I
The morning after his dinner party Franklin Mills rose at eight
o’clock. He had slept badly, an unusual thing with him, and he found
little satisfaction in an attempt to account for his wakefulness on
the score of something he had eaten. As he shaved he found that he was
not performing the familiar rite automatically as usual. He tried a
succession of blades and became impatient when they failed to work with
their usual smoothness.... Perhaps he was smoking too much, and he made
a computation of the number of cigars and cigarettes he had smoked the
day before, and decided that he had exceeded his usual allowance by a
couple of cigars.
The mental exercise necessary to reach this conclusion steadied him. He
had no intention of breaking, as some of his friends and contemporaries
had broken, from sheer inattention to the laws of health. He attained a
degree of buoyancy as he dressed by thinking of his immunity from the
cares that beset most men. No other man in town enjoyed anything like
his freedom. He had not dreaded age because he never thought of himself
as old. And yet the years were passing.
He must study means of deferring old age. Marriage might serve to
retard the march of time. The possibility of remarrying had frequently
of late teased his imagination. Leila would leave him one of these
days; he must have a care that she married well. Mills had plans for
Carroll’s future; Carroll would be a most acceptable son-in-law. Leila
had so far shown no interest in the secretary, but Leila had the Mills
common sense; when it came to marrying, Leila would listen to reason.
He called his man to serve breakfast in his room, read the morning
paper, inspected his wardrobe and indicated several suits to be pressed.
From his south window he viewed the Harden house across the hedge.
Millicent was somewhere within.... It might be a mistake to marry a
girl as young as Millicent. He knew of men who had made that mistake,
but Millicent was not to be measured by ordinary standards. With all
the charm of youth, she was amazingly mature; not a feather-brained
girl who would marry him for his money. There was the question of
her family, her lack of social background; but possibly he magnified
the importance of such things. His own standing, he argued, gave him
certain rights; he could suffer nothing in loss of dignity by marrying
Millicent. It gave a man the appearance of youth to be seen with a
young wife. Helen Torrence would not do; she lacked the essential
dignity, and her background was far too sketchy--no better than the
Hardens’. He had settled that....
The remembrance of the young architect’s head superimposed upon the
portrait of Franklin Mills III caused him an uneasiness which he was
not able to dispel by a snap of the fingers. Any attempt to learn what
had prompted Storrs to choose for his residence the city so long sacred
to the Mills family might easily arouse suspicions. The portrait in
itself was a menace. People were such fools about noting resemblances!
If his sister, Alice Thornberry, met Storrs she might remark upon his
resemblance to their father. And yet she was just as likely to note the
removal of the picture if he relegated it to the attic....
By the time he had interviewed the house servants and driven to the
office Mills had passed through various moods ranging from his habitual
serenity and poise to apprehension and foreboding. This puzzled him.
Why should he, the most equable of men, suddenly fall a prey to moods?
He put on a pair of library glasses that he kept in his desk, though he
usually employed a pince-nez at the office--a departure that puzzled
Carroll, who did not know that Mills, in the deep preoccupation of
the morning, had left his pocket case at home. Mills, in normal
circumstances, was not given to forgetfulness. Aware that something was
amiss, Carroll made such reports and suggestions as were necessary with
more than his usual economy of words.
“Doctor Lindley telephoned that he’d be in to see you at eleven. You
have no engagements and I told him all right.”
“Lindley? What does Lindley want?” Mills demanded, without looking up
from a bank statement he was scanning.
“He didn’t say, sir; but as you always see him----”
“I don’t know that I care to see him today,” Mills mumbled. Mills
rarely mumbled; his speech was always clean-cut and definite.
Carroll, listening attentively to his employer’s instructions as to
answering letters and sending telegraphic orders for the sale of
certain stocks, speculated as to what had caused Mills’s unwonted
irascibility.
A few minutes after eleven word was passed from the office boy to the
stenographer and thence from Carroll to Mills that the Reverend Doctor
Lindley was waiting.
Mills detained Carroll rather unnecessarily to discuss matters of no
immediate moment. This in itself was surprising, as the rector of St.
Barnabas, the oldest and richest church in town, had heretofore always
been admitted without delay. The Mills family had been identified with
St. Barnabas from pioneer times and Doctor Lindley was entertained
frequently by Mills, not only at home but at the men’s luncheons Mills
gave at his clubs for visiting notables.
“Ah, Mills! Hard at it!” exclaimed the minister cheerfully. He was
short, rotund and bald, with a large face that radiated good nature.
A reputation for breadth of view and public spirit had made him, in
the dozen years of his pastorate, one of the best liked men in town.
He gave Mills a cordial handshake, asked after Leila and assured Mills
that he had never seen him looking better.
Lindley was a dynamic person and his presence had the effect of
disturbing the tranquility of the room. Mills wished now that he hadn’t
admitted the rector of St. Barnabas, with his professional good cheer
and optimism. He remembered that Lindley always wanted something when
he came to the office. If it proved to be help for a negro mission St.
Barnabas maintained somewhere, Mills resolved to refuse to contribute.
He had no intention of encouraging further the idea that he could be
relied upon to support all of Lindley’s absurd schemes for widening
the sphere of the church. It was a vulgar idea that a sinner should
prostrate himself before an imaginary God and beg for forgiveness.
Where sin existed the main thing was to keep it decently out of sight.
But the whole idea of sin was repellent. He caught himself up sharply.
What had he to do with sin?
But outwardly Mills was serene; Lindley was at least a diversion,
though Mills reflected that someone ought to warn him against his
tendency to obesity. A fat man in a surplice was ridiculous, though
Mills hadn’t seen Lindley in vestments since the last fashionable
wedding. At the reception following the wedding Mills remembered
that he had been annoyed by Lindley’s appetite; more particularly by
a glimpse of the rector’s plump hand extended for a second piece of
cake--cake with a thick, gooey icing.
Mills wondered what he had ever seen that was likable in the rector,
who certainly suggested nothing of apostolic austerity. Lindley threw
back his coat, disclosing a gold cross suspended from a cord that
stretched across his broad chest. Mills’s eyes fixed upon the emblem
disapprovingly as he asked his visitor to have a cigar.
“No, thanks, Mills; I never smoke so early in the day--found it upset
me. Moderation in all things is my motto. I missed you at the Clayton
party the other night; a brilliant affair. Dear Leila was there,
though, and Shepherd and his charming wife, to represent your family.
Margaret and I left early.” The clergyman chuckled and lowering his
voice continued: “I’ve heard--I’ve heard _whispers_ that later on the
party got quite gay! I tell you, Mills, the new generation is stepping
high. All the more responsibility for the forces that make for good
in this world! I was saying to the bishop only the other day that the
church never before faced such perplexities as now!”
“Why do you say perplexities?” asked Mills in the quiet tone and
indulgent manner of an expert cross-examiner who is preparing pitfalls
for a witness.
“Ah, I see you catch at the word! It’s become a serious question what
the church dare do! There’s the danger of offending; of estranging its
own membership.”
“Yes, but why is it a danger?” Mills persisted.
The minister was surprised at these questions, which were wholly
foreign to all his previous intercourse with Mills. His eyes opened and
shut quickly. The Reverend Stuart Lindley was known as a man’s man, a
clergyman who viewed humanity in the light of the twentieth century and
was particularly discerning as to the temptations and difficulties that
beset twentieth century business men.
“My dear Mills,” he said ingratiatingly, “you know and I know that
this is an age of compromise. We clergymen are obliged to temper our
warnings. The wind, you know, no longer blows on the lost sheep with
the violence it once manifested, or at least the sheep no longer notice
it!” A glint in Mills’s eyes gave him pause, but he went on hurriedly.
“In certain particulars we must yield a little without appearing to
yield. Do you get my point?”
“Frankly, I don’t know that I do,” Mills replied bluntly. “You preach
that certain things are essential to the salvation of my soul. What
right have you to compromise with me or anyone else? You either believe
the Gospel and the creeds that are used every day in our churches or
you don’t. I didn’t mean to start a theological discussion; I was
just a little curious as to what you meant by perplexities, when the
obligation is as plain as that table.”
“But--you see the difficulties! We have a right to assume that God is
perfectly aware of all that goes on in His world and that the changing
times are only a part of His purpose.”
“Well, yes,” Mills assented without enthusiasm. “But I was thinking
of what you and the church I was born into declare to be necessary
to the Christian life. I go to church rarely, as you know, but I’m
fairly familiar with the New Testament. I’ve got a copy with the words
of Jesus printed in bold type, so you can’t miss His meaning. He was
pretty explicit; His meaning hits you squarely in the eye!”
“But, my dear friend, above all He preached tolerance! He knew human
frailty! There’s the great secret of His power.”
“Oh, that’s all true!” said Mills, with courteous forbearance. “But
you know very well that few of us--no--I’ll admit that _I_ don’t live
the Christian life except where it’s perfectly easy and convenient.
Why talk of the perplexities of the ministry when there’s no excuse
for any of us to mistake His teachings? You either preach Jesus or you
don’t! We lean heavily on His tolerance because we can excuse ourselves
with that; it’s only an alibi. But what of His courage? Whatever I may
think of Him--divine or merely a foolish idealist--He did die for His
convictions! It occurs to me sometimes that He’s served nowadays by a
pretty cowardly lot of followers. Oh--not you, my friend!--I don’t mean
anyone in particular--except myself! Probably there are other men who
think much as I do, but we don’t count. We pay to keep the churches
going, but we don’t want to be bothered about our duty to God. _That’s_
a disagreeable subject!”
He ended with a smile that was intended to put Lindley at ease.
“You are absolutely right, Mills!” declared the minister
magnanimously. “But as a practical man you realize that there _are_
embarrassments in the way of doing our full duty.”
“No; truly, I don’t!” Mills retorted. “We either do it or we don’t.
But please don’t think I meant to quiz you or be annoying. I wouldn’t
offend you for anything in the world!”
“My dear _Mills_!” cried the clergyman with the disdain demanded by so
monstrous a suggestion.
“It never occurred to me before,” Mills went on, his good humor only
faintly tinged with irony, “it never struck me in just this way before,
but I suppose if you were to preach to your congregation just what
Jesus preached you’d empty the church.”
“Well, of course----” began Lindley, with difficulty concealing his
surprise at the dogged fashion in which Mills was pursuing the subject.
“Of course you can’t do it!” With a bland smile Mills finished the
sentence for him. “Jesus is the Great Example of a perfect life; but do
we any of us really want to live as He lived?”
“Ah, Mills, we can only approximate perfection; that’s the best we can
hope for!”
“Thank you! There’s some consolation in that!” Mills laughed. “But if
we really took the teachings of Jesus literally we wouldn’t be sitting
here; we’d be out looking up people who need shelter, food, cheer.
As it is I’m not bothering my head about them. I pay others to do
that--Carroll hands me a list of organizations he considers worthy of
assistance and all I do is to sign the checks--ought to be ashamed of
myself, oughtn’t I?”
“Well, now, Mills,” Lindley laughed pleasantly, “that’s a matter I
leave to your own conscience.”
“But you oughtn’t to! It’s your duty to tell me that instead of
riding up to a comfortable club today to eat luncheon with a couple of
bankers I ought first to be sure that every man, woman and child in the
community is clothed and fed and happy.”
“What would you do if I did?” Lindley demanded, bending forward and
regarding Mills fixedly.
“I’d tell you to go to the Devil!”
“There you are!” cried Lindley with a gesture of resignation. “You know
your duty to your neighbor as well as I do. The affair isn’t between
you and me, after all, my dear friend--it’s between you and God!”
“God?” Mills repeated the word soberly, his eyes turning to the window
and the picture it framed, of a sky blurred by the smoke of factory
chimneys. “I wonder----” he added, half to himself.
Lindley was puzzled and embarrassed, uncertain whether to try to
explain himself further. His intuitions were keen and in his attempt
to adjust himself to a new phase of Mills’s character he groped for
an explanation of the man’s surprising utterances. There had been
something a little wistful in Mills’s use of the word _God_. Lindley
was sincerely eager to help where help was needed, but as he debated
whether Mills really had disclosed any need that he could satisfy,
Mills ended the matter by saying a little wearily:
“What was it you wanted to see me about, Lindley?”
“It’s about the Mills memorial window in St. Barnabas; the transept
wall’s settled lately and pulled the window out of plumb. Some of the
panels are loose. The excavations for the new building across the alley
caused the disturbance. Now that the building’s up we’ll hope the worst
is over. That’s one of the finest windows in the West. The figure of
our Lord feeding the multitude is beautifully conceived. I had Freeman
look at it and he says we’ll have to get an expert out from New York
to take care of it properly. The vestry’s hard up as usual, but I felt
sure you’d want us to have the job well done----”
“Certainly, Lindley. Go ahead and send me the bill. Of course I’m glad
to take care of it.”