The Puritans by Arlo Bates

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"Neither have we escaped the accusation that we use the poor simply as
a means of self-improvement. An old Irish woman in a tumble-down
tenement house once said to me: 'Ye'll have no chance to work out your
salvation doing for me.' I believe that there are many of the poor who
more or less consciously have the same idea. They think that we make
visiting them a sort of penance, and they resent it. I am not sure that
I can find it in my heart to blame them."

"He is either sacrificing himself completely, or making one of those
bold strokes that are irresistible," Ashe whispered to Mrs. Fenton; and
she nodded assent.

"What should be," the speaker proceeded, amid a deep hush which showed
the keen interest which his words had aroused, "is that we should dare
to be consistent. As individuals and as churchmen we should exercise
the virtue of charity, but both as individuals and as churchmen we are
bound to see to it that we make our charity effective for the glory of
God and the salvation of men. There is no stronger instrument in our
hands than philanthropy, and not to utilize it for the good of the
church is to be culpably negligent. I believe that charity should be
the instrument of evangelization. The poor will have a reason for our
interest in them. Let them have this. Let them believe, if they will,
that we purchase their spiritual acquiescence by ministering to their
bodily needs. Certainly I believe that we should limit our work to
those who can be spiritually influenced. There are more of these than
we can at present attend to, and I am in favor of boldly and
consistently taking the position that as administrators of the bounties
of the church we feel bound to use them for the advancement of the
church. To aid the corrupt, the evil, the hardened without any attempt
to draw them into the fold and without any pledge that they will be
influenced, is simply to aid the avowed enemies of religion and to
strengthen their hands against righteousness."

The air of the room was becoming electric. Philip could see the
exchange of glances all around him, some of surprise, some of
consternation, some--or he was deceived--of triumph and scornful
satisfaction. He fancied that he saw Mr. Thurston shoot toward Mr.
Strathmore a flash of gratification, but the face of the latter
remained unmoved and inscrutable. Ashe, full of uneasiness as to the
result of the speech, was greatly excited, but at the same time moved
to profound admiration for its boldness and its consistency. He was in
sympathy with the views expressed, and he was more than ever convinced
that Father Frontford was the only man for the sacred office of bishop.

"Even our Lord," Father Frontford went on, his thin cheeks burning and
his slender frame swayed by the strength of his emotion, "did not many
works in places where he found unbelief. There was no limit to his
power; there was no limit to his mercy. It was out of love for the
whole of mankind that He refused to benefit individuals who would have
hindered the work He came to do. The example is one which we shall do
well to follow. We have more work than we can do in aiding the faithful
and in building up the church. Let us accept the name of proselyters
which has been contemptuously flung at us, and wear it as our glory. We
are proselyters. We must be proselyters. It is the highest joy and
honor of our lives that we are allowed of heaven to take this work upon
us. God will require it at our hands if we fail in our private
charities, and still more if we fail in the administration of the
revenues of the church to be always ardent, consistent, unwearied
proselyters!"

There was a good deal of applause when the speaker sat down. The
profound earnestness of the man carried the hearers away, at least for
the moment. Ashe saw Thurston look inquiringly at Strathmore, as if to
ask if the latter was not intending to reply, but Strathmore sat
silent.

"Don't you suppose Mr. Strathmore means to speak?" Mrs. Fenton
whispered. "He almost always does speak after Father Frontford, and he
has expressed very strong views about the charities."

"I cannot understand why he doesn't speak," Ashe responded. "It may be
he feels that the meeting is not with him, and does not wish to take
the unpopular side."

Several men did speak, however, among them Mr. Candish. Their remarks
were in accord with the views expressed by the Father, yet they somehow
lessened the effect of his words. Put into their plain and sometimes
even awkward language his position seemed unpractical and hopelessly
far from daily life; so that even Ashe, warm partisan as he was, could
not but feel his enthusiasm somewhat chilled. Again he intercepted a
glance between Thurston and his superior. Philip sat with the two men
directly in his range of vision, and could not keep his eyes from
watching them. He recognized that there was danger in the keen, crafty
face of the colleague, thin-lipped and narrow-eyed; he wondered in
troubled fashion how far it was possible that Mr. Strathmore was of the
same nature as his assistant. Ashe was confident that Thurston was a
born intriguer, and he instinctively watched for signs of understanding
between Mr. Strathmore and the other. He could detect nothing of the
sort. The Rev. Rutherford Strathmore bore a countenance as beneficent,
as kindly, as guileless as ever; responding to the challenge of his
colleague's eyes by no evidence of understanding or connivance. It was
not until the talkers ceased and there fell a silence which indicated
that the first force of admiration and enthusiasm had spent itself,
that Strathmore rose.

"No one can possibly disagree with the sentiments which have just been
expressed," he began in his cordial, frank manner. "There is no truth
which we need in these days to keep more constantly before us than the
duty of being always eager for the advancement of the church, and of
employing all means to this end. The question which is of vital
interest is how best to do this. When the caution was given that to the
harmlessness of doves be added the guile of serpents, it might almost
seem as if it was especially intended for our own day and case. There
has certainly never been a time when wisdom was more needed than it is
to-day. The growth of doubt, the overthrow of old traditions, old
beliefs, old forms, in short of all that has been sanctioned by custom
and by time, have gone on in every department of human knowledge and
endeavor. The spirit of the time is restless, progressive, liberal,
even irreverent. The beautiful serenity of the church, its reverent
conservatism, its hallowed enthusiasm, for old ideals, are at variance
with the temper of the century. Since the church is the shrine of truth
it is impossible that it should alter with every shifting of scientific
thought, every alteration in the fashions of human opinion; and we
stand face to face with the trying fact that the age is not in sympathy
with the church."

He paused, looking down as if in thought. Ashe regarded him closely,
much impressed by the apparent spontaneity and candor with which this
was said. The hearers were closely attentive. "The only thing upon
which we seem to have some possible disagreement," continued Mr.
Strathmore, "is in regard to the best method of meeting this want of
sympathy, this feeling which often seems to amount almost to general
indifference. Is it to arouse all the suspicion and opposition
possible? Is it to seem to justify the charges brought against us of
narrowness, of formalism, of repression, and of obstructing the
progress of the race? It does not seem to me that this is the wisest
course. I agree that it is our duty to forward the interests of the
church, and to make our administration of charity a means to this end.
It is certainly a question whether open and avowed proselyting is the
best means. Religion is no more to be bought with a price than is love.
The person who conforms for a soup-ticket or a blanket has simply added
hypocrisy to his other failings, and has moreover gained for the church
that contempt which men always feel for those they have overreached.
The child that goes to Sunday-school for the Christmas tree and the
summer week has learned a lesson in deception which can never be
blotted out. It is of course proper that these means should be used;
but unless it is understood fully and frankly that they are employed
not as a bribe but as a persuasion, not as a price but as a kindness,
the evil that they do is more than any good that it is possible to
bring about through their means. I do not believe that our charities
should be conducted on the basis of bargain and sale; nor do I believe
that they should be put on a sectarian basis at all."

He sat down quietly, with an unimpassioned air which seemed to rebuke
the emotional close of the remarks of Father Frontford. Strathmore
could be emotional and impassioned upon occasion, and this deliberate,
matter-of-fact mien affected Ashe as a calculated stroke of policy.
Philip felt that his leader had suffered a defeat; and he was
profoundly moved by the thought. Other speakers took up the question,
but he paid little heed. He was occupied in speculating how the meeting
would affect the chances of the election. When he was walking home with
Mrs. Fenton after the session was over, he was so absorbed that she
rallied him on his absent-mindedness.

"I was thinking of the discussion," he said. "I am afraid that Father
Frontford injured himself this morning."

"But how noble it was of him to say what he believed in spite of the
chances," she responded. "I was delighted with Mr. Candish for
seconding him as he did."

"Yes," Ashe said, a pang of jealousy piercing him at the mention of Mr.
Candish. "It was fine. What I cannot make out," he added, "is whether
Mr. Strathmore is as simple and candid as he looks. He always seems to
speak sincerely and freely, and yet he somehow contrives never to say
anything that might not have been thought out with the most clever
policy."

"I cannot make out either," returned she. "Mr. Fenton used rather
paradoxically to say that Mr. Strathmore was too frank by half to be
honest."

She sighed as she spoke, and instantly all thought of bishops and
church matters vanished from the mind of Ashe. He became entirely
absorbed in wondering how warm was Mrs. Fenton's affection for her dead
husband and in hating himself for the thought.

XV

HEARTSICK WITH THOUGHT
Two Gentlemen of Verona, i. I

Instead of returning to Boston next morning, Maurice remained at
Brookfield for ten days. Mrs. Morison decided the matter, and it is not
to be supposed that he was entirely unwilling to be constrained.

He naturally saw much of Berenice, and he passed hours in brooding over
thoughts of her. He was convinced that she was not engaged. She had
spoken of Stanford's visit, and it had seemed to Wynne that she had
conveyed the impression that her relations to the visitor were less
intimate than might at first sight appear. If she were free--the
thought made his heart beat, and he wondered if, had the circumstances
been different, he might himself have won her. He tormented himself
with all her ways and words; the smiles she gave him, the trifling
attentions which were addressed to the guest, but which seemed to have
a touch of something deeper, that might be due to her thinking of him
as her preserver, but which might even go beyond that. There was a
delicious torture in all this reverie, in these continual self-
reproaches which involved the thought of her, the remembrance of how
she had looked, how she had spoken, how she had moved. He became every
day more hopelessly her slave, yet every day insisting more strongly to
himself that he felt nothing more than warm friend. Once for a moment
he tried to believe that his feeling was merely a desire for her
spiritual good, that his attitude was that which it was proper for a
priest to feel toward a beautiful and frivolous worldling; but the
pretense was too ghastly, and he abandoned it with a shudder of
disgust. He had moments, too, when he said to himself frankly, in
defiance or in sorrow as the mood might be, that he loved her; but for
the most part he tried to keep the assumption of simple friendship
between him and bitter thought.

He found great pleasure in Mrs. Morison. She was to him a revelation of
possibilities of which he had never dreamed. It was a continual
surprise to him to find himself so impressed by the wit, the wisdom,
and the sanity of this fine old lady. He not only felt himself an
ignorant and inexperienced boy beside her, but found himself shrinking
from comparing with her the men whom he had followed as leaders. The
ease of her manner, the completeness of her self-poise, her frank
simplicity, high-bred and winning, delighted him, while the extent of
her mental resources filled him with amazement.

Mrs. Morison opened to Wynne a new world in her conversation. At first
she gave herself up chiefly to entertaining him, telling him delightful
stories of famous folk she had known, of her life abroad and in
Washington. She was full of charming little tales which she had the art
of relating as if she were not thinking of how she was telling them,
but as if they came to her mind and bubbled into talk spontaneously.
She had a way, too, of putting in unobtrusive observations on character
and events which impressed Maurice. The art of saying things
trenchantly he had found in Mrs. Staggchase, but his cousin had the air
of being aware of her cleverness, while Mrs. Morison said these things
as if they were of the natural and habitual current of her thoughts.
Mrs. Morison said clever things as if she thought them; Mrs. Staggchase
as if she thought of them.

It did not take the young man long to discover that Mrs. Morison was
not in sympathy with his creed. She was too well-bred to bring the
matter forward, but he could not resist the temptation now and then to
touch upon it. She was of principles at once so broad and so deep that
he found himself as often surprised by her devoutness as he felt it his
duty to be shocked by her liberality. One day when Maurice had made
some allusion to a discussion over the doctrine of predestination which
was agitating the English church, Mrs. Morison said:--

"It always seems to me a pity that those who believe in that dreadful
doctrine do not remember that if one were not one of the elect, he
could at least carry through eternity the realization that he was lost
through no fault of his own. God could not take from him that
consolation."

He was silent in mingled amazement and disapproval; yet he found his
mind following out with obstinate persistence the train of thought
which her words suggested. In this or in many another remark it could
hardly be said that her words convinced him, but they awoke a swarm of
doubts in his mind. He found himself following speculations that were
lawless, wild, dangerous, and intoxicating. However convinced he might
be that the reasoning of Mrs. Morison was fallacious, he did not find
it easy to tell just wherein the fallacy lay. He felt that as a priest
he should be able to refute her, and he was filled with dismay to
discover that he was rather himself falling into the attitude of a
doubter.

One subject which was constantly in his mind he did not touch upon
until the day before he left Brookfield. He longed to sound Mrs.
Morison on the subject of a celibate priesthood. He was well enough
aware that she would not approve of it, and he was irritated by the
knowledge that he secretly felt that her decision would be founded on
strong common sense. He tried to assure himself that it was her
dangerous laxity of principle that blinded her to the nobility and
sanctity of asceticism; but it was impossible to feel that such was the
case. He was teased by a wish which he would not acknowledge that she
might advance arguments which he could not controvert; though to
himself he said that she would be his temptation in tangible form, and
that he would struggle against it with his whole soul.

His opportunity came while they were discussing the election of the
bishop. Mrs. Morison was not immediately concerned in the matter, not
being a churchwoman, but she had an intelligent interest in all
questions of the day.

"I find it hard to understand," Mrs. Morison observed, "how any
churchman can be so blind to the importance of conciliating public
thought and the general feeling as for a moment to think of any other
candidate than Mr. Strathmore. He is so completely in sympathy with the
broadening tendencies of the time."

"But that means ultimately the destruction of creeds," Maurice
objected, answering rather the implication than her words.

"I think that perhaps the highest courage men are called upon to show,"
she answered, "is that of giving up a theory which has served its use.
The race forces us to do it sooner or later, but the men who are
really great are those who are able to say frankly that their creeds
have done their work, and that the new day must have new ones. You
might almost say that the extent to which a man prefers truth to
himself is to be judged by his willingness to give up a dogma that is
outworn."

"But you leave no stability to truth."

"The truth is stable without effort or will of mine," she returned,
smiling; "but surely you would have human appreciation of it advance."

He felt that there must be an answer to this, but he was not able to
see just what it was, and he shifted the question.

"But Mr. Strathmore," he said hesitatingly, "is married."

"Yes," she assented. "'The husband of one wife.'"

"If you begin to quote Scripture against me," Maurice retorted,
laughing in spite of himself, "I might easily reply to St. Paul by St.
Paul. But letting that pass, it is certainly true that the church has
always held that marriage absorbs a man in earthly things so that he
cannot give the best of his thoughts to his work."

"When the church sets itself against marriage," Mrs. Morison responded
quietly, "it seems to me to be setting up to know more than the Creator
of the race."

Maurice colored, although he might not have been able to tell whether
his strongest feeling was horror at this bold language or joy at the
emphasis with which she spoke.

"Perhaps I should beg your pardon for saying so frankly what I think,"
Mrs. Morison continued. "It isn't the way in which one generally talks
to a clergyman; but the subject is one for which I haven't much
patience, and of course I couldn't help seeing that you are in doubt
yourself."

Maurice started.

"What do you mean?" he stammered. "I--I in doubt?"

"I hadn't any intention of forcing your confidence," returned she. "I
am an old woman, and sometimes I find that I don't make allowance
enough for the slowness of you young people in arriving at a knowledge
of self."

He cast down his eyes.

"Until this moment," he said, "I have never acknowledged to myself that
I was in doubt. I see what you mean, and it shows that I have been
playing with fire."

She looked at him questioningly, then turned the subject.

"Which is perhaps a hint that our fire is going down. Sit still,
please. Every woman likes to tend her own fire."

"I should have learned that by this time," was his answer. "I lost an
inheritance once by insisting upon fixing a fire."

"That sounds interesting. Is it proper to ask for the story?"

"Oh, there isn't much of a story. I had a great-aunt who was worth a
lot of money, and who was eccentric. She was in a way fond of me when I
was a child, and used to have me at the house a good deal. I confess I
didn't like it much. Things went by rule, and the rules were often
pretty queer. One of them was that nobody should presume to touch the
fire if she was in the room. I liked to play with the fire as well as
she did, and when I was a boy just in my teens I used to do it. After
she'd corrected me half a dozen times I got into my foolish pate that
it was my duty to cure her of her whim. So I set to poking the fire
ostentatiously until she lost her temper and ordered me out of the
house. Then she burned up the will in my favor and made a new one,
giving all her money to the church."

"How unjust," commented Mrs. Morison, "and how human. Did you never
make peace with her?"

"Yes, but of course I was careful that she should understand that I
didn't do it for the sake of her money. She told my mother that she had
made a new will in my favor, but it never turned up. My aunt's death
was very singular. She was found dead in her bed, and the woman who
lived with her, an old nurse of mine, had disappeared. Of course there
was at once suspicion of foul play, but the doctors pronounced the
death natural, and there was no evidence of theft."

"Did you never discover the nurse?"

"Never. We tried, for we thought she might give a clue to the missing
will. She'd been in the family so long that she was a sort of
confidential servant, and knew all Aunt Morse's affairs. She was
devoted to me."

"The romance may not be ended yet," Mrs. Morison suggested smilingly.
"Who knows but the missing nurse will some day turn up with the missing
will."

"I'm afraid that after a dozen years there's little enough chance of
it."

His mind was so racked upon this wretched question of the right of a
priest to marry, that he could not rest until he had drawn from
Berenice also an expression of opinion on the subject. He made Mr.
Strathmore again the excuse for the introduction of the topic.

"I don't see," he said to her, "how you can think that it's well to
have a married bishop. His wife is sure to be meddling in the affairs
of the diocese."

She looked at him with a mocking glance.

"Do you wish to drag me into a discussion of the wisdom of allowing the
clergy to have wives?" she asked cruelly.

He flushed with confusion, but tried to carry a bold front.

"Very likely it does come down to the general principle of the thing,"
he answered.

"Well then, the question of the marriage of the clergy doesn't interest
me in the least."

She looked so pretty and mischievous that he began to lose his head.

"But it is of the greatest possible interest to me," he returned, with
a manner which gave the words a personal application.

She flushed in her turn, and tossed her head.

"That is by no means the same thing," she retorted.

"But what interests me you might try to consider; just out of charity,
of course."

"Oh, well, then, since you ask me, this celibacy of the clergy of our
church isn't at all a thing that anybody can take seriously. Everybody
knows that a clergyman may have his vows absolved by the bishop, so
that after all he can marry if he wants to; so that the whole thing
seems"--

"Well?" he demanded, as she broke off. "Seems how?"

"Pardon me. I didn't realize what I was saying."

"Seems how?" he repeated insistently.

He challenged her with his eyes, and he could see the spark which
kindled defiantly in hers. She threw back her head saucily.

"Well, since you insist! I was going to say that it made the whole
thing seem a little like amateur theatricals."

He became grave instantly.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "You do not seem to understand that what
you are speaking of may mean the bitter sacrifice of a man's whole
life. Even a clergyman is human, and may love as strongly, as
completely"--

He choked with the emotion he could not control. He realized that he
was telling his passion, and there came to him an overwhelming sense
that he must never tell it save in this indirect manner. He hastened on
lest she should interrupt him.

"Don't you suppose that a priest may know what it is to worship the
very ground a woman walks on? Don't you suppose he has had his heart
beat till it suffocated him just because her fingers touched his or her
gown brushed him? A man is a man after all, and the dreams that come to
one are much the same as come to another. The difference is that the
priest has to tear his very heart out, and turn his back on all that
other men may find delight in."

Berenice looked at him with shining eyes, not undimmed, he thought, by
tears.

"If you really care for her so much," she said softly, "you can give
only a divided heart to your work. It is better to own that to
yourself, isn't it?"

"For her?" he echoed.

"Oh, there must be somebody," she returned hastily, her color coming.
"No matter about that."

"But think of giving up!" he cried, leaning toward her. "Even those who
believe nothing despise a renegade priest."

"That's of less consequence than that he should ruin his life and
despise himself."

He held out his uninjured hand impulsively.

"Berenice!" he whispered.

She flushed celestial red, and for an instant her eyes responded to the
love in his. Then she sprang to her feet, with a laugh.

"There!" she cried. "See what dunces we are to get to discussing
theology. I'll never forgive you if you try to inveigle me into another
talk about such subjects. Here is Mehitabel to say that she's ready to
help you with your packing."

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