"I"ve started another one," she told them, as she departed.
A few moments later Miss Grower appeared.
"Sally," said Mr. Bentley, "you"re a wise woman. I believe I"ve made that remark before. You have managed that case wonderfully."
"There was a time," replied Miss Grower, thoughtfully, "when it looked pretty black. We"ve got a chance with her now, I think."
"I hope so. I begin to feel so," Mr. Bentley declared.
"If we succeed," Miss Grower went on, "it will be through the heart. And if we lose her again, it will be through the heart."
Hodder started at this proof of insight.
"You know her history, Mr. Hodder?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, I don"t. And I don"t care to. But the way to get at Kate Marcy, light as she is in some respects, is through her feelings. And she"s somehow kept "em alive. We"ve got to trust her, from now on--that"s the only way. And that"s what G.o.d does, anyhow."
This was one of Miss Grover"s rare references to the Deity.
Turning over that phrase in his mind, Hodder went slowly back towards the parish house. G.o.d trusted individuals--even such as Kate Marcy. What did that mean? Individual responsibility! He repeated it. Was the world on that principle, then? It was as though a search-light were flung ahead of him and he saw, dimly, a new order--a new order in government and religion. And, as though spoken by a voice out of the past, there sounded in his ears the text of that sermon which had so deeply moved him, "I will arise and go to my Father."
The church was still open, and under the influence of the same strange excitement which had driven him to walk in the rain so long ago, he entered and went slowly up the marble aisle. Through the gathering gloom he saw the figure on the cross. And as he stood gazing at it, a message for which he had been waiting blazed up within him.
He would not leave the Church!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE RIDDLE OF CAUSATION
I
In order to portray this crisis in the life of Kate Marcy, the outcome of which is still uncertain, other matters have been ignored.
How many persons besides John Hodder have seemed to read--in crucial periods--a meaning into incidents having all the outward appearance of accidents! What is it that leads us to a certain man or woman at a certain time, or to open a certain book? Order and design? or influence?
The night when he had stumbled into the cafe in Dalton Street might well have been termed the nadir of Hodder"s experience. His faith had been blotted out, and, with it had suddenly been extinguished all spiritual sense, The beast had taken possession. And then, when it was least expected,--nay, when despaired of, had come the glimmer of a light; distant, yet clear. He might have traced the course of his disillusionment, perhaps, but cause and effect were not discernible here.
They soon became so, and in the weeks that followed he grew to have the odd sense of a guiding hand on his shoulder,--such was his instinctive interpretation of it, rather than the materialistic one of things ordained. He might turn, in obedience to what seemed a whim, either to the right or left, only to recognize new blazes that led him on with surer step; and trivial accidents became events charged with meaning. He lived in continual wonder.
One broiling morning, for instance, he gathered up the last of the books whose contents he had a month before so feverishly absorbed, and which had purged him of all fallacies. At first he had welcomed them with a fierce relief, sucked them dry, then looked upon them with loathing. Now he pressed them gratefully, almost tenderly, as he made his way along the shady side of the street towards the great library set in its little park.
He was reminded, as he pa.s.sed from the blinding sunlight into the cool entrance hall, with its polished marble stairway and its statuary, that Eldon Parr"s munificence had made the building possible: that some day Mr. Parr"s bust would stand in that vestibule with that of Judge Henry Goodrich--Philip Goodrich"s grandfather--and of other men who had served their city and their commonwealth.
Upstairs, at the desk, he was handing in the volumes to the young woman whose duty it was to receive them when he was hailed by a brisk little man in an alpaca coat, with a skin like brown parchment.
"Why, Mr. Hodder," he exclaimed cheerfully, with a trace of German accent, "I had an idea you were somewhere on the cool seas with our friend, Mr. Parr. He spoke, before he left, of inviting you."
It had been Eldon Parr, indeed, who had first brought Hodder to the library, shortly after the rector"s advent, and Mr. Engel had accompanied them on a tour of inspection; the financier himself had enjoined the librarian to "take good care" of the clergyman. Mr. Waring, Mr. Atterbury; and Mr. Constable were likewise trustees. And since then, when talking to him, Hodder had had a feeling that Mr. Engel was not unconscious of the aura--if it may be called such--of his vestry.
Mr. Engel picked up one of the books as it lay on the counter, and as he read the t.i.tle his face betrayed a slight surprise.
"Modern criticism!" he exclaimed.
"You have found me out," the rector acknowledged, smiling.
"Came into my room, and have a chat," said the librarian, coaxingly.
It was a large chamber at the corner of the building, shaded by awnings, against which brushed the branches of an elm which had belonged to the original park. In the centre of the room was a ma.s.sive oak desk, one whole side of which was piled high with new volumes.
"Look there," said the librarian, with a quick wave of his hand, "those are some which came in this week, and I had them put here to look over. Two-thirds of "em on religion, or religious philosophy. Does that suggest anything to you clergymen?"
"Do many persons read them, Mr. Engel?" said the rector, at length.
"Read them!" cried Mr. Engel, quizzically. "We librarians are a sort of weather-vanes, if people only knew enough to consult us. We can hardly get a sufficient number of these new religious books the good ones, I mean--to supply the demand. And the Lord knows what trash is devoured, from what the booksellers tell me. It reminds me of the days when this library was down on Fifth Street, years ago, and we couldn"t supply enough Darwins and Huxleys and Spencers and popular science generally.
That was an agnostic age. But now you"d be surprised to see the different kinds of men and women who come demanding books on religion--all sorts and conditions. They"re beginning to miss it out of their lives; they want to know. If my opinion"s worth anything, I should not hesitate to declare that we"re on the threshold of a greater religious era than the world has ever seen."
Hodder thrust a book back into the pile, and turned abruptly, with a manner that surprised the librarian. No other clergyman to whom he had spoken on this subject had given evidence of this strong feeling, and the rector of St. John"s was the last man from whom he would have expected it.
"Do you really think so?" Hodder demanded.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Engel, when he had recovered from his astonishment.
"I"m sure of it. I think clergymen especially--if you will pardon me--are apt to forget that this is a reading age. That a great many people who used to get what instruction they had--ahem--from churches, for instance, now get it from books. I don"t want to say anything to offend you, Mr. Hodder--"
"You couldn"t," interrupted the rector. He was equally surprised at the discovery that he had misjudged Mr. Engel, and was drawn towards him now with a strong sympathy and curiosity.
"Well," replied Mr. Engel, "I"m glad to hear you say that." He restrained a gasp. Was this the orthodox Mr. Hodder of St. John"s?
"Why," said Hodder, sitting down, "I"ve learned, as you have, by experience. Only my experience hasn"t been so hopeful as yours--that is, if you regard yours as hopeful. It would be hypocritical of me not to acknowledge that the churches are losing ground, and that those who ought to be connected with them are not. I am ready to admit that the churches are at fault. But what you tell me of people reading these books gives me more courage than I have had for--for some time."
"Is it so!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the little man, relapsing into the German idiom of his youth.
"It is," answered the rector, with an emphasis not to be denied. "I wish you would give me your theory about this phenomenon, and speak frankly."
"But I thought--" the bewildered librarian began. "I saw you had been reading those books, but I thought--"
"Naturally you did," said Holder, smiling. His personality, his ascendency, his poise, suddenly felt by the other, were still more confusing. "You thought me a narrow, complacent, fashionable priest who had no concern as to what happened outside the walls of his church, who stuck obstinately to dogmas and would give nothing else a hearing. Well, you were right."
"Ah, I didn"t think all that," Mr. Engel protested, and his parchment skin actually performed the miracle of flushing. "I am not so stupid.
And once, long ago when I was young, I was going to be a minister myself."
"What prevented you?" asked Holder, interested.
"You want me to be frank--yes, well, I couldn"t take the vows." The brown eyes of the quiet, humorous, self-contained and dried-up custodian of the city"s reading flamed up. "I felt the call," he exclaimed. "You may not credit it to look at me now, Mr. Hodder. They said to me, "here is what you must swear to believe before you can make men and women happier and more hopeful, rescue them from sin and misery!" You know what it was."