At one time, not many years since, they had both attended church and found sufficient spiritual satisfaction in the service. But the increasing adventures of his mental life had gradually wooed Freeman away. Something of an authority on ritual, he fell to investigating the subject afresh, to be rewarded by the discovery of a few errors. These had reference to recondite matters of priestly vestment and entailed hair-splitting differences of no importance. It became a hobby. The investigation led him on into comparative theology and biblical criticism, the upshot being a declaration of a position of religious agnosticism. At first he became a cheerful pragmatist, then an adroit sceptic, whereupon Mrs. Freeman’s childlike faith, harshly fortifying itself, grew slowly militant and became eventually not so much childlike as childish.
Even an outsider felt the friction just beneath the surface. Mauney, unprepared to believe how completely man and wife could be separated by matters of faith, nevertheless saw the patent duality of the Freeman home—the professor, ruling his upstairs study and using the place as a boarding house, while Mrs. Freeman roamed the rest of the house in spacious tragedy of manner. The one common ground between them was Lorna, who, as might be expected, had problems of tact and opinion to solve. When guests were in the house she frequently came between her parents in the role of shock absorber, displaying considerable ingenuity. On one occasion, Mauney having broached a religious argument at the dinner-table, Lorna purposely upset a tumbler of water. This meant a quick jump-up for every one and was a complete tactical success since, with the deluged cover tented up on serviette rings, other topics suggested themselves.
On this particular spring evening, relationships seemed happier. They sat down at the table in good spirits. Freeman was apparently satisfied with his mental progress during the day just finished, for he was lightsome of manner, disposed to talk in a good-natured way and looked from Mauney to Lorna with an expression almost of tenderness. Mauney had never been made to feel quite so much at home. The fading light of evening looked in through the large back-windows of the cozy dining-room like a soft caress upon a scene of family compactness, where the four, seated at the cardinal points of the circular table, enjoyed their food by the rich, yellow light of a centrally-placed, silver candelabra. Lorna, gowned in a simple white frock, flickered pleasantly opposite Mauney. The professor’s face stared at the candles while his wife bowed her head to say grace. Mrs. Freeman referred to the younger members of the family as “You children.” It was all very snug and private and natural.
“Just think,” she said in her soft, slow inflection. “Another two weeks and you will both be finished with your college courses. How the time does go! You leave college halls to enter God’s great world.”
“Now, Mother,” said Lorna, good-naturedly, “it’s not quite so serious as all that, I hope.”
“We are taught to believe it’s a pretty serious affair, Lorna,” she responded. “The Scriptures tell us—”
“And the Scriptures are quite right,” smiled Freeman bitterly. “It is certainly a serious, tragic affair. Personally, I can’t conceive of anything half so tragic as life.”
“In what way, Dad?”
“Why, any way you wish to look at it,” he answered quietly, as he served the dinner. “I think life is the most stupendous tragedy imaginable, from the very bottom of the scale to the top. The battle is to the strong,” he said impressively. “It’s the strong who defeat the weak and survive.”
“I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Freeman, “that Mr. Darwin will have quite an account to give in the day of reckoning.”