IN LOVE THERE ARE NO GOOD-BYES.
He was so startled that he took a step backward. She remained with her
hand outstretched.
Was that only the result of the eloquent expression of his views--that
outstretched hand which was offered to him for an instant only as a
symbol of its withdrawal from him forever?
“You cannot mean----”
“Good-by,” said she.
“Have I not explained all that seemed to you to stand in need of
explanation?” he asked.
“The book--the book remains. I asked for no explanation,” said she.
“But you are too good, too reasonable, to dismiss me in this fashion,
Phyllis. Why, even the bishop--_would sit upon a fence to see how the
book would be received by the public before taking action against the
author_,” was what was in his mind, but he stopped short, and then added
a phrase that had no reference to the bishop. “Can you ever have loved
me?” was the phrase which he thought should appeal to her more forcibly
than any reference to the bishop’s sense of what was opportune.
She took back her hand, and her eyes fell at the same moment that her
face flushed.
He felt that he had not been astray in his estimate of the controversial
value--in the eyes of a girl, of course--of the appeal which he made
to her. A girl understands nothing of the soundness of an argument on
a Biblical question (or any other), he thought; but she understands an
appeal made to her by a man whom she had loved, and whom she therefore
loves still, though something may have occurred to make her think
otherwise.
“Can you ever have loved me?” he said again, and his voice was now more
reproachful.
There was a pause before she said:
“That is the question which I have been asking myself for some
time--ever since I read about that book. Oh, please, Mr. Holland, do
not stay any longer! Cannot you see that if, after you have made an
explanation that should satisfy any reasonable person, I still remain
in my original way of thinking, I am not the woman who should be your
wife?”
“You would see with my eyes if you were my wife,” he said, and he
believed that she would, so large an amount of confidence had he in his
own power to dominate a woman.
“Ah!” she said, “you have provided me with the strongest reason why I
should never become your wife, Mr. Holland.”
“Do not say that, Phyllis!” he cried, in a low voice, almost a piteous
voice. “I must have you with me in this great work which I feel has
been given me to accomplish. I am prepared to make any sacrifice for
the cause which I have at heart--the cause to which I mean to devote the
rest of my life; but you--you--I must have you with me, Phyllis. Don’t
give me an answer now. All I ask of you is to think over the whole
matter from the standpoint of one who loves the truth, and who does
not fear the result of those who are investigators. A few years ago
the geologists were regarded as the enemies of the faith. Later the
evolutionists were looked on with abhorrence. Had any clergyman ventured
to assent to that doctrine which we now know to be the everlasting truth
of the scheme of earthly life propounded by the Creator, he would have
been compelled to leave the Church. I do not know what will happen to
me, my Phyllis. No, no! do not say anything to me now. All that I ask of
you is to think--think--think.”
“That is it--that is your modern scientific spirit!” she cried. “You,
and such as you, say ‘think--think--think’ to us--to poor women and
men who are asking for comfort, for protection against the evil of
the world. You say ‘think--think--think,’ when you should say
pray--pray--pray.’ Where are you going to end? you have begun by taking
from us our Bible. What do you propose to give us in exchange for it?
No--no, don’t answer me. I did not mean to enter into the question with
you--to enter into any question with you. I have no right to do so.”
“You have every right, Phyllis. If I should cause offence to the least
of the little ones of the flock with which I have been intrusted, it
would be better that a millstone were hanged round my neck and that I
were cast into the sea. You have a right to ask and it is laid on me to
answer.”
“Then I decline to avail myself of the privilege; I will ask you
nothing, except to say good-by.”
“I will not say it, Phyllis, and I will not hear you say it. Three
months ago you told me that you loved me.”
“And I fancied that I did, but now----”
“Ah! you think that you have the power to cease loving at a moment’s
notice? You will find out your mistake, my child. In love there are no
good-bys. I take your hand now, but not to say good-by; I feel that
you are still mine--that you will be mine more than ever when you
think--think--and pray.”
“Ah! You ask me to pray?”
“Pray--pray for me, child. I need the prayers of such as you, for I feel
that my hour of deepest trial is drawing nigh. Do you fancy that I am
the man to take back anything that I have written? Look at me, Phyllis;
I tell you here that I will stand by everything that I have written.
Whatever comes of it, the book remains. Even if I lose all that I have
worked for,--even if I lose you,--I will still say ‘the book remains.’ I
am ready to suffer for it. I say in all humility that I believe God will
give me grace to die for it.”
She had given him her hand. He was still holding it when he spoke his
final sentence, looking, not into her face, but into a space beyond it.
His eyes more than suggested the eyes of a martyr waiting undaunted for
the lighting of the fagots. Suddenly he dropped her hand. He looked for
a moment into her face. He saw that the tears were upon it. He turned
and walked out of the room without a word.
No word came from her.
He knew that he had left her at exactly the right moment. She was
undoubtedly annoyed by the publication of the book; but that was
because she had read some reviews of it, and was, girl-like, under the
impression that the murmur of the reviewers was the mighty voice that
echoes round the world. He felt that she would think differently when
his real persecution began. He looked forward with great hope to the
result of his real persecution. She would never hold out against that.
If the bishop would only take action at once and attempt to deprive him
of his pastorate, there was nothing that he might not look for.
And then he reflected that on the following Sunday the church would be
crowded to the doors. She would see that. She would see the thousands
of the fashionable women--he hoped even for men--who would fill every
available seat, every available standing place in the church, and who
would all be anxious to hear his defense. That would show her that
the publication of this book had raised him far above the heads of the
ordinary clergyman who droned away, Sunday after Sunday, in half empty
churches to congregations that never became interested. Yes, for many
Sundays St. Chad’s would be crowded to the doors. And then he trusted
that the bishop would take action against him, and in proportion to the
severity of his persecution on the one hand would be his popularity on
the other hand.
All this would, he felt, advance the cause which he had at heart; for he
was thoroughly sincere in his belief that the views which he advocated
in “Revised Versions” were calculated to place the Church on a firmer
basis, and to cause it to appeal to those persons who, having been
inculcated with the spirit of modern scientific inquiry, never entered a
church porch.
He had not been guilty of an empty boast when he had expressed to her
his readiness to die for the principles which he had enunciated with
considerable clearness in his book; but, at the same time, when he was
walking down Piccadilly he could not avoid the feeling that if he were
only subjected to a vigorous persecution--a high-class persecution, of
course, with the bishop at the head of it, he would be almost certain
to win back Phyllis. Her desertion of him was undoubtedly a blow to him;
but he thought that, after all, it was not unnatural that such as girl
as she should be somewhat frightened at the boldness of the book which
he had published. He had seen the day, not so very long ago, when he
would have been frightened at it himself. At any rate he felt sure that
Phyllis would be able to differentiate between the case of the author of
“Revised Versions” and the case of the mediocre clergyman who defied his
bishop on a question of--what was the question?--something concerning
the twirling of his thumbs from east to west, instead of from west to
east; yes, or an equally trivial matter. He trusted that she was too
discriminating a girl to bracket him with that wretched, shallow-minded
person who endeavored to pose as a martyr, because he would not be
permitted to do whatever he tried to insist on doing. Mr. Holland
thought it had something to say to the twirling of his thumbs at a
certain part of the service for the day, but if anyone had said that his
memory was at fault--that the contumacious curate only wanted to make
some gestures at the psychological, or, perhaps, the spiritual, moment,
he would not have been surprised. He had always thought that curate a
very silly person. He thanked his God that he was not such a man, and he
thought that he might trust Phyllis to understand the difference between
the position which he assumed and the posturing of the silly curate.
His knowledge of her powers of discrimination was not at fault. Phyllis
never for a moment thought of him as posturing. She did him more than
justice. She regarded him as terribly in earnest; no man unless one who
was terribly in earnest could have written that book--a book which she
felt was bound to alienate from him all the people who had previously
honored him and delighted to listen to his preaching. Someone had said
in her hearing that the preaching of George Holland was, compared to
the preaching of the average clergyman, as the electric light is to the
gas--the gas of a street lamp. She had flushed with pleasure,--that had
been six months ago,--when it first occurred to her that to be the wife
of a distinguished clergyman, who was also a scholar, was the highest
vocation to which a woman could aspire. She had told her father of this
testimony to the ability of the rector of St. Chad’s--pride had been in
her voice and eyes.
“The man who said that was a true critic,” her father had remarked.
“Electric light? Quite so. In the absence of sunlight the electric light
does extremely well for the requirements of the average man and woman.
Your critic said nothing about volts?”
That was how her father became irritating to her occasionally--leading
up to some phrase which he had in his collection of bric-a-brac.
“Volts!”
Yes, she felt that the sincerity of George Holland would alienate from
him all the people who had previously held him in high esteem. Although
she was a daughter of Philistia, it had never occurred to her that there
is such a thing as a _succes scandale_, and that the effect of such an
incident in connection with the rector of a fashionable church rarely
leads to his isolation.
She did George Holland more than justice, for she could not conceive his
looking forward to a crowded and interested attendance at his church on
the following Sunday and perhaps many successive Sundays. She could not
conceive his thinking what effect the noticing of such an attendance
would have upon her. To her, as to most girls, the heroic man is all
heroic. The picture of the Duke of Marlborough taking a list of the
linen to be sent to the wash while his troops were getting into position
for a great battle is one from which they turn away. She could not think
of George Holland’s calculating upon the effect of a crowded church,
with newspaper reporters scattered throughout the building, taking down
every word that might fall from his lips. She regarded him as a man
who had been compelled, by the insidious influence of what he called
scientific thought, to write a shocking book; but one that he certainly
believed was destined to effect a great reform in the world. Her eyes
had filled with tears as he stood before her with the gleam of martyrdom
in his eyes, and for an instant she felt a woman’s impulse--that was a
factor which George Holland had taken into consideration before he had
spoken--to give both her hands to him and to promise to stand by his
side in his hour of trial. But she thought of Ruth and restrained
herself. Before he had reached the door she thought of him as the man
from whom she had managed to escape before it was too late.
She wondered if any of those young women of the church, who had gone
back to their butterfly garments on hearing that Mr. Holland had asked
her to marry him, would hunt out the sober garments which they had
discarded and wear them when they would hear that she was not going to
marry Mr. Holland.
She rather thought that they would get new dresses and hats of the right
degree of sobriety. Fashions change so quickly between February and May.
And then there was the question of sleeves!
Anyhow they would, she felt, regard themselves as having another chance.
That was how they would put it.
Only for an instant did she become thoughtful. Then she sprang to her
feet from the sofa on which she had thrown herself when her tears were
threatening, and cried:
“Let them have him--let them all have him--all--all!”
That would have been absurd.