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Winston Churchill >> The Inside of the Cup, Volume 8
THE INSIDE OF THE CUP
By Winston Churchill
Volume 8.
XXVII. RETRIBUTION
XXVIII. LIGHT
CHAPTER XXVII
RETRIBUTION
I
The Bishop's House was a comfortable, double dwelling of a smooth,
bright red brick and large, plate-glass windows, situated in a plot
at the western end of Waverley Place. It had been bought by the Diocese
in the nineties, and was representative of that transitional period in
American architecture when the mansard roof had been repudiated, when
as yet no definite types had emerged to take its place. The house had
pointed gables, and a tiny and utterly useless porch that served only to
darken the front door, made of heavy pieces of wood fantastically curved.
It was precisely ten o'clock in the morning when Hodder rang the bell and
was shown into the ample study which he had entered on other and less
vital occasions. He found difficulty in realizing that this pleasant
room, lined with well-worn books and overlooking a back lawn where the
clothes of the episcopal family hung in the yellow autumn sun, was to be
his judgment seat, whence he might be committed to trial for heresy.
And this was the twentieth century! The full force of the preposterous
fact smote him, and a consciousness of the distance he himself had
travelled since the comparatively recent days of his own orthodoxy.
And suddenly he was full again of a resentful impatience, not only that
he should be called away from his labours, his cares, the strangers who
were craving his help, to answer charges of such an absurd triviality,
but that the performance of the great task to which he had set his hand,
with God's help, should depend upon it. Would his enemies be permitted
to drive him out thus easily?
The old bishop came in, walking by the aid of a cane. He smiled at
Hodder, who greeted him respectfully, and bidding him sit down, took a
chair himself behind his writing table, from whence he gazed awhile
earnestly and contemplatively at the rugged features and strong shoulders
of the rector of St. John's. The effect of the look was that of a visual
effort to harmonize the man with the deed he had done, the stir he had
created in the city and the diocese; to readjust impressions.
A hint of humour crept into the bishop's blue eyes, which were watery,
yet strong, with heavy creases in the corners. He indicated by a little
gesture three bundles of envelopes, bound by rubber bands, on the corner
of his blotter.
"Hodder," he said, "see what a lot of trouble you have made for me in my
old age! All those are about you."
The rector's expression could not have been deemed stern, but it had met
the bishop's look unflinchingly. Now it relaxed into a responding smile,
which was not without seriousness.
"I am sorry, sir," Hodder answered, "to have caused you any worry--or
inconvenience."
"Perhaps," said the bishop, "I have had too much smooth sailing for a
servant of Christ. Indeed, I have come to that conclusion."
Hodder did not reply. He was moved, even more by the bishop's manner
and voice than his words. And the opening to their conversation was
unexpected. The old man put on his spectacles, and drew from the top
of one of the bundles a letter.
"This is from one of your vestrymen, Mr. Gordon Atterbury," he said, and
proceeded to read it, slowly. When he had finished he laid it down.
"Is that, according to your recollection, Mr. Hodder, a fairly accurate
summary of the sermon you gave when you resumed the pulpit at the end of
the summer?"
"Yes, sir," answered the rector, "it is surprisingly accurate, with the
exception of two or three inferences which I shall explain at the proper
moment."
"Mr. Atterbury is to be congratulated on his memory," the bishop observed
a little dryly. "And he has saved me the trouble of reading more. Now
what are the inferences to which you object?"
Hodder stated them. "The most serious one," he added, "is that which he
draws from my attitude on the virgin birth. Mr. Atterbury insists, like
others who cling to that dogma, that I have become what he vaguely calls
an Unitarian. He seems incapable of grasping my meaning, that the only
true God the age knows, the world has ever known, is the God in Christ,
is the Spirit in Christ, and is there not by any material proof, but
because we recognize it spiritually. And that doctrine and dogma,
ancient speculations as to how, definitely, that spirit came to be in
Christ, are fruitless and mischievous to-day. Mr. Atterbury and others
seem actually to resent my identification of our Lord's Spirit with the
social conscience as well as the individual conscience of our time."
The bishop nodded.
"Hodder," he demanded abruptly, leaning forward over his desk, "how did
this thing happen?"
"You mean, sir--"
There was, in the bishop's voice, a note almost pathetic. "Oh, I do not
mean to ask you anything you may deem too personal. And God forbid, as
I look at you, as I have known you, that I should doubt your sincerity.
I am not your inquisitor, but your bishop and your friend, and I am
asking for your confidence. Six months ago you were, apparently, one of
the most orthodox rectors in the diocese. I recognize that you are not
an impulsive, sensational man, and I am all the more anxious to learn
from your own lips something of the influences, of the processes which
have changed you, which have been strong enough to impel you to risk the
position you have achieved."
By this unlooked-for appeal Hodder was not only disarmed, but smitten
with self-reproach at the thought of his former misjudgment and
underestimation of the man in whose presence he sat. And it came over
him, not only the extent to which, formerly, he had regarded the bishop
as too tolerant and easygoing, but the fact that he had arrived here
today prepared to find in his superior anything but the attitude he was
showing. Considering the bishop's age, Hodder had been ready for a lack
of understanding of the step he had taken, even for querulous reproaches
and rebuke.
He had, therefore, to pull himself together, to adjust himself to the
unexpected greatness of soul with which he was being received before he
began to sketch the misgivings he had felt from the early days of his
rectorship of St. John's; the helplessness and failure which by degrees
had come over him. He related how it had become apparent to him that by
far the greater part of his rich and fashionable congregation were
Christians only in name, who kept their religion in a small and
impervious compartment where it did not interfere with their lives.
He pictured the yearning and perplexity of those who had come to him for
help, who could not accept the old explanations, and had gone away empty;
and he had not been able to make Christians of the poor who attended the
parish house. Finally, trusting in the bishop's discretion, he spoke of
the revelations he had unearthed in Dalton Street, and how these had
completely destroyed his confidence in the Christianity he had preached,
and how he had put his old faith to the test of unprejudiced modern
criticism, philosophy, and science. . .
The bishop listened intently, his head bent, his eyes on he rector.
"And you have come out--convinced?" he asked tremulously. "Yes, yes,
I see you have. It is enough."
He relapsed into thought, his wrinkled hand lying idly on the table.
"I need not tell you, my friend," he resumed at length, "that a great
deal of pressure has been brought to bear upon me in this matter, more
than I have ever before experienced. You have mortally offended, among
others, the most powerful layman in the diocese, Mr. Parr, who complains
that you have presumed to take him to task concerning his private
affairs."
"I told him," answered Holder, "that so long as he continued to live the
life he leads, I could not accept his contributions to St. John's."
"I am an old man," said the bishop, "and whatever usefulness I have had
is almost finished. But if I were young to-day, I should pray God for
the courage and insight you have shown, and I am thankful to have lived
long enough to have known you. It has, at least, been given one to
realize that times have changed, that we are on the verge of a mighty
future. I will be frank to say that ten years ago, if this had happened,
I should have recommended you for trial. Now I can only wish you
Godspeed. I, too, can see the light, my friend. I can see, I think, though
dimly, the beginnings of a blending of all sects, of all religions in the
increasing vision of the truth revealed in Jesus Christ, stripped, as you
say, of dogma, of fruitless attempts at rational explanation. In Japan
and China, in India and Persia, as well as in Christian countries, it is
coming, coming by some working of the Spirit the mystery of which is
beyond us. And nations and men who even yet know nothing of the Gospels
are showing a willingness to adopt what is Christ's, and the God of
Christ."
Holder was silent, from sheer inability to speak.
"If you had needed an advocate with me," the bishop continued, "you could
not have had one to whose counsel I would more willingly have listened,
than that of Horace Bentley. He wrote asking to come and see me, but I
went to him in Dalton Street the day I returned. And it gives me
satisfaction, Mr. Holder, to confess to you freely that he has taught me,
by his life, more of true Christianity than I have learned in all my
experience elsewhere."
"I had thought," exclaimed the rector, wonderingly, "that I owed him more
than any other man."
"There are many who think that--hundreds, I should say," the bishop
replied . . . . "Eldon Parr ruined him, drove him from the church....
It is strange how, outside of the church, his influence has silently and
continuously grown until it has borne fruit in--this. Even now," he
added after a pause, "the cautiousness, the dread of change which comes
with old age might, I think, lead me to be afraid of it if I--didn't
perceive behind it the spirit of Horace Bentley."
It struck Holder, suddenly, what an unconscious but real source of
confidence this thought had likewise been to him. He spoke of it.
"It is not that I wouldn't trust you," the bishop went on. "I have
watched you, I have talked to Asa Waring, I have read the newspapers.
In spite of it all, you have kept your head, you have not compromised the
dignity of the Church. But oh, my friend, I beg you to bear in mind that
you are launched upon deep waters, that you have raised up many enemies
--enemies of Christ--who seek to destroy you. You are still young. And
the uncompromising experiment to which you are pledged, of freeing your
church, of placing her in the position of power and influence in the
community which is rightfully hers, is as yet untried. And no stone will
be left unturned to discourage and overcome you. You have faith,--you
have made me feel it as you sat here,--a faith which will save you from
bitterness in personal defeat. You may not reap the victory, or even see
it in your lifetime. But of this I am sure, that you will be able to
say, with Paul, 'I have planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the
increase.' Whatever happens, you may count upon my confidence and
support. I can only wish that I were younger, that my arm were stronger,
and that I had always perceived the truth as clearly as I see it now."
Holder had risen involuntarily while these words were being spoken. They
were indeed a benediction, and the intensity of his feeling warned him of
the inadequacy of any reply. They were pronounced in sorrow, yet in
hope, and they brought home to him, sharply, the nobility of the bishop's
own sacrifice.
"And you, sir?" he asked.
"Ah," answered the bishop, "with this I shall have had my life. I am
content. . . ."
"You will come to me again, Hodder? some other day," he said,
after an interval, "that we may talk over the new problems. They are
constructive, creative, and I am anxious to hear how you propose to meet
them. For one thing, to find a new basis for the support of such a
parish. I understand they have deprived you of your salary."
"I have enough to live on, for a year or so," replied the rector,
quickly. "Perhaps more."
"I'm afraid," said the bishop, with a smile in his old eyes, "that you
will need it, my friend. But who can say? You have strength, you have
confidence, and God is with you."
II
Life, as Hodder now grasped it, was a rapidly whirling wheel which gave
him no chance to catch up with the impressions and experiences through
which it was dragging him. Here, for instance, were two far-reaching
and momentous events, one crowding upon the other, and not an hour for
reflection, realization, or adjustment! He had, indeed, after his return
from the bishop's, snatched a few minutes to write Alison the unexpected
result of that interview. But even as he wrote and rang for a messenger
to carry the note to Park Street, he was conscious of an effort to seize
upon and hold the fact that the woman he had so intensely desired was now
his helpmate; and had, of her own freewill, united herself with him. A
strong sense of the dignity of their relationship alone prevented his
calling her on the telephone--as it doubtless had prevented her. While
she remained in her father's house, he could not. . .
In the little room next to the office several persons were waiting to see
him. But as he went downstairs he halted on the, landing, his hand going
to his forehead, a reflex movement significant of a final attempt to
achieve the hitherto unattainable feat of imagining her as his wife.
If he might only speak to her again--now, this morning! And yet he
knew that he needed no confirmation. The reality was there, in the
background; and though refusing to come forward to be touched, it had
already grafted itself as an actual and vital part of his being, never
to be eliminated.
Characteristically perfecting his own ideal, she had come to him in the
hour when his horizon had been most obscure. And he experienced now an
exultation, though solemn and sacred, that her faith had so far been
rewarded in the tidings he now confided to the messenger. He was not,
as yet, to be driven out from the task, to be deprived of the talent,
the opportunity intrusted to him by Lord--the emancipation of the parish
of St. John's.
The first to greet him, when he entered his office, was one who, unknown
to himself, had been fighting the battle of the God in Christ, and who
now, thanks to John Hodder, had identified the Spirit as the transforming
force. Bedloe Hubbell had come to offer his services to the Church. The
tender was unqualified.
"I should even be willing, Mr. Hodder," he said with a smile, "to venture
occasionally into a pulpit. You have not only changed my conception of
religion, but you have made it for me something which I can now speak
about naturally."
Hodder was struck by the suggestion.
"Ah, we shall need the laymen in the pulpits, Mr. Hubbell," he said
quickly. "A great spiritual movement must be primarily a lay movement.
And I promise you you shall not lack for opportunity."
III
At nine o'clock that evening, when a reprieve came, Hodder went out.
Anxiety on the score of Kate Marcy, as well as a desire to see Mr.
Bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his
steps toward Dalton Street. And Hodder had, indeed, an intention of
confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of
his engagement to Alison Parr.
Nothing, however, had been heard of Kate. She was not in Dalton Street,
Mr. Bentley feared. The search of Gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been
fruitless. And Sally Grover had even gone to see the woman in the
hospital, whom Kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible
clew. They sat close together before the fire in Mr. Bentley's
comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of
procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt
without. As it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them. The
door-bell rang.
Holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the
muffled sound of a woman's voice in the entry. A few moments later came
a knock at the library door, and Sam entered. The old darky was plainly
frightened.
"It's Miss Kate, Marse Ho'ace, who you bin tryin' to fin'," he stammered.
Holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table,
where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway. There she was,
perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an
earthquake. Her handsome face was white as chalk, her pupils widened in
terror. It was curious, at such an instant, that he should have taken
in her costume,--yet it was part of the mystery. She wore a new,
close-fitting, patently expensive suit of dark blue cloth and a small
hat, which were literally transforming in their effect, demanding a
palpable initial effort of identification.
He seized her by the arm.
"What is it?" he demanded.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "He--he's out there--in the carriage."
She leaned heavily against the doorpost, shivering . . . . Holder saw
Sally Grover coming down the stairs.
"Take her," he said, and went out of the front door, which Sam had left
open. Mr. Bentley was behind him.
The driver had descended from the box and was peering into the darkness
of the vehicle when he heard them, and turned. At sight of the tall
clergyman, an expression of relief came into his face.
"I don't like the looks of this, sir," he said. "I thought he was pretty
bad when I went to fetch him--"
Holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage. Leaning back,
motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man. For a
terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it.
"They sent for me from a family hotel in Ayers Street," the driver was
explaining. Mr. Bentley's voice interrupted him.
"He must be brought in, at once. Do you know where Dr. Latimer's office
is, on Tower Street?" he asked the man. "Go there, and bring this
doctor back with you as quickly as possible. If he is not in, get
another, physician."
Between them, the driver and Holder got the burden out of the carriage
and up the steps. The light from the hallway confirmed the rector's
fear.
"It's Preston Parr," he said.
The next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of
tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of Holder's being as now, when
Horace Bentley's calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed
down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . . Holder turned
away. Whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that
still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion. The years
of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and
over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the
wound of youth. Nay, loyalty had kept it fresh--a loyalty that was the
handmaid of faith. . .
The rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another
harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in
Sally Grover's grasp. He went to her assistance. . . Words of
comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,--Kate Marcy did not seem to hear
them. Hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the
overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained
physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her.
"I will go to him," she sobbed, between her paroxysms, "you've got no
right to keep me--he's mine . . . he came back to me--he's all I ever
had . . . ."
So intent were they that they did not notice Mr. Bentley standing beside
them until they heard his voice.
"What she says is true," he told them. "Her place is in there. Let her
go."
Kate Marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange,
half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze. They released her, helped her
towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . . The
three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the
doctor entered.
The examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed
for an explanation--apoplexy, alcohol. The prostrate, quivering woman
was left where they had found her.
Dr. Latimer was a friend of Mr. Bentley's, and betrayed no surprise at a
situation which otherwise might have astonished him. It was only when he
learned the dead man's name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly
from his note book.
"The matter can be arranged without a scandal," he said, after an
instant. "Can you tell me something of the circumstances?"
It was Hodder who answered.
"Preston Parr had been in love with this woman, and separated from her.
She was under Mr. Bentley's care when he found her again, I infer, by
accident. From what the driver says, they were together in a hotel in
Ayers Street, and he died after he had been put in a carriage. In her
terror, she was bringing him to Mr. Bentley."
The doctor nodded.
"Poor woman!" he said unexpectedly. "Will you be good enough to let Mr:
Parr know that I will see him at his house, to-night?" he added, as he
took his departure.
IV
Sally Grower went out with the physician, and it was Mr. Bentley who
answered the question in the rector's mind, which he hesitated to ask.
"Mr. Parr must come here," he said.
As the rector turned, mechanically, to pick up his hat, Mr. Bentley added
"You will come back, Hodder?"
"Since you wish it, sir," the rector said.
Once in the street, he faced a predicament, but swiftly decided that the
telephone was impossible under the circumstances, that there could be no
decent procedure without going himself to Park Street. It was only a
little after ten. The electric car which he caught seemed to lag, the
stops were interminable. His thoughts flew hither and thither. Should
he try first to see Alison? He was nearest to her now of all the world,
and he could not suffer the thought of her having the news otherwise.
Yes, he must tell her, since she knew nothing of the existence of Kate
Marcy.
Having settled that,--though the thought of the blow she was to receive
lay like a weight on his heart,--Mr. Bentley's reason for summoning Eldon
Parr to Dalton Street came to him. That the feelings of Mr. Bentley
towards the financier were those of Christian forgiveness was not
for a moment to be doubted: but a meeting, particularly under such
circumstances, could not but be painful indeed. It must be, it was,
Hodder saw, for Kate Marcy's sake; yes, and for Eldon Parr's as well,
that he be given this opportunity to deal with the woman whom he had
driven away from his son, and ruined.
The moon, which had shed splendours over the world the night before,
was obscured by a low-drifting mist as Hodder turned in between the
ornamental lamps that marked the gateway of the Park Street mansion,
and by some undiscerned thought--suggestion he pictured the heart-broken
woman he had left beside the body of one who had been heir to all this
magnificence. Useless now, stone and iron and glass, pictures and
statuary. All the labour, all the care and cunning, all the stealthy
planning to get ahead of others had been in vain! What indeed were left
to Eldon Parr! It was he who needed pity,--not the woman who had sinned
and had been absolved because of her great love; not the wayward,
vice-driven boy who lay dead. The very horror of what Eldon Parr was now
to suffer turned Hodder cold as he rang the bell and listened for the
soft tread of the servant who would answer his summons.
The man who flung open the door knew him, and did not conceal his
astonishment.
"Will you take my card to Miss Parr," the rector said, "if she has not
retired, and tell her I have a message?"
"Miss Parr is still in the library, sir."
"Alone?"
"Yes, sir." The man preceded him, but before his name had been announced
Alison was standing, her book in her hand, gazing at him with startled
eyes, his name rising, a low cry, to her lips.
"John!"
He took the book from her, gently, and held her hands.
"Something has happened!" she said. "Tell me--I can bear it."
He saw instantly that her dread was for him, and it made his task the
harder.
It's your brother, Alison."
"Preston! What is it? He's done something----"
Hodder shook his head.
"He died--to-night. He is at Mr. Bentley's."
It was like her that she did not cry out, or even speak, but stood still,
her hands tightening on his, her breast heaving. She was not, he knew,
a woman who wept easily, and her eyes were dry. And he had it to be
thankful for that it was given him to be with her, in this sacred
relationship, at such a moment. But even now, such was the mystery that
ever veiled her soul, he could not read her feelings, nor know what these
might be towards the brother whose death he announced.
"I want to tell you, first, Alison, to prepare you," he said.
Her silence was eloquent. She looked up at him bravely, trustfully, in a
way that made him wince. Whatever the exact nature of her suffering, it
was too deep for speech. And yet she helped him, made it easier for him
by reason of her very trust, once given not to be withdrawn. It gave him
a paradoxical understanding of her which was beyond definition.