HE CLASPED HER LITHE BODY WITH A CLUTCH OF FURY.
Mrs. Joe had not obeyed Dr. Stanley's injunction, to burn the "Call to
the Careless," but had studied that delectable composition sufficiently
to compel her to exonerate the doctor from her suspicion, that he had
invented much of the matter, which he had, in fact, read from the text
before him.
Her researches had not been without an object. It is, perhaps,
unnecessary to point out that this lady's conscience was sufficiently
elastic for ordinary purposes, even for ordinary political purposes, and
it might have with stood the assaults made upon it by her investigation,
had she been of the usual sex of politicians. She could go far in the
interests of her son, but long ago she had borne another child, whose
smile as it faded in death had ever been, at odd moments, before her,
and constantly before her during her wanderings in fields theological,
and she had but recently seen a woman crazed by contemplation of her
baby in hell. When she had learned, by means of her studies, that a
great ecclesiastical body still dooms the vast majority of those born of
woman to everlasting woe, it came upon her like a blow in the face that,
in order to see her son in the legislature, she had aided in
promulgating the diabolical creed which, in the face of nineteen
centuries of Christianity, is still waved aloft as the Standard of a
Christian Church.
Upon the first shock of this knowledge she followed the inevitable
course of the conscience-stricken, and proceeded to argue with the
inward monitor. "Nobody believes that now," she insisted; "the actual
belief has been modified to accord with common sense. No Christian can
admit that God is a demon, and no Christian can teach impossible
falsehood." In answer to which, Conscience pointed to the title-page,
which proclaimed the Confession to be the "Standard of the Presbyterian
Church in the United States of America.'" She resolved to seek
enlightenment at the acknowledged head of human wisdom in Hampton, and
called for the purpose on the great Dr. Burley himself. Him she
encountered as he was emerging from his front door. "Does Hampton
actually uphold the Westminster Confession?" she asked.
"Certainly, my dear madam, so does Brigston."
"I'm not interested in Brigston. I am in Hampton."
"And we are all glad that it is so. But, I see--I've always been afraid
of it; you are going to try and get us all over to St. Perpetua, ha!
ha!"
"And does Hampton really believe----?"
"Only what is true. I must be off to my lecture now; we must have it out
some other time. How's the Bishop? Fine fellow; wish we had him.
Good-bye; Mrs. Burley will be _delighted to_ see you," and the doctor
waved the lady into the house and made his escape.
Having no desire to call upon Mrs. Burley, the lady of Stormpoint
remained in the vestibule only long enough for the gentleman to get
away; she then descended the steps and was about to enter her carriage,
when she was accosted by Dr. Stanley, who, after the usual salutations,
asked her if she had seen Leonard recently.
"I am about to call on him now--on unpleasant business."
"That's a pity. You'll wish you had stayed at home. I have just left
him; he's as cross as three sticks, which I suppose are crosser than the
proverbial two."
"I suppose because the newspapers are still nagging him."
"Perhaps; yet if you could manage a confidential talk with Mrs. Leonard,
it might be a good thing."
"Ah! You've noticed that there's domestic trouble? I have suspected it.
Why was he willing to stay away from Newport? Why was his wife reluctant
to come home?"
"Perhaps you can find out. Doctors can't ask indiscreet questions more
than other people."
"And you think I can, or will?" In answer to which the physician merely
shrugged his shoulders.
The lady drove away, her distaste for the task before her not diminished
by the encounter. She was quite sure that the physician would not have
made the allusions, which had fallen from him, unless he believed that
the domestic status in the Morley mansion was of grave significance.
Which, in fact, it was; a dark shadow loomed, ever larger, in the old
house.
Leonard was very unhappy. Natalie's ignorance, in respect to his
longings, her utter absence of sympathy; these formed the side of the
shadow visible to him. He was irritable, at times harsh; but more deadly
in its possible results was a sullen resentment, so deep that its
ferocity and strength were unsuspected by himself. He was gazing moodily
out of the library window when Mrs. Joe's equipage stopped at the door,
and in another moment the lady was ushered in.
"What is it?" he asked shortly. His manner was divested of its usual
graces. He looked moodily at the floor.
"Only a matter of business. Leonard, have you informed the Hampton
people of the gift of which I spoke to you?"
"It has been mentioned."
"Leonard, I ought not to give it."
"You don't mean you have met with serious losses?" he exclaimed,
impressed by her manner.
"No, no! But my views have changed; that is, I have made discoveries.
Will it annoy you, personally, if the gift is not made?"
"I shall regret it; but nobody will blame me, if that's what you mean."
She was relieved. Still, it was painful to withhold a promised gift,
especially painful to deprive him just now of the credit of being her
almoner. "I wish you to take this," she said, handing him a cheque. "Let
it go to the poor of the town, the hospital, the blind asylum----"
He took the slip of paper she held out to him. He was startled by the
amount. "Mrs. Joe----" he commenced.
"We can arrange as to details," she interrupted. "Oblige me by taking it
now."
He saw that she was somewhat agitated, and knew that she feared that the
withdrawal of the gift to the Seminary might have wounded him. This was
her way of curing such wounds. It would be ungracious to refuse the
cheque, yet even as he looked at it, a strange foreboding was upon him.
He sat down saying he would prefer to give her a receipt as trustee. "As
you say, we must arrange as to details. Meanwhile, I suggest a portion
of the sum for the Missionary Fund----"
"Not one penny of it," she answered with energy.
"Do you object to the conversion of the heathen?" he asked surprised.
"I do," was her emphatic answer. "Leave them alone. I suppose there are
among them some that look with hope beyond the grave. I will not be an
instrument to destroy that hope."
He jumped at once to the conclusion that she had been reading some of
the frothy and ill-considered articles of the secular press in regard to
the Hampton-Brigston controversy, and again the suspicion arose in his
mind that Natalie was influenced by the wretched diatribes of the
newspapers.
"I should fail in my duty as a Christian, Mrs. Joe," he said coldly, "if
I made no effort to disabuse your mind of prejudice. Your capacity to
aid a noble cause is so great----"
"God knows," she interrupted earnestly, "I desire to use that capacity
for good. I have done grievous harm hitherto."
"I do not understand."
"Leonard, look at this. It is a fair statement. I know it because I have
tested every line of it in the Seminary Library. Can I give money to
bring tidings of their eternal damnation to the heathen? They are
happier without such knowledge."
He took from her hand a cutting from a newspaper. It was an attack on
his theology: "As a mitigation of the misery which flows from the
Westminster Confession," wrote the journalist, "probation after death
has been suggested by weaklings. We know how that suggestion has been
received. In June, 1893, the General Assembly of the Church convicted
Dr. Briggs, its author, of heresy, and stigmatized sanctification after
death as 'in direct conflict with the plain teachings of the Divine
Word, and the utterances of the Standards of our Church'; a deliverance
which consigns to hell myriads of Jews, Mohammedans and honest doubters
of Christendom--all to be added to the number of heathen in hell.
Concerning these last, various computations have been made by
theologians of a mathematical turn; the American Board estimates that
five hundred millions go to hell every thirty years, or as Dr. Skinner
has it, thirty-seven thousand millions since the Christian era. Dr.
Hodge states that none escape. The last-named learned commentator on the
Confession of Faith is even hopeless as to Christian infants, concerning
whom he says, 'It is certainly revealed that none, either adult or
infant, are saved, except by special election,' and that it is not
'positively revealed that all infants are elect.'"
The article proceeded to argue that, if all this were true (which the
writer denied), to impart the knowledge to the heathen would be cruel,
and that if it were not true, so much the less should lives and money be
spent in the dissemination of false views of God's mercy and justice.
"Beyond the fact that the writer is thoroughly illogical, slipshod and
evidently malicious, there is no fault to be found with his statements,"
observed Leonard, as he returned the cutting to the lady.
"Leonard, my conscience will not permit me to disseminate a faith which
knows no mercy."
He respected Mrs. Joe; he could even sympathize with her views, though,
regarding her as a child in doctrine, he did not think it worth while to
attempt to explain to her the enlightening and consolatory effect of the
"high mysteries," which are to be handled "with especial care." "Let the
matter rest awhile," he said. "I will arrange as to the hospital and for
a donation to the blind asylum. We can agree as to the distribution of
the rest of the fund later. You will not always be so hard on Hampton.
Theology is not learned in a day, Mrs. Joe, and, you will excuse me for
saying it, you have not given as much thought to the matter as some
others."
"I am not foolish enough to pretend to a knowledge of theology. That
would be as absurd as the exhibition presented by men who pass years in
striving to reconcile eternal damnation and common justice." Having
fired this shot, the lady took her departure.
The door had scarce closed upon her when Leonard called Natalie. An
impression, revived by his visitor and her newspaper cutting, that his
wife's attitude had its inspiration in the empty criticisms of the
press, had aroused his anger. He resolved that the present mode of
living should terminate. He had rights, God-given, as well as by the
laws of men; he would enforce them if he must.
In their intercourse recently, Leonard had refrained from harshness, but
he had been unable to conceal a resentment, hourly growing in strength;
his manner had been hard and sullen. Without exhibiting actual
discourtesy he had shown plainly enough that he preferred to be alone,
and, except when it was inevitable, husband and wife had hardly met or
spoken together for days.
Hence, when Natalie heard him call, a flush, born partly of
apprehension, partly of hope, suffused her cheek. She came toward him,
smiling and rosy, a vision of radiant loveliness. The pleading
tenderness of her eyes was answered by the wolfish gleam of a gaze that
arrested her steps. He seized her in his arms, clasping the lithe body
in a clutch of fury, kissing her red lips and clinging to their
sweetness with a ferocity that terrified her. In this shameful embrace
they wrestled a moment until the man's violence enfeebled himself. She
broke from him, standing before him an image of outraged modesty,
panting, indignant and bewildered.
"Leonard!"
He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. His own
self-respect was shocked. He was humiliated, and his shame increased his
resentment.
"What is it?" she asked, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder, and
noting that he shuddered at the touch.
"What is it?" he repeated. For a moment a fury to strike her possessed
him. By an effort he calmed himself.
"Natalie," he said, in a slow, measured tone, "do you regard me as your
husband?"
"You know I do, Leonard."
He sighed despairingly. How was he to bring a knowledge of facts to
this woman incapable of comprehending them, or what they signified for
him?
"Natalie," he said, and now he took her hand in his, noting its cool
freshness again his own hot palm. "We cannot live thus; we are married.
We must be husband and wife."
"You dare not create victims of hell," she whispered.
"Natalie, you would impiously abrogate God's holy ordinance. Marriage is
enjoined by Scripture. Sin of the most heinous character is born of
neglect of this ordinance of God."
"Leonard, Leonard," she cried, "you can have no assurance that your
children will be saved. Only the elect."
"All, dying in infancy are elect," he answered impatiently. "That is the
universal belief of to-day."
She grew very white as she looked at him; her eyes were big with horror.
"Do you mean," she asked hoarsely, "that we should murder our babies?"
"Murder!" he exclaimed, amazed.
"Since only infants are certainly saved----"
He burst into a discordant laugh. "Natalie," he said, "as a reasoner you
would do credit to Brigston."
"I can see no other way," she said after a pause. "My reasoning may be
defective, but you do not show me its defects. Surely you believe the
Confession and the catechisms?"
"Every line of either," he answered defiantly and in anger. Had he not
labored night and day for a year past to demonstrate the truth of the
"Standards"?
"Then," she answered sadly, "you have no right to become a father.
Fathers and mothers are instruments of the devil. According to your
belief, no sin can compare with the sin of bringing forth a creature so
offensive to God that it must suffer eternal punishment. You may believe
that you and I are both to dwell together in hell. If that be our fate
we must submit. But our children, Leonard! Shall we earn their hatred in
life, and watch their torments in unquenchable fires?"
"Do you compare yourself and me, and children born of us, to the
depraved mass of humanity? Have you no assurance of God's gracious
mercy?"
"God's gracious mercy!" she repeated. "God's gracious mercy!"
"Natalie," he said, making a great effort to speak calmly. "You who but
a short time since had no religion, surely you will concede that I know
something of that which has been the study of my life. I tell you that
your reasoning is frantic nonsense; it would be blasphemous if it were
not for your ignorance."
"You believe the Confession true--every line. I have studied it; I have
studied your book. Prior to that I had spent a whole day, in this very
room, reading----"
He laughed, but as before there was no mirth in the laugh. "A whole
day," he said, "and this profound research enables you to contend with
me in a science that I have studied all my life."
"On that day," she answered, shuddering, "the fires of hell blazed
before my eyes and I heard the wails of damned souls. In a day much may
be learned. If what I then saw be true--I do not know--you say it is;
you say hell is----"
"And say it again," he interrupted. "If I had never known it before, I
would know it now."
"Then, Leonard, you must justify me. Since God cannot save the
innocent----"
"He punishes the guilty only."
"Having himself decreed their guilt! In the face of that decree there is
no human guilt. Even marriage, that most hideous of all crimes, does not
merit endless suffering----"
"You insist that all are damned; you rave. Nobody asserts that all are
damned."
"'He hath chosen some to eternal life and foreordained the rest to
dishonor and wrath.' Yet if there were but a single soul to suffer; if
but one solitary creature of all the millions of men were doomed to
dwell in hell forever--the knowledge that your child, Leonard, might be
that lonely one--surely such knowledge----"
He ground his teeth. She drew texts from the source he had declared to
be the living truth. He had no answer; there was no answer.
"Leave me," he whispered, in a tone that evidenced his fury better than
a roar of rage. Again he hid his face in his hands. She often turned to
look at him as she slowly withdrew, but he did not raise his head.
He wrestled fiercely with his emotions and with the problem that fate
had raised. At times rage consumed his soul, and his thoughts rioted in
brutal instigation, which even then he feared, and of which he was
ashamed. At moments he hated, at moments he loved, but hating or loving,
the seductive charms of the woman swayed before his eyes, mocking him as
the mirage mocks the fainting pilgrim. Hours passed and he remained in
the same attitude, striving to estimate the situation correctly, so that
he could evolve a remedy. He could not deny her reasoning; he would not
give up his faith. His mind, rigid from the training to which it had
been subjected, was incapable of readily admitting new theories; and his
best nourished and most vigorous attribute was involved. Whether his
integrity could be bent or not, it was certain that his vanity would not
submit. No! He would not deny his faith. He would enforce his rights.
But not without further effort at persuasion. He made a heroic and
worthy resolve. He would be patient still, meanwhile using every gentle
measure. He would enlist Mrs. Joe in his cause. She was a matron, shrewd
and too well balanced to allow religious notions to carry her to
fanatical extremes; and she did not hold his own views, apparently not
even as to eternal punishment. Perhaps she would convince Natalie that
there was no hell. It would be a lie, but better that his wife believe a
lie than that hell reign in his house and in his bosom.
At the dinner hour the maid handed her mistress a note. It ran thus:
"Dear Natalie--I have decided to leave home for a little time.
I think we are better apart. If you will open your heart to
Mrs. Joe she will explain that which you and I cannot discuss.
I learn that you are in your own room, and think it better not
to disturb you. Good-bye, for a little time. It may be that I
shall not write.
"LEONARD."