“No, not any other time,” she declared. “Not ever again. I can’t—bear it.”
“As you wish. I’m so sorry to have distressed you. And you came to comfort me, and to offer help.”
“I still offer it.”
“And the time will come when you shall give it in even greater abundance than you have given it in the past.”
She had already risen to go, and she took his proffered hand. His grasp was so firm and strong and friendly—and lingering. The door of the rectory closed behind her, and with colorless face and mist-covered eyes she groped her way to the street.
As she turned into the main thoroughfare she saw the Malleson car go by, and in it were Barry and Jane Chichester, each in a fur coat, bound presumably for Blooming Grove.
But Mary Bradley walked back to the Potter Building, to the narrow, second floor rear room which constituted the office of the Socialist League, hung her plain hat and coat on their accustomed peg, took out her books and papers, and applied herself to her tasks.
CHAPTER XII
THE FIRST CALAMITY
Three days after the vestry meeting at which the resolution of dismissal was adopted, Westgate received a note from his fiancée asking him to call that evening. He was not slow to read between the lines of her message the fact that she desired to talk with him about the Farrar case. From the day of their Sunday walk the preceding September their differences concerning the trouble in the church had grown ever greater. The matter had been discussed between them many times and with great frankness, but of late the discussions had not been marked by that intimacy of feeling which had before characterized them. The controversy had not been unfriendly, but it had been fruitless and deadening. Nor was there any longer any hope of a reconciliation of opinion. While Ruth became more and more deeply absorbed in the regeneration of the church after the manner advocated by its rector, and gave increasingly of her time and ability to the crusade, Westgate, on the contrary, became more thoroughly convinced that the entire scheme was Utopian, impractical and visionary, and must end in disaster to the church, and in eventual defeat and humiliation for those who were engaged in it. To both of the lovers the situation was poignant and extreme. Westgate felt it the most deeply because for him there were no compensations. He had not the spiritual absorption in the contest that would lead to a certain satisfaction of the soul whether it were won or lost. His interest was simply that of a man convinced of the mighty economic value of the Church to the community, and willing to fight for its integrity. To win his fight and thereby lose his sweetheart would be an empty and a bitter victory. To yield his honest convictions and play the hypocrite in order to retain her confidence and love would be cowardly and base. In no direction could he see light or hope. But with Ruth the case was different. Filled with religious zeal she was fighting for an ideal. That in itself was soul-satisfying. Even out of defeat would spring joy that she had fought. Her lover’s approval, even his affection, was not a sine qua non to her. His image in her heart was often overshadowed by her absorption in the struggle for new life in the Church. The heroic figure of her rector, battling against odds, with splendid confidence in the justice of his cause, loomed ever larger in her mind as she went forth with him into the thick of the contest. Not that she was in any way disloyal to her lover. He was still her heart’s high choice. But a greater thing than human love had entered her soul, a thing that called for sacrifice and sharp self-denial, even to the breaking, if necessary, of earth’s dearest ties.