“Why thank Heaven? Is there any harm in being a clergyman?”
“It depends on the man. In this case it certainly seems a waste of good material.”
Now, it happened that Molly Cabot’s religious convictions were deeply rooted, and she felt a thrill of indignation at this slur upon a sacred calling. Of course, it was not surprising that a spoiled youth with a murderous temper should prove an atheist and a scoffer, but she was irritated, and instinctively took the field as the champion of a righteous cause.
“Then you consider it a waste of good material for an honest man to serve the church?”
Her energy surprised him, but he answered, pleasantly: “I do not say that. No one is too good for any honest work. I only say that a man of John Harding’s originality and courage puts himself in a false position by so doing.”
“I do not see how,” and her eyes were fixed upon his own in open hostility. He still smiled serenely and met her glance with provoking calmness.
“Well, at present he is young and full of enthusiasm, believing everything, and more besides; but he is only twenty-seven now and will do a heap of thinking before he is forty. The pathetic part of it is that he binds himself to a creed, and the man who can think for thirteen years on any subject without modifying his faith ought to be in a museum.”
“Not if it is the true faith.”
“If it is the true faith, there is danger in thinking, as he may think away from it; so why waste a brain like Harding’s?”
In spite of a certain deference and gentleness of tone with which he uttered these positive sentiments there was evident enjoyment in the shock they created. While he was speaking she noticed in the centre of his forehead a faint scar about the size of a thimble end. It seemed an evanescent mark, only visible when he turned his face at certain angles with the light, and suggested the thought that if all young men of such opinions were marked in a similar manner it might serve as a wholesome warning to unbelievers.