But Lamar sat staring at Barry incredulously. He had made up his mind that, since he had not been the man in the bridge case, it must necessarily have been Barry. And he had come to Mary Bradley, not alone for information with which to confront Westgate, but also to file a vigorous protest with her against her conduct with his inconsequential rival. Barry’s denial had taken the ground from under his feet. He could scarcely believe that the man was telling the truth, yet no one had ever known Barry to variate a hair’s breadth from the exact truth as he understood it.
“Moreover,” added Mary Bradley, “it’s past closing time, and I want to start home this minute, and I will thank you gentlemen to permit me to close the office.”
Both men rose to their feet, expressed their regret at having delayed her, said good-night to her, and went out together. Side by side they walked up the street, chatting as they went, brother socialists, friendly rivals for the favor of a fascinating woman. Lamar stopped at the Silver Star, but Barry would not go in. He had not yet reached that stage of the common fellowship game, where the drinking saloon has its attractions. Lamar went in alone, sat down at a table in the room to the rear of the bar, and over his glass of whiskey and soda he pondered the thing he had that day heard concerning Mary Bradley. Who was it who had crossed the bridge with her? Or was the story simply a vicious slander made up out of whole cloth? So faint and far away that at first he could barely grasp it, a suspicion arose. It took on form. It was shadowy and tenuous indeed. It faded out only to reappear. And, ever after, it followed him about, a ghost that he could not lay, and dared not challenge.
It was a week after the conference that a letter came from the bishop of the diocese to the vestry of Christ Church. In it he deplored the quarrel that had arisen between certain of the vestrymen and the rector. He was grieved over the bitterness of spirit that had been displayed. He regretted that his godly judgment, exercised individually, both with the rector and his people, had not availed to settle the unhappy differences that were distracting the parish. He was pained beyond measure at the untoward result of the evening conference at the Tracy house. But since it seemed to be impossible for the parties to the controversy either themselves to adjust their differences or to accept such impartial advice as he had privately given them, he should not assume, alone and unaided, to decide the question of the forcible dissolution of the pastoral relation. He should ask the advice of the Standing Committee, as was his right under the canon. He should also consult with the chancellor of the diocese. And, proceeding with their aid and counsel, he would, in due time, render judgment on the matters in controversy.
“In the meantime, brethren,” read his closing admonition, “let the spirit which was in Christ be in you all. Let not His religion be brought into disrepute by this unseemly quarrel; and let the integrity and dignity of the Church be maintained at all hazards.”
But the good bishop said, confidentially, to a brother prelate: “Oh, that I could be a second Pilate, and take water and wash my hands before this accusing multitude, and say, ‘I am innocent of the blood of this just person, see ye to it.’”
It was true that the bishop had intended to ask the advice of the Standing Committee, and to consult the chancellor of the diocese. Not that he expected to receive much disinterested aid from either source. For the chancellor was a well-known corporation lawyer whose skill and experience had for years been at the service of capital and of the ruling class. What his judgment would be in this matter could be readily foreseen. Nor was the prospect of receiving helpful advice from the Standing Committee much more encouraging. The presbyters of this committee were mostly rectors of churches controlled by rich and aristocratic members, or churches under the patronage and domination of certain families of wealth; while the lay members were all of the conservative, substantial, anti-socialistic type. It required no prophetic power to discover with which party to the controversy they would be in sympathy.
After considering the matter, the bishop felt that, after all, it might be better for him to decide the case unaided. But how to decide it; that was the question. If he should comply with the demand of the vestry, and dissolve the pastoral relation, he would not only be putting upon the Church the stigma of catering to the rich, and disregarding and driving out the poor, but he would also be humiliating and disgracing a man who, however mistaken he might be in his methods, had violated no ecclesiastical law, and who was conscientiously and earnestly striving to bring the religion of Jesus Christ home to the common people. On the other hand, were he to sustain the rector, it would mean giving serious offense to those important and wealthy parishioners who in the past had made Christ Church the strongest and most influential body in the diocese. And what then would happen? Undoubtedly the church would be left to its fate; and its fate could easily be foretold. For the bishop did not delude himself with the belief or hope that the class of people who had recently become attracted and attached to the rector, together with his old friends who still stood by him, would either be able or willing to support and maintain the customary activities of the church. Indeed, his wide experience and his worldly wisdom led him to a far different conclusion. So what was he to do? He decided that for the present he would do nothing. He would delay his decision in the hope—a forlorn hope, indeed—that the parties themselves would settle their controversy, or that, before the day of necessary action should come, a kind Providence would in some way relieve him of his embarrassment.