“Upon my word, I think you've put it rather well, Evelyn,” said Eleanor, admiringly.
“In spite of personalities,” added Mr. Bridges.
“I don't see the use of fussing about it,” proclaimed Laureston Grey, who was the richest and sprucest of the three sons-in-law. “Why can't we let well enough alone?”
“Because it isn't well enough,” Evelyn replied. “I want the real thing or nothing. I go to church once a month, to please mother. It doesn't do me any good. And I don't see what good it does you and Lucy to go every Sunday. You never think of it when you're out at dinners and dances during the week. And besides,” she added, with the arrogance of modern youth, “you and Lucy are both intellectually lazy.”
“I like that from you, Evelyn,” her sister flared up.
“You never read anything except the sporting columns and the annual rules of tennis and golf and polo.”
“Must everything be reduced to terms?” Mrs. Waring gently lamented. “Why can't we, as Laury suggests, just continue to trust?”
“They are the more fortunate, perhaps, who can, mother,” George Bridges answered, with more of feeling in his voice than he was wont to show. “Unhappily, truth does not come that way. If Roger Bacon and Galileo and Newton and Darwin and Harvey and the others had 'just trusted,' the world's knowledge would still remain as stationary as it was during the thousand-odd years the hierarchy of the Church was supreme, when theology was history, philosophy, and science rolled into one. If God had not meant man to know something of his origin differing from the account in Genesis, he would not have given us Darwin and his successors. Practically every great discovery since the Revival we owe to men who, by their very desire for truth, were forced into opposition to the tremendous power of the Church, which always insisted that people should 'just trust,' and take the mixture of cosmogony and Greek philosophy, tradition and fable, paganism, Judaic sacerdotalism, and temporal power wrongly called spiritual dealt out by this same Church as the last word on science, philosophy, history, metaphysics, and government.”
“Stop!” cried Eleanor. “You make me dizzy.”
“Nearly all the pioneers to whom we owe our age of comparative enlightenment were heretics,” George persisted. “And if they could have been headed off, or burned, most of us would still be living in mud caves at the foot of the cliff on which stood the nobleman's castle; and kings would still be kings by divine decree, scientists—if there were any—workers in the black art, and every phenomenon we failed to understand, a miracle.”
“I choose the United States of America,” ejaculated Evelyn.
“I gather, George,” said Phil Goodrich, “that you don't believe in miracles.”
“Miracles are becoming suspiciously fewer and fewer. Once, an eclipse of the sun was enough to throw men on their knees because they thought it supernatural. If they were logical they'd kneel today because it has been found natural. Only the inexplicable phenomena are miracles; and after a while—if the theologians will only permit us to finish the job—there won't be any inexplicable phenomena. Mystery, as I believe William James puts it may be called the more-to-be-known.”
“In taking that attitude, George, aren't you limiting the power of God?” said Mrs. Waring.
“How does it limit the power of God, mother,” her son-in-law asked, “to discover that he chooses to work by laws? The most suicidal tendency in religious bodies today is their mediaeval insistence on what they are pleased to call the supernatural. Which is the more marvellous—that God can stop the earth and make the sun appear to stand still, or that he can construct a universe of untold millions of suns with planets and satellites, each moving in its orbit, according to law; a universe wherein every atom is true to a sovereign conception? And yet this marvel of marvels—that makes God in the twentieth century infinitely greater than in the sixteenth—would never have been discovered if the champions of theology had had their way.”
Mrs. Waring smiled a little.
“You are too strong for me, George,” she said, “but you mustn't expect an old woman to change.”
“Mother, dear,” cried Eleanor, rising and laying her hand on Mrs. Waring's cheek, “we don't want you to change. It's ourselves we wish to change, we wish for a religious faith like yours, only the same teaching which gave it to you is powerless for us. That's our trouble. We have only to look at you,” she added, a little wistfully, “to be sure there is something—something vital in Christianity, if we could only get at it, something that does not depend upon what we have been led to believe is indispensable. George, and men like him, can only show the weakness in the old supports. I don't mean that they aren't doing the world a service in revealing errors, but they cannot reconstruct.”
“That is the clergyman's business,” declared Mr. Bridges. “But he must first acknowledge that the old supports are worthless.”
“Well,” said Phil, “I like your rector, in spite of his anthropomorphism—perhaps, as George would say, because of it. There is something manly about him that appeals to me.”
“There,” cried Eleanor, triumphantly, “I've always said Mr. Hodder had a spiritual personality. You feel—you feel there is truth shut up inside of him which he cannot communicate. I'll tell you who impresses me in that way more strongly than any one else—Mr. Bentley. And he doesn't come to church any more.”
“Mr. Bentley,” said her, mother, “is a saint. Your father tried to get him to dinner to-day, but he had promised those working girls of his, who live on the upper floors of his house, to dine with them. One of them told me so. Of course he will never speak of his kindnesses.”
“Mr. Bentley doesn't bother his head about theology,” said Sally. “He just lives.”
“There's Eldon Parr,” suggested George Bridges, mentioning the name of the city's famous financier; “I'm told he relieved Mr. Bentley of his property some twenty-five years ago. If Mr. Hodder should begin to preach the modern heresy which you desire, Mr. Parr might object. He's very orthodox, I'm told.”
“And Mr. Parr,” remarked the modern Evelyn, sententiously, “pays the bills, at St. John's. Doesn't he, father?”
“I fear he pays a large proportion of them,” Mr. Waring admitted, in a serious tone.
“In these days,” said Evelyn, “the man who pays the bills is entitled to have his religion as he likes it.”
“No matter how he got the money to pay them,” added Phil.
“That suggests another little hitch in the modern church which will have to be straightened out,” said George Bridges.
“'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.'”
“Why, George, you of all people quoting the Bible!” Eleanor exclaimed.
“And quoting it aptly, too,” said Phil Goodrich.
“I'm afraid if we began on the scribes and Pharisees, we shouldn't stop with Mr. Parr,” Asa Wiring observed, with a touch of sadness.
“In spite of all they say he has done, I can't help feeling sorry for him,” said Mrs. Waring. “He must be so lonely in that huge palace of his beside the Park, his wife dead, and Preston running wild around the world, and Alison no comfort. The idea of a girl leaving her father as she did and going off to New York to become a landscape architect!”
“But, mother,” Evelyn pleaded, “I can't see why a woman shouldn't lead her own life. She only has one, like a man. And generally she doesn't get that.”
Mrs. Waring rose.
“I don't know what we're coming to. I was taught that a woman's place was with her husband and children; or, if she had none, with