The crooked cross

by Charles J. Dutton

We walked about a mile—until the pavement gave place to a country road, and the summer estates to farmhouses. Then we retraced our steps to the house. For some reason, as we walked back, Bartley was very silent. He seemed to be pondering over something, but what it was I did not know as he gave no indication. As once again we passed the green expanse of lawn which led to the stone church, he stopped. I saw him study the granite building with the ivy climbing over the stones. Then to my surprise he said:

“What do you say if we pay the minister a visit?”

He did not wait for me to make any reply, but started up the winding gravel path which led to the rectory. I followed rather puzzled at his sudden desire to call upon the clergyman. Ministers, as a rule, were very much out of his line, and as we waited at the rectory steps, I could not but wonder why he wished to see him.

The door was at length opened by a woman. She was a very old lady and extremely deaf. I judged by her appearance that she must be the person who looked after the house, for Carter had told us that he was unmarried. To Bartley's inquiry if the minister was in, she said he was not. I expected Bartley would then turn to go, but instead he suggested that we might wait in the study. She led us into a rather ill-kept room. There were a great many books in the bookcases along the wall, but they were dusty. In fact, the whole room could have been much cleaner. The desk was covered with newspapers, books and pamphlets. Even the chairs were dusty. It needed but a look at the room to understand the housekeeper did not believe that cleanliness was next to Godliness.

The woman excused herself and went out leaving us alone. For a moment Bartley's eyes went over the row of books, and then he went closer to examine them. From their appearance most of them had not been taken from their places in many days. The dust lay thick upon the dingy volumes—volumes which seemed to be mostly theological works, and of a very orthodox character. Of novels and works of science there was not a trace. All the books along the wall dealt with theology.

I watched Bartley pull one of the volumes from the shelf and turn the pages. As his eyes fell upon some sentence, he gave a shrug of his shoulders and replaced the book. Walking over to the desk, he stood for a moment glancing at the disordered contents. Then he went over to the window and looked out. When he turned, his eyes searched the room as if looking for something, and at length came to rest on a bookcase which was near the door.

It was an old-fashioned bookcase. One of those affairs with glass doors with some kind of figured cloth covering the glass within the case. Not a very large case, and I doubted if there were more than four rows of shelves. This case seemed to interest Bartley, for he went across the floor, and in a moment knelt before it to try the door. Not very much interested, I walked to the window and for a few moments stood looking out. When I turned, it was to discover that the bookcase was open.

I did not bother to go closer to see what the books might be. From where I stood I could see the contents of the four shelves—shelves which were not all filled. But those which were seemed to interest Bartley very much. He pulled first one book and then another forth, only to replace them and take another, finding several over which he spent some time. Then all at once he rose to his feet, closed the glass door, and said we better be going.

Wondering a little why he had not waited until the minister returned, I followed him out into the hall. The woman was washing the windows by the front door, and Bartley explained we were unable to wait any longer. When we reached the open air, he struck across the lawn to the hedge which divided Carter's estate from the church. He said nothing, walking in a hurried manner. And when we came through the hedge and crossed the grass, he paused in front of the house long enough to say that he was going to take the car and go to town.

As he said nothing regarding my going with him, I went into the house, to find Carter in his library. He asked me where Bartley was, and I told him he was going to town, hearing the sound of his car in the drive as I spoke. Then, as Carter was engaged in writing a letter, I picked up the paper and for a while ran through its contents. There was little news, however, and I soon threw it aside.