“There, dear,” he said, “I’m sorry if I hurt you. We won’t talk about it any more, and we’ll hope for the best.”
She laid her hand in his; but it was evident, from the look on her face, that the hurt remained, and that she found little comfort in his expression of regret.
“I must go out now,” he added after a moment, “and make a sick call—Rodney McAllister, you know. And when I come back I’ll go over my sermon for to-morrow.”
He got his hat, and she helped him on with his overcoat, and kissed him good-bye at the door, but over them both there was a shadow of restraint of which they had seldom been aware during the years of their married life.
It was too bad, he thought, as he descended the steps of the rectory, crossed the lawn, and went down the pavement in the shadow of the church, that his wife had not the energy and the desire to join him, not only in his campaign for souls outside, but also in his crusade for righteousness within the Church. If she could only see beyond the circle of her daily life, if she could only understand and appreciate the things he stood for and fought for, if only she were an inspiration to him instead of a retarding force, with what added courage and enthusiasm, with what relentless perseverance and unconquerable energy could he not push forward to the accomplishment of his glorious purpose.
Not that he intended to be disloyal to her, even in his remotest thought. She was charming as a woman, she was devoted as a wife, she was ideal as a mother, but—it was such a pity that she could not see the visions that he saw, and help him to realize them. If she had but the zeal and ability and view-point of Ruth Tracy, for instance. Ah! There was a woman who was created for a rector’s wife. And she was to marry a layman; a kind-hearted and brilliant, but conservative layman, who would doubtless check her aspiration toward the larger righteousness, and bind her with the chains of deadening custom. It was unfortunate; it was, in a way, deplorable; but it was one of those unpreventable situations with which only providence might dare to interfere. He heaved a sigh of regret, quickened his pace, and went forward to the accomplishment of his errand.
On his way back from Rodney McAllister’s, as he passed down the main street of the city, he came to Carpenter’s Hall. Inside the hall a public meeting was in progress. It had been called by certain labor leaders for the purpose of discussing and deciding upon the attitude of labor in the political campaign then fairly under way. Those who were wise in such things said that the socialists were back of it. The minister stopped to read the poster announcing the meeting, and when he had read it it occurred to him that he would enter the hall and listen to the speeches. He might learn something which would be of benefit to him, on a subject in which he was deeply interested. It was late when he pushed his way into the auditorium, and several of the speakers had already been heard. Representatives of trade-unionism, of socialism, even of syndicalism, had been duly applauded and occasionally hissed as they presented their views in turn to their audience. Representatives and candidates of the old-line parties had been excluded from the speaker’s platform.
At the moment when Mr. Farrar entered the hall Stephen Lamar was occupying the rostrum. It was apparent that he had the crowd with him. His crude eloquence always captured the audience that he saw fit to address. He was a trade-unionist, and one of the leaders of the large and growing body of socialists in the city, though his views were somewhat too radical to please all of them. However, his influence, his power and his leadership were recognized, not only by workingmen who went to him for advice, but also by politicians who went to him for aid and counsel.