afrequent visitor hereabouts. On the doorsteps he saw figures outlined, slatternly women and men in shirt-sleeves who rose in silence to make wayfor him, staring at him curiously. He plunged into the hot darkness ofthe hall, groped his way up the stairs and through the passage, andhesitated. A single gas jet burned low in the stagnant air, and after amoment he made out, by its dim light, a woman on her knees beside thecouch, mechanically moving the tattered palm-leaf over the motionlesslittle figure. The child was still alive. He drew a deep breath, andentered; at the sound of his step Mrs. Garvin suddenly started up. 

"Richard!" she cried, and then stood staring at the rector. "Have youseen my husband, sir? He went away soon after you left. "

Hodder, taken by surprise, replied that he had not. Her tone, hergesture of anxiety he found vaguely disquieting. 

"The doctor has been here?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she answered absently. "I don't know where he can be--Richard. He didn't even wait to see the doctor. And he thinks so much of Dicky, sir, he sits here of an evening--"

Hodder sat down beside her, and taking the palm-leaf from her hand, beganhimself to fan the child. Something of her misgiving had communicateditself to him. 

"Don't worry, " he said. "Remember that you have been through a greatdeal, and it is natural that you should be overwrought. Your husbandfeels strongly. I don't blame him. And the sight of me this afternoonupset him. He has gone out to walk. "

"Richard is proud, " she answered simply. "He used to say he'd ratherdie than take charity--and now he's come to it. And it's--that man, sir, who's got on his brain, and changed him. He wasn't always like this, butnow he can't seem to think of anything else. He wakes up in the night. . . . And he used to have such a sweet nature--you wouldn't haveknown him . . . And came home so happy in the evenings in AlderStreet, often with a little fruit, or something he'd bought for us, andromp with Dicky in the yard, and I'd stand and laugh at them. Even afterwe'd lost our money, when he was sick that time, he didn't feel this way. It grew on him when he couldn't get work, and then he began to cut thingsout of the papers about Mr. Parr. And I have sometimes thought thatthat's kept him from getting work. He talks about it, and people don'tknow what to make of him. They don't know how hard he'd try if they'dgive him something. ". . . . 

"We shall find something, " said the rector, striving to throw into hisvoice confidence and calm. He did not dare to look at her, but continuedto move the fan. 

The child stirred a little. Mrs. Garvin put out her hand. 

"Yes, the doctor was here. He was very kind. Oh, sir, " she exclaimed, "I hope you won't think us ungrateful--and that Mr. Bentley won't. Dr. Jarvis has hopes, sir, --he says--I forget the name he called it, whatDicky has. It's something uncommon. He says it was--brought on by theheat, and want of food--good food. And he's coming himself in themorning to take him out to that hospital beyond the park--in anautomobile, sir. I was just thinking what a pity it is Dicky wouldn'trealize it. He's always wanted to ride in one. " Suddenly her tearsflowed, unheeded, and she clung to the little hand convulsively. "I don't know what I shall do without him, Sir, I don't . . . . I'vealways had him . . . And when he's sick, among strangers. " . . . 

The rector rose to the occasion. 

"Now, Mrs. Garvin, " he said firmly, "you must remember that there is onlyone way to save the boy's life. It will be easy to get you a room nearthe hospital, where you can see him constantly. "

"I know--I know, sir. But I couldn't leave his father, I couldn't leaveRichard. " She looked around distractedly. "Where is he?"

"He will come back presently, " said the rector. "If not, I will look forhim. "

She did not reply, but continued to weep in silence. Suddenly, above theconfused noises of the night, the loud notes of a piano broke, and thewoman whose voice he had heard in the afternoon began once more withappalling vigour to sing. The child moaned. 

Mrs. Garvin started up hysterically. 

"I can't stand it--I can't stand her singing that now, " she sobbed. 

Thirty feet away, across the yard, Hodder saw the gleaming window fromwhich the music came. He got to his feet. Another verse began, withmore of the brazen emphasis of the concert-hall singer than ever. He glanced at the woman beside him, irresolutely. 

"I'll speak to her, " he said. 

Mrs. Garvin did not appear to hear him, but flung herself down beside thelounge. As he seized his hat and left the room he had the idea oftelephoning for a nurse, when he almost ran into some one in the upperhall, and recognized the stout German woman, Mrs. Breitmann. 

"Mrs. Garvin"--he said, "she ought not to be left--"

"I am just now going, " said Mrs. Breitmann. "I stay with her until herhusband come. "

Such was the confidence with which, for some reason, she inspired him, that he left with an easier mind. 

It was not until the rector had arrived at the vestibule of the apartmenthouse next door that something--of the difficulty and delicacy of theerrand he had undertaken came home to him. Impulse had brought him thusfar, but now he stood staring helplessly at a row of bells, speakingtubes, and cards. Which, for example, belonged to the lady whose sopranovoice pervaded the neighbourhood? He looked up and down the street, inthe vain hope of finding a messenger. The song continued: he hadpromised to stop it. Hodder accused himself of cowardice. 

To his horror, Hodder felt stealing over him, incredible though it seemedafter the depths through which he had passed, a faint sense offascination in the adventure. It was this that appalled him--thistenacity of the flesh, --which no terrors seemed adequate to drive out. The sensation, faint as it was, unmanned him. There were still manyunexplored corners in his soul. 

He turned, once more contemplated the bells, and it was not untilthen he noticed that the door was ajar. He pushed it open, climbed thestaircase, and stood in the doorway of what might be called a sittingroom, his eyes fixed on a swaying back before an upright piano againstthe wall; his heart seemed to throb with the boisterous beat of themusic. The woman's hair, in two long and heavy plaits falling below herwaist, suddenly fascinated him. It was of the rarest of russet reds. She came abruptly to the end of the song. 

"I beg your pardon--" he began. 

She swung about with a start, her music dropping to the floor, and staredat him. Her tattered blue kimono fell away at her elbows, her fullthroat was bare, and a slipper she had kicked off lay on the floor besideher. He recoiled a little, breathing deeply. She stared at him. 

"My God, how you scared me!" she exclaimed. Evidently a second glancebrought to her a realization of his clerical costume. "Say, how did youget in here?"

"I beg your pardon, " he said again, "but there is a very sick child inthe house next door and I came to ask you if you would mind not playingany more to-night. "

She did not reply at once, and her expression he found unsolvable. Muchof it might be traced to a life which had contracted the habit of takingnothing on trust, a life which betrayed itself in unmistakable tracesabout the eyes. And Hodder perceived that the face, if the stamp of thisexpression could have been removed, was not unpleasing, althoughindulgence and recklessness were beginning to remould it. 

"Quit stringin' me, " she said. 

For a moment he was at a loss. He gathered that she did not believe him, and crossed to the open window. 

"If you will come here, " he said, "I will show you the room where helies. We hope to be able to take him to the hospital to-morrow. " Hepaused a moment, and added: "He enjoyed your music very much when he wasbetter. "

The comment proved a touchstone. 

"Say, " she remarked, with a smile that revealed a set of surprisinglygood teeth, "I can make the box talk when I get a-goin'. There's nostopping me this side of grand opera, --that's no fable. I'm not so badfor an enginoo, am I?"

Thus directly appealed to, in common courtesy he assented. 

"No indeed, " he said. 

"That's right, " she declared. "But the managers won't have it at anyprice. Those jays don't know anything, do they? They've only got adream of what the public wants. You wouldn't believe it, but I've sungfor 'em, and they threw me out. You wouldn't believe it, would you?"

"I must own, " said the rector, "that I have never had any experience withmanagers. "

She sat still considering him from the piano stool, her knees apart, herhands folded in her lap. Mockery came into her eyes. 

"Say, what did you come in here for, honest injun?" she demanded. 

He was aware of trying to speak sternly, and of failing. To save hislife he could not, then, bring up before himself the scene in the littleback room across the yard in its full terror and reality, reproduce hisown feelings of only a few minutes ago which had impelled him hither. A month, a year might have elapsed. Every faculty was now centred onthe woman in front of him, and on her life. 

"Why do you doubt me?" he asked. 

She continued to contemplate him. Her eyes were strange, baffling, smouldering, yellow-brown, shifting, yet not shifty: eyes with a history. Her laugh proclaimed both effrontery and uneasiness. 

"Don't get huffy, " she said. "The kid's sick--that's on the level, isit? You didn't come 'round to see me?" The insinuation was in her voiceas well as in her words. He did not resent it, but felt an odd thrill ofcommingled pity and--fear. 

"I came for the reason I have given you, " he replied; and added, moregently: "I know it is a good deal to ask, but you will be doing a greatkindness. The mother is distracted. The child, as I told you, will betaken to the hospital in the morning. "

She reached out a hand and closed the piano softly. 

"I guess I can hold off for to-night, " she said. "Sometimes things getkind of dull--you know, when there's nothing doing, and this keeps melively. How old is the kid?"

"About nine, " he estimated. 

"Say, I'm sorry. " She spoke with a genuineness of feeling that surprisedhim. He went slowly, almost apologetically toward the door. 

"Good night, " he said, "and thank you. "

Her look halted him. 

"What's your hurry?" she demanded. 

"I'm sorry, " he said hastily, "but I must be going. " He was, in truth, in a panic to leave. 

"You're a minister, ain't you?"

"Yes, " he said. 

"I guess you don't think much of me, do you?" she demanded. 

He halted abruptly, struck by the challenge, and he saw that this womanhad spoken not for herself, but for an entire outlawed and desperateclass. The fact that the words were mocking and brazen made nodifference; it would have been odd had they not been so. With a shockof surprise he suddenly remembered that his inability to reach thisclass had been one of the causes of his despair! And now? With therealization, reaction set in, an overpowering feeling of weariness, adesire--for rest--for sleep. The electric light beside the piano dancedbefore his eyes, yet he heard within him a voice crying out to him tostay. Desperately tired though he was, he must not leave now. He walkedslowly to the table, put his hat on it and sat down in a chair beside it. 

"Why do you say that?" he asked. 

"Oh, cut it out!" said the woman. "I'm on to you church folks. " Shelaughed. "One of 'em came in here once, and wanted to pray. I made amonkey of him. "

"I hope, " said the rector, smiling a little, "that is not the reason whyyou wish me to stay. "

She regarded him doubtfully. 

"You're not the same sort, " she announced at length. 

"What sort was he?"

"He was easy, --old enough to know better--most of the easy ones are. Hemarched in sanctimonious as you please, with his mouth full of salvationand Bible verses. " She laughed again at the recollection. 

"And after that, " said the rector, "you felt that ministers were a lot ofhypocrites. "

"I never had much opinion of 'em, " she admitted, "nor of church people, either, " she added, with emphasis. 

"There's Ferguson, who has the department store, --he's 'way up' in churchcircles. I saw him a couple of months ago, one Sunday morning, drivingto that church on Burton Street, where all the rich folks go. I forgetthe name--"

"St. John's, " he supplied. He had got beyond surprise. 

"St. John's--that's it. They tell me he gives a lot of money to it--money that he steals from the girls he hires. Oh, yes, he'll get toheaven--I don't think. "

"How do you mean that he steals money from the girls?"

"Say, you are innocent--ain't you! Did you ever go down to that store?Do you know what a floorwalker is? Did you ever see the cheap guyshanging around, and the young swells waiting to get a chance at the girlsbehind the counters? Why do you suppose so many of 'em take to the easylife? I'll put you next--because Ferguson don't pay 'em enough to liveon. That's why. He makes 'em sign a paper, when he hires 'em, that theylive at home, that they've got some place to eat and sleep, and they signit all right. That's to square up Ferguson's conscience. But say, ifyou think a girl can support herself in this city and dress on what hepays, you've got another guess comin'. "

There rose up before him, unsummoned, the image of Nan Ferguson, in allher freshness and innocence, as she had stood beside him on the porch inPark Street. He was somewhat astonished to find himself defending hisparishioner. 

"May it not be true, in order to compete with other department stores, that Mr. Ferguson has to pay the same wages?" he said. 

"Forget it. I guess you know what Galt House is? That's where womenlike me can go when we get all played out and there's nothing left in thegame--it's on River Street. Maybe you've been there. "

Hodder nodded. 

"Well, " she continued, "Ferguson pays a lot of money to keep that going, and gets his name in the papers. He hands over to the hospitals wheresome of us die--and it's all advertised. He forks out to the church. Now, I put it to you, why don't he sink some of that money where itbelongs--in living wages? Because there's nothing in it for him--that's why. "

The rector looked at her in silence. He had not suspected her of so muchintellect. He glanced about the apartment, at the cheap portiere flungover the sofa; at the gaudy sofa cushions, two of which bore the namesand colours of certain colleges. The gas log was almost hidden by driedpalm leaves, a cigarette stump lay on the fender; on the mantel abovewere several photographs of men and at the other side an open doorrevealed a bedroom. 

"This is a nice place, ain't it?" she observed. "I furnished it when Iwas on velvet--nothing was too good for me. Money's like champagne whenyou take the cork out, it won't keep. I was rich once. It was livelywhile it lasted, " she added, with a sigh: "I've struck the down trail. I oughtn't, by rights, to be here fooling with you. There's nothing init. " She glanced at the clock. "I ought to get busy. "

As the realization of her meaning came to him, he quivered. 

"Is there no way but that?" he asked, in a low voice. 

"Say, you're not a-goin' to preach, are you?"

"No, " he answered, "God forbid! I was not asking the question of you. "

She stared at him. 

"Of who, then?"

He was silent. 

"You've left me at the station. But on the level, you don't seem to knowmuch, that's a fact. You don't think the man who owns these flats is init for charity, do you? 'Single ladies, ' like me, have to give up. Andthen there are other little grafts that wouldn't interest you. Whatchurch do you come from anyway?"

"You mentioned it a little while ago. "

"St. John's!" She leaned back against the piano and laughedunrestrainedly. "That's a good one, to think how straight I've beentalking to you. "

"I'm much obliged to you, " he said. 

Again she gazed at him, now plainly perplexed. 

"What are you giving me?"

"I mean what I say, " he answered. "I am obliged to you for telling methings I didn't know. And I appreciate--your asking me to stay. "

She was sitting upright now, her expression changed, her breath came morerapidly, her lips parted as she gazed at him. 

"Do you know, " she said, "I haven't had anybody speak to me like thatfor four years. " Her voice betrayed excitement, and differed in tone, and she had cast off unconsciously the vulgarity of speech. At thatmoment she seemed reminiscent of what she must once have been; and hefound himself going through an effort at reconstruction. 

"Like what?" he asked. 

"Like a woman, " she answered vehemently. 

"My name is John Hodder, " he said, "and I live in the parish house, nextdoor to the church. I should like to be your friend, if you will let me. If I can be of any help to you now, or at any other time, I shall feelhappy. I promise not to preach, " he added. 

She got up abruptly, and went to the window. And when she turned to himagain, it was with something of the old bravado. 

"You'd better leave me alone, I'm no good;" she said. "I'm much obligedto you, but I don't want any charity or probation houses in mine. Andhonest work's a thing of the past for me--even if I could get a job. Nobody would have me. But if they would, I couldn't work any more. I've got out of the hang of it. " With a swift and decisive movement shecrossed the room, opened a cabinet on the wall, revealing a bottle andglasses. 

"So you're bent upon going--downhill?" he said. 

"What can you do to stop it?" she retorted defiantly, "Give me religion---I guess you'd tell me. Religion's all right for those on top, butsay, it would be a joke if I got it. There ain't any danger. But if Idid, it wouldn't pay room-rent and board. "

He sat mute. Once more the truth overwhelmed, the folly of his formeroptimism arose to mock him. What he beheld now, in its true aspect, wasa disease of that civilization he had championed. . . 

She took the bottle from the cupboard and laid it on the table. 

"What's the difference?" she demanded. "It's all over in a little while, anyway. I guess you'd tell me there was a hell. But if that's so, someof your church folks'll broil, too. I'll take my chance on it, if theywill. " She looked at him, half in defiance, half in friendliness, acrossthe table. "Say, you mean all right, but you're only wastin' time here. You can't do me any good, I tell you, and I've got to get busy. "

"May we not at least remain friends?" he asked, after a moment. 

Her laugh was a little harsh. 

"What kind of friendship would that be? You, a minister, and me a womanon the town?"

"If I can stand it, I should think you might. "

"Well, I can't stand it, " she answered. 

He got up, and held out his hand. She stood seemingly irresolute, andthen took it. 

"Good night, " he said. 

"Good night, " she repeated nonchalantly. 

As he went out of the door she called after him:

"Don't be afraid I'll worry the kid!"

The stale odour of cigarette smoke with which the dim corridor wascharged intoxicated, threatened to overpower him. It seemed to be thereek of evil itself. A closing door had a sinister meaning. He hurried;obscurity reigned below, the light in the lower hall being out; fumbledfor the door-knob, and once in the street took a deep breath and moppedhis brow; but he had not proceeded half a block before he hesitated, retraced his steps, reentered the vestibule, and stooped to peer at thecards under the speaking tubes. Cheaply printed in large script, was thename of the tenant of the second floor rear, --MISS KATE MARCY. . . . 

In crossing Tower Street he was frightened by the sharp clanging of agreat electric car that roared past him, aflame with light. His brainhad seemingly ceased to work, and he stumbled at the curb, for he wasvery tired. The events of the day no longer differentiated themselvesin his mind but lay, a composite weight, upon his heart. At length hereached the silent parish house, climbed the stairs and searched in hispocket for the key of his rooms. The lock yielded, but while feeling forthe switch he tripped and almost fell over an obstruction on the floor. 

The flooding light revealed his travelling-bags, as he had piled them, packed and ready to go to the station.