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    The Inside of the Cup: The Bestseller of 1913
    The Inside of the Cup: The Bestseller of 1913
    The Inside of the Cup: The Bestseller of 1913
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    The Inside of the Cup: The Bestseller of 1913

    By Winston Churchill

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    Winston Churchill was born on November 10th, 1871 in St. Louis, Missouri, to parents Edward Spalding Churchill and Emma Bell Blaine. Tragically his mother died soon after his birth, and he was thereafter raised by Emma’s half-sister, Louisa and her husband.

    He was educated at Smith Academy in Missouri and the United States Naval Academy, from which he graduated in 1894. Whilst there he was recognised as a diligent student who took part in the complete range of offered activities. He became an expert fencer and also organized and captained, at Annapolis, the first eight-oared crew.

    After leaving he became an editor of the Army and Navy Journal.

    In 1895, Churchill became managing editor of the Cosmopolitan Magazine, but within twelve months he resigned in order to pursue his own writings full time.

    Despite his own background of privilege and money this move to a literary career was undoubtedly supported in every way by his marriage in 1895 to the St Louis heiress, Mabel Harlakenden Hall.

    However, despite the support of his wife and her monies, the motivation necessary for a full-time literary career was easily available to him given the scope of his talents. In time his writings would cover a spectrum from novels to poems to essays and plays.

    His first novel to appear in book form was ‘The Celebrity’ (1898). However, ‘Mr Keegan's Elopement’ had been published in 1896 as a magazine serial and only as a hardback in 1903. Churchill's next novel—'Richard Carvel’ (1899)—was a phenomenal success, selling two million copies. It brought fame, a very appreciative audience and riches. He followed this with two further best sellers: ‘The Crisis’ (1901) and ‘The Crossing’ (1904).

    These early novels were historical, but he gradually moved to setting later ones in more contemporary settings and to include his political ideas.

    In the 1890s, Churchill's writings came to be confused with those of the British writer/politician with the same name. At that time, the American was the far better known of the two. It fell to the Englishman to write to his counterpart regarding the confusion their name was causing. They agreed that the British Churchill should be styled "Winston Spencer Churchill", this was later reduced to the more familiar "Winston S. Churchill".

    In 1898, Churchill commissioned a mansion, designed by Charles Platt, to be built in Cornish, New Hampshire. The following year he and his family moved there. It was named after his wife: Harlakenden House.

    Churchill was keen on both the local art; he became involved in the Cornish Art Colony and its politics; he was elected to the state legislature, as a Republican, in 1903 and 1905.

    In 1906 a tilt at the Republican nomination for governor of New Hampshire was unsuccessful. In 1912, he was nominated as the Progressive candidate for governor but again lost and thereafter never sought public office again.

    In 1917, he toured the battlefields of World War I and wrote about the experience in his first non-fiction work: ‘A Traveller In War-Time’.

    Sometime after this he started to paint in watercolors. Again his talents were ably demonstrated and he became known for his landscapes.

    His books regularly topped the best seller lists. Publisher’s Weekly had begun to collate sales in the late 1890’s and between 1901-1915 he topped the Bestseller of the year charts six times.

    In 1919, Churchill decided to stop writing and withdrew from public life. His sales fell and he became slowly forgotten. In 1940, ‘The Uncharted Way’, his first book in twenty years, based on his thoughts on religion, was published. It received little attention or sales.

    After fifty years of marriage Mabel died in 1945.

    Shortly before his death Churchill said, "It is very difficult now for me to think of myself as a writer of novels, as all that seems to belong to another life."

    Winston Churchill died in Winter Park, Flor

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBestseller Publishing
    Release dateOct 1, 2019
    ISBN9781839671340
    The Inside of the Cup: The Bestseller of 1913
    Author

    Winston Churchill

    Sir Winston Churchill was a British military man, statesman, and Nobel-prize winning author, and, by virtue of his service during both the First and Second World Wars, is considered to be one of the greatest wartime leaders of the twentieth century. Born to the aristocracy, Churchill pursued a career in the British Army, seeing action in British India and in the Second Boer War, and later drew upon his experiences in these historic conflicts in his work as a war correspondent and writer. After retiring from active duty, Churchill moved into politics and went on to hold a number of important positions in the British government. He rose to the role of First Lord of the Admiralty during the First World War and later to the role of prime minister, a position that he held twice, from 1940-1945 and from 1951-1955. A visionary statesman, Churchill was remarkable for his ability to perceive emerging threats to international peace, and predicted the rise of Nazi Germany, the Second World War, and the Iron Curtain. In his later years Churchill returned to writing, penning the six-volume Second World War series, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, and many other historical and biographical works. Winston Churchill died in 1965 and, after one of the largest state funerals to that point in time, was interred in his family’s burial plot.

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      Book preview

      The Inside of the Cup - Winston Churchill

      The Inside of the Cup by Winston Churchill

      Winston Churchill was born on November 10th, 1871 in St. Louis, Missouri, to parents Edward Spalding Churchill and Emma Bell Blaine. Tragically his mother died soon after his birth, and he was thereafter raised by Emma’s half-sister, Louisa and her husband.

      He was educated at Smith Academy in Missouri and the United States Naval Academy, from which he graduated in 1894. Whilst there he was recognised as a diligent student who took part in the complete range of offered activities. He became an expert fencer and also organized and captained, at Annapolis, the first eight-oared crew.

      After leaving he became an editor of the Army and Navy Journal.

      In 1895, Churchill became managing editor of the Cosmopolitan Magazine, but within twelve months he resigned in order to pursue his own writings full time.

      Despite his own background of privilege and money this move to a literary career was undoubtedly supported in every way by his marriage in 1895 to the St Louis heiress, Mabel Harlakenden Hall.

      However, despite the support of his wife and her monies, the motivation necessary for a full-time literary career was easily available to him given the scope of his talents. In time his writings would cover a spectrum from novels to poems to essays and plays.

      His first novel to appear in book form was ‘The Celebrity’ (1898). However, ‘Mr Keegan's Elopement’ had been published in 1896 as a magazine serial and only as a hardback in 1903. Churchill's next novel—'Richard Carvel’ (1899)—was a phenomenal success, selling two million copies.  It brought fame, a very appreciative audience and riches.  He followed this with two further best sellers: ‘The Crisis’ (1901) and ‘The Crossing’ (1904).

      These early novels were historical, but he gradually moved to setting later ones in more contemporary settings and to include his political ideas.

      In the 1890s, Churchill's writings came to be confused with those of the British writer/politician with the same name. At that time, the American was the far better known of the two.  It fell to the Englishman to write to his counterpart regarding the confusion their name was causing.  They agreed that the British Churchill should be styled Winston Spencer Churchill, this was later reduced to the more familiar Winston S. Churchill. 

      In 1898, Churchill commissioned a mansion, designed by Charles Platt, to be built in Cornish, New Hampshire. The following year he and his family moved there.  It was named after his wife: Harlakenden House.

      Churchill was keen on both the local art; he became involved in the Cornish Art Colony and its politics; he was elected to the state legislature, as a Republican, in 1903 and 1905.

      In 1906 a tilt at the Republican nomination for governor of New Hampshire was unsuccessful. In 1912, he was nominated as the Progressive candidate for governor but again lost and thereafter never sought public office again.

      In 1917, he toured the battlefields of World War I and wrote about the experience in his first non-fiction work: ‘A Traveller In War-Time’.

      Sometime after this he started to paint in watercolors. Again his talents were ably demonstrated and he became known for his landscapes.

      His books regularly topped the best seller lists.  Publisher’s Weekly had begun to collate sales in the late 1890’s and between 1901-1915 he topped the Bestseller of the year charts six times.

      In 1919, Churchill decided to stop writing and withdrew from public life.  His sales fell and he became slowly forgotten.  In 1940, ‘The Uncharted Way’, his first book in twenty years, based on his thoughts on religion, was published. It received little attention or sales. 

      After fifty years of marriage Mabel died in 1945.

      Shortly before his death Churchill said, It is very difficult now for me to think of myself as a writer of novels, as all that seems to belong to another life.

      Winston Churchill died in Winter Park, Florida, on March 12th 1947 of a heart attack. He was 75.

      Index of Contents

      THE INSIDE OF THE CUP

      CHAPTER I — THE WARING PROBLEMS

      CHAPTER II — MR LANGMAID'S MISSION

      CHAPTER III — THE PRIMROSE PATH

      CHAPTER IV — SOME RIDDLES OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

      CHAPTER V — THE RECTOR HAS MORE FOOD FOR THOUGHT

      CHAPTER VI — WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

      CHAPTER VII — THE KINGDOMS OF THE WORLD

      CHAPTER VIII — THE LINE OF LEAST RESISTANCE

      CHAPTER IX — THE DIVINE DISCONTENT

      CHAPTER X — THE MESSENGER IN THE CHURCH

      CHAPTER XI — THE LOST PARISHIONER

      CHAPTER XII — THE WOMAN OF THE SONG

      CHAPTER XIII — WINTERBOURNE

      CHAPTER XIV — A SATURDAY AFTERNOON

      CHAPTER XV — THE CRUCIBLE

      CHAPTER XVI — AMID THE ENCIRCLING GLOOM

      CHAPTER XVII — RECONSTRUCTION

      CHAPTER XVIII — THE RIDDLE OF CAUSATION

      CHAPTER XIX — MR. GOODRICH BECOMES A PARTISAN

      CHAPTER XX — THE ARRAIGNMENT

      CHAPTER XXI — ALISON GOES TO CHURCH

      CHAPTER XXII — WHICH SAY TO THE SEERS, SEE NOT

      CHAPTER XXIII — THE CHOICE

      CHAPTER XXIV — THE VESTRY MEETS

      CHAPTER XXV — RISE, CROWNED WITH LIGHT!

      CHAPTER XXVI — THE CURRENT OF LIFE

      CHAPTER XXVII — RETRIBUTION

      CHAPTER XXVIII — LIGHT

      AFTERWORD

      WINSTON CHURCHILL – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

      THE INSIDE OF THE CUP

      CHAPTER I

      THE WARING PROBLEMS

      I

      With few exceptions, the incidents recorded in these pages take place in one of the largest cities of the United States of America, and of that portion called the Middle West,—a city once conservative and provincial, and rather proud of these qualities; but now outgrown them, and linked by lightning limited trains to other teeming centers of the modern world: a city overtaken, in recent years, by the plague which has swept our country from the Atlantic to the Pacific—Prosperity. Before its advent, the Goodriches and Gores, the Warings, the Prestons and the Atterburys lived leisurely lives in a sleepy quarter of shade trees and spacious yards and muddy macadam streets, now passed away forever. Existence was decorous, marriage an irrevocable step, wives were wives, and the Authorized Version of the Bible was true from cover to cover. So Dr. Gilman preached, and so they believed.

      Sunday was then a day essentially different from other days—you could tell it without looking at the calendar. The sun knew it, and changed the quality of his light the very animals, dogs and cats and horses, knew it: and most of all the children knew it, by Sunday school, by Dr. Gilman's sermon, by a dizzy afternoon connected in some of their minds with ceramics and a lack of exercise; by a cold tea, and by church bells. You were not allowed to forget it for one instant. The city suddenly became full of churches, as though they had magically been let down from heaven during Saturday night. They must have been there on week days, but few persons ever thought of them.

      Among the many church bells that rang on those bygone Sundays was that of St. John's, of which Dr. Gilman, of beloved memory, was rector. Dr. Gilman was a saint, and if you had had the good luck to be baptized or married or buried by him, you were probably fortunate in an earthly as well as heavenly sense. One has to be careful not to deal exclusively in superlatives, and yet it is not an exaggeration to say that St. John's was the most beautiful and churchly edifice in the city, thanks chiefly to several gentlemen of sense, and one gentleman, at least, of taste—Mr. Horace Bentley. The vicissitudes of civil war interrupted its building; but when, in 1868, it stood completed, its stone unsoiled as yet by factory smoke, its spire delicately pointing to untainted skies, its rose window glowing above the porch, citizens on Tower Street often stopped to gaze at it diagonally across the vacant lot set in order by Mr. Thurston Gore, with the intent that the view might be unobstructed.

      Little did the Goodriches and Gores, the Warings and Prestons and Atterburys and other prominent people foresee the havoc that prosperity and smoke were to play with their residential plans! One by one, sooty commerce drove them out, westward, conservative though they were, from the paradise they had created; blacker and blacker grew the gothic facade of St. John's; Thurston Gore departed, but leased his corner first for a goodly sum, his ancestors being from Connecticut; leased also the vacant lot he had beautified, where stores arose and hid the spire from Tower Street. Cable cars moved serenely up the long hill where a panting third horse had been necessary, cable cars resounded in Burton Street, between the new factory and the church where Dr. Gilman still preached of peace and the delights of the New-Jerusalem. And before you could draw your breath, the cable cars had become electric. Gray hairs began to appear in the heads of the people Dr. Gilman had married in the '60's and their children were going East to College.

      II

      In the first decade of the twentieth century, Asa, Waring still clung to the imposing, early Victorian mansion in Hamilton Street. It presented an uncompromising and rather scornful front to the sister mansions with which it had hitherto been on intimate terms, now fast degenerating into a shabby gentility, seeking covertly to catch the eye of boarders, but as yet refraining from open solicitation. Their lawns were growing a little ragged, their stone steps and copings revealing cracks.

      Asa Waring looked with a stern distaste upon certain aspects of modern life. And though he possessed the means to follow his friends and erstwhile neighbours into the newer paradise five miles westward, he had successfully resisted for several years a formidable campaign to uproot him. His three married daughters lived in that clean and verdant district surrounding the Park (spelled with a capital), while Evelyn and Rex spent most of their time in the West End or at the Country Clubs. Even Mrs. Waring, who resembled a Roman matron, with her wavy white hair parted in the middle and her gentle yet classic features, sighed secretly at times at the unyielding attitude of her husband, although admiring him for it. The grandchildren drew her.

      On the occasion of Sunday dinner, when they surrounded her, her heart was filled to overflowing.

      The autumn sunlight, reddened somewhat by the slight haze of smoke, poured in at the high windows of the dining-room, glinted on the silver, and was split into bewildering colors by the prisms of the chandelier. Many precious extra leaves were inserted under the white cloth, and Mrs. Waring's eyes were often dimmed with happiness as she glanced along the ranks on either side until they rested on the man with whom she had chosen to pass her life. Her admiration for him had gradually grown into hero-worship. His anger, sometimes roused, had a terrible moral quality that never failed to thrill her, and the Loyal Legion button on his black frock coat seemed to her an epitome of his character. He sat for the most part silent, his remarkable, penetrating eyes, lighting under his grizzled brows, smiling at her, at the children, at the grandchildren. And sometimes he would go to the corner table, where the four littlest sat, and fetch one back to perch on his knee and pull at his white, military mustache.

      It was the children's day. Uproar greeted the huge white cylinder of ice-cream borne by Katie, the senior of the elderly maids; uproar greeted the cake; and finally there was a rush for the chocolates, little tablets wrapped in tinfoil and tied with red and blue ribbon. After that, the pandemonium left the dining-room, to spread itself over the spacious house from the basement to the great playroom in the attic, where the dolls and blocks and hobby-horses of the parental generation stoically awaited the new.

      Sometimes a visitor was admitted to this sacramental feat, the dearest old gentleman in the world, with a great, high bridged nose, a slight stoop, a kindling look, and snow white hair, though the top of his head was bald. He sat on Mrs. Waring's right, and was treated with the greatest deference by the elders, and with none at all by the children, who besieged him. The bigger ones knew that he had had what is called a history; that he had been rich once, with a great mansion of his own, but now he lived on Dalton Street, almost in the slums, and worked among the poor. His name was Mr. Bentley.

      He was not there on the particular Sunday when this story opens, otherwise the conversation about to be recorded would not have taken place. For St. John's Church was not often mentioned in Mr. Bentley's presence.

      Well, grandmother, said Phil Goodrich, who was the favourite son-in-law, how was the new rector to-day?

      Mr. Hodder is a remarkable young man, Phil, Mrs. Waring declared, and delivered such a good sermon. I couldn't help wishing that you and Rex and Evelyn and George had been in church.

      Phil couldn't go, explained the unmarried and sunburned Evelyn, he had a match on of eighteen holes with me.

      Mrs. Waring sighed.

      I can't think what's got into the younger people these days that they seem so indifferent to religion. Your father's a vestryman, Phil, and I believe it has always been his hope that you would succeed him. I'm afraid Rex won't succeed his father, she added, with a touch of regret and a glance of pride at her husband. You never go to church, Rex. Phil does.

      I got enough church at boarding-school to last me a lifetime, mother, her son replied. He was slightly older than Evelyn, and just out of college. Besides, any heathen can get on the vestry—it's a financial board, and they're due to put Phil on some day. They're always putting him on boards.

      His mother looked a little distressed.

      Rex, I wish you wouldn't talk that way about the Church—

      I'm sorry, mother, he said, with quick penitence. Mr. Langmaid's a vestryman, you know, and they've only got him there because he's the best corporation lawyer in the city. He isn't exactly what you'd call orthodox. He never goes.

      We are indebted to Mr. Langmaid for Mr. Hodder. This was one of Mr. Waring's rare remarks.

      Eleanor Goodrich caught her husband's eye, and smiled.

      I wonder why it is, she said, that we are so luke-warm about church in these days? I don't mean you, Lucy, or Laureston, she added to her sister, Mrs. Grey. You're both exemplary. Lucy bowed ironically. But most people of our ages with whom we associate. Martha Preston, for instance. We were all brought up like the children of Jonathan Edwards. Do you remember that awful round-and-round feeling on Sunday afternoons, Sally, and only the wabbly Noah's Ark elephant to play with, right in this house? instead of THAT! There was a bump in the hall without, and shrieks of laughter. I'll never forget the first time it occurred to me—when I was reading Darwin—that if the ark were as large as Barnum's Circus and the Natural History Museum put together, it couldn't have held a thousandth of the species on earth. It was a blow.

      I don't know what we're coming to, exclaimed Mrs. Waring gently.

      I didn't mean to be flippant, mother, said Eleanor penitently, but I do believe the Christian religion has got to be presented in a different way, and a more vital way, to appeal to a new generation. I am merely looking facts in the face.

      What is the Christian religion? asked Sally's husband, George Bridges, who held a chair of history in the local flourishing university. I've been trying to find out all my life.

      You couldn't be expected to know, George, said his wife. You were brought up an Unitarian, and went to Harvard.

      Never mind, professor, said Phil Goodrich, in a quizzical, affectionate tone. Take the floor and tell us what it isn't.

      George Bridges smiled. He was a striking contrast in type to his square-cut and vigorous brother-in-law; very thin, with slightly protruding eyes the color of the faded blue glaze of ancient pottery, and yet humorous.

      I've had my chance, at any rate. Sally made me go last Sunday and hear Mr. Hodder.

      I can't see why you didn't like him, George, Lucy cried. I think he's splendid.

      Oh, I like him, said Mr. Bridges.

      That's just it! exclaimed Eleanor. I like him. I think he's sincere. And that first Sunday he came, when I saw him get up in the pulpit and wave that long arm of his, all I could think of was a modern Savonarola. He looks one. And then, when he began to preach, it was maddening. I felt all the time that he could say something helpful, if he only would. But he didn't. It was all about the sufficiency of grace,—whatever that may be. He didn't explain it. He didn't give me one notion as to how to cope a little better with the frightful complexities of the modern lives we live, or how to stop quarrelling with Phil when he stays at the office and is late for dinner.

      Eleanor, I think you're unjust to him, said Lucy, amid the laughter of the men of the family. Most people in St. John's think he is a remarkable preacher.

      So were many of the Greek sophists, George Bridges observed.

      Now if it were only dear old Doctor Gilman, Eleanor continued, I could sink back into a comfortable indifference. But every Sunday this new man stirs me up, not by what he says, but by what he is. I hoped we'd get a rector with modern ideas, who would be able to tell me what to teach my children. Little Phil and Harriet come back from Sunday school with all sorts of questions, and I feel like a hypocrite. At any rate, if Mr. Hodder hasn't done anything else, he's made me want to know.

      What do you mean by a man of modern ideas, Eleanor? inquired Mr. Bridges, with evident relish.

      Eleanor put down her coffee cup, looked at him helplessly, and smiled.

      Somebody who will present Christianity to me in such a manner that it will appeal to my reason, and enable me to assimilate it into my life.

      Good for you, Nell, said her husband, approvingly. Come now, professor, you sit up in the University' Club all Sunday morning and discuss recondite philosophy with other learned agnostics, tell us what is the matter with Mr. Hodder's theology. That is, if it will not shock grandmother too much.

      I'm afraid I've got used to being shocked, Phil, said Mrs. Waring, with her quiet smile.

      It's unfair, Mr. Bridges protested, to ask a prejudiced pagan like me to pronounce judgment on an honest parson who is labouring according to his lights.

      Go on, George. You shan't get out of it that way.

      Well, said George, the trouble is, from the theological point of view, that your parson is preaching what Auguste Sabatier would call a diminished and mitigated orthodoxy.

      Great heavens! cried Phil. What's that?

      It's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor good red herring, the professor declared. If Mr. Hodder were cornered he couldn't maintain that he, as a priest, has full power to forgive sins, and yet he won't assert that he hasn't. The mediaeval conception of the Church, before Luther's day, was consistent, at any rate, if you once grant the premises on which it was based.

      What premises?

      "That the Almighty had given it a charter, like an insurance company, of a monopoly of salvation on this portion of the Universe, and agreed to keep his hands off. Under this conception, the sale of indulgences, masses for the soul, and temporal power are perfectly logical—inevitable. Kings and princes derive their governments from the Church. But if we once begin to doubt the validity of this charter, as the Reformers did, the whole system flies to pieces, like sticking a pin into a soap bubble.

      "That is the reason why—to change the figure—the so-called Protestant world has been gradually sliding down hill ever since the Reformation. The great majority of men are not willing to turn good, to renounce the material and sensual rewards under their hands without some definite and concrete guaranty that, if they do so, they are going, to be rewarded hereafter. They demand some sort of infallibility. And when we let go of the infallibility of the Church, we began to slide toward what looked like a bottomless pit, and we clutched at the infallibility of the Bible. And now that has begun to roll.

      What I mean by a mitigated orthodoxy is this: I am far from accusing Mr. Hodder of insincerity, but he preaches as if every word of the Bible were literally true, and had been dictated by God to the men who held the pen, as if he, as a priest, held some supernatural power that could definitely be traced, through what is known as the Apostolic Succession, back to Peter.

      Do you mean to say, George, asked Mrs. Waring, with a note of pain in her voice, that the Apostolic Succession cannot be historically proved?

      My dear mother, said George, I hope you will hold me innocent of beginning this discussion. As a harmless professor of history in our renowned University (of which we think so much that we do not send our sons to it) I have been compelled by the children whom you have brought up to sit in judgment on the theology of your rector.

      They will leave us nothing! she sighed.

      Nothing, perhaps, that was invented by man to appeal to man's superstition and weakness. Of the remainder—who can say?

      What, asked Mrs. Waring, do they say about the Apostolic Succession?

      Mother is as bad as the rest of us, said Eleanor.

      Isn't she, grandfather?

      If I had a house to rent, said Mr. Bridges, when the laughter had subsided, "I shouldn't advertise five bath rooms when there were only two, or electricity when there was only gas. I should be afraid my tenants might find it out, and lose a certain amount of confidence in me. But the orthodox churches are running just such a risk to-day, and if any person who contemplates entering these churches doesn't examine the premises first, he refrains at his own cost.

      The situation in the early Christian Church is now a matter of history, and he who runs may read. The first churches, like those of Corinth and Ephesus and Rome, were democracies: no such thing as a priestly line to carry on a hierarchy, an ecclesiastical dynasty, was dreamed of. It may be gathered from the gospels that such an idea was so far from the mind of Christ that his mission was to set at naught just such another hierarchy, which then existed in Israel. The Apostles were no more bishops than was John the Baptist, but preachers who travelled from place to place, like Paul. The congregations, at Rome and elsewhere, elected their own 'presbyteri, episcopoi' or overseers. It is, to say the least, doubtful, and it certainly cannot be proved historically, that Peter ever was in Rome.

      The professor ought to have a pulpit of his own, said Phil.

      There was a silence. And then Evelyn, who had been eating quantities of hothouse grapes, spoke up.

      So far as I can see, the dilemma in which our generation finds itself is this,—we want to know what there is in Christianity that we can lay hold of. We should like to believe, but, as George says, all our education contradicts the doctrines that are most insisted upon. We don't know where to turn. We have the choice of going to people like George, who know a great deal and don't believe anything, or to clergymen like Mr. Hodder, who demand that we shall violate the reason in us which has been so carefully trained.

      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 her family. I tried to teach you so, my dear.

      Well, said Evelyn, I'm here yet. I haven't Alison's excuse. Cheer up, mother, the world's no worse than it was.

      I don't know about that, answered Mrs. Waring.

      Listen! ejaculated Eleanor.

      Mrs. Waring's face brightened. Sounds of mad revelry came down from the floor above.

      CHAPTER II

      MR. LANGMAID'S MISSION

      I

      Looking back over an extraordinary career, it is interesting to attempt to fix the time when a name becomes a talisman, and passes current for power. This is peculiarly difficult in the case of Eldon Parr. Like many notable men before him, nobody but Mr. Parr himself suspected his future greatness, and he kept the secret. But if we are to search what is now ancient history for a turning-point, perhaps we should find it in the sudden acquisition by him of the property of Mr. Bentley.

      The transaction was a simple one. Those were the days when gentlemen, as matters of courtesy, put their names on other gentlemen's notes; and modern financiers, while they might be sorry for Mr. Bentley, would probably be unanimous in the opinion that he was foolish to write on the back of Thomas Garrett's. Mr. Parr was then, as now, a business man, and could scarcely be expected to introduce philanthropy into finance. Such had been Mr. Bentley's unfortunate practice. And it had so happened, a few years before, for the accommodation of some young men of his acquaintance that he had invested rather generously in Grantham mining stock at twenty-five cents a share, and had promptly forgotten the transaction. To cut a long story short, in addition to Mr. Bentley's house and other effects, Mr. Parr became the owner of the Grantham stock, which not long after went to one hundred dollars. The reader may do the figuring.

      Where was some talk at this time, but many things had happened since. For example, Mr. Parr had given away great sums in charity. And it may likewise be added in his favour that Mr. Bentley was glad to be rid of his fortune. He had said so. He deeded his pew back to St. John's, and protesting to his friends that he was not unhappy, he disappeared from the sight of all save a few. The rising waters of Prosperity closed over him. But Eliza Preston, now Mrs. Parr, was one of those who were never to behold him again,—in this world, at least.

      She was another conspicuous triumph in that career we are depicting. Gradual indeed had been the ascent from the sweeping out of a store to the marrying of a Preston, but none the less sure inevitable. For many years after this event, Eldon Parr lived modestly in what was known as a stone-front house in Ransome Street, set well above the sidewalk, with a long flight of yellow stone steps leading to it; steps scrubbed with Sapoho twice a week by a negro in rubber boots. There was a stable with a tarred roof in the rear, to be discerned beyond the conventional side lawn that was broken into by the bay window of the dining-room. There, in that house, his two children were born: there, within those inartistic walls, Eliza Preston lived a life that will remain a closed book forever. What she thought, what she dreamed, if anything, will never be revealed. She did not, at least, have neurasthenia, and for all the world knew, she may have loved her exemplary and successful husband, with whom her life was as regular as the Strasburg clock. She breakfasted at eight and dined at seven; she heard her children's lessons and read them Bible stories; and at half past ten every Sunday morning, rain or shine, walked with them and her husband to the cars on Tower Street to attend service at St. John's, for Mr. Parr had scruples in those days about using the carriage on the Sabbath.

      She did not live, alas, to enjoy for long the Medicean magnificence of the mansion facing the Park, to be a companion moon in the greater orbit. Eldon Part's grief was real, and the beautiful English window in the south transept of the church bears witness to it. And yet it cannot be said that he sought solace in religion, so apparently steeped in it had he always been. It was destiny that he should take his place on the vestry; destiny, indeed, that he should ultimately become the vestry as well as the first layman of the diocese; unobtrusively, as he had accomplished everything else in life, in spite of Prestons and Warings, Atterburys, Goodriches, and Gores. And he was wont to leave his weighty business affairs to shift for themselves while he attended the diocesan and general conventions of his Church.

      He gave judiciously, as becomes one who holds a fortune in trust, yet generously, always permitting others to help, until St. John's was a very gem of finished beauty. And, as the Rothschilds and the Fuggera made money for grateful kings and popes, so in a democratic age, Eldon Parr became the benefactor of an adulatory public. The university, the library, the hospitals, and the parks of his chosen city bear witness.

      II

      For forty years, Dr. Gilman had been the rector of St. John's. One Sunday morning, he preached his not unfamiliar sermon on the text, For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face, and when the next Sunday dawned he was in his grave in Winterbourne Cemetery, sincerely mourned within the parish and without. In the nature of mortal things, his death was to be expected: no less real was the crisis to be faced At the vestry meeting that followed, the problem was tersely set forth by Eldon Parr, his frock coat tightly buttoned about his chest, his glasses in his hand.

      Gentlemen, he said, we have to fulfil a grave responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to God. The matter of choosing a rector to-day, when clergymen are meddling with all sorts of affairs which do not concern them, is not so simple as it was twenty years ago. We have, at St. John's, always been orthodox and dignified, and I take it to be the sense of this vestry that we remain so. I conceive it our duty to find a man who is neither too old nor too young, who will preach the faith as we received it, who is not sensational, and who does not mistake socialism for Christianity.

      By force of habit, undoubtedly, Mr. Parr glanced at Nelson Langmaid as he sat down. Innumerable had been the meetings of financial boards at which Mr. Parr had glanced at Langmaid, who had never failed to respond. He was that sine qua non of modern affairs, a corporation lawyer,—although he resembled a big and genial professor of Scandinavian extraction. He wore round, tortoise-shell spectacles, he had a high, dome-like forehead, and an ample light brown beard which he stroked from time to time. It is probable that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul.

      His eyes twinkled as he rose.

      I don't pretend to be versed in theology, gentlemen, as you know, he said, and the entire vestry, even Mr. Parr, smiled. For vestries, in spite of black coats and the gravity of demeanour which first citizens are apt to possess, are human after all. Mr. Parr has stated, I believe; the requirements, and I agree with him that it is not an easy order to fill. You want a parson who will stick to his last, who will not try experiments, who is not too high or too low or too broad or too narrow, who has intellect without too much initiative, who can deliver a good sermon to those who can appreciate one, and yet will not get the church uncomfortably full of strangers and run you out of your pews. In short, you want a level-headed clergyman about thirty-five years old who will mind his own business.

      The smiles on the faces of the vestry deepened. The ability to put a matter thus humorously was a part of Nelson Langmaid's power with men and juries.

      I venture to add another qualification, he continued, and that is virility. We don't want a bandbox rector. Well, I happen to have in mind a young man who errs somewhat on the other side, and who looks a little like a cliff profile I once saw on Lake George of George Washington or an Indian chief, who stands about six feet two. He's a bachelor—if that's a drawback. But I am not at all sure he can be induced to leave his present parish, where he has been for ten years.

      I am, announced Wallis Plimpton, with his hands in his pockets, provided the right man tackles him.

      III

      Nelson Langmaid's most notable achievement, before he accomplished the greater one of getting a new rector for St. John's, had been to construct the water-tight box whereby the Consolidated Tractions Company had become a law-proof possibility. But his was an esoteric reputation,—the greater fame had been Eldon Parr's. Men's minds had been dazzled by the breadth of the conception of scooping all the street-car lines of the city, long and short, into one big basket, as it were; and when the stock had been listed in New York, butcher and baker, clerk and proprietor, widow and maid, brought out their hoardings; the great project was discussed in clubs, cafes, and department stores, and by citizens hanging on the straps of the very cars that were to be consolidated—golden word! Very little appeared about Nelson Langmaid, who was philosophically content. But to Mr. Parr, who was known to dislike publicity, were devoted pages in the Sunday newspapers, with photographs of the imposing front of his house in Park Street, his altar and window in St. John's, the Parr building, and even of his private car, Antonia.

      Later on, another kind of publicity, had come. The wind had whistled for a time, but it turned out to be only a squall. The Consolidated Tractions Company had made the voyage for which she had been constructed, and thus had fulfilled her usefulness; and the cleverest of the rats who had mistaken her for a permanent home scurried ashore before she was broken up.

      All of which is merely in the nature of a commentary on Mr. Langmaid's genius. His reputation for judgment—which by some is deemed the highest of human qualities—was impaired; and a man who in his time had selected presidents of banks and trust companies could certainly be trusted to choose a parson—particularly if the chief requirements were not of a spiritual nature...

      A week later he boarded an east-bound limited train, armed with plenary powers.

      His destination was the hill town where he had spent the first fifteen years of his life, amid the most striking of New England landscapes, and the sight of the steep yet delicately pastoral slopes never failed to thrill him as the train toiled up the wide valley to Bremerton. The vision of these had remained with him during the years of his toil in the growing Western city, and embodied from the first homesick days an ideal to which he hoped sometime permanently to return. But he never had. His family had shown a perversity of taste in preferring the sea, and he had perforce been content with a visit of a month or so every other summer, accompanied usually by his daughter, Helen. On such occasions, he stayed with his sister, Mrs. Whitely.

      The Whitely mills were significant of the new Bremerton, now neither village nor city, but partaking of the characteristics of both. French Canadian might be heard on the main square as well as Yankee; and that revolutionary vehicle, the automobile, had inspired there a great brick edifice with a banner called the Bremerton House. Enterprising Italians had monopolized the corners with fruit stores, and plate glass and asphalt were in evidence. But the hills looked down unchanged, and in the cool, maple-shaded streets, though dotted with modern residences, were the same demure colonial houses he had known in boyhood.

      He was met at the station by his sister, a large, matronly woman who invariably set the world whizzing backward for Langmaid; so completely did she typify the contentment, the point of view of an age gone by. For life presented no more complicated problems to the middle-aged Mrs. Whitely than it had to Alice Langmaid.

      I know what you've come for, Nelson, she said reproachfully, when she greeted him at the station. Dr. Gilman's dead, and you want our Mr. Hodder. I feel it in my bones. Well, you can't get him. He's had ever so many calls, but he won't leave Bremerton.

      She knew perfectly well, however, that Nelson would get him, although her brother characteristically did not at once acknowledge his mission. Alice Whitely had vivid memories of a childhood when he had never failed to get what he wanted; a trait of his of which, although it had before now caused her much discomfort, she was secretly inordinately proud. She was, therefore, later in the day not greatly surprised to find herself supplying her brother with arguments. Much as they admired and loved Mr. Hodder, they had always realized that he could not remain buried in Bremerton. His talents demanded a wider field.

      Talents! exclaimed Langmaid, I didn't know he had any.

      Oh, Nelson, how can you say such a thing, when you came to get him! exclaimed his sister.

      I recommended him because I thought he had none, Langmaid declared.

      He'll be a bishop some day—every one says so, said Mrs. Whitely, indignantly.

      That reassures me, said her brother.

      I can't see why they sent you—you hardly ever go to church, she cried. I don't mind telling you, Nelson, that the confidence men place in you is absurd.

      You've said that before, he replied. I agree with you. I'm not going on my judgment—but on yours and Gerald's, because I know that you wouldn't put up with anything that wasn't strictly all-wool orthodox.

      I think you're irreverent, said his sister, and it's a shame that the canons permit such persons to sit on the vestry....

      Gerald, asked Nelson Langmaid of his brother-in-law that night, after his sister and the girls had gone to bed, are you sure that this young man's orthodox?

      He's been here for over ten years, ever since he left the seminary, and he's never done or said anything radical yet, replied the mill owner of Bremerton. If you don't want him, we'd be delighted to have him stay. We're not forcing him on you, you know. What the deuce has got into you? You've talked to him for two hours, and you've sat looking at him at the dinner table for another two. I thought you were a judge of men.

      Nelson Langmaid sat silent.

      I'm only urging Hodder to go for his own good, Mr. Whitely continued. I can take you to dozens of people to-morrow morning who worship him,—people of all sorts; the cashier in the bank, men in the mills, the hotel clerk, my private stenographer—he's built up that little church from nothing at all. And you may write the Bishop, if you wish.

      How has he built up the church? Langmaid demanded

      "How? How does any clergyman buildup a church

      I don't know, Langmaid confessed. It strikes me as quite a tour de force in these days. Does he manage to arouse enthusiasm for orthodox Christianity?

      Well, said Gerard Whitely, I think the service appeals. We've made it as beautiful as possible. And then Mr. Hodder goes to see these people and sits up with them, and they tell him their troubles. He's reformed one or two rather bad cases. I suppose it's the man's personality.

      Ah! Langmaid exclaimed, now you're talking!

      I can't see what you're driving at, confessed his brother-in-law. You're too deep for me, Nelson.

      If the truth be told, Langmaid himself did not quits see. On behalf of the vestry, he offered next day to Mr. Hodder the rectorship of St. John's and that offer was taken under consideration; but there was in the lawyer's mind no doubt of the acceptance, which, in the course of a fortnight after he had returned to the West, followed.

      By no means a negligible element in Nelson Langmaid's professional success had been his possession of what may called a sixth sense, and more than once, on his missions of trust, he had listened to its admonitory promptings.

      At times he thought he recognized these in his conversation with the Reverend John Hodder at Bremerton,—especially in that last interview in the pleasant little study of the rectory overlooking Bremerton Lake. But the promptings were faint, and Langmaid out of his medium. He was not choosing the head of a trust company.

      He himself felt the pull of the young clergyman's personality, and instinctively strove to resist it: and was more than ever struck by Mr. Hodder's resemblance to the cliff sculpture of which he had spoken at the vestry meeting.

      He was rough-hewn indeed, with gray-green eyes, and hair the color of golden sand: it would not stay brushed. It was this hair that hinted most strongly of individualism, that was by no means orthodox. Langmaid felt an incongruity, but he was fascinated; and he had discovered on the rector's shelves evidences of the taste for classical authors that he himself possessed. Thus fate played with him, and the two men ranged from Euripides to Horace, from Horace to Dante and Gibbon. And when Hodder got up to fetch this or that edition, he seemed to tower over the lawyer, who was a big man himself.

      Then they discussed business, Langmaid describing the parish, the people, the peculiar situation in St. John's caused by Dr. Gilman's death, while Hodder listened. He was not talkative; he made no promises; his reserve on occasions was even a little disconcerting; and it appealed to the lawyer from Hodder as a man, but somehow not as a clergyman. Nor did the rector volunteer any evidences of the soundness of his theological or political principles.

      He gave Langmaid the impression—though without apparent egotism—that by accepting the call he would be conferring a favour on St. John's; and this was when he spoke with real feeling of the ties that bound him to Bremerton. Langmaid felt a certain deprecation of the fact that he was not a communicant.

      For the rest, if Mr. Hodder were disposed to take himself and his profession seriously, he was by no means lacking in an appreciation of Langmaid's humour....

      The tempering of the lawyer's elation as he returned homeward to report to Mr. Parr and the vestry may be best expressed by his own exclamation, which he made to himself:

      I wonder what that fellow would do if he ever got started! A parson was, after all, a parson, and he had done his best.

      IV

      A high, oozing note of the brakes, and the heavy train came to a stop. Hodder looked out of the window of the sleeper to read the sign 'Marcion' against the yellow brick of the station set down in the prairie mud, and flanked by a long row of dun-colored freight cars backed up to a factory.

      The factory was flimsy, somewhat resembling a vast greenhouse with its multitudinous windows, and bore the name of a firm whose offices were in the city to which he was bound.

      "We

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