THREE YEARS LATER
“Ay me, how many perils do enfold the righteous man!”
Spenser.
Across the rampart of his desk Henry Carleton gazed regretfully at his visitor; then once again shook his head. “I’m sorry, Van Socum,” he said, “I hate to refuse such a call, and I hate to refuse you of all men. A year ago I should have felt differently, but now as you know, we’re in the midst of hard times, and first and last, one has to meet so many demands. I’m afraid I shall really have to ask you to excuse me. But I’m sorry, though; extremely sorry; I only wish I felt able to respond. Perhaps some time a little later—”
Slowly the Reverend William Van Socum nodded his head. From his general appearance—his bland, plump, rosy face; his stout, well-fed little body; his ultra correct ministerial garb—one would scarcely have divined his really unusual talents. For the Reverend William Van Socum was the man whose remarkable ability to assist his church in a certain deprecated, but much needed and excessively practical department of its activities, had gained for him among his clerical associates the title, bestowed in ungrudging admiration, of “The Painless Separator.”
And now, while the gentle inclination of his head was meant to convey the most sympathetic understanding, at the same time he made no move to rise, but on the contrary kept his seat, and unflinchingly returned Henry Carleton’s gaze. For Van Socum’s pride was touched. He had made up his mind, before entering the great man’s office, that its doors should not again be closed behind him until in the neat little space opposite Henry Carleton’s name he had seen inserted the pleasantly round sum of five hundred dollars. And now to all appearances he had met a foeman worthy of his steel—of his brass, possibly some envious detractor might have preferred to say—a man every whit as smooth and polished as himself, a man who was both ready and able to defend his little garrison of beleaguered dollars with a skill of fence and a completeness of repulse which could not but arouse Van Socum’s somewhat unwilling admiration. Accustomed to success as he had become, defeat seemed now well-nigh assured. Whimsically he thought of the ancient problem of the irresistible force and its contact with the immovable body, and as an afterthought he added grudgingly to himself, “This man’s wasted in business; he ought to be one of us.”
But these, of course, were thoughts merely. Outwardly, the reverend gentleman gave no sign that he dreaded, or even expected, a refusal. His little oily professional smile was as winning and as confident as ever. Yet he realized that he was dealing with a busy man, and prudently determined, while the chance yet remained to him, to play his last card without delay.
“I understand, my dear Mr. Carleton,” he exclaimed, “I perfectly understand. For a man like yourself, a man of your standing in the community, none can realize better than I what a tax these constant demands must be, on patience and on pocket-book as well.” He paused for just the veriest instant, inwardly to smack his lips; he loved a well-turned phrase, above all if it had about it a flavor of alliteration, and “On patience and on pocket-book as well” struck him as distinctly good. Then, with a swift return to business methods,
“But I did feel, Mr. Carleton, that this time you would favor us. The project of the new altar seems to have made a wide appeal to all those most interested in the beautifying of our beloved church, and example—the example, let us say, of a man of your type, Mr. Carleton—does mean so much to some of the weaker brethren. Not every one, perhaps, realizes this, but I myself know it to be a matter of the greatest consequence, and it was this same power of example that I had in mind when I arranged to have the preliminary list made public to-morrow in six of the leading dailies. And for my part, I can see nothing out of the way in such a proceeding. The press and the pulpit—or rather, let us say, the pulpit and the press—why should they not proceed together hand in hand, so that all things, spiritual and secular, may at last work together for good. That, at least, is my conception of it. And the papers have been very kind. Almost invariably, I think I may say. To a laborer in the vineyard, to one who bears the burden and heat of the day, it is gratifying—I must confess it—very gratifying indeed.”
He spoke but the truth, as Henry Carleton well knew. The Reverend William Van Socum had the reputation of being the greatest ecclesiastical advertiser in the city. Just how he did it, none but himself seemed to know, yet stony-hearted editors and impervious reporters were but as wax in his hands. “The pulpit and the press” was not simply another of his favorite catch-words; it meant something substantial as well. Hand in hand they traveled, in very truth, and it was the bland and smiling Van Socum who managed to unite them in this touching amity.