LITMIR.BIZ

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prison in which he was to end his days. The carved oaken ceiling, lofty though it was, had the effect of pressing downward, the heavy furniture matched the heavy walls, and even the silent, quick-moving servants had a watchful air.

      Mr. Parr bowed his head while Hodder asked grace. They sat down.

      The constraint which had characterized their conversation continued, yet there was a subtle change in the attitude of the clergyman. The financier felt this, though it could not be said that Hodder appeared more at his ease: his previous silences had been by no means awkward. Eldon Parr liked self-contained men. But his perceptions were as keen as Nelson Langmaid's, and like Langmaid, he had gradually become conscious of a certain baffling personality in the new rector of St. John's. From time to time he was aware of the grey-green eyes curiously fixed on him, and at a loss to account for their expression. He had no thought of reading in it an element of pity. Yet pity was nevertheless in the rector's heart, and its advent was emancipating him from the limitations of provincial inexperience.

      Suddenly, the financier launched forth on a series of shrewd and searching questions about Bremerton, its church, its people, its industries, and social conditions. All of which Hodder answered to his apparent satisfaction.

      Coffee was brought. Hodder pushed back his chair, crossed his knees, and sat perfectly still regarding his host, his body suggesting a repose that did not interfere with his perceptive faculties.

      “You don't smoke, Mr. Hodder?”

      The rector smiled and shook his head. Mr. Parr selected a diminutive, yellow cigar and held it up.

      “This,” he said, “has been the extent of my indulgence for twenty years. They are made for me in Cuba.”

      Hodder smiled again, but said nothing.

      “I have had a letter from your former bishop, speaking of you in the highest terms,” he observed.

      “The bishop is very kind.”

      Mr. Parr cleared his throat.

      “I am considerably older than you,” he went on, “and I have the future of St. John's very much at heart, Mr. Hodder. I trust you will remember this and make allowances for it as I talk to you.

      “I need not remind you that you have a grave responsibility on your shoulders for so young a man, and that St. John's is the oldest parish in the diocese.”

      “I think I realize it, Mr. Parr,” said Hodder, gravely. “It was only the opportunity of a larger work here that induced me to leave Bremerton.”

      “Exactly,” agreed the banker. “The parish, I believe, is in good running order—I do not think you will see the necessity for many—ahem—changes. But we sadly needed an executive head. And, if I may say so, Mr. Hodder, you strike me as a man of that type, who might have made a success in a business career.”

      The rector smiled again.

      “I am sure you could pay me no higher compliment,” he answered.

      For an instant Eldon Parr, as he stared at the clergyman, tightened his lips—lips that seemed peculiarly formed for compression. Then they relaxed into what resembled a smile. If it were one, the other returned it.

      “Seriously,” Mr. Parr declared, “it does me good in these days to hear, from a young man, such sound doctrine as you preach. I am not one of those who believe in making concessions to agnostics and atheists. You were entirely right, in my opinion, when you said that we who belong to the Church—and of course you meant all orthodox Christians—should stand by our faith as delivered by the saints. Of course,” he added, smiling, “I should not insist upon the sublapsarian view of election which I was taught in the Presbyterian Church as a boy.”

      Hodder laughed, but did not interrupt.

      “On the other hand,” Mr. Parr continued, “I have little patience with clergymen who would make religion attractive. What does it amount to—luring people into the churches on one pretext or another, sugar-coating the pill? Salvation is a more serious matter. Let the churches stick to their own. We have at St. John's a God-fearing, conservative congregation, which does not believe in taking liberties with sound and established doctrine. And I may confess to you, Mr. Hodder, that we were naturally not a little anxious about Dr. Gilman's successor, that we should not get, in spite of every precaution, a man tinged with the new and dangerous ideas so prevalent, I regret to say, among the clergy. I need scarcely add that our anxieties have been set at rest.”

      “That,” said Hodder, “must be taken as a compliment to the dean of the theological seminary from which I graduated.”

      The financier stared again. But he decided that Mr. Hodder had not meant to imply that he, Mr. Parr, was attempting to supersede the dean. The answer had been modest.

      “I take it for granted that you and I and all sensible men are happily. agreed that the Church should remain where she is. Let the people come to her. She should be, if I may so express it, the sheet anchor of society, our bulwark against socialism, in spite of socialists who call themselves ministers of God. The Church has lost ground—why? Because she has given ground. The sanctity of private property is being menaced, demagogues are crying out from the house-tops and inciting people against the men who have made this country what it is, who have risked their fortunes and their careers for the present prosperity. We have no longer any right, it seems, to employ whom we will in our factories and our railroads; we are not allowed to regulate our rates, although the risks were all ours. Even the women are meddling—they are not satisfied to stay in the homes, where they belong. You agree with me?”

      “As to the women,” said the rector, “I have to acknowledge that I have never had any experience with the militant type of which you speak.”

      “I pray God you may never have,” exclaimed Mr. Parr, with more feeling than he had yet shown.

      “Woman's suffrage, and what is called feminism in general, have never penetrated to Bremerton. Indeed, I must confess to have been wholly out of touch with the problems to which you refer, although of course I have been aware of their existence.”

      “You will meet them here,” said the banker, significantly.

      “Yes,” the rector replied thoughtfully, “I can see that. I know that the problems here will be more complicated, more modern—more difficult. And I thoroughly agree with you that their ultimate solution is dependent on Christianity. If I did not believe—in spite of the evident fact which you point out of the Church's lost ground, that her future will be greater than her past, I should not be a clergyman.”

      The quiet but firm note of faith was, not lost on the financier, and yet was not he quite sure what was to be made of it? He had a faint and fleeting sense of disquiet, which registered and was gone.

      “I hope so,” he said vaguely, referring perhaps to the resuscitation of which the rector spoke. He drummed on the table. “I'll go so far as to say that I, too, think that the structure can be repaired. And I believe it is the duty of the men of influence—all men of influence—to assist. I don't say that men of influence are not factors in the Church to-day, but I do say that they are not using the intelligence in this task which they bring to bear, for instance, on their business.”

      “Perhaps the clergy might help,” Hodder suggested, and added more seriously, “I think that many of them are honestly trying to do so.”

      “No doubt of it. Why is it,” Mr. Parr continued reflectively, “that ministers as a whole are by no means the men they were? You will pardon my frankness. When I was a boy, the minister was looked up to as an intellectual and moral force to be reckoned with. I have heard it assigned, as one reason, that in the last thirty years other careers have opened up, careers that have proved much more attractive to young men of ability.”

      “Business careers?” inquired the rector.

      “Precisely!”

      “In other words,” said Hodder, with his curious

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