EMILY spent a week in studying “the work” of the Redeemer parish—the activities of its large staff of “workers” of different grades, from ministers down through deacons, deaconesses, teachers, nurses, to unskilled helpers. She attended its schools—day and night; its lectures; its kindergartens and day nurseries; its clubs for grown people, for youths and for children. She examined its pawn-shops, its employment-bureaus, its bath-houses. She was surprised by the many ways in which it touched intimately the lives of that quarter of a million people of various races, languages and religions, having nothing in common except human nature, poverty, and ignorance. She was astonished at the amount of good accomplished—at the actual, visible results.
She had no particular interest in religion or belief in the value of speculations about the matters on which religion dogmatises. Her father’s casual but effective teachings, the books she had read, the talk of the men and of many of the women she had associated with, the results of her own observations and reflections, had strongly entrenched this disposition in prejudice. Her adventure into the parish was therefore the more a revelation. And she found also that while everything was done there in the name of religion, little, almost nothing, was said about religion. “The work,” except in the church and the chapels at distinctly religious meetings, was wholly secular. Here was simply a great plant for enlightening and cheering on those who grope or sit dumb and blind.
At first she was rather contemptuous of “the workers” and was repelled by certain cheap affectations of speech, thought and manner, common to them all. They were, the most of them, it seemed to her, poorly equipped in brains and narrow in their views of life. But when she got beneath the surface, she disregarded externals in her admiration for their unconscious self-sacrifice, their keen pleasure in helping others—and such “others!”—their limitless patience with dirt, stupidity, shiftlessness, and mendacity. She was profoundly moved by the spectacle of these homely labourers, sowing and reaping unweariedly the arid sands of the slums for no other reward than an occasional blade of sickly grass.
She was standing at the window of one of the women’s clubs—the one in Allen street near Grand. It was late in the afternoon and the crowd was homeward-bound from labour. To her it was a forbidding-looking crowd. The blight of ignorance—centuries, innumerable centuries of ignorance—was upon it. Grossness, dulness, craft, mental and physical deformity, streamed monotonously by.
She started and glanced around. Beside her, reading her thoughts in her face, was Dr. Stanhope. Instead of his baggy, unclerical tweed suit, he was wearing the uniform of his order. It sat strangely upon him, like a livery; and, she thought, he hasn’t in the least the look of the liveried, of one who is part of any sort of organisation. “He looks as lone, as ‘unorganised,’ as self-sufficient, as a mountain.”
“Depressing?” she said, shaking her head with an expression of distaste. “It’s worse—it’s hopeless.”
“No,—not hopeless. And you ought not to look at it with disgust. It’s the soil—the rotten loam from which the grain and the fruit and the flowers spring.”
“I don’t think so. To me it’s simply a part of the great stagnant, disease-breeding marsh which receives the sewage of society.”
“I sha’n’t go on with the analogy. But your theory and mine are in the end the same. We all sprang from this; and the top is always flowering and dropping back into it to spring up again.”
“I see nothing but ignorance that cannot learn. It seems to me nearly all the effort spent upon it is wasted. If nature were left alone, she would drain, drain, drain, until at last she might drain it away.”
“Yours is an unjust view, I think. I won’t say anything,” this with a faint smile, “about the souls that are worth saving. But if we by working here open the way for a few, maybe a very few, to rise who would otherwise not have risen, we have not worked in vain. My chief interest is the children.”
“Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting up, “there is hope for the children. You don’t know how it has affected me to see what you and your people are doing for them. It’s bound to tell. It is telling.”
He looked at her as if she were his queen and had bestowed some honour upon him which he had toiled long to win. “Thank you,” he said. “It means a great deal to me to have you say that.”
She gave him a careless glance of derisive incredulity.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You are amusing,” she replied. “Your expression of gratitude was overacted. It was—was—grotesque.”
He drew back as if he had received a blow. “You are cruel,” he said.
“Because I warn you that you are overestimating my vanity? It seems to me, that is friendly kindness. I’m helping you on.”
“I do not know anything about your vanity. But I do know how I feel toward you—what every word from you means to me.”
There was wonder and some haughtiness in her steady gaze, as she said: “I do not understand you at all. Your words are the words of an extravagant but not very adroit flatterer. Your looks are the looks of a man without knowledge of the world and without a sense of proportion.”
She thought a moment, then turned toward him with her frank, direct expression. “I have been going about in your parish for several days now. And everywhere I have heard of you. Your helpers and those that are helped all talk of you as if you were a sort of god. You are their god. They draw their inspiration, their courage, their motive-power from you. They work, they strive, because they wish to win your praise.”
“I have been here fifteen years,” he explained with unaffected modesty, “and as I am at the head, naturally everything seems to come from me. In reality I do little.”
“That is not to my point. I wasn’t trying to compliment you. What I mean is that I find you are a man of influence and power in this community. And you must be conscious of this power. And since you evidently wield it well, you have it by right of merit. Yet you wish me to believe that you bow down in this humble fashion before a woman of whom you know nothing.” She laughed.
“Well?” he said, looking impassively out of the window.
“It is ridiculous, impossible. And if it were true, it would be disgraceful—something for you to be ashamed of.”
He turned his head slowly until his eyes met hers. She felt as if she were being caught up by some mighty force, perilous but intoxicating. She tried to look away but could not.
“What a voice you have!” he said. “It makes me think of an evening long ago in England. I was walking alone in the moonlight through one of those beautiful hedged roads when suddenly I heard a nightingale. It foretold your voice—you.”
She turned her eyes away and looked upon the darkening street. The sense of his nearness thrilled through her in waves that made her giddy.
“Now, do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I understand—and, for the first time in my life, I’m afraid.”
“Then you know why I, too, am afraid?”
“You must not speak of it again.”
They stood there silently for a moment or two, then she said: “I must be going.” And she was saying to herself in a panic, “I am mad. Where is my honour—my self-respect? Where is my common sense?”
“I will go with you to the car,” he said. “I feel that I ought to be ashamed. And it frightens me that I am not. Perhaps I am ashamed, but proud of it.”
“Good-night.” She held out her hand. “Good-bye. I am used to going about alone. I prefer it. Good-bye.”
Those were days of restless waiting, of advance and retreat, of strong resolves suddenly and weakly crumbling into shifting mists. She said to herself many times each day, “I shall not, I cannot see him again.” She assured herself that she had herself under proper control. But there was a voice that called mockingly from a subcellar of her mind: “I am a prisoner, but I am here.”
One morning at breakfast, after what she thought a very adroit “leading up,” she ventured to say to Joan: “What do you think of a woman who falls in love with a married man?”
Joan kept her expression steady. To herself she said: “I thought so. It isn’t in a woman’s nature to be thoroughly interested in life unless there is some one man.” Aloud she said: “Why, I think she ought to bestir herself to fall out again.”
“But suppose that she didn’t wish to.”
“Then I think she is—imbecile.”
“You are so uncompromising, Joan,” protested Emily.
“Well, I don’t think much of women who intrigue, or of men either. It’s a sneaky, lying, muddy business.”
“But suppose you accidentally fell in love with a married man?”
“I can’t suppose it. I don’t believe people fall in love accidentally. They’re simply in love with love, and they have morbid, unhealthy tastes. Besides, married men are drearily unromantic. They always look so—so married.”
“Well, then, what do you think of a married man who falls in love with a girl?”
“Very poorly, indeed. And if he tells her of it, he ought to be pilloried.”
“You are becoming—conventional.”
“Not at all. But to fall in love honestly a man and a woman must both be free. If either has ties, each is bound from the other by them. And if it’s the man that is tied, there’s simply no excuse for him if he doesn’t heed the first sign of danger.”
“But it might be a terrible temptation to both of them. Love is very—very compelling, isn’t it?”
“There’s a great deal of nonsense talked about love, as you must know by this time. Of course, love is alluring, and when indulged in by sensible people, not to excess, it’s stimulating, like alcohol in moderation. But because cocaine could make me temporarily happier than anything else in the world, does that make it sensible for me to form the cocaine habit?”
Joan paused, then added with emphasis: “And there is a great deal that is called love that is no more love than the wolf was Little Red Ridinghood’s grandmother.”
Emily felt that Joan was talking obvious common sense and that she herself agreed with her entirely—so far as her reason was concerned. “But,” she thought, “the trouble is that reason doesn’t rule.” A few days later she went to dinner at Theresa’s. As she entered the dining-room the first person upon whom her eyes fell was a tall, slender girl, fair, handsome through health and high color, and with Stanhope’s peculiarly courageous yet gentle dark eyes— “It must be his sister.” She asked Theresa.
“It’s Evelyn Stanhope,” she replied, “the daughter of our clergyman. He’s a tremendously handsome man. All the woman are crazy about him.” Theresa looked at her peculiarly.
“What is it?” asked Emily, instantly taking fright, though she did not show it.
“I thought perhaps you’d heard.”
“Heard what?”
“All about Miss Stanhope and—and Edgar.”
“You don’t mean that Edgar has recovered from me? How unflattering!” Emily’s smile was delightfully natural—and relieved.
“He’s got love and marriage on the brain, and he’s broken-hearted, you know. And in those cases if it can’t be the woman it’s bound to be a woman.”
Emily was in the mood to be completely resigned to giving up to another that which she did not want herself. She studied Miss Stanhope without prejudice against her and found her sweet but as yet colourless, a proper young person for Edgar to marry, one toward whom she could not possibly have felt the usual dog-in-the-manger jealousy. After dinner she sat near her and encouraged her in the bird-like chatter of the school girl. She was listened to with patience and tolerance; because she was young and fresh and delighted with everything including herself, amusingly, not offensively. She fell in love with Emily and timidly asked if she might come to see her.
“That would be delightful,” said Emily with enthusiasm, falling through infection into a mode of speech and thought long outgrown. “I’m sure we shall be great friends. Theresa will bring you on Saturday afternoon. That is my free day. You see, I’m a working-woman. I work every day except Saturday.”
“Sundays too?” asked Evelyn.
“Oh, yes, I prefer”—she stopped short. “Sunday is a busy day with us,” she said instead.
“Isn’t that dreadful?”
“Yes—it is distressing.” Without intention Emily put enough irony into her voice to make Evelyn look at her sharply. “It keeps me from church.”
“Well, sometimes I think I’d like to be kept from church.” Evelyn said this in a consolatory tone. “I’m a clergyman’s daughter and I have to go often—to set a good example.” She laughed. “Mamma is so nervous that she can only go occasionally and my brother Sam is a perfect heathen. But I often copy papa’s sermons. He says he likes my large round hand as a change from the typewriting. Then I like to listen and see how many changes he makes. You’d be surprised how much better it all sounds when it’s spoken—really quite new.”
Papa! Papa’s Sermons! And a Sam, probably as big as this great girl!
“Is your brother younger or older than you?”
“A year older. He’s at college now—or at least, he’s supposed to be. It’s surprising how little he has to stay there. He’s very gay—a little too wild, perhaps.”
She was proud of Sam’s wildness, full as proud as she was of her father’s sermons. She rattled cheerfully on until it was time for her to go and, as Emily and she were putting on their wraps at the same time, she kissed her impulsively, blushing a little, saying “You’re so beautiful. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind?” Emily laughed and kissed her. Evelyn wondered why there were tears in the eyes of this fascinating woman with the musical voice and the expression like a goddess of liberty’s.
The next morning Dr. Stanhope, at breakfast and gloomy, brightened as his daughter came in and sat opposite him.
“I had such a glorious time at the Waylands’!” she said. “The dinner was lovely.”
“Did Edgar take you in?”
“Oh, no.” She blushed. “He wasn’t there. He’s in Stoughton, you know. But I met the most beautiful woman. She seemed so young, and yet she had such a wise, experienced look. And she was so unconscious how beautiful she was. You never saw such a sweet, pretty mouth! And her teeth were like—like——”
“Pearls,” suggested her father. “They’re always spoken of as pearls—when they’re spoken of at all.”
“No—because pearls are blue-white, whereas hers were white-white.”
“But who was this lady with the teeth?”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask—only her name. She said she was a working-woman. She’s a Miss Bromfield.”
Stanhope dropped his knife and fork and looked at his daughter with an expression of horror.
“Why, what is it, father? Is there something wrong about her? It can’t be. And I—I arranged to call on her!”
“No—no,” he said hastily. “I was startled by a coincidence. She’s a nice woman, nice in every way. But—did she ask you to call?”
“No—I asked her. But she was very friendly, and when I kissed her in the dressing-room she kissed me, and—she had such a queer, sad expression. I thought perhaps she had a sister like me who had died.”
“Perhaps she had.” Stanhope looked pensively at his daughter. To himself he said: “Yes, probably a twin sister—the herself of a few years ago.”
“And I’m going to see her next Saturday,” continued his daughter. “I’m sure Mrs. Wayland will take me.”
“To see whom?” said Mrs. Stanhope, coming into the room.
Stanhope rose and drew out a chair for her. “We were talking of a Miss Bromfield whom Evelyn met at the Waylands’ last night. You may remember—she came here one afternoon for the Democrat—about the church’s work.”
“I remember; she looked at me quite insolently, exactly as if I were an intruding servant. What was she doing at Wayland’s? I’m surprised at them. But why is Evelyn talking of going to see her? I’m astonished at you, Evelyn.”
Evelyn and her father looked steadily at the table. Finally Evelyn spoke: “Oh, but you are quite mistaken, mother dear. She was a lady, really she was.”
“Impossible,” said Mrs. Stanhope. “She is a working-girl. No doubt she’s a poor relation of the Waylands.”
Stanhope rose, walked to the window, and stood staring into the gardens. The veins in his forehead were swollen. And he seemed less the minister than ever, and more the incarnation of some vast, inchoate force, just now a force of dark fury. Gradually he whipped his temper down until he was standing over it, pale but in control.
“I wish to speak to your mother, Evelyn,” he said in an even voice.
Evelyn left the room, closing the door behind her. Stanhope resumed his seat at the table. His wife looked at him, then into her plate, her lips nervous.
“Only this,” he said. “You will let Evelyn go to see Miss Bromfield.” His voice was polite, gentle. “And I must again beg of you not to express before our children those—those ideas of disrespect for labour and respect for idleness which, as you know, are more offensive to me than any others of the falsehoods which it is my life work to fight.”
She was trembling with anger and fear. Yet in her sullen eyes there was cringing adoration. One sees the same look in the eyes of a dog that is being beaten by its master, as it shows its teeth yet dares not utter a whine of its rage and pain lest it offend further.
“You know we never do agree about social distinctions, Arthur,” she said, in a soothing tone.
“I know we agreed long ago not to discuss the matter,” he replied, kindly but wearily. “And I know that we agreed that our children were not to hear a suggestion that their father was teaching false views.”
“We can’t all be as broad as you are, Arthur.”
“If I were to speak what is on the tip of my tongue,” he said good-humouredly, “we should re-open the sealed subject. I must go. They are waiting for me.”
That afternoon Mrs. Stanhope wrote asking Theresa to go with Evelyn to Miss Bromfield’s. And on Saturday Evelyn went, taking her mother’s card.