THE MUSIC OF THE CHORUS OF THE ANGUISH OF THE DAMNED.
"Socrates," observed Miss Achsah, "is damned."
"If _you_ say so, he must be," was the sarcastic rejoinder of Tabitha
Cone.
Miss Claghorn, with a stern gaze at her companion, opened Hodge's
Commentary on The Confession of Faith and read: "'The heathen in mass,
with no single, definite and unquestioned example on record, are
evidently strangers to God and going down to death in an unsaved
condition.' That," she said, "settles Socrates."
It did not settle Tabitha, whose question touched the weak spot in
Hodge's assertion. "Where'd he see the record?" she asked.
"Tabitha," remonstrated Miss Achsah with evident sincerity, "sometimes I
doubt your election. The audacity of setting up _your_ opinion----"
Tabitha was human and venerated print. She was a little frightened at
her own temerity, and Miss Claghorn's seriousness did not tend to
reassure her. "There's Brigston," she said weakly.
"Yes; and there's 'Greenland's Icy Mountains,' and 'India's Coral
Strand,'" answered the lady pertinently, and closing the book and the
discussion.
But, if closed at the White House, it raged furiously in the theological
world. Until recently the permanent abode of Socrates had been as well
known as that of Satan. No decree, whether of Roman or Protestant Pope,
had been needed to establish a fact settled to the satisfaction of all
(except, perhaps, to that of the Athenian sage) by the Eternal Decree of
Omnipotence. It was reserved for a deluded doctor of the rival Seminary
of Brigston to promulgate doubts of a self-evident truth. Such an
affront to Westminster and the immutable justice of God was not to be
borne in silence by Hampton.
A storm of unexampled fury burst from theological clouds, and Leonard,
sniffing the odor of battle, joyously saw that his day had dawned. Into
the fray he plunged, a gallant knight armed with the sword of orthodoxy,
battling in the name of God and by the lurid light of hell, in order
that the music of the chorus of the anguish of the damned might still
arise, a dulcet melody, to heaven.
And while the din of the holy war filled the air, Natalie welcomed a
little babe, the light of whose clear blue eyes melted her soul in
tenderness. To look into their celestial purity was to see heaven's
glory reflected in the azure depths. The deeper springs of tenderness,
closed to the rude touch of Leonard's passion, were opened, and love
undefiled gushed forth in a stream of unspeakable gladness. Her health
remained delicate, and she was long confined to the house, but, aside
from a pleasant languor, being physically at ease, she found in the care
of the infant sufficient occupation. She was glad that she could be much
alone with the boy, and held many and sweet communings with that soul
she had discovered in his eyes. She never wearied of reading the mystery
of those clear depths and, always connecting the child with heaven, in
her simple belief, imagining the newcomer as lately from that blissful
region, she built upon her fancies a system of theology which would have
startled and confounded the Hampton Matrons. And, as before, in sight of
the grandeur of God upon the waters, Leonard's lower self had been
humbled, so now, the beauty of a pure soul, all its glory set forth in
motherhood, chastened his earthly nature, and he bowed with the
reverence of simple souls to saints.
Leonard's creed was, as is the case with creeds, a matter apart from his
life; wherefore there was nothing strange in the fact that he could
leave the presence of the two pure creatures, and retiring to his study,
damn countless souls to hell in essays of exceeding force and
brilliancy. Young as he was, all Hampton gloried in these labors whereby
Brigston was smitten and abashed. There were champions more learned,
being older; but, being older, their pens were encumbered with caution
and hampered by the knowledge that pitfalls and traps lurk in the dark
thickets of theological controversy. But Leonard had the daring of
youth. Logic was logic, and truth not for a day, but eternal. Truth led
to the Westminster Confession, which damns the great majority, Socrates
included. To quibble with the plain meaning of plain words would be to
follow the heretical Brigstonian, to deny the inspiration of Scripture,
to be a traitor to his party and his creed. If the same decree which
damned Socrates consigned the great majority of his own friends and
acquaintances to the same everlasting misery, it couldn't be helped.
And, in fact, there was no reason why Leonard should shrink from that
which thousands of men and women profess to believe, yet marry and bring
forth children doomed, the while eating dinner in content.
Echoes of the merry war reached Natalie, but her curiosity was but
faintly stirred. She saw that Leonard avoided the topic when alone with
her, and was now content to learn nothing from her husband; seeing in
her child her best teacher in heavenly lore. Her exhibition of maternal
love extorted some disapproving comment; Mrs. Joe called it "uncanny,"
Tabitha said she was a queer mother, Miss Claghorn disapprovingly
likened her adoration to Romanism--"Idolatry," she said to Tabitha.
"Yet," replied Tabitha, "she hardly ever hugs or kisses him. She just
looks at him, and if you catch her at it she passes it off."
"Just as you or I might if the cook were to come in while we were saying
our prayers."
"Something 'ill happen to the child," said Tabitha ominously.
Miss Claghorn did not dispute it; the two were so perfectly in accord as
to their sentiment in this matter that there was no chance for dispute.
Thus, in a strange, secret relation, mother and child lived more than a
year together, and then Tabitha Cone's oracular prophecy was fulfilled.
Something happened to the child, which something was death; and Natalie
was stricken as by a thunderbolt.
The most alarming phase of her illness was of short duration; she had
been long unconscious, and during that period they who watched her had
noticed, with something akin to awe, the heavenly peacefulness and sweet
smile of her face. From her mutterings they gathered that she roamed in
celestial regions with her boy. Dr. Stanley was evidently not favorably
impressed with these supposed visions, and as soon as it was feasible
ordered her removal to Stormpoint, where the sun shone brighter than in
the old house, and where there would be fewer reminders of her loss.
Leonard, who had been severely stricken by the death of the child and
worn with anxiety on his wife's account, acquiesced. The complete change
of scene which the physician desired involved his absence from her side.
"Of course you'll visit her daily, if you choose," said the doctor, "but
if you are constantly together she will inevitably talk of the child and
of heaven, and we must keep her away from heaven." Natalie remonstrated,
but rather feebly. Since the birth of the child Mrs. Joe had seen less
cause to complain of undue absorption in the husband by the wife. Thus,
to keep Natalie from contemplation of heaven, Leonard returned to
contemplation of hell; for the war still raged, though with some
slackness. Leonard girded up his loins and prepared to inject the spirit
which had somewhat diminished during his own absence from the lines of
battle.
The mistress of Stormpoint watched her new inmate keenly. "It's natural
that she should love her child, even though he's dead," she said to
Paula, "but she talks with him. I heard her."
"Her faith is perfect," exclaimed Paula with solemn enthusiasm. "She
knows he lives forever."
"That's all very well; but he don't live at Stormpoint."
"She feels his presence, though she cannot see him."
"She says she does. Of course, it's fiddlesticks; but the doctor ought
to know."
And the doctor, being informed, agreed with Mrs. Joe that conversation
with angels was not to be encouraged. "A very little roast beef and a
great deal of fresh air," was his prescription, "A trip somewhere when
she is stronger. Meanwhile, keep bores away--Father Cameril and
Leonard."
"I can't lock Leonard out."
"I wish you could; he has a grievance and may be tempted to unburden his
soul to his wife."
"I have heard of no grievance."
"You will; the reaction has come. Yesterday they crowned him with
laurels; to-day they are damning him--of course, in parliamentary
phrase--from the president of the Seminary down to the janitor."
"Impossible! Why, Doctor, only a few days since Dr. Burley spoke of him
in the highest terms."
"A few days since! Ask him now. Leonard has played the frog to Burley's
ox. It was right to confute Brigston with Greek texts; they produced a
good deal of fog and little illumination. But Leonard must shove himself
in as interpreter between the heavyweights and the populace. Of course
his action was abhorrent; it is to me. There ought to be an _esprit de
corps_ in all professions. I shouldn't approve if some young medical
spark were to give away _our_ secrets."
The physician, if flippantly, spoke the truth. Leonard had been rash, as
youth is wont to be. Wise and venerable heads had from the beginning
wagged in disapproval of his excess of zeal. To bury the Brigstonian
deep beneath the fragments of his own exploded logic was well, but it
was also well to be wary, to lay no hasty hand upon and drag forth
mysteries which could not bear the light of day. Leonard was brilliant;
but brilliancy was not caution. Theological argumentation, to be
convincing, must be obscure; mystification, rather than conviction, is
the prop of faith.
"I'm sorry he's in trouble," observed the lady.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Inevitable!" he exclaimed. "He's
obstinate and conceited. His last pamphlet, 'Dr. Burley's True Meaning,'
is monstrous. What right had he to give Burley away in that manner? If
Burley had wanted to state his meaning, wouldn't he have done it?
Leonard swallows the whole Westminster Confession at a gulp, and points
out that Hampton and Burley do the same thing. What maladroit
presumption! He ought to know that Hampton only bolts the morsel
because it must. Its contortions during the process of deglutition ought
to be charitably concealed. Who is Leonard that he should tear away the
veil which hides a harrowing spectacle?"
Which burst of eloquence was not wholly intelligible to the lady, who,
however, saw the need of dragging the doctor down from his hobby. "Well,
he must not discuss these matters with his wife," she said, "if you
disapprove."
"No. For ladies in the condition of our patient the Westminster
Confession is too lurid. Needless to say to a matron of your experience
that in the case of a bereaved young mother the brain should not be
excited, the affections over-stimulated, the fancy be allowed to rove at
will, either amid the joys of heaven or the horrors of hell."
Wherefore Paula was instructed to avoid conversation concerning themes
celestial or infernal, and was thus deprived of a pleasure; for there
had been much loving talk between her and Natalie concerning the child,
now abiding in heavenly regions. Perhaps Natalie sorrowed a little,
noting that Paula no longer lingered over the favorite topic; if so, she
made no comment; her thoughts were her own.
"What is true marriage?" she asked one day.
"I--I don't know," replied Paula, taken unawares, and not sure whether
this new topic were celestial or infernal. "Celibacy, as the ideal
state----"
"A wife vows obedience," interrupted Natalie--she had heard Paula before
on celibacy--"that's a small matter. Who wouldn't be obedient?"
"But, suppose a husband were to require something wrong," suggested
Paula, disturbed by the fleeting vision of a wife of St. Perpetua
deprived of fish on Fridays by a wicked spouse.
"He wouldn't be a true husband. My ideal of marriage is unity in all
things--tastes, hopes, beliefs----"
"Belief, of course. And to the realization of that ideal a churchwoman
would lead her husband."
"Or, if the husband were the better Christian, he would lead his wife."
After due consideration, Paula repeated the monosyllable "if?"
"And, if he showed no disposition to lead his wife, which might be the
case for some good reason, she ought to try and attain his standpoint.
Then she would evince that perfect sympathy which all the while the
husband may be longing for."
"I--I suppose so," replied Paula, always dreading an approach toward
forbidden ground.
"If a wife had wronged her husband, even without intention," Natalie
went on, after a considerable pause, "that fact would stand in the way
of complete sympathy."
"There could be no wrong without intention--that is, no fault."
"But still a wrong; one that the doer might find it harder to forgive
than the sufferer. If you were my wife. Paula----"
"Say husband," said Paula, laughing, "and since you find obedience so
easy, I order you to prepare to let me drive you to the White House in
the pony-phaeton."