XX

The sight of Constance's colored glasses stirred Mrs. Wilson's

sensibilities, already on edge.

"You poor child!" she exclaimed, advancing with emotional eagerness, as

the culmination of which she drew the young woman toward her and kissed

her. This was a touch of bounty beyond Mrs. Wilson's ordinary reserve,

but in bestowing it she was conscious that the recipient had deserved

it, and consequently she was pleased at having yielded to the impulse.

Besides having noticed with satisfaction the gradual change in

Constance's appearance--both her increasing comeliness and tasteful

adaptiveness in respect to dress--it distressed her that her ward's

charm should be marred by so unæsthetic an accompaniment.

"What does this mean? What grisly thing has happened?"

Constance was touched by the embrace. She had passed a sleepless night

confronting her exciting problem. Already this morning she had

listened to the passages in those chapters of the first three gospels,

Matthew xix, Mark x and Luke xvi, in which are set forth Christ's

doctrine concerning divorce and remarriage. As soon as the children

had gone to school, she had taken her concordance of the Bible from the

shelf, and heedless of Mrs. Harrity's wonder, had pressed the old woman

into service to find and read to her the texts in question. Constance

had not considered these for years, and had only a general remembrance

of their phraseology, but in the watches of the night her thoughts had

turned to them as traditional spiritual sign-posts with which she must

familiarize herself forthwith. Just before Mrs. Wilson's entrance she

had taken up her broom, hoping that, while she performed her necessary

housework, she might thresh out the truth from her bundle of doubts.

What if the truth meant the sacrifice of bright, alluring prospects for

her children, and of her own new, great happiness? Could it then be

the truth? More than ever did she feel the need of counsel and

sympathy. At the appearance of her benefactress her pulses bounded,

and the appeal in her glad greeting doubtless gave a cue to the

visitor's initiative. The gracious kiss on her cheek, so unexpected

and so grateful, added the finishing touch to her overstrained nerves,

and she burst into tears.

Mrs. Wilson folded her in her arms and encouraged her to sob. Such

philanthropy seemed to bless the giver no less than the receiver. She

had arrived in the nick of time to be of service.

"There, there," she said, "you are suffering; you should be in bed.

You must tell me presently everything, and I will send my own doctor to

prescribe for you." So, presuming the cause of this distress, she

stroked the back of Constance's hair and held her soothingly.

For some moments Constance made no attempt to check her convulsive

mood, but with her head bowed on the friendly shoulder wept

hysterically. When the reaction came she drew back dismayed at having

lost her self-control, and as she wiped away her tears and hastily

regained her ordinary dignity of spirit, exclaimed, "It isn't that. I

have been in bed--I had a fall in the street; but I am quite strong

again except for my eyes. I am forbidden to use them for six months.

But otherwise I am as well as ever. And I have had a competent doctor."

"Not use your eyes for six months?"

There was incredulity no less than horror in Mrs. Wilson's tone.

Constance was herself again by this time. She made her visitor sit

down, and she succinctly described the circumstances of the accident

and the specialist's examination, so that the authenticity of his

verdict and the reality of her predicament were patent. Mrs. Wilson

rose gladly and promptly to what seemed to her the occasion.

"You poor child. It is cruel--disastrous. But give yourself no

concern. I shall claim my prerogative as a warm friend to see that you

and yours do not suffer until the time when you are able to resume your

regular work. Your employer, Mr. Perry, what has he said to this? His

necessities oblige him to let you go, I dare say."

"On the contrary, he has been kindness itself. He wished me to remain;

he would have invented occupation for me. Then I wrote to you and Mr.

Prentiss. It occurred to me that you might think of something genuine

which I could do for a living until I could use my eyes." Constance

paused. Her heart was in her mouth again at the approach of the

impending revelation.

"Leave it all to me. There will not be the slightest difficulty. I

will find just the thing." Then, suspecting that Constance's troubled

look was due to suspicion of this blithe generality, Mrs. Wilson bent

forward and added beseechingly, "You will let me help you this time,

won't you?"

"Indeed I will--if--if you wish," answered Constance with a sweet

smile. So at this heart-to-heart appeal she stripped herself of her

pride as of a superfluous garment and cast it from her. Then she said,

"You don't understand. Everything has changed since I wrote to you

yesterday afternoon. I need your help, your advice, Mrs. Wilson, more

than I ever needed it before. You do not know how thankful I was when

I saw you at the door. I have been trying to bring myself to the point

ever since. I think I can talk composedly now. Last evening my

employer, Mr. Gordon Perry, asked me to become his wife."

The instinctive thrill which the disclosure of unsuspected romance

inspires in every woman seized Mrs. Wilson, and with it swift

realization of what a piece of good fortune from every point of view

had befallen her deserving ward. Constance's tears and need for

counsel suggested but one thing, a situation old as the hills, but like

them always interesting. Jumping at this hypothesis, Mrs. Wilson,

eager to show that she had comprehended in a flash, responded, "And you

do not love him?"

"That is the pity of it; I love him with all my heart."

Then Mrs. Wilson remembered. She had been so accustomed to think of

Constance as alone in the world, that in the first glow of interest she

had overlooked the crucial fact in the case. The recollection of it

was disconcerting in a double sense, for she suddenly found herself

confronting the same dire problem from the haunting consideration of

which she had just emerged. But though her first resulting emotion was

similar to that which one feels at re-encountering an obnoxious

acquaintance, from whom one has escaped, that which followed was a

sense of contrast between the two points of view presented by the

separate situations, which culminated in the animating thought that

here at last was a soul alive to its own responsibilities. Meanwhile

she heard Constance say by way of interpretation:

"My husband is still living so far as I know, and I have never been

divorced from him."

Mrs. Wilson put up her hand. "I know, I know, my dear. Pardon the

momentary lapse. I am entirely aware of your circumstances. And there

is no need, Constance, to explain anything. Believe me, I appreciate

all; I understand the meaning of your agitation, I recognize the

luminous reality of the issue with which you have been brought face to

face."

Constance drew a deep breath. It was a relief to her to be spared

preliminaries and to pass directly to the vital question.

"It would mean so much for my children."

To Mrs. Wilson's ear the simple words were imbued with a plaintive but

courageous sadness, suggesting that the speaker was already conscious

that this plea for her own flesh and blood, although the most

convincing she could utter, fell short of justification.

"It would."

Constance ignored if she observed the laconic intensity of the

acquiescence. She was bent on setting forth the argument with more

color, so she continued:

"If I become Mr. Perry's wife, my children's future is assured. My son

will be able to acquire a thorough education in art; my daughter,

instead of being obliged to earn her living before she is mature, will

have leisure to cultivate refinement. They would become members of a

different social class. I need not explain to you, Mrs. Wilson, for it

is from you that I have learned the value and the power of beauty. I

covet for them the chance to gain appreciation of what is inspiring and

beautiful in life, so that they need not be handicapped by ignorance as

I have been."

No other appeal so well adapted to engage her listener's sympathies

could have been devised by a practical schemer. And the obvious

ingenuousness of the almost naïve statement increased the force of it,

for like the woman herself the plea stood out in simple relief

impressive through its very lack of circumlocution and sophistry.

Except for the church's ban a new marriage seemed the most

desirable--the most natural thing for this sympathetic woman in the

heyday of feminine maturity and usefulness. Mrs. Wilson felt the blood

rush to her face as the currents of religious and æsthetic interest

collided. Her brain was staggered for a moment.

"Oh, yes. I am sure you do," she murmured. "But----"

Her utterance was largely mechanical and the pause betrayed the

temporary equilibrium of contending forces. But Constance received the

qualifying conjunction as a warning note.

"There is a 'but,' an unequivocal 'but.' That is why I wish to consult

you. I need your help. There is something more to add, though, first.

Marriage with Gordon Perry would freshen, sweeten my life, and make a

new woman of me. He is the finest man I have ever known." She spoke

the last sentence with heightened emphasis, plainly glorying in the

avowal. "The simple question is, must I--is it my duty, to renounce

all this? I ask you to tell me the truth."

"The truth?" Mrs. Wilson echoed the words still in a maze. Yet the

clew was already in her grasp, and she delayed following it only

because the greatness of the responsibility, precious as it was to her,

kept her senses vibrant. At length she said with emotion:

"This is a strange coincidence, Constance. I have been face to face

with this same issue for the past fortnight. My daughter has begun

divorce proceedings against her husband in order to marry again. They

simply were tired of each other; that is the true, flippant reason they

are separating. Each is to marry someone else. Her light view of the

marriage relation has almost broken my heart. And what is to blame?

The low standard of society in respect to the sacredness of the

marriage tie. I endeavored with all my soul to dissuade her, but in

vain. I come from her to you. The circumstances of your two lives are

very different, but is not the principle involved the same? My dear,

if Lucille--my daughter--could have seen the question as you see it, I

should have been a happy mother. You ask my opinion. I recognize the

solemnity of the trust. A blissful future is before you if you marry,

welfare for your children and yourself. But in the other scale of the

balance are the eternal verities, the duty one owes to society, the

fealty one owes to Christ. You spoke of beauty. The most beautiful

life of all is that which embraces renunciation for a great cause, even

at the cost of the most alluring human joys and privileges."

Gaining in fluency as she proceeded, because more and more enamoured of

the cruel necessity of the sacrifice, Mrs. Wilson poured into these

concluding words all the intensity of her nature. She would gladly

have fallen on her knees and joined in ecstatic prayer with the victim

had the demeanor of the latter given her the chance. Her heart was

full of admiration and of pity for Constance and also of solicitude for

the triumph of a human soul in behalf of an ideality which was at the

same time the highest social wisdom. If for a moment her modern mind

had revolted at the sternness of the sacrifice demanded, she was now

spellbound by the shibboleth which meditation on her late experience

had reaffirmed on her lips as a rallying cry, the safety of the home.

"You cannot be ignorant," she exclaimed in another burst of expression,

"that the stability of the family--the greatest safeguard of

civilization--is threatened. What is the happiness of the individual

compared with the welfare of all? In this day of easy divorces and

quick remarriages is it not your duty to heed the teaching of the

Christian Church, which stands as the champion of the sacrament of

marriage?"

Constance's mien during the delivery of this exhortation suggested that

of a prisoner of war listening to sentence of death, one who yearned to

live, but who was trying already to derive comfort from the consequent

glory; yet a prisoner, too, who clung to life and who was not prepared

to accept his doom, however splendid, without exhausting every

possibility of escape. Though her face reflected spiritual

appreciation of the great opportunity for service held out to her, and

her nostrils quivered, her almost dauntless and obviously critical brow

offered no encouragement to Mrs. Wilson's hope of a tumultuous quick

surrender. She listened, weighing impartially the value of every word.

But suddenly at the final sentences she quivered, as though they had

pierced the armor of her suspended judgment, and inflicted a mortal

wound.

"Would the church demand it absolutely?" she asked after a moment.

"Our church forbids remarriage except in case of divorce for adultery

granted to the innocent party. The language of Christ in the gospel of

Matthew seems to sanction this exception, contrary to His teaching as

expressed in the other gospels. But there are many who maintain with

the Roman Catholic Church that the marriage tie can be dissolved only

by death."

"I know. I had them read to me this morning."

Though Mrs. Wilson regarded herself as a liberal constructionist of

scriptural texts, and as in sympathy with the priests of her faith who

glossed over or ignored biblical language justifying out-worn

philosophy, she was glad now of the support of the letter of the

Christian law for the great social principal involved. Divining by

intuition what was working in the struggler's mind, and ever on the

watch to satisfy her own standard as regards modern progressiveness of

vision, she ventured this:

"Though the words of Christ seem far away--though His world was very

different from ours, as perhaps you were thinking, the human needs of

to-day are a grand and unanswerable vindication of His teachings and of

the church's canon."

Constance looked up wonderingly. Was she dealing with a seer?

"I was thinking that very thing, that the Saviour's words seem so far

away, perhaps He did not anticipate such a case as mine."

"He invites you to suffer for His sake even as He did for yours."

Mrs. Wilson had heard the doctrine of the atonement criticised as

outworn, and she was by no means sure in her heart that it would

survive the processes of religious evolution; yet she felt no scruples

in proffering this cup of inspiration to a thirsty and not altogether

sophisticated spirit.

Constance's lip trembled. "I neglected once to heed the voice of the

church. I strayed away from Christ. When I was in trouble the church

sought me out, helped me and took me back."

"I remember. Mr. Prentiss has told me."

"Would Mr. Prentiss consent to marry me?"

"He could not perform the service; he is forbidden. You could be

married only by some clergyman of another sect, if one would consent,

or before a justice of the peace."

It was evident from her tone that Mrs. Wilson classed the civil

ceremony with the ugly things of life.

"I see," said Constance. "I feared that he would not--that he could

not." She sat for some moments with her hands clasped before her

staring at destiny. Then spurred by one of the voices of protest she

cried like one deploring an inevitable deed, "Gordon will not

understand. He will deem that I am flying in the face of reason and

sacrificing our and the children's happiness to a delusion. He is a

sane and conscientious man. He strives to do what is right. Is it

common sense that I must give him up?" she asked almost fiercely.

Mrs. Wilson recognized the cry as the fluttering of a spirit resolved

to conquer temptation. "To satisfy common sense would not satisfy you,

Constance," she answered with gentle fervor. "What you desire would be

selfish; what the church invites you to do for the sake of the world,

of the family, would be spiritual."

"I wish to do what is right this time at any cost."

As Constance spoke there was a knock, and a moment later the rector of

St. Stephen's appeared in the doorway, a large, impressive figure. For

an instant he stood looking to right and left, taking in the

surroundings while the two women rose to greet him, and Mrs. Wilson

uttered an eager aside to Constance:

"Here is someone who will tell you what is right."

Perhaps she did not intend to smother the remark. At all events it was

overheard by Mr. Prentiss, and it suggested to him an appropriate

greeting.

"I know of few better qualified to decide for herself what is right

than Mrs. Stuart," he exclaimed with sonorous geniality, advancing. "I

received your letter, and here I am. I am glad to see that another

friend has been even more prompt," he added, shaking hands with Mrs.

Wilson.

"Yes, I wrote to you both that I had been ill because I felt sure that

you would be willing to advise with me as to my future," said Constance.

She endeavored to take the clergyman's silk hat, but he urbanely waved

her back, and, depositing it on the table, threw open his long coat,

and squaring himself in the chair offered him glanced around the

somewhat darkened room.

"Well," he said, with cheery solicitude, "you must tell me your story."

"Let me explain, my dear," interposed Mrs. Wilson, and thereupon she

glided from her chair, and seating herself on the sofa beside

Constance, proceeded to enlighten him. "Our young friend has had a

painful accident," she began, and in half a dozen graphic sentences she

informed Mr. Prentiss of the details of the catastrophe and the scope

of the injury. Meanwhile she possessed herself of Constance's hand,

and from time to time patted it softly during the narration, in the

course of which the rector on his part expressed appropriate concern

for the victim.

"When Mrs. Stuart wrote," she continued, "it was in order to consult us

as to how she might best earn her livelihood until such time as her

eyesight is restored. This was a pressing and delicate consideration

for the reason that she suspected her employer of a design to invent

occupation for her relief, which under all the circumstances was

distasteful to her pride. The particular matter of providing her with

suitable means of support I have taken upon myself, and the question is

no longer perplexing her. It has been put in the shade by another and

far more momentous problem, the solution of which we have been

discussing for the last half hour. You come just in time to give her

the benefit of your abundant insight and experience. Since she wrote

to you an unexpected and appealing event has come to pass. Mrs. Stuart

has received an offer of marriage from Mr. Perry, her employer, who of

course is aware that she still has a husband living from whom she has

never been divorced."

Mrs. Wilson designedly threw this searchlight upon the past history of

her ward in order to save her rector from the possibility of finding

himself in the same slough into which she had slipped as a result of

inadvertence, and also to place the precise situation before him in one

vivid flash.

Presumably what he had heard was a stirring surprise to Mr. Prentiss,

but versed in receiving confessions he gave no sign of perturbation

beyond compressing his lips and settling himself further back in his

chair like one seeking to get his grip on an interesting theme. When

Mrs. Wilson in bright-eyed consciousness of having sprung a sensation

waited to enjoy its effect, he nodded, as much as to inform her that he

had grasped the facts and that she might proceed.

She fondled Constance's hand for a little before doing so. She wished

to come to the point directly, yet exhaustively; to avoid

non-essentials, yet to present the theme with picturesqueness.

"This little woman's heart is deeply engaged," she resumed. "She loves

dearly the man who has offered himself to her. His wish to make her

his wife is not only a precious compliment, but it holds forth

interesting opportunities for happiness and advancement for her and for

her two children. He is, as you know, a man of high standing in the

community with prospects of distinction. From the point of view of

worldly blessedness the offer is exceptionally alluring. Moreover she

would be a wife of whom he could be justly proud. You see what I mean.

I have given you, I think, all the vital data which bear on the case."

As she paused she noticed that Constance stirred beside her. It had

not been her intention to proceed further, but she made this clear by

saying, "I leave the rest for you, my dear."

The next moment the rector responded with grave, solicitous emphasis.

"I believe that I recognize precisely the circumstances with all the

inseparable perplexities and pathos."

By an involuntary restless movement Constance had indeed revealed her

dread that Mrs. Wilson was about to state the arguments as well as the

point at issue, and her spirit had risen in protest. For sitting there

intent on every word she had had time to realize that a crucial moment

in her life had arrived, and that no one else however clever could

fitly express what was working in her mind in defence of her lover's

cause. When now the desired chance to speak was afforded her there was

no hesitation; the necessary burning question was on her lips--the one

question which demanded an unequivocal answer.

"Mrs. Wilson has stated all the facts. I ask you, Mr. Prentiss, to

tell me truly if it is possible for me to marry Mr. Perry without doing

wrong, without doing what you--the church--would not have me do. I am

ready to renounce this great happiness if it would not be right in the

highest sense for me to become his wife."

It was the rector's turn to stir uneasily. His soul was rampant over

the horrors of the divorce evil, but his humanity was momentarily

touched by the rigor of this particular case. He, too, had had time to

think, and his opinion was already formed. It had indeed arisen

spontaneously from the depths of his inner consciousness as the only

possible answer. Yet as a wrestler with modern social problems he was

disturbed to perceive that this sacrifice on this petitioner's part

would have the surface effect of a hardship which, however salutary as

a tenet of Christian doctrine, was not altogether satisfactory from the

practical standpoint. Consequently his reply was a trifle militant.

Have you as a woman considered whether remarriage while your husband is

alive would be consistent with the highest feminine purity? It was a

specious attack, but for a moment Constance did not comprehend. Then

when it came over her that he was imposing chastity upon her, and

expressing surprise at her restlessness, she lowered her eyes

instinctively. That phase of the case had occurred to her many times

already. Was it an impurity that she, with a husband living, should

love another man? Was the implied reproach sound? Her feminine

self-respect was dearer to her than life. Yet she had not discussed

the point with Mrs. Wilson, as exploration with the plummet of

conscience of the recesses of her womanly self had left her without a

qualm. She had even faced the repugnant possibility that, as the wife

of Gordon, she might hereafter be brought in contact with Emil, and

decided that it could not become a controlling bugbear. Yet now when

she raised her eyes again she looked first at her mentor. That lady

had hers turned toward the ceiling in rapt meditation, but becoming

conscious of Constance's glance, she lowered them to meet it, and

Constance gathered from their troubled appeal that she agreed with the

clergyman that remarriage for her would be incompatible with the

highest personal delicacy and a breach of the law of beauty. This was

almost a shock, and increased her trouble. Her reason was still

unconvinced that the objection was other than an affectation, but the

joint disapproval was a challenge to her confidence. Still she

answered with the courage of her convictions:

"I should like to marry because I am in love. If my husband were dead,

it would not seem inappropriate that I should wed another."

[Illustration: "I should like to marry because I am in love."]

"You are well provided for; you have employment and are earning a

decent livelihood. You have friends who will see that your children do

not lack opportunities for advancement. Is not that enough?" He

paused and quoted rhetorically: "Wherefore they are no more twain, but

one flesh."

Constance broke the silence by completing the passage with reverence,

"What therefore God hath joined together let not man put asunder."

"Precisely," murmured the rector.

Constance slipped her hand from Mrs. Wilson's and rose to her feet.

Why, she scarcely knew. She felt the impulse to stand before her

judges, even as a petitioner at a court of final resort. Though her

heart was hungry for permission to enter the land of promise, she

already guessed what the verdict would be. If her rector's hint that

the project ought to have jarred upon her finer feminine instincts had

left her unconvicted before the tribunal of her own wits, it had set

her thinking. It had brought before her a retrospective vision of the

long fealty of her sex to the voice of carnal purity, and its twin

sister, woman's long fealty to the church. She must be true to her

birthright as a woman; she must obey the higher law whatever the cost.

No happiness could be comparable to that which obedience would bring.

Yet another thought held her, and a little doggedly. Whatever her

penitence for past error, she had never abdicated her heritage as an

American woman--her right to the exercise of free judgment where the

interests of her soul were concerned. Her intelligence must be

satisfied before she yielded. Yet even as she rallied her energies for

a second bout, it seemed to her that the memory of her late forgiveness

by the church stood in the guise of an angel at the rector's side with

grieving eyes, and the charge of ingratitude on its lips. But

Constance said sturdily and carefully:

"I have reread the Bible texts, Mr. Prentiss, and Mrs. Wilson has

explained to me that as a priest of the Episcopal Church you could not

marry me. I understand that. What I wish you to tell me is whether it

would be a sin, a real sin, were I to be married elsewhere. The law

allows it, only the church forbids. Has the church no discretion,

could no exception be made in a case like mine? In this age of the

world it would seem as though justice and the demands which religion

makes on the conscience ought to tally. You know the circumstances of

my first marriage. Because I made a dreadful mistake, is it my highest

duty to renounce this happiness as a forbidden thing? It is for you to

tell me. I must trust in you; I cannot decide for myself. My reason

whispers to me that it would not be wrong for me to consent, but I am

prepared to put this seeming blessing from me if by accepting it I

should be guilty of a genuine weakness, should be helping to push

society down instead of helping to maintain the standards of the world."

Mr. Prentiss beamed upon her with pitying, gracious approval. Now that

he had recovered from his momentary access of temper he beheld in a

clear light the reality of the sacrifice, her touching sincerity and

his own opportunity. From the standpoint of righteousness there was no

room in his mind for doubt or evasion; yet he felt that it behooved him

to meet this spiritual conflict with all the tenderness of his priestly

office. He had learned to admire this lithe, dark-haired woman, nor

was her greater physical attraction lost on him. He realized as she

stood before him that under the new dispensation she had waxed in charm

and social effectiveness; and once more she was showing herself worthy

of his enthusiasm. His ear had noticed the felicity of her last

thought, and he was musing on the sophisticated scope of it when Mrs.

Wilson's dulcet voice broke the silence.

"I have made clear to Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Prentiss, that the advanced

thought of the church finds in the words of Christ not merely an

inspired utterance concerning divorce, but the rallying cry in behalf

of a profound, practical, social reform."

The rector bent on his ally a discerning glance of satisfaction. He

perceived gratefully that she had made the most of her opportunities to

till the soil from which he looked for a rich harvest.

"My dear friend," he said to Constance, "you have put upon me a great

responsibility from which I must not shrink. But however

uncompromising my duty as a servant of Christ may cause me to appear,

believe me that my understanding is not blind to the human distress

under which you labor. You are asked to renounce what is for woman the

greatest of temporal joys, the love of a deserving man." He paused a

moment to mark the fervor of his sympathy. "Were I willing to palter

with the truth, and did I deem you to be common clay unable to

appreciate and live up to it, I might say to you 'go and be married

elsewhere. It will be an offence; it will not have the sanction of the

church; but others have done the same, and you will have the protection

of the secular law.' Although the Roman Catholic priest has but one

answer under all circumstances however pitiful, 'who, having a husband

or wife living, marries again, cannot remain a member of the church,'

it might seem permissible to some of my cloth not to condemn remarriage

in the case of a dense soul as a grievous sin. But such palliation

would sear my lips were I to utter it for your relief. You have asked

me what is the vital truth--your highest Christian duty. There can be

but one answer. To respect the marriage bond and, keeping yourself

unspotted from the world, hold to one husband for your mortal life so

long as you both do live. To yield would not be a crime as the

ignorant know crime, but it would be a sapping carnal weakness,

inconsistent with the spiritual wisdom which has hitherto led you. It

would indeed help to lower the standards of human society. I may not

equivocate, my dear friend. This is the ideal of the Christian Church

in respect to marriage and divorce. Invoke the human law for your

protection against your husband if you will, but he is still your

husband in the eyes of God, and if you wed another you commit adultery."

Constance, seeming like a breathing statue, save for her odd

disfigurement, her arms before her at full length, her hands folded one

upon the other, heard her sentence and love's banishment. Already she

felt the thrill of a solemn impulse to bear this cross laid upon her,

not as a cross but as a fresh opportunity for service, yet she said:

"Then the law of the church and the law of the State stand opposed to

each other!" She spoke in soliloquy as it were, phrasing an existing

condition for the explanation of which her intelligence still lacked

the key.

Mr. Prentiss drew himself up. "Yes, they stand opposed, as in so many

other instances. The law of the State is for the weak; the law of the

church--of Christ--is for the strong. Verily the church has been

magnanimous and forbearing. It has resigned to the State little by

little control of the social machinery. But here, where the

foundations of society are at stake, it behooves her to stand firm.

The law of spirit is at war with the law of flesh. Monogamy is the

corner-stone of Christian civilization."

"And hence it is that marriage is a sacrament; that the marriage bond

bears the seal of heaven," added Mrs. Wilson ardently, as the rector,

contented with his metaphor, stopped short in his righteous foray.

"If my marriage was made in heaven, we were ill-mated," retorted

Constance. The thought seemed so repugnant to her that she revolted at

it. But Mr. Prentiss, like a true physician of the soul, was equal to

the emergency.

"The choice was yours, and you made a dreadful mistake. Have you

yourself not said so? Shall you not pay the penalty, my daughter? You

thought you knew him whom you married."

"Oh, yes, indeed; but I was very young."

"May they not all say the same? And yet," pursued the rector, in a

tone of proselytizing triumph, "the demon of divorce lurks at our

firesides and, stalking through every walk of life, makes light of the

holy tie as though it were of straw, mocking the solemn associations of

the family, and taking from the innocent child the refining and

safe-guarding influence of a stable, unsullied home. Yet the State

stands by and winks at--aye, connives at and promotes the foul

programme, rehabilitating shallowness and vice through the respectable

red seal of the law. Yes, there are two standards. As a modern priest

I am aware of the sophistry of the criticism, for who, if the church

does not, will stand as the protector of the home? And if it sometimes

happens, as it must happen," he concluded in an exalted whisper, "that

the apparent earthly happiness of one must be sacrificed for the good

of the many, I know that you are not the woman to falter."

"Oh, no--oh, no," answered Constance, shaking her head. "It is a

terrible condition of affairs, is it not? I see; I understand." She

resumed her seat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. For

a few moments there was silence. Mrs. Wilson restrained a melting

impulse to put her arm around her ward's shoulder in pitying

encouragement. She felt that it was wiser to wait.

"Terrible," repeated Constance, as though she had been dwelling on the

thought, and she looked up. Her manner was calm and sweetly

determined. "Thank you, Mr. Prentiss--thank you both so much. There

is only one thing to do--one thing I wish to do, now that my duty has

been made entirely plain. I shall tell Mr. Perry that though I love

him I cannot marry him."

"There is no reason that you should come to a decision on the spot,"

said Mr. Prentiss, reluctant to take undue advantage of an emotional

frame of mind. "Take time to consider the matter."

But Constance shook her head. "That would not help me. I have thought

it out already. I could not consent to sin, and you have explained, to

me that it would be a sin."

"A sin surely; a carnal sin for you, Mrs. Stuart," said the clergyman

with doughty firmness.

Constance gave a little nervous laugh--or was it the echo of a shiver?

"I had a conviction that it could never be. It was a pleasant dream."

The pathos of the simple utterance reawoke Mrs. Wilson's strained

sensibilities. She bent and kissed Constance on the forehead. Then

turning to her rector she murmured with reverent ecstasy:

"Will you not pray with us, Mr. Prentiss?"

It was a grateful, benignant suggestion to the sufferer; the tonic

which her yearning, baffled spirit needed. Divining as by telepathy

that the moment had arrived for just this spiritual communion, the

clergyman set the example to the two women by falling on his knees, and

presently his voice was raised in fervent prayer. It was the prayer of

praise and victory, not of consolation and distress. He thanked

God--as he could do with an overflowing heart--for this triumph of

intelligent spiritual discernment over the lures of easygoing and

numbing materialism. The outcome of the occasion was indeed for him an

oasis, one of those green, fruitful passages in the more or less

general dryness of heart-to-heart contact with his parishioners, the

occurrence of which made him surer both of his own professional

capacity and of the eternal truths of his religion. His invocation of

his God was alike a pæan of thanksgiving and an acknowledgment of

rekindled faith. As for Constance, his words were so many cups of

water to a thirsty soul. Scorched by his exaltation, the cloud mists

of doubt no longer perplexed her, and she beheld with radiant eyes her

cross, her privilege to renounce what reason and human passion urged,

for the sake of an ideal--the higher, vital needs of the human race.

When Mr. Prentiss had finished Mrs. Wilson did not for a moment trust

herself to speak. Her eyes were full of tears. She had knelt as close

to Constance as she felt to be harmonious. It was a glorious hour also

for her. The steadfastness of this woman of the people was not only a

subtle personal tribute, but it had refreshed the tired arteries of her

being. When her daughter had left her house, secure and cold in the

pride of a revolting scheme of life, it had almost seemed that God

mocked her. But now the glories of His grace were manifest.

"Constance," she said, "I will call for you to-morrow, to sit in my

pew. It is Sunday, you know."