They walked together to Dr. Blanchard's, which was not very far from Roland's own quarters. Before they parted, Mr. Alden took down the young man's address. Then, holding his hand kindly, he said, "I should be glad to have you for a member of a certain little society for social reform, that I have lately started on a broadly Christian basis."
Roland hesitated a little. "I mustn't allow you to misconceive my position," he said. "I am not what you would call a Christian; that is, I cannot at present see my way to accept what is called orthodox Christianity."
"Never mind that just now," said Mr. Alden. "And don't suppose that I can't appreciate honest difficulties of belief. But this society of mine is purposely made wider than Church lines. It is meant to include any one who loves the Christian ideal, and is willing to promote the practical influence of the Christian spirit in this selfish world. From what I have seen of you, I think you are one of that number."
The tone was kind, sympathetic, appreciative—something between that of a father and of an elder brother. Roland's responsive heart was touched.
"If you will take me in on that understanding, you can count on my willing service!" he said.
And with a cordial leave taking, they parted, Mr Alden taking his way to Dr Blanchard's house, Roland walking off to his lodging at his usual rapid pace. He had hours of work before him, and must be at it. When he reached the house in which he boarded, he let himself in with his latch-key, and bounded lightly up the stairs to his own apartment. It was not a large room, and certainly not luxurious, and its confusion of books and papers would have been the despair of any tidy housekeeper. Books, pamphlets, newspapers, were piled on shelves, tables and chairs, in a manner that to any eye but Roland's would have seemed hopeless confusion. Volumes of philosophy and poetry, ancient and modern, were scattered among piles of blue-books and reports of all kinds. On his writing-table, amidst loose sheets of manuscript and newspaper clippings, lay a well worn Bible, Thoreau's "Walden," Carlyle's "Sartor Resartus," Whittier's and Browning's poems, Emerson's Essays, and Henry George's "Progress and Poverty." Evidently the occupant of the room had somewhat varied tastes. And, while Roland is industriously looking over his clippings, sorting his manuscripts, and making a fair copy of his rough draft of a leader for the first number of The Brotherhood, let us take a retrospective glance over the history of the young man himself.
CHAPTER VI.
LOOKING BACKWARD.
Roland Graeme was, by birth, a Canadian. His father had been a Scottish clergyman who had emigrated to Canada in early life; a man of poetical and dreamy temperament, of large and loving nature, which yet, by force of education and habit, had been somehow forced into the compress of an intricate and somewhat narrow creed; or at least had been led, like many others, by an intense veneration for ancient authority, to submit without chafing even to some articles against which his heart and moral intelligence would have strongly protested had he allowed them any voice in the matter. As it was, he worked on tranquilly, scorning worldly delights and living laborious days, troubling himself little about formal theology, and seeking to inspire his flock to love and practice the Christian graces, "against which there is no law." In temporal matters, he was as unpractical as he was unworldly, and, but for his wife's calm, judicious judgment and practical common-sense, would have been in perpetual financial straits. She, poor woman, had found it, indeed, no easy task to steer the family bark clear of the rocks on which the good minister's easy-going benevolence and trustful generosity were continually on the verge of wrecking it.