In saying to Constance that he had pondered the question of their
marriage from her standpoint, Gordon Perry felt that he had given
indeed the fullest weight to every legitimate scruple, and believed
that, provided he was beloved, there was no substance in any one of
them. He knew that Constance had shrunk from a divorce. What more
natural so long as she was undisturbed by her deserting husband? But
now that the element of a new, strong affection was introduced the
necessary legal proceedings seemed a paltry bar to her happiness. He
had expected that she would demur to the step at first, but he had felt
confident that her acute sense would shortly convince her that she was
divorced to all intents and purposes already, and that the mere formal
abdication of the fact, however unpleasant sentimentally was not a
valid obstacle. He had also appreciated that this repugnance to a
legal dissolution of the marriage tie for the purpose of becoming a
second time a wife would be accompanied by an instinctive feminine
aversion to giving her person to another man while it was still
possible to encounter the original husband in the flesh. He did not
pride himself on his knowledge of women, but the attitude suggested
itself to him as possible, even probable, in the case of one whose
sensibilities were so delicate as hers, for the reason that there
lingered in his mind the remembrance of shrinking words both in books
and in real life by other women when the same topic had been broached
in the past. Consequently it was a relief to him that Constance did
not openly manifest this form of repugnance, and he radiantly jumped to
the conclusion that her love for him was so reciprocal and mastering
that false delicacy had been shrivelled up as in a furnace. Was not
such a process in keeping with her sterling sanity and intelligence?
For a moment he had jubilantly assumed that all was won, since, after
conscientious if somewhat scornful analysis of the Church's claim, he
had already decided that the pure religious objection would never in
the end avail to keep them apart. Nor did the foreboding definiteness
of her opposition discourage him appreciably. It merely cast a damper
on his hopes for an immediate surrender, and indicated to him that he
had been premature in supposing that she had been able to purge herself
of superstitions and conventional prejudices forthwith. It could
simply be a question of time when so human and discerning a bride would
come to his arms without a qualm.
Nevertheless he felt that he must convince her. Now that he was sure
she loved him, the possibility of losing her was not even to be
entertained; but he wished her to succumb as the result of agreement,
and not in spite of herself, both because he realized that she would
not be happy otherwise, and because the doctrine which she had invoked
as a binding obligation jarred not only with his desires, but with his
deepest opinions. Therefore, at the conclusion of their interview, he
took up straightway the cudgels of thought in defence of his
convictions against what seemed to him the essential injustice and
unreasonableness of the Church's claim. This necessarily involved
fresh consideration of that claim itself. That night before he went to
bed he rehearsed the arguments by which he purposed to appeal to her.
Did she not appreciate that they were influenced by no base motives?
That neither lust nor undue haste, nor covetous trifling with the
feelings of others tarnished their mutual passion. Theirs was no case
of putting off the old bonds of matrimony in order to be on with the
new, but one where love had been starved to death, and been born again
by gradual and chaste processes in a lonely, forsaken heart. What
could be wrong in such a union? And were not their own consciences and
their own intelligences the only fit judges of the eternal merits?
Gordon Perry's attitude toward religion--toward churches and toward
churchmen--was abstractly respectful and friendly. He had been brought
up by his mother in her faith, and the period of stress through which
most young men pass in early life had been productive of a frame of
mind which was reverent as well as critical. Not a small portion of
mankind in Benham accepted their religious doctrine on trust, as they
did their drinking water. Either they were too busy to question what
seemed authority, or that particular compartment of the brain where
absorbing interest in the unseen germinates was empty. Some of the
most pious never reasoned, and their docile worship constituted the
cement in the walls of dogma. Again, there was a class--a growing
class in Benham as elsewhere--composed of well-equipped, active-minded
men who were polite to Religion if they met her in the street, and
would even go to church now and again to oblige a wife or preserve
outward appearances, for they were still of the opinion that religion
is good for the masses. But in their secret souls what did they
believe?
Gordon belonged to still another class. Religious truth had an
absorbing interest for him, but what was religious truth? Different
sects--and they were manifold in Benham--told him different things, and
each sect proclaimed its doctrine insistently as vital, if not to
salvation, to the highest spiritual development. Like many a young man
before him, he argued that all could not be right, and as a result he
presently found himself a member of that secret society of able-bodied,
able-minded male citizens--the largest class of all--who reasoned about
religious doctrine somewhat in this way: That they were hopefully
looking forward to the time when the controversial differences which
divided the sects into rival camps should disappear; and that until
then they and their successors, whose number was sure to be legion,
would turn deaf ears to the clashing of the divines, and attend church
in order to gain strength and inspiration to play their parts well in
complex modern human society, ignoring all else but the spirit of
Christian love. If it be said that they and Gordon were not strong on
dogma, denied that the laws of the universe had ever been suspended to
produce fear or admiration in man, because to believe the contrary
seemed to be an insult to God, and looked askance at certain other
extraordinary phenomena to which the orthodox cling, it should also be
stated that they and he were heartily in sympathy with every effort of
all the clergy to improve human nature along intelligent lines, to help
the poor to help themselves, to prevent the rich from misappropriating
the earth and to foster truth, courage, unselfishness and refinement in
the name of religion. Therefore it happened that Gordon was apt to
take with a grain of salt what he heard in the pulpit; and now and then
he would play golf on Sunday if he were in need of fresh air for his
soul; but although he was slightly impatient of clerical sophistries up
town, down town he lent a ready hand in the active reforms of the city,
in the furtherance of which he had learned to know well, and to admire
as good fellows, half a dozen energetic, enthusiastic clergymen. Was
not religion one of the great forces of the world? Because one could
not believe everything, and revolted at mystical or puerile
superstitions, were the highest cravings of one's nature to be allowed
to atrophy? So, just as in his social perplexities, he had sought
refuge in practical service from the conflict of theories, and on more
than one occasion he had been agreeably surprised by the confidential
admission of the divines with whom he was co-operating that their and
his views were not essentially far apart. Gordon was glad on their
account to hear so, and was only the more convinced as a consequence
that it was difficult to reconcile most of the strict tenets of
theology with the modern ideas of wide-awake, enlightened laymen
concerning the workings of the universe or the best social development
of the creature man.
Gordon made no attempt to see Constance on the day following his
proposal. Impatient as he was to renew his suit, he concluded to let
her muse for twenty-four hours on the situation. It occurred to him
that he would ask leave to accompany her to church on Sunday morning,
but reflecting that it would not be fair to disturb her meditations, he
decided instead to attend the service at St. Stephen's and walk home
with her after it. Whatever the New Testament language on the subject,
would she be able to convince herself that the sundering of such love
as theirs would be in keeping with the true spirit of Christianity? It
seemed to him that there could be but one answer to this proposition,
and as he walked along in the beautiful bracing atmosphere of the
autumn day his step was buoyant, for he believed that his happiness
would be sealed within a few short hours. Ecstasy ruled his thoughts.
Was not the woman of his heart an entrancing prize? Fortune and
station she had none, but far more important for him, she was lovable
and she was lovely; she was intelligent and she was good.
He had attended service at St. Stephen's once or twice before, and had
a bowing acquaintance with Mr. Prentiss; but he knew well and
entertained a cordial liking for the latter's assistant, the rector of
the Church of the Redeemer, the mission church in the squalid section
of the city supported by the larger establishment. St. Stephen's, as
the fashionable Episcopalian church of the community, was apt to draw a
large congregation, especially when the pew owners were not confronted
by wet skies or sidewalks. This brilliant Sunday at the beginning of
the social season had drawn most of the regular congregation and also a
large contingent of strangers--chiefly women--some of them visitors in
Benham, but the majority students and other temporary residents who
found the æsthetic music and devotional ritual of St. Stephen's
stimulating. Gordon, who was a little late, obtained a seat in the
gallery. It had occurred to him that he would be more likely to catch
sight of his ladylove from this eminence than if he remained below.
His eyes sought at once the so-called free benches where she was
accustomed to sit, but she was not in her usual place. After repeated
scrutiny of the rows of faces had convinced him of this, he concluded
dejectedly that she had not come. Perhaps she had stayed at home
hoping he would call. Or had she been loth to display her glasses in
public before she had become accustomed to the disfigurement? His
glance wandered over the rich flower garden of autumn bonnets, but to
no purpose. While in perplexity he reviewed the probable causes of her
absence he became aware that the music of the processional had ceased
and that Mr. Prentiss was speaking. Ten minutes later, when the
congregation rose to take part in the selection from the Psalms, his
glance fell on Mrs. Randolph Wilson in one of the front pews. Her
profile was almost in a line with his vision. While he looked his
heart gave a bound, for he suddenly recognized that the young woman
next to her in the gay, attractive bonnet was she for the sight of whom
his soul was yearning.
After leaving Constance on the day of their eventful interview, Mrs.
Wilson had conceived the plan of presenting her with a new bonnet and
jacket. These she brought with her to Lincoln Chambers a little before
church time, and placed with her own hands on the surprised recipient.
Pleased at the æsthetic progress of her ward, she seized this
opportunity to promote it, and also to cater to her own generous
instincts at a time when to indulge them was not likely to cause
offence. Though astonished, Constance accepted without demur these
welcome additions to her toilet, and the donor had the satisfaction of
beholding how admirably they became her. Besides, Mrs. Wilson had on
the tip of her tongue and was eager to communicate the plan which she
had been working out since they separated, and which she imparted to
Constance as soon as they were in her brougham on the way to church.
"I have been carefully considering your affairs, my dear, and, in the
first place, you are to do nothing for the next six months but get
well. I shall insist upon looking after you. You promised me,
remember." She paused as though she half expected to encounter
opposition to this project, and, though her ward revealed no
insubordination, she added the argument which she held in reserve:
"For, having deprived you by its counsel of the means of support, it is
the Church's duty, and my privilege as a disciple of the Church's
cause, to watch over you until you are able to provide for yourself.
At the end of the six months, when your eyes are strong again, I wish
you to become my private secretary."
On the way from her house she had pictured to herself the astonishment
and delight which such an unexpected and splendid proposition must
necessarily inspire, and she could not refrain from stealing a sidelong
glance at Constance in order to observe the effect it would have on her.
"Your private secretary?"
Mrs. Wilson felt rewarded by the incredulous bewilderment conveyed by
the interrogatory, and hastened to explain her benefaction. "It seems
almost the interposition of Providence in your behalf," she added.
"Last evening--and I was thinking of your noble resolution at the
time--my secretary came in to inform me that she was engaged to be
married, and to ask me to be on the lookout for someone else. 'The
very place for Constance Stuart,' I said to myself at once. 'What
could suit her better? And what an admirable arrangement it will be
for me!' For, after refusing Mr. Perry's offer, I take for granted
that, even when your eyesight is restored, the continuance of your
present business relations would be out of the question."
"Oh, yes; entirely so," answered Constance with rueful promptness. "I
could not continue in his employment; we should both be unhappy." She
was making a confession of what she had been saying to herself all the
morning.
"Exactly." Mrs. Wilson beamed over the success of her divination.
"Then we will consider it settled. And I wish to tell you besides that
I shall take it upon myself to see that your boy's artistic gift is
given full opportunity for expression, and your daughter thoroughly
educated. Your salary, I mean, will be sufficient to enable you to
give them proper advantages, for I can see that you will be very useful
to me."
She was determined to make plain that virtue in this case was to be its
own reward, and that the material losses in the wake of renunciation
were rapidly being eliminated. At the same time she wished to conceal
a too obviously eleemosynary intent.
"I don't see how anything could be nicer for me. And if you think that
I should suit--that I could perform the duties properly--I shall be
thankful for the position," answered poor Constance.
She had passed another sleepless night. Fixed as was her conviction
that separation from her lover was inevitable, she felt deeply sorry
for him if not for herself, and dreaded the impending final interview
between them. Despite her spiritual exaltation the consciousness that
she was letting slip a great chance for her children still haunted her,
in that the future by comparison seemed vague and forbidding. For it
had been clear to her from the moment of her decision that under no
consideration could she remain in Gordon's office. Therefore, though
doubtless her friends would help her, the struggle for a livelihood
must be begun again.
Mrs. Wilson's amazing, timely offer lifted a great weight from her
heart; by it the question of her future employment was disposed of, and
disposed of in a way more congenial to her than any she could have
imagined possible. It did indeed seem providential that the vacancy
should have occurred at this time, and she realized that the certainty
that her children would be protected would nerve her for the necessary
ordeal of parting, for now there was only selfishness in her desire for
marriage. She longed for it to be over with that she might put away
once and forever this great temptation.
The thought that Gordon would probably come for his answer that
afternoon was uppermost in her mind during the service; but she was in
a mood to respond to the beautiful music, and before Mr. Prentiss gave
out the text of the sermon she was already thrilling with the joy of
her sacrifice on the altar of faith. She prayed that she might be
granted strength to renounce this seeming blessing ungrudgingly and to
close her ears to the whispers of regret, and as she joined in the
jubilant anthem of rejoicing for a risen Lord it seemed to her that the
angel of peace brushed her forehead with the wings of heaven's love.
The text was "Except a man be born again he shall not enter into the
kingdom of heaven." It was a sermon of immortality and hope, and a
sermon of the triumph of the spirit over the flesh for the sake of a
Christ who had set the great example and conquered self through
suffering. It was one of Mr. Prentiss's most happy efforts from the
standpoint of orthodoxy, graphic, eloquent, and practical. He set no
narrow limits of a creed as the arbiter of truth, but declared that the
opportunity to choose between the path of righteousness and the path of
self-sufficiency or self-indulgence was offered to every one in the
great struggle of modern life; that he who would follow the blessed
Lord and Master must shun as evil that which was injurious to the
highest interests of human society and thus hateful to God. As she
listened Constance could not doubt that he had her in mind. It seemed
to her that more than once his glance rested on her encouragingly and
fondly. Her brain was transported with ecstasy and zeal. Her
opportunity was at hand, and she would serve Christ and mankind
faithfully.
Leaving the church under the spell of the sermon, she became suddenly
aware that her lover was beside her and was suggesting that he escort
her home. At sight of him her chaperone, scenting danger, led the way
sedulously toward the brougham, but in the interval Constance decided
to take him at his word. Would it not be the simplest course to
explain to him quietly on the street that what he asked her was
impossible, and thus avoid the pain of a more intimate parting?
Therefore she made her excuses to Mrs. Wilson, pleading the radiance of
the day and her need of fresh air. She felt so sure of herself that,
though she noticed her friend seemed disappointed, it did not occur to
her that it was from concern as to the result of the interview until
she heard a whispered "Be firm." Constance turned a resolute face
toward her, and by a close pressure of the hand gave the desired
assurance, then as the stylish equipage rolled away from the church
door, she stepped to Gordon's side, sadly conscious that this was to be
their last walk together.
Three days later, in the evening, Gordon Perry rang at the house of the
Rev. George Prentiss, the comfortable looking and architecturally
pleasing rectory in the neighborhood of St. Stephen's. A trim maid
ushered him into an ante-room where all parochial visitors were first
shown, and asked for his name. There was a nondescript elderly woman
in black ahead of him. In his capacity as rector of a large parish,
Mr. Prentiss followed the modern methods of other busy professional
men. An electric bell at his desk notified the servant that the
interview with the last comer was at an end and that the next in order
was to be introduced. Gordon had not long to wait. His remaining
predecessor's stay was brief. The rector's heartiness was almost
apologetic as he strode a pace or two forward to greet his visitor.
"Mr. Perry, I am very glad to see you. I am sorry that you should have
been kept waiting. But the clergy cannot afford to be unbusiness-like,
can they? We intend to live down that taunt. So my rule is 'first
come, first served.'"
"The only proper rule, I am sure."
It was a spacious, well-filled room, the manifest workshop of an
industrious man, but furnished with an eye to æsthetic appropriateness
as well as utility. Red leather chairs and lounges of goodly
proportions, two symmetrical, carved tables covered with documents,
books, and pamphlets, warm curtains, an open wood fire, a globe, sundry
busts and framed photographs of celebrities, mainly clerical, including
a large one of Phillips Brooks and another of Abraham Lincoln, were its
distinguishing characteristics.
Mr. Prentiss stepped to one of the tables and opening an oblong
Japanese box drew out a handful of cigars.
"Will you smoke, Mr. Perry?" he asked, cheerily.
Gordon took one, and the clergyman, who reserved his use of tobacco for
occasions when by so doing he might hope to make clearer that he was
human, did the same. As soon as they were lit, Mr. Prentiss with a
sweep of his hand indicated two easy chairs on either side of the fire,
but after his guest was seated he himself stood with his back to the
mantel-piece, his hands behind him, the commanding affable figure of a
good fellow. Still he chose to show at the same time what was in his
heart at the moment coincident with his manifestations of secular
hospitality.
"That woman who just went out has recently buried her only son, the joy
and prop of her old age. She came to thank me for a trifling donation
I had sent her. Her courage and her trust were beautiful to witness.
These humble lives often furnish the most eloquent testimonials of the
eternal realities." He spoke with the enthusiasm of his calling, as a
doctor or a lawyer might have set before an acquaintance an interesting
case. He liked to feel that he was on the same footing with the world
of men as they, with respect to privileges no less than
responsibilities. For an instant he seemed to muse on the experience,
then briskly recurring to the immediate situation said:
"But what can I do for you, Mr. Perry? My assistant, Mr. Starkworth,
tells me that you take an active personal interest in the social
problems of our community."
This bland presumption of ignorance as to the cause of his visit made
Gordon smile. He could not but suspect that it was artificial. Yet
the inquiry was by no means hypocritical; for though Mr. Prentiss was
fully conscious of his caller's identity, and had given him a
correspondingly genial reception, he regarded the episode of the
proposed marriage as so completely closed by Constance's decision that
he did not choose to believe that Gordon had come for the unseemly
purpose of reviving it. It seemed to him far more probable that his
advice or assistance was sought in some humanitarian or civic cause.
"Yes," said Gordon slowly, enjoying the development of the opening
which occurred to him, "Mr. Starkworth and I have co-operated from time
to time, with mutual liking, I think. It is in regard to a social
problem that I have come to consult you this evening."
"Ah," said the rector, relieved in spite of his belief, and thereupon
he settled himself in the other capacious easy chair and turned a
cordially attentive countenance to his guest. "You may feel assured of
my interest in anything of that kind."
"It concerns my own marriage," said Gordon.
The challenge was so unmistakable, like a gauntlet thrown at his feet,
that Mr. Prentiss was for an instant disconcerted, then irritated. But
the pleasant manner of his opponent negatived the aroused suspicion
that effrontery lurked behind this slightly sardonic introduction, and
he met the attack with a grave but supple dignity.
"Indeed," he said. "I shall be very glad to hear what you have to say,
Mr. Perry."