# The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 14

On the third Sunday in December the Right Reverend the Bishop of the diocese made his annual visitation to the parish of Christ Church.
The rector had a large class to present to him for confirmation. Not unusually large, perhaps, but the numbers were sufficient to indicate that there was no material falling off in the personal accessions to the church. It was noted, however, that among the candidates there were few people of the wealthy class. Most of those received into membership came from the families of wage-workers. Nor were the accessions from this class as large as the rector had hoped and expected they would be. The great majority of those who came to hear him preach, who sympathized with him, who even fought for him, remained, nevertheless, outside the organized body of the church. People whose lives are given over to manual labor, especially in the cities, are characteristically cautious. Through centuries of exploitation, of deception, of promises unfulfilled, they have learned to be on their guard. They are not quick to attach themselves to any body, religious or secular, to which they are to assume new and undefined obligations. Nevertheless, the bishop had no fault to find with the class presented to him for confirmation, nor with the congregations that greeted him.
In his honor, and as significant of their attitude toward the church as distinguished from their attitude ​toward the rector, those who had, during the last few months, deserted their pews, were out in full force. Their attendance, coupled with the attendance of a throng of people of the humbler class, taxed the church edifice to its capacity. Many were obliged to stand throughout the service and did so willingly. No reference was made by the bishop in his sermon, or from the chancel, to the troubles in the parish. It seemed to him that it would be the part of wisdom on his part, so far as his public utterances were concerned, to ignore them at this time. He was a guest of Mrs. Tracy. Ever since his elevation to the bishopric she had entertained him at her house on the occasions of his annual visitations to the parish. The bishop felt quite at home in the Tracy family. He was especially fond of Ruth. He had confirmed her. He had seen her grow into helpful and religious young womanhood. She was the fairest flower in his whole diocese. Nor was Mr. Tracy left entirely out of account. He was not a churchman, that is true, and his name was rarely mentioned in matters connected with the episcopal visitation. But he liked the bishop, and the bishop liked him, and they had many an enjoyable visit with each other before the library fire of an evening, after the other members of the family had retired for the night. The bishop was fond of a good cigar, and Mr. Tracy provided him with the choicest brands. Moreover the bishop was getting up in years; his duties were onerous and his work was wearing, and his physician had advised him, on occasion, to take something before retiring that would induce sound and restful sleep. Mr. Tracy knew exactly what would best answer that purpose, and he provided it. It was small wonder, therefore, that the Tracy house came to be regarded as a kind of episcopal residence during the period of the annual visitation.
It was here that the bishop invited the vestry to meet with him on the Monday evening following con​firmation, for the purpose of discussing specifically the charges against the rector, and generally the unhappy situation in the parish. It must not be supposed that he had failed to inform himself, privately, before coming to the city, of the exact nature of the trouble. It would have been unwise not to have done so. Nor was he likely to remain in ignorance concerning the opinions of certain parishioners now that he was here. A succession of callers, mostly of the wealthier class, who had had the privilege of a personal acquaintance with him, occupied his attention during the greater part of the day. In the early afternoon Barry Malleson came to see the bishop. He felt that his voice might be potent in obtaining episcopal favor for the rector toward whom his loyalty had increased day by day. He was ushered into the reception room and told that the bishop, who was engaged with a caller in the library, would see him in a few minutes. While he was waiting, who should come in but Jane Chichester. She was rejoiced to find Barry there. It was an opportunity that she had been seeking, and that he had been avoiding, for a full week.
"I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I've been wanting awfully to see you, and it's been ten whole days since I've had the remotest glimpse of you. Where in the world have you been?"
"Why," replied Barry, "we've been pretty busy down at the mill lately."
"But I've called you up a dozen times and they always tell me you're out."
"That's the fault of Miss Bolckom, the telephone girl. I must speak to her about it."
If the truth must be told, Barry had spoken to her about it, suggesting mildly that if any one whose voice resembled that of Miss Chichester should call him up, and he should unfortunately happen to be out, why, she needn't go to the trouble or having him paged. Miss Bolckom, being an ordinarily clever girl, had ​understood perfectly. Hence Barry's unaccountable absences.
But Miss Chichester had him now alone and at her mercy.
"What I wanted to see you about," she explained, "is that I've come to the conclusion that Phil Westgate is just making game of both of us. I've called him up every day and he says his detectives haven't discovered the first thing."
"Give 'em time," suggested Barry. "You know Rome wasn't built in a day."
"They've had plenty of time. He just doesn't want them to discover anything. I'm not going to wait another day. If he doesn't find something to-morrow to confirm what I saw, I'm going to make my story public. I'm going to spread it from one end of the town to the other. I'm going to show that woman up for what she is, and if Ruth Tracy and Mr. Farrar want to patronize her after that, they'll do it at their peril. Of course you won't have anything more to do with her, will you, Barry?"
Barry opened his eyes wide and was silent. Then a happy thought came to him, and he said:
"If any woman lets Steve Lamar hug and kiss her, she mustn't expect to associate with me."
"Of course not; nor with any one else who has any self-respect or any regard for public opinion. But to-morrow's the last day I'm going to keep my mouth shut, and Phil can like it or not as he chooses. I never did think he was as much of a lawyer as some people claim he is, anyway."
"Why," replied Barry, "the only thing I've got against Phil is that he's leading this fight on the rector. Otherwise he's a very decent fellow, with fair, average ability."
"Are you here to see the bishop, Barry?"
"I thought I'd drop in and have a chat with him. The bishop and I are old friends."
​"I came to see him, too. I always come to see him when he's here on his visitation. I think he's such a dear man."
"He's a very agreeable fellow."
"If one were going to get married wouldn't it be too sweet for anything to have the bishop marry you?"
"It wouldn't be a bad idea, that's so."
"And he's getting along in years, and his health is not very good, and I did hear some talk about his resigning. Wouldn't it be too bad if he should leave the episcopate before one is ready to get married?"
Barry began to have an uncomfortable feeling. He didn't know just why. It was not the first time that Miss Chichester had discussed the subject of matrimony with him, and his equanimity had never before been ruffled by it, but now he saw a cloud on the horizon.
"Oh, well," he said, "there'll be other bishops."
"But this one is so adorable," persisted Miss Chichester. "And what with all the trouble in the parish and everything, he may never come here again. Barry, when that person comes out, whoever it is, we'll go in and see the bishop together, won't we?"
Barry took a firmer grasp on his hat and cane, and glanced anxiously toward the hall door as if to make sure of his means of escape in the event of an emergency.
"Why," he stammered, "I wanted to see the bishop alone,—a—confidentially, you know. A matter of some importance."
"But we shouldn't have any secrets that we keep from each other, Barry. And I'm sure that if we go to the bishop together and agree on what to ask him, we can prevail on him to do almost anything for us. Oh, dear! I wish the person that's in there would come out quick."
​Barry dragged his watch from his pocket and glanced at it.
"I've got to go," he said. "I can't wait any longer. Important business at the mill."
He rose and started toward the hall, but Miss Chichester was nearest that avenue of escape, and she intercepted him and laid a beseeching hand on his arm.
"Don't, Barry! Don't go! It won't take five minutes, once the bishop's at liberty."
Barry, in a fever of apprehension, was contemplating a sudden break for the street, when the library door opened and the bishop and his caller appeared. The visitor was the lady who, some weeks before, in a petulant mood, had declared her purpose of seeking comfort and satisfaction in another communion that recognizes the historic episcopate. But she had not gone there. She had felt, on second thought, that she could be of more service to Christianity by retaining her existing church connections and taking up arms against the rector. She was saying, as she emerged into the reception room:
"The man is impossible, Bishop; perfectly impossible! He has driven most of us from the Church already, and the rest will follow very soon unless you suppress him without delay. Oh, here's Jane Chichester. Miss Chichester will agree with me, I'm sure."
"Perfectly!" said Miss Chichester, retaining her hold on Barry's arm notwithstanding the advent of the bishop and his caller.
"And what is Mr. Malleson's opinion?" asked the bishop, advancing and shaking hands courteously with Miss Chichester and warmly with Barry, and thereby loosing the young lady's grip on the coat-sleeve of a greatly perturbed young man.
"Oh, it doesn't matter much what Barry thinks," interposed the pompous lady, rustling her gorgeous ​green silk gown; "he's more than half-converted to socialism, anyway."
The bishop laughed.
"How's that, Barry?" he inquired. "Has some one been leading you into by and forbidden paths?"
"No," replied Barry, hesitatingly. "I mean, yes. Say, Bishop, I want to see you for a minute—alone—entirely alone; strictly confidential business."
"Certainly!" replied the bishop, affably. "I'm sure the ladies will excuse us. They can discuss, in our absence, fashion, society, religion, suffrage, or the Church, as they choose."
He bowed politely and smilingly to each woman in turn, drew Barry into the library, and closed the library door.
With a sigh of relief the rescued young man dropped into the nearest chair.
"She pretty near got me that time!" he exclaimed, pulling his handkerchief nervously from his pocket and wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
"Who nearly got you?" inquired the bishop.
"Why, Miss—— Say, Bishop, could you marry a couple that might drop in on you casually, suddenly, say just as though it were this afternoon?"
"I could," was the reply, "provided I was not trenching on the preserves of the parish priest, and provided the couple brought along their marriage license."
"Their what?"
"Their marriage license."
"A fellow can't get married unless he has a marriage license?"
"Not in this state."
"And has he got to get the license himself?"
"He must apply for it in person. But let me ask: what is the meaning of all these questions?"
Barry did not reply. He heaved another great sigh of relief, and settled back in his chair. He had discov​ered a new barrier against sudden matrimony. When he did speak again he chose to change the subject.
"You see," he said, "I came to talk with you about Farrar. Now, he's the right man in the right place. He's doing a lot of good around here. I'd hate to see him kicked out."
"So would I."
"Then let's keep him here. I'll stand by him to the finish."
"But many of his parishioners demand that he shall be relieved."
"That's because they don't appreciate him. They don't sense what he's doing. They're not up to date. We run the Church according to modern methods these times, same as we do the mill."
"And those who are most insistent are communicants, vestrymen, prominent supporters."
"Well, I know I'm not a communicant nor a vestry-man, but I say, Bishop, there are few men in the parish who are willing to do more for Farrar and his church than I am. I don't know, by Jove! but I'd be willing to join the Church myself if it would help Farrar out."
"That sounds good. I shall hope to see your name on the list of candidates presented to me for confirmation next year."
"But the question is: what are we going to do for Farrar?"
"I'm going to do all I can for him. I like him."
"So do I. So does Ruth Tracy, and Mrs. Bradley, and Hazzard, and Emberly, and a lot of us. Take my advice, Bishop, and keep him here. You won't be sorry; I'll give you my word for it."
Barry rose from his chair and added: "I won't keep you any longer. There's a lot of people out there to see you by this time. I've watched 'em through the window, getting out of their cars at the door. Now, you do as I tell you, Bishop, and everything will come out all right."
​He grasped the prelate's hand warmly, turned toward the door, and then suddenly turned back.
"Say, Bishop," he said, "would you mind calling Jane Chichester in here just as soon as I open the door? She's been waiting a long time to see you."
"I'll be glad to."
"Thank you!" There was a tone of deep gratefulness in Barry's voice.
The bishop was as good as his word. Out of a half dozen callers waiting to see him he selected Miss Chichester for his next interview, and Barry made a successful escape.
Westgate was the first member of the vestry to arrive at the Tracy house on the evening of the consultation with the bishop. He had not been there before since the night on which Ruth had decreed their separation. He looked around on the familiar walls of the library, burdened with books and rich with pictures, and his memory went back to those other evenings when the stately room was lighted by the presence of one who still held his heart in thrall. It was not merely an emotional sadness from which he suffered as he stood there; he was aware also of an actual, stifling pain in his breast, the reaction of spiritual distress on the physical organs of life. A great longing rose within him that he might hear the soft sweep of her garments on the staircase, just as he used to hear it in the old days, that he might see her figure outlined in the doorway, and catch the welcoming smile on her face—— There was a movement in the hall, the rustling of a gown, and then, not Ruth, but her mother fluttered in. She was trembling with excitement. She felt that the climax of an eventful day was about to be reached. Her overstrained nerves were yielding to the pressure that had been put on them.
"Oh, Philip!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you came first. I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask you not to let him send Mr. Farrar away."
​Westgate placed a chair for her and endeavored to quiet her.
"I don't think the bishop will make a decision of any kind to-night," he assured her. "He may not care at any time to exercise his power to decree a direct dismissal. But why have you changed your mind in the matter?"
"I haven't changed my mind about his sermons and his ridiculous ideas and all that, but I hate to see him disgraced, and I'm so sorry for poor, dear Mrs. Farrar. I went to call on her to-day. You should have seen her, Philip. She's a mere wreck. It was distressing the way she wept."
"I know. I'm as sorry as you are for Mrs. Farrar."
"It's pitiful! I tried to get her to come with me to see the bishop, but she wouldn't. She says she wants to go; she says it's torture to her to stay in this city; but she doesn't want her husband disgraced. Poor woman! She hardly knows what she wants. She's beside herself."
"I'm very sorry for Mrs. Farrar," repeated Westgate. "It's one of the sad results of a man's misdeeds that the innocent members of his family are often the greater sufferers."
"So I want you," went on Mrs. Tracy, "to plead with the bishop. He'll listen to you. I talked with him but he wouldn't give me any satisfaction. He said he couldn't promise anything. I tried to get Ruth to talk with him; he's very fond of Ruth; but she wouldn't. I couldn't reason with her. She says there's a great principle involved. She says that if he's wrong he's tremendously wrong, and he ought to go; and if he's right, as she believes he is, he is everlastingly right, and he ought to be vindicated, and honored and loved."
"Did she say he ought to be loved?"
"Something like that. I don't exactly remember. The whole thing is so perfectly dreadful!"
"Mrs. Tracy, I believe that Ruth's salvation depends ​on Mr. Farrar's removal. The man has hypnotized her. She is under a spell."
The distracted woman searched Westgate's face, trying to grasp the full meaning of his words.
"Philip!" she gasped, "you—you don't really mean——"
"Oh, I don't mean that he has wilfully and maliciously placed her under his control. He is not a scoundrel. But she is, nevertheless, absolutely pliant to his will."
"And you think that, for Ruth's sake, he ought to go?"
"I say that unhesitatingly."
"Oh, dear! What shall we do?"
"You must quiet yourself, Mrs. Tracy, and await developments. As I have already told you, I doubt whether there will be any dismissal to-night. However, the final result will undoubtedly depend on the attitude assumed by the bishop. And so far as I am able to exercise any influence on his judgment, I shall exercise it in favor of the earliest possible dismissal of the rector of Christ Church."
"Philip, this is terrible!"
She would have said more, but at that moment other members of the vestry arrived, and she precipitately fled.
When the bishop of the diocese entered the library most of the vestrymen were already there. The rector, together with the two remaining members, came a few moments later. There were cordial exchanges of personal greetings, and some general conversation of a cheerful nature, for the bishop was what is called a good mixer. And this was his favorite parish. He had always enjoyed his visits and visitations here, and his friendships with the prominent men and women of Christ Church. The strained relations between many of these men and women and their rector had therefore given him deep concern. How to heal the breach was ​a problem that taxed his episcopal judgment and ingenuity to the utmost. He deplored the loss of spirituality that must necessarily result from the quarrel. But it was his especial duty, as a bishop, to preserve the corporate integrity of organized religion, and to this end he felt that he must now bend all his efforts. Yet he approached his task with deep misgiving.
Seated, finally, at the head of the library table, he expressed his sorrow at the conflict which had arisen, and his desire to restore peace and harmony in the parish. It was his earnest wish, he said, that the case might be settled by the exercise of his godly judgment in accordance with the admonition of the canon, without the necessity of proceeding to a formal trial and decree. To that end he had called the vestry to meet with him in consultation; and, in order that there might be a full understanding of the case, he now invited those who had formulated the charges against the rector to give him the specific causes of their complaint.
Thereupon Westgate, who had been chosen to represent the complainants, arose to present their case.
He sketched briefly the history of the parish, and referred to its record for harmony and good works up to the time of the present incumbency. He then dwelt specifically on the deviations of the rector from the accustomed activities of a parish priest. He spoke of his attempt to force upon his parishioners the practice of an unwelcome, if not offensive, social equality, of his affiliation with elements in the community that were indifferent or inimical to religion, of his advocacy of an economic creed entirely at variance with the doctrines and discipline of the Church, of his utter disregard of the wishes and feelings of the bulk of his parishioners, and of his obstinate refusal to be influenced or guided in parish activities by his vestry, or by the wise judgment of those who were responsible for the maintenance and prosperity of Christ Church.
​The bishop heard him through, listening attentively, but made no comment. He then called upon the accused priest to reply.
In the rector's response there was no bitterness, nor any show of resentment. He stated his position and his beliefs, his scheme of work in the parish, his hopes and aspirations for his people, and his hearty desire to unite all those affiliated in any way with Christ Church, without distinction of class, into one aggressive body pledged to the spiritual and material regeneration of men.
"I ask nothing for myself," he said in conclusion. "If my Reverend Father in God shall see fit to separate me from the people whom I love, I shall accept the decree without a murmur. In that event my only grief and fear would be that these sheep that I have shepherded will become scattered and lost. It is for their sakes, and for their sakes alone, that I desire to stay."
"Is it not possible," asked the bishop, "that you have placed too great emphasis on the wants and demands of the poor, and have given undue attention to those who take but a passing interest in the Church?"
"I think not," was the reply. "In my judgment it is the indifferent who should be sought out and urged; and in my belief it is the poor who need the greater attention as compared with the rich. They are children of the desolate. They are many more than are the children of her who is favored and blessed."
"But have you given sufficient thought to those who, for many years, have devoted themselves with single-hearted solicitude to the interests of Christ Church, and who have a right to feel that your duty toward them is at least equal to your duty toward those who have hitherto been strangers to religion?"
Westgate smiled. He felt that the bishop was reaching the vital point in the issue.
"I feel," replied the rector, "that I have done my full duty to all my people."
​"And you have carefully considered the protests and appeals of those of your parishioners who have not agreed with you?"
"Carefully and prayerfully. I cannot concede what they ask. I cannot yield to their demands without stultifying myself in the eyes of men, and proving false to the trust which God has imposed on me."
It was plain that his unyielding purpose left no room for compromise. The thing must be fought out. The bishop took up and glanced at the written complaint that had been filed with him.
"You are charged here," he said, "with having violated the canons of the Church and the rubrics of the prayer-book. What have you to say to that charge?"
"I have not knowingly violated any law of the Church," was the reply. "I believe in, and I have not failed to preach, every vital doctrine set forth in our articles of religion."
The bishop turned to Westgate.
"You have charged this priest," he said, "with having taught doctrines contrary to those held by the Church. Will you kindly amplify the charge?"
"Certainly!" was the quick response. "He has declared himself to be a socialist, and he has upheld, publicly and privately, the main principles promulgated by the socialistic body. These principles are contrary to the doctrines of the Church."
"I am," explained the rector, "a Christian socialist."
"And what," retorted Westgate, "is a Christian socialist? There is no such thing, nor can there be in the very nature of the case. The two terms, Christianity and socialism, are fundamentally antagonistic to one another, and must always remain so. You might as well speak of peaceful war."
The bishop shook his head doubtfully.
"Are you conversant, Mr. Westgate," he asked, ​"with the movement inaugurated by Kingsley and Maurice of the Church of England and denominated Christian socialism? I do not understand that Mr. Farrar has gone so far in his beliefs and declarations as did these churchmen and their followers, and no ecclesiastical condemnation was visited on them."
"I am well aware," replied Westgate, "of the movement in England of which you speak. I am also well aware that, so far as their religious aspect was concerned, the schemes of Maurice and Kingsley failed utterly, as did the purely economic scheme of Robert Owen who preceded them. Indeed, the only socialistic scheme that has ever survived the test of years is the one put forth by the atheistic school of Germany, the one that is growing like a Upas tree to-day. The whole idea of so-called Christian socialism has been condemned by churchmen abroad in language far more severe than any that I have used. Clergymen over there who have resorted to Fabian tracts as a means for exploiting unchristian doctrines are not those who are doing the Lord's work most effectually in the United Kingdom to-day."
The bishop's eyes snapped. Not with anger, but with interest and eagerness. He dearly loved a controversy such as this, and here, evidently, was a foeman worthy of his steel. He started vigorously to make answer to Westgate and then suddenly checked himself. He realized that this was neither the time nor place to enter into an argument on the subject of social philosophy. He contented himself with asking quietly:
"Are you familiar, Mr. Westgate, with the Encyclical issued by the Lambeth Conference, and with the report made by the Joint Commission on the Relations of Capital and Labor to our last General Convention, and, if so, do you agree with the opinion therein expressed that the Church cannot stand officially for or against socialism?"
"I am entirely familiar," was the reply, "with the ​matters to which you refer; and I agree that it is not the province of the Church to make war on socialism or any other economic doctrine. Her concern, as the same report declares, is with the spirit, and not with any outward form of society. Nor, by the same token, can the Church afford to have one of her priests appear as the protagonist of an economic policy which, carried to its logical conclusion, would destroy the life of the Church."
Again the bishop started to controvert Westgate's statement, again checked himself, and asked, as quietly as before:
"Are you aware that our beloved Phillips Brooks approached very close to the position which you are condemning this priest for occupying?"
"I am aware that Bishop Brooks was a Christian democrat, but a Christian socialist, never!"
The bishop smiled. He admired Westgate's pugnacity. He longed to lock horns with him in argument, but he felt that he must yield his desire to the necessities and proprieties of the occasion. With a sigh he picked up the written complaint which was lying on the table before him, and glanced at it.
"You have here charged your rector," he said, "with having administered the holy communion in a manner contrary to the rubrics. Will you please specify?"
"Certainly," was the response. "The rubric for the holy communion commands that the minister shall not receive any one to the communion who has done any wrong to his neighbor by word or deed. Mr. Farrar has repeatedly administered this sacrament to avowed socialists who preach the confiscation of their neighbors' goods, and who stand ready to practice what they preach so soon as they can so change the law that they will not suffer the usual penalty."
The bishop smiled again, but he shook his head impatiently.
"Is not that objection rather far-fetched?" he asked.
​"I do not think so," was the reply. "He has, by both precept and example, placed the seal of the Church on a doctrine which is utterly subversive of social order and human rights. I do not think the Church will tolerate it."
Without making a reply the bishop glanced again at the complaint. It was evident that he was not inclined to give serious consideration to Westgate's attack on the rector's attitude toward socialism.
"What have you to say," he inquired, "concerning your charge that the minister has violated the rubric in the order for the burial of the dead?"
"This," was the prompt reply. "I charge him with having, in violation of the rubric, used the office of the Church in the burial of one, John Bradley, an unbaptized adult, a scoffer at religion, and a detractor of the Church."
The bishop did not smile this time. He looked sober and perplexed. At last the objections had advanced beyond the domain of triviality, and were directed at things of moment, things which might undermine the authority and integrity of the Church. He turned to the rector and inquired:
"What have you to say to this, Mr. Farrar?"
"I did," replied the minister, "commit the body of John Bradley to the grave. Whether in his lifetime he was baptized or unbaptized, whether he had been a believer or a scoffer, I did not stop to inquire."
"Was it not your duty to have done so?"
"Under the circumstances, I think not. I was at the burial merely as an onlooker when I was suddenly confronted with a request to officiate."
"What form of service did you use?"
"I do not know. I may not have used any. I have no recollection. With the body of a man before me who had suffered at the hands of the ruling class, and who had died in the shadow of a deep injustice, I simply said the things that came into my mind to say."
​"It is important that we should know what those things were. The Church cannot tolerate freedom of speech under her auspices at the burial of the unbaptized dead, nor the unwarranted use of her service at the grave of one who has died scoffing at religion."
"I wish it were in my power to reproduce my words. I should not be ashamed of them, and I am sure they would not condemn me."
The bishop, worried and uncertain, looked anxiously around the room. But, before he could make up his mind what to say or do next, Emberly rose in his place. It was evident that the man was laboring under great excitement, but he spoke, nevertheless, with commendable restraint.
"If the bishop desires," he said, "to know what words were used, I believe we can supply him with that information. The widow of John Bradley is here in the house. I have heard her say on more than one occasion that the words of our rector's brief address at the burial of her husband are indelibly stamped on her memory."
"Can the woman be brought before us?" asked the bishop.
"Without doubt," replied Emberly. "I saw her come in, and I will try to find her." He left the room in search of the desired witness.
It was true that Mary Bradley was in the house. She knew that the bishop was to hear the charges against the rector this night; everybody knew it; charges which, if sustained, would surely result in his humiliation and disgrace. She felt that the one man above all others to whom she owed any gleam of light that had ever fallen across the darkness of her life was in imminent peril. She was torn with anxiety concerning him. The four walls of her home on Factory Hill could not contain her. She found a neighbor's boy for an escort, and started out. Impelled by a ​force with which she did not and could not parley, she made her way across the city to Fountain Park, and into the arms of Ruth Tracy, stretched out to receive her. The Mary and Martha of Holy Writ were not more concerned for the welfare of the persecuted Christ than were these two women for the safety of the man to whom each, in a way and to an extent unknown to the other, was supremely devoted. In the woman from Factory Hill it was the desire to be near him in his hour of trial that was paramount. She might, by some bare possibility, be able to serve him, to defend him, to refute his enemies. At least she would know, without a night of dreadful suspense, what fate had befallen him. Then Emberly came to summon her, and when she knew what was wanted she went with him gladly.
In the library there was a halt in the proceedings, and an awkward lull. The full and florid face of the bishop was flushed more deeply than usual. With the fingers of one hand he tapped nervously the engraved seal of the big episcopal ring that ornamented the other hand, and awaited in silence the advent of the witness. The expectant and apprehensive countenances of the men who faced him marked their own agitation of mind. The rector alone of all of them sat confident and unperturbed. The wide doors into the hall, having been opened, were not again closed. Then Emberly entered with Mary Bradley. All eyes were turned on the woman. She was not abashed, nor did she appear in any way to be ill at ease. Yet there had never in her life before been a moment when her nerves were more nearly at the breaking point.
"My good woman," said the bishop, "we are informed that the rector of Christ Church officiated at the burial of your deceased husband. Is this true?"
"It is true," she replied, "that he made a brief address at my husband's grave."
"At whose request?"
​"At mine."
"Did he use a prayer-book, or any particular form of religious service?"
"He did not."
"Can you remember what he said?"
"As well as though it had been said yesterday."
"Will you kindly repeat his words, as you remember them?"
"I will. He said: 'In that day when the grave shall give up its dead, and the souls of them that were in prison shall be free, may we know that the unchained spirit of this our brother has reached the fulfilment of the joys that were denied him here, but which, through all time, have awaited his coming into that glorious country where toil and patience and a good conscience shall have their reasonable reward.' And then he said: 'Amen.'"
She bowed her head as though in reverent memory of the event. The room was so still that men heard their own hearts beat.
The bishop sighed.
"Was that all?" he asked.
"That was all."
"We thank you. You may retire."
She turned to go, but, before she had taken a step, Westgate rose to his feet.
"May I interrogate the witness?" he asked.
"If it is the pleasure of the witness to answer your interrogations," the bishop replied.
"I will answer anything," said Mary Bradley.
"Had your husband ever been baptized?" inquired Westgate.
"I do not know," she replied. "I greatly doubt it."
"Did he ever attend the services of any church?"
"Never, to my knowledge."
"Was he not an avowed unbeliever in religion?"
"He knew nothing about religion. I think he cared less," was the frank reply.
​"Did he not openly scoff at piety, and ridicule the Church?"
"I do not think he was sufficiently concerned about either of them to scoff at or ridicule them."
She met his questions with such frankness and bluntness that Westgate, nettled more at the manner than at the matter of her replies, resolved to hit closer at the mark.
"You asked the rector to do what he did at the burial?"
"I did."
"Are you, yourself, a member of any church?"
"I am not."
"Nevertheless, you attend the services at Christ Church?"
"I go every Sunday."
"Do you believe in God?"
"Not in the God you patronize and profit by."
"Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"
"As you picture Him, no. As the Bible pictures Him, yes. He was the friend of the poor and the oppressed."
"You are a socialist?"
"I am."
"And the secretary of the Socialist League?"
"I am."
"Do you know one Stephen Lamar?"
"I know him."
"He is prominent in your league?"
"He is an important member of it."
"He is a radical socialist?"
"I have heard him say that he is."
"And an atheist?"
"I have heard him say that he is."
"You are frequently in his company?"
"As often as my business with him requires it."
"Is it not a fact that this Stephen Lamar is your accepted lover?"
​She shot at him a look blazing with indignation.
"You have no right," she said, "to ask me that question, and I shall not answer it."
Westgate paid no heed to her refusal. With fore-finger pointed at her to emphasize his demand, he went on:
"Two weeks ago you made an afternoon call at this house?"
"I had that pleasure."
"And when you went home darkness had fallen?"
"I believe so. Why do you ask?"
"We shall see. And on your way across the city you were accompanied by a man?"
"Sir, you have no right——"
"And this man walked with you across the Malleson foot-bridge?"
Pallid, with startled eyes, with clenched hands, she cried out again:
"I say you have no right——"
"And in the middle of the bridge, this man, with his arm around your waist——"
"Stop!"
It was not Mary Bradley this time. It was the rector of Christ Church who spoke. He was on his feet. His eyes were flashing and his voice was resonant with anger. "Stop! You shall not bully and insult this woman. I'll not permit it."
"I desire," retorted Westgate, "to reveal the personal character and conduct of the star witness whom you have brought here to-night to bolster up your lost cause."
"I have brought no witness here, and you know it. And you shall not seize on an innocent circumstance to drag the name of an honest woman in the mire. I say I'll not permit it."
"And I say that the woman is her own detractor, and I shall show her to this company in her true light——"
​But he got no further. He was suddenly aware that in the doorway leading from the hall Ruth Tracy was standing, and the mysterious power of her presence struck silence into his defaming tongue. At her side was her mother, and behind them was the master of the house. The loud voices, the heated retorts, heard by them through the open doors as they sat in their room across the hall, had drawn them resistlessly to the scene of the conflict. At the moment of Westgate's startled pause, Ruth, after flinging one scornful glance at her former lover, swept across the hall and put her arm protectingly around Mary Bradley's waist. The vestrymen all started to their feet, and some of them began to talk excitedly, and to make loud demands. The situation had become acute, extreme, impossible.
The bishop rose and threw both his hands into the air above his head.
"I will hear no more!" he cried, his voice rising high above the increasing clamor in the room. "I will hear no more!" he repeated, "and may God give you better hearts before we meet again."
Ruth drew Mary Bradley from the room, pushing by her mother who stood in the doorway sobbing and clinging to her astounded husband. The vestrymen "went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even unto the last."
Only the minister remained. The bishop turned to him, smiled grimly, and said:
"'Where are those thine accusers?'"
And the minister replied: "They have cast their handful of stones at me and have gone."
"Farrar, I want you to come with me to my room."
Two hours later the rector of Christ Church left the Tracy mansion, and started down the hill toward home in the face of a blinding snow-storm. And ever and anon, as he strode along, he broke away from the memory of the heart-searching counsel given to him by ​his Reverend Father in God to wonder where Westgate had learned of the episode at the bridge, and what unwarranted and unsavory interpretation he was endeavoring to place on it, and what malign purpose he had in mind.