The morning after his dinner party Franklin Mills rose at eight o’clock. He had slept badly, an unusual thing with him, and he found little satisfaction in an attempt to account for his wakefulness on the score of something he had eaten. As he shaved he found that he was not performing the familiar rite automatically as usual. He tried a succession of blades and became impatient when they failed to work with their usual smoothness.... Perhaps he was smoking too much, and he made a computation of the number of cigars and cigarettes he had smoked the day before, and decided that he had exceeded his usual allowance by a couple of cigars.
The mental exercise necessary to reach this conclusion steadied him. He had no intention of breaking, as some of his friends and contemporaries had broken, from sheer inattention to the laws of health. He attained a degree of buoyancy as he dressed by thinking of his immunity from the cares that beset most men. No other man in town enjoyed anything like his freedom. He had not dreaded age because he never thought of himself as old. And yet the years were passing.
He must study means of deferring old age. Marriage might serve to retard the march of time. The possibility of remarrying had frequently of late teased his imagination. Leila would leave him one of these days; he must have a care that she married well. Mills had plans for Carroll’s future; Carroll would be a most acceptable son-in-law. Leila had so far shown no interest in the secretary, but Leila had the Mills common sense; when it came to marrying, Leila would listen to reason.
He called his man to serve breakfast in his room, read the morning paper, inspected his wardrobe and indicated several suits to be pressed.
From his south window he viewed the Harden house across the hedge. Millicent was somewhere within.... It might be a mistake to marry a girl as young as Millicent. He knew of men who had made that mistake, but Millicent was not to be measured by ordinary standards. With all the charm of youth, she was amazingly mature; not a feather-brained girl who would marry him for his money. There was the question of her family, her lack of social background; but possibly he magnified the importance of such things. His own standing, he argued, gave him certain rights; he could suffer nothing in loss of dignity by marrying Millicent. It gave a man the appearance of youth to be seen with a young wife. Helen Torrence would not do; she lacked the essential dignity, and her background was far too sketchy—no better than the Hardens’. He had settled that....
The remembrance of the young architect’s head superimposed upon the portrait of Franklin Mills III caused him an uneasiness which he was not able to dispel by a snap of the fingers. Any attempt to learn what had prompted Storrs to choose for his residence the city so long sacred to the Mills family might easily arouse suspicions. The portrait in itself was a menace. People were such fools about noting resemblances! If his sister, Alice Thornberry, met Storrs she might remark upon his resemblance to their father. And yet she was just as likely to note the removal of the picture if he relegated it to the attic....
By the time he had interviewed the house servants and driven to the office Mills had passed through various moods ranging from his habitual serenity and poise to apprehension and foreboding. This puzzled him. Why should he, the most equable of men, suddenly fall a prey to moods? He put on a pair of library glasses that he kept in his desk, though he usually employed a pince-nez at the office—a departure that puzzled Carroll, who did not know that Mills, in the deep preoccupation of the morning, had left his pocket case at home. Mills, in normal circumstances, was not given to forgetfulness. Aware that something was amiss, Carroll made such reports and suggestions as were necessary with more than his usual economy of words.
“Doctor Lindley telephoned that he’d be in to see you at eleven. You have no engagements and I told him all right.”
“Lindley? What does Lindley want?” Mills demanded, without looking up from a bank statement he was scanning.
“He didn’t say, sir; but as you always see him——”
“I don’t know that I care to see him today,” Mills mumbled. Mills rarely mumbled; his speech was always clean-cut and definite.
Carroll, listening attentively to his employer’s instructions as to answering letters and sending telegraphic orders for the sale of certain stocks, speculated as to what had caused Mills’s unwonted irascibility.
A few minutes after eleven word was passed from the office boy to the stenographer and thence from Carroll to Mills that the Reverend Doctor Lindley was waiting.
Mills detained Carroll rather unnecessarily to discuss matters of no immediate moment. This in itself was surprising, as the rector of St. Barnabas, the oldest and richest church in town, had heretofore always been admitted without delay. The Mills family had been identified with St. Barnabas from pioneer times and Doctor Lindley was entertained frequently by Mills, not only at home but at the men’s luncheons Mills gave at his clubs for visiting notables.
“Ah, Mills! Hard at it!” exclaimed the minister cheerfully. He was short, rotund and bald, with a large face that radiated good nature. A reputation for breadth of view and public spirit had made him, in the dozen years of his pastorate, one of the best liked men in town. He gave Mills a cordial handshake, asked after Leila and assured Mills that he had never seen him looking better.
Lindley was a dynamic person and his presence had the effect of disturbing the tranquility of the room. Mills wished now that he hadn’t admitted the rector of St. Barnabas, with his professional good cheer and optimism. He remembered that Lindley always wanted something when he came to the office. If it proved to be help for a negro mission St. Barnabas maintained somewhere, Mills resolved to refuse to contribute. He had no intention of encouraging further the idea that he could be relied upon to support all of Lindley’s absurd schemes for widening the sphere of the church. It was a vulgar idea that a sinner should prostrate himself before an imaginary God and beg for forgiveness. Where sin existed the main thing was to keep it decently out of sight. But the whole idea of sin was repellent. He caught himself up sharply. What had he to do with sin?
But outwardly Mills was serene; Lindley was at least a diversion, though Mills reflected that someone ought to warn him against his tendency to obesity. A fat man in a surplice was ridiculous, though Mills hadn’t seen Lindley in vestments since the last fashionable wedding. At the reception following the wedding Mills remembered that he had been annoyed by Lindley’s appetite; more particularly by a glimpse of the rector’s plump hand extended for a second piece of cake—cake with a thick, gooey icing.
Mills wondered what he had ever seen that was likable in the rector, who certainly suggested nothing of apostolic austerity. Lindley threw back his coat, disclosing a gold cross suspended from a cord that stretched across his broad chest. Mills’s eyes fixed upon the emblem disapprovingly as he asked his visitor to have a cigar.
“No, thanks, Mills; I never smoke so early in the day—found it upset me. Moderation in all things is my motto. I missed you at the Clayton party the other night; a brilliant affair. Dear Leila was there, though, and Shepherd and his charming wife, to represent your family. Margaret and I left early.” The clergyman chuckled and lowering his voice continued: “I’ve heard—I’ve heard whispers that later on the party got quite gay! I tell you, Mills, the new generation is stepping high. All the more responsibility for the forces that make for good in this world! I was saying to the bishop only the other day that the church never before faced such perplexities as now!”
“Why do you say perplexities?” asked Mills in the quiet tone and indulgent manner of an expert cross-examiner who is preparing pitfalls for a witness.
“Ah, I see you catch at the word! It’s become a serious question what the church dare do! There’s the danger of offending; of estranging its own membership.”
“Yes, but why is it a danger?” Mills persisted.
The minister was surprised at these questions, which were wholly foreign to all his previous intercourse with Mills. His eyes opened and shut quickly. The Reverend Stuart Lindley was known as a man’s man, a clergyman who viewed humanity in the light of the twentieth century and was particularly discerning as to the temptations and difficulties that beset twentieth century business men.
“My dear Mills,” he said ingratiatingly, “you know and I know that this is an age of compromise. We clergymen are obliged to temper our warnings. The wind, you know, no longer blows on the lost sheep with the violence it once manifested, or at least the sheep no longer notice it!” A glint in Mills’s eyes gave him pause, but he went on hurriedly. “In certain particulars we must yield a little without appearing to yield. Do you get my point?”
“Frankly, I don’t know that I do,” Mills replied bluntly. “You preach that certain things are essential to the salvation of my soul. What right have you to compromise with me or anyone else? You either believe the Gospel and the creeds that are used every day in our churches or you don’t. I didn’t mean to start a theological discussion; I was just a little curious as to what you meant by perplexities, when the obligation is as plain as that table.”
“But—you see the difficulties! We have a right to assume that God is perfectly aware of all that goes on in His world and that the changing times are only a part of His purpose.”
“Well, yes,” Mills assented without enthusiasm. “But I was thinking of what you and the church I was born into declare to be necessary to the Christian life. I go to church rarely, as you know, but I’m fairly familiar with the New Testament. I’ve got a copy with the words of Jesus printed in bold type, so you can’t miss His meaning. He was pretty explicit; His meaning hits you squarely in the eye!”
“But, my dear friend, above all He preached tolerance! He knew human frailty! There’s the great secret of His power.”
“Oh, that’s all true!” said Mills, with courteous forbearance. “But you know very well that few of us—no—I’ll admit that I don’t live the Christian life except where it’s perfectly easy and convenient. Why talk of the perplexities of the ministry when there’s no excuse for any of us to mistake His teachings? You either preach Jesus or you don’t! We lean heavily on His tolerance because we can excuse ourselves with that; it’s only an alibi. But what of His courage? Whatever I may think of Him—divine or merely a foolish idealist—He did die for His convictions! It occurs to me sometimes that He’s served nowadays by a pretty cowardly lot of followers. Oh—not you, my friend!—I don’t mean anyone in particular—except myself! Probably there are other men who think much as I do, but we don’t count. We pay to keep the churches going, but we don’t want to be bothered about our duty to God. That’s a disagreeable subject!”
He ended with a smile that was intended to put Lindley at ease.
“You are absolutely right, Mills!” declared the minister magnanimously. “But as a practical man you realize that there are embarrassments in the way of doing our full duty.”
“No; truly, I don’t!” Mills retorted. “We either do it or we don’t. But please don’t think I meant to quiz you or be annoying. I wouldn’t offend you for anything in the world!”
“My dear Mills!” cried the clergyman with the disdain demanded by so monstrous a suggestion.
“It never occurred to me before,” Mills went on, his good humor only faintly tinged with irony, “it never struck me in just this way before, but I suppose if you were to preach to your congregation just what Jesus preached you’d empty the church.”
“Well, of course——” began Lindley, with difficulty concealing his surprise at the dogged fashion in which Mills was pursuing the subject.
“Of course you can’t do it!” With a bland smile Mills finished the sentence for him. “Jesus is the Great Example of a perfect life; but do we any of us really want to live as He lived?”
“Ah, Mills, we can only approximate perfection; that’s the best we can hope for!”
“Thank you! There’s some consolation in that!” Mills laughed. “But if we really took the teachings of Jesus literally we wouldn’t be sitting here; we’d be out looking up people who need shelter, food, cheer. As it is I’m not bothering my head about them. I pay others to do that—Carroll hands me a list of organizations he considers worthy of assistance and all I do is to sign the checks—ought to be ashamed of myself, oughtn’t I?”
“Well, now, Mills,” Lindley laughed pleasantly, “that’s a matter I leave to your own conscience.”
“But you oughtn’t to! It’s your duty to tell me that instead of riding up to a comfortable club today to eat luncheon with a couple of bankers I ought first to be sure that every man, woman and child in the community is clothed and fed and happy.”
“What would you do if I did?” Lindley demanded, bending forward and regarding Mills fixedly.
“I’d tell you to go to the Devil!”
“There you are!” cried Lindley with a gesture of resignation. “You know your duty to your neighbor as well as I do. The affair isn’t between you and me, after all, my dear friend—it’s between you and God!”
“God?” Mills repeated the word soberly, his eyes turning to the window and the picture it framed, of a sky blurred by the smoke of factory chimneys. “I wonder——” he added, half to himself.
Lindley was puzzled and embarrassed, uncertain whether to try to explain himself further. His intuitions were keen and in his attempt to adjust himself to a new phase of Mills’s character he groped for an explanation of the man’s surprising utterances. There had been something a little wistful in Mills’s use of the word God. Lindley was sincerely eager to help where help was needed, but as he debated whether Mills really had disclosed any need that he could satisfy, Mills ended the matter by saying a little wearily:
“What was it you wanted to see me about, Lindley?”
“It’s about the Mills memorial window in St. Barnabas; the transept wall’s settled lately and pulled the window out of plumb. Some of the panels are loose. The excavations for the new building across the alley caused the disturbance. Now that the building’s up we’ll hope the worst is over. That’s one of the finest windows in the West. The figure of our Lord feeding the multitude is beautifully conceived. I had Freeman look at it and he says we’ll have to get an expert out from New York to take care of it properly. The vestry’s hard up as usual, but I felt sure you’d want us to have the job well done——”
“Certainly, Lindley. Go ahead and send me the bill. Of course I’m glad to take care of it.”
Mills was himself again. The mention of the Mills memorial window had touched his pride. The window not only symbolized the miraculous powers of Jesus, but quite concretely it visualized for the congregation of St. Barnabas the solid worth and continuity of the house of Mills.
He detained Lindley, gave him a chance to tell a story, made sure before he permitted him to go that the minister had not been wounded by anything he had said. He had come out pretty well in his talk with the minister; it did no harm to ruffle the complacency of a man like Lindley occasionally. But he wanted to guard against a return of the vexatious thoughts with which the day had begun.
A ride would set him up and he would find some cheerful companions to join him at the farm. Usually he planned his parties ahead, but the day was too fine to let pass. He rang for Carroll, his spirits already mounting at the thought of escaping from town.
“I believe I’ll run out to Deer Trail this afternoon. I’ll ask some people who like to ride to join me. Will you call Mrs. Freeman, Mrs. Torrence, Leila and Miss Harden? I’ll be glad to have you go if you can arrange it—I’ll leave it all to you. As to men, try Doctor Armstrong, Mr. Turner, Ralph Burton—say that I’ll send machines to take them out unless they prefer using their own cars. You’ll look after that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, yes; if Shep calls up tell him I’ll see him later about those battery plant matters. I want to talk to Fields first....”
“Yes; I understand, sir.”
“Let me see; this was the day Freeman was to meet me out there to look over the superintendent’s house. I’ve promised Jackson to make the addition he wants this fall. Freeman’s probably forgotten it—he has a genius for forgetting engagements, and I’d overlooked your memorandum till just now. Freeman hates a horse, but if he goes it will only take a few minutes to show him what’s wanted.”