It was a month or two before he asked that question of Doctor Eustace
Keltridge; but, in the end, it was bound to come. Whatever a man in
Brenton's position might think inside himself, professionally he must
talk of Providence, and of divine dispensations, and of all the rest of
his ecclesiastical stock in trade. Far harder than the talking, though,
was the assenting to others when they talked, for then he had no choice
of modifying phrases; he must take it as it came. Of course, it never
would have done for the rector of St. Peter's Parish to deny the
Fatherly finger of correction as the motive power of Reed Opdyke's
chastisement. None the less, the increasing number of hours he
contrived to spend in Opdyke's room gave a decreasing heartiness to his
assent. Even if he was a preacher, Scott Brenton was a judge of men. No
man who was not a dunce could have studied Opdyke, through all those
weeks, and come out from the study to deny the inherent cleanliness and
uprightness of his life. Then, wherefore the chastisement? Study the
case as he would through the lens of his ecclesiasticism, Scott Brenton
could not discover any especial need of sanctification for the virile,
clever engineer.
"And yet," he burst out to Doctor Keltridge over a cigar, one day; "we
are bound by all our articles of indenture, we preachers, to prate
about the hand of the Lord and special Providences, when all the time
we know the trouble came out of somebody's running up against simple,
scientific law. It's theology, not science, we poor beggars are set up
to preach, even in funeral sermons of men like Opdyke, although it's
not theology, but just plain science, or the lack of it, that's killed
them."
"Well?" the doctor queried.
"Well." Brenton uncrossed his legs and, with a sudden snap, crossed
them the other way. "What I want to know is this: what in the world is
going to become of us fellows who go on preaching one thing, while we
believe another?"
"According to the Book of Revelation, you'll become a sulphate," the
doctor told him grimly.
Brenton tossed aside his cigar, thrust his fists into his pockets and
rose to pace the floor.
"Don't joke, doctor," he said impatiently. "For once, I'm past it, past
its doing me any good, I mean. A baby, frightened at the dark and
howling for its nurse, isn't going to be diverted with a phosphorescent
jumping jack. Now you see here. It isn't only the case of Opdyke,
though God knows that is a flagrant instance of exactly what I mean.
All week long, I am coming into contact with just such cases, cases
where the physical cause and effect and the moral one can't possibly be
stretched until they coincide. Somebody breaks one of the eternal laws,
the laws laid down in Genesis and provable in any twentieth-century
laboratory. He gets off scot free, and neither realizes what he's done,
nor pays the penalty. The flying pieces, though, fall on some other man
who is trudging along the trail of another law and keeping it at every
point. He gets killed, or worse; and the first man never knows what he
has accomplished. That sort of thing is happening all the time,
somewhere or other. As a rule, too, the victim is a long way a better
man than the original sinner who brought the ruin on him. Week days, we
go to see him and, so far as our priestly vocabularies will allow, we
help him to swear at the fate that has bowled him over. Nevertheless,
on Sunday morning, we haul out our sanctity and our surplices, put them
both on, and hold forth about Fatherly correction and a lot of other
things that, in our heart of hearts, we don't believe."
"Don't you?" the doctor asked him suddenly, after a short pause.
"I do not."
"Don't you, as a priest, believe, for instance, that this whole trouble
was sent to Opdyke for his betterment?"
Brenton halted in his walk, and gazed down at the doctor fearlessly.
"I do not," he said.
"You profess to," the doctor reminded him, with scant mercy.
Brenton's lips stiffened.
"Exactly. There is the trouble. I also profess, two or three times each
Sunday, that I believe in the resurrection of the body. Nevertheless,
any such belief is impossible for a man who has ever seen the equipment
of a modern laboratory. As for Opdyke's case, why is it any more for
his betterment than it's for the betterment of the little baby whose
nurse accidentally gives it strychnine instead of squills?"
"Don't be archaic, Brenton," the doctor bade him. "One doesn't give
squills nowadays. However--"
Brenton flung up his head impatiently. The doctor liked the gesture,
liked the little angry glint in the gray eyes.
"You mean then," he persisted slowly, and Brenton, listening, was aware
that he was talking as one man to another, not as the senior warden of
Saint Peter's to its rector; "that you are saying things on Sunday that
you're denying, all the week?"
Brenton nodded curtly.
"That's about the size of it."
Well as he had come to know the doctor, the next query took him by
surprise.
"What have you been eating?" Doctor Keltridge demanded briefly.
"Eating!" Scott Brenton's voice was as blank as were his eyes.
"Yes, eating," the doctor iterated. "Doubts are generally more or less
digestive in their origin. Caviar would have made a total agnostic of
Saint John himself, and Saint Luke would have been the first one to
tell him so, and order a blue pill." As he spoke, he gazed at Brenton
critically. "You're running down, man, for a fact. Is this thing
worrying you?" he asked kindly.
"Well, yes, a little," Brenton confessed. "It's bound to, doctor. I'm
not agnostic in the least; I believe that any creed has got to be
interpreted with more than a grain of salt, according to one's especial
nature and its secretions. However, it's beginning to go against my
ideas to discover that there's more salt than belief within me when I
get up to recite my Credo."
The doctor laughed, in comfortable comprehension.
"It depends a little on how your salt analyzes out, Brenton. It may be
much more harmless than you think, just a normal precipitate and not a
deadly poison. However," and the doctor's face twinkled with humorous
sympathy; "it's just about as well to keep it in solution for the
present. Therefore, both as your medical adviser and as your senior
warden, I'm going to give you a tonic to that end. Moreover, I want you
to eat lots of underdone beef, to drink lots of good beer, and spend a
good half your time out-doors. Then, if the doubts hang on, come back
to me and I'll take another whack at them. They're harmless enough now,
like most germs in their early stages of development; but nobody knows
what they may turn into, if we let them go on working. Now come along
into the laboratory and watch my latest bacillus increase and multiply.
It beats the sons of Adam into a cocked hat; and it has more horns than
all of your damned doubtings put together." On the threshold of the
laboratory, however, the old doctor paused. His accent, when he spoke,
was absolutely reverent, despite his words. "Brenton, you all of you
admit, whether you believe in eternal law or in special creation, that
God made man in His own image. Then, granted a proper ancestry for
every germ, there must have been some place for doubtings, even in the
original and immortal Pattern. If that's the case, why should we all of
us set ourselves up to confound them utterly? They must have some
worthy purpose; else they never would have survived."
Side by side, the two men hung over the bacillus and forgot the
doubtings. Later, when Brenton went away, he took with him the
prescription for the tonic and gave the doctor his solemn word of
honour that he would straightway telephone for beef and beer. He kept
his word so well, and so clever had been the doctor's diagnosis that
Reed Opdyke, flat on his back through all the torrid heat of summer,
felt moved to express his envious approbation.
"Hang it all, Brenton, what are you doing to yourself, these latter
days?" he demanded, one morning after the four walls of his prison room
had seemed closing in upon him and smothering him, during all the
sultry night. "You look as fit as a fighting cock, when all the rest of
us are grilly worms. How do you manage it? Whatever the state of your
spiritual graces, at least you're growing in purely fleshly ones."
Brenton laughed at the accent of the compliment which unmistakably was
begrudged. Nevertheless, the laugh stopped short at his lips, and his
gray eyes were sober as they looked down upon his friend. The "puffic'
fibbous" was distinctly worse for wear, that morning. His eyes were
heavy, and his wavy hair clung limply about the temples where the
hollows were showing more and more clearly with every passing day. He
was growing whiter, too, with the uncanny waxiness of a surface lighted
from within. The absolute confinement and the pitiless heats of summer
were telling on the "puffic' fibbous ", reducing him to the merest
shell of his old-time self, and yet the shell was by no means hollow.
Within it still lurked the old magnetic Reed, plucky, indomitable.
"You're positively waxing fat, you healthy beggar," he went on, before
Brenton could speak; "and Keltridge had the nerve to tell me he had
been giving you a tonic. What went wrong? Digestion, the scourge of
parsons? Or were you pining for your customary adulation, denied you
now those college girls have gone off for the summer?" The lazy voice
was full of contentment in its own mockery. To hear Reed speaking, one
would have been sure that the world was all before him, waiting at his
idle feet.
Brenton's answer echoed the selfsame note.
"Adulation, Opdyke! I'm a hard-worked clergyman, and target for more
criticism than you engineers have ever dreamed of."
"Much you are! But do sit down. You make me want to get up, too, when
you rage around like that. No; not that stuffed chair. It's too hot.
Try that cane thing, and, while you're about it, there's a siphon in
that ice chest over there. So far as I've discovered, that's the one
decent thing about being knocked out in summer; they're in honour bound
to have an iced supply-place handy. But, about the adulation, I know
whereof I speak. The average college girl hasn't a softly wooing voice,
and I haven't spent my time lurking here invisible for nothing. The
little dears have favoured me with their views of most things and all
men, myself included. It has been done quite unconsciously; I know that
because of the flavour of some of their remarks as concerned myself."
And, contrary to his custom, Reed laughed bitterly. "As for you,
Brenton, I wonder you're not as bad as Baalam's ass. If they could have
their way, they would strip you of your clerical broadcloth and robe
you in a full suit of angelic eider down. Still, you needn't look smug,
while you deny it; it's nothing to be proud about. It's not your
preaching does it, man; it's chiefly on account of your voice, and the
way your hair sprouts from your scalp. For pure purposes of religion, a
hairy baritone is a long way more potent than a bald and quavering
tenor; at least, so far as the youthful student is concerned. But
what's the tonic?"
Obediently Brenton had dropped down into the chair, the cane thing.
First, though, he had deposited his hat and stick upon the nearest
table and hunted out the siphon, as Opdyke had suggested. Then,--
"The doctor says it's for my spiritual doubtings," he answered.
"Myself, I more than half suspect it's for my sense of humour."
"Hm!" Opdyke commented crisply. "They're only husband and wife--after
the divorce. What's the row?"
The answer came only in a little sigh, curiously like a groan.
Reed half closed his eyes, and peered up at Brenton through the crack.
"Mental growing pains?" he queried. "Too bad, old man. I thought you
had passed that epoch; it generally comes with the cutting of one's
wisdom teeth. Anyhow, we all go through it sooner or later."
"Sometimes both," Brenton answered restlessly.
Reed's eyes opened, with a snap.
"You've been through it once before? Of course. I remember now; you
started as an ultra-Calvinist, and came over with a flop. Whittenden of
Saint Luke's told me. He always claimed he was the man who did the
deed."
"You knew Whittenden?" For the moment, Brenton forgot all other matters
in the question.
"Rather! And it's not the sort of privilege one is likely to forget. He
is 'the whole state of Christ's Church Militant' in his own stubby,
curly-headed little person." Reed's voice grew resonant with every
syllable.
"I know." Brenton nodded. "Where did you run across him?"
"In Colorado. A cousin of his had lungs, and Whittenden put in his
whole vacation, two years ago, helping the man keep from being too
badly bored. We had an accident; a cage fell and smashed a dozen
miners. Every single man of them was at the end of things, and they
were Catholics. Most of them couldn't speak ten words of English. The
nearest priest was across the divide, ten miles away, and the poor
beggars hadn't ten minutes to wait. They knew that, according to their
religion, it meant eternal hell for them. Whittenden heard about it,
and came running, book in one hand, surplice in the other. The way he
made that service for the dying hum was a caution; but he got it done
in time, before the first man died." Reed's face was growing scarlet
with the excitement of the memory. "It was Protestant, of course; but
they didn't know English enough to find it out, and they died happy in
the certainty that he'd saved them. Then he yanked off his surplice as
fast as he'd yanked it on, and went to work to help us lay them out
decently, before their wives and children saw them. I tell you what,
Brenton--" Lost to the present in the old, exciting memory, Reed forgot
himself and started up. "Oh, damn!" he said, and fainted quietly away,
cut out of consciousness of agony unspeakable.
An hour afterward, Brenton left Reed comparatively comfortable, and
went his way. Like most men in such an emergency, he had been
thoroughly terrified. The reaction from his terror left him thoughtful,
even a little morbid. The fact of his manifest uselessness in the eyes
of Reed's trained nurse led him to doubt his usefulness in the more
legitimate fields of his own profession. For the rest, his friends were
all of a piece. Opdyke and Whittenden alike had risen to the emergency
with which fate had confronted them, had done their downright, obvious
duty, regardless of any consequences beyond the simple one of
fulfilling the immediate need. They were men of action and sincerity,
men who really counted to the world. He--
He smiled bitterly. Reed Opdyke's chaff, meant in all good nature, had
struck home to the very marrow of his self-distrust. He had clambered
to a pedestal where he stood and preached banal things which, in
reality, he doubted, and smiled at his congregation, and sniffed
contentedly at the fumes of incense rising about him, incense of which
he was but too well aware. He would have had no idea how to stop it;
but, if the truth were told, he had had no especial wish to stop it, if
he could. It had been a pleasant experience, this knowing himself the
idol of a steadily increasing share of his congregation. He had known
it, as a matter of course; he had done his best to convince himself
that it came from the quality of the gospel which he preached, from the
sincerity and fire with which he preached it.
Now, all at once, denying nothing of the popularity, the adulation, as
Opdyke had called it, he forced himself to deny his former theory of
its cause. It was as Reed had said. Indeed, it had been a constant
marvel to Brenton, all those summer months, how much more clearly Reed,
flat on his back inside four walls, did see things than the rest of
them. Reed had told a truth as undeniable as it was unpalatable: that
all of Brenton's adulation came, not from his priestly fervour, but
from such personal details as eyes and hair and vibrant vocal cords. As
for sincerity--Had he ever been sincere, in any of his preaching? Had
any word of his, measured by the simple tenets of his creed, ever in
reality rung true? Could he ever, knowing of a surety what he did, ever
attain sincerity, so long as he remained the priest? He doubted.
This time, his doubts took hold of him. Indeed, it is a far more
unsettling process to doubt one's self than it is to doubt the ultimate
truths of a wholly impersonal system of salvation. For the next few
weeks, Brenton shunned his fellow men almost completely, while he took
his doubtings far afield and wrestled with them there. Moreover,
despite the doctor's tonic and the ozone of the autumn-tinctured air,
Brenton came in from tramping over the mountains, or up and down the
valley, weary in mind, distressed in soul. He yearned acutely, in these
weeks, for contact with his kind: for Professor Opdyke and the sturdy
doctor, for Reed, for Olive whose clear eyes always saw the soul
beneath the aura. Nevertheless, he kept away from them all absolutely.
This was a matter he must settle with himself alone, a battle to be
fought out in silence and with himself as sole antagonist. A ring of
commenting spectators, applauding while they looked on, could only
blunt the point of his attacks which, to be final, must be swift and
sure.
It was a curious commentary upon Scott Brenton's domestic life that,
shrinking as he did from contact with his kind, he yet felt no wish to
withdraw himself from Kathryn. The statement of the fact contains its
explanation. Kathryn was his wedded wife; he loved her. Nevertheless,
she was not of his kind, nor ever had been. Such crises as his present
one would have been incomprehensible to her. Therefore, Scott faced it,
with Kathryn at his side.
Now and then, though, over their morning coffee, Scott had a wayward
longing to open the day's arena to her, to force her to look in upon
the fight he waged. Then he gave up the idea disdainfully. As well try
to leave his hand-print on an iron bar or a gray granite slab as to
seek to impress on Kathryn's mind the vital nature of the questions
that were haunting him, taunting him, turning his life into a purgatory
of uncertainties whether his choice of profession had been aught but a
selfish wish for an easy and spectacular road to social eminence.
Just once, he thought he had impressed her.
Throughout this time, Brenton's sermons were prepared with a fury of
devotion to which, of old, they had been strangers. As the autumn waxed
and waned to winter, and the holy Advent season came to hand, he cast
his doubts aside and sought to bury them beneath the glorious gospel of
the Advent song: Peace to Men of Good Will. Indeed, there came one
Sunday morning when the message of good will downed all the other
voices, doubts, hopes, or fears, downed them beneath its brave promises
of inheritance for him who lives according to its simple law.
Brenton, afire with his message, self-forgetful, thrilling with the
greatness of his theme, felt his congregation taking fire beneath him.
For the hour, at least, there could be no question of his sincerity, of
his belief in the gospel he was preaching, a simple gospel of
generosity and love and of hard, ungrudging work for universal
betterment. Into his last sentences, careless of self, he flung the
outpourings of his very soul, and the quick sentences fell, one, and
one, and one, into the hush made out of many minds sharing a common
mood. Brenton felt it, and gave thanks. Here and now was his
vindication, here at last the proof that he had not chosen his calling
meanly, nor in all selfishness.
One after another, then, his congregation yielded to his sway. Last of
them all to yield was Kathryn, sitting in a front pew and, after her
custom, smiling up at him in an admiration which he had come to find
galling in its emptiness of any meaning. But, at the last passionately
fervent words, her blank smile faded and, for the first time in all his
preaching, her face became overcast, intent. His sermon ended, Brenton
bowed his head in a benediction which, in his heart, he sent most
earnestly upon his wife. Perchance the selfsame hour that saw his
self-vindication should also see the rending of the veil of
non-comprehension which had fallen down between the two of them.
The luncheon hour, however, brought with it disillusion. Over the
luncheon, Kathryn spoke.
"Scott," she asked her husband; "did you see me frowning at you, this
morning, just as you were finishing?"
He looked up from his plate, the light of happiness already dimming a
little in his eyes.
"I saw--" He hesitated. Then he said quite simply, "Yes."
"Did you know why?" Kathryn took another olive, as she spoke.
In total silence, he shook his head.
There was a little pause, while Kathryn's teeth met in the soft ripe
olive. Then,--
"Well, it was this: that final gesture of yours is awfully effective.
You know the one I mean, your hands shut on your stole just at your
shoulders? I hate to have you give it up; but, really, I'm afraid
you'll have to. In the long run, it is bound to get your stoles shabby,
especially the white one; and, now I have all the--the little things to
make, I can't keep embroidering new stoles. After this, when you see me
making up the face I put on, this morning, you'll please remember it
must be 'hands down'. Another olive? Take them away then, Mary."
That same afternoon, Reed Opdyke was astounded to receive a long call
from his recreant parson.