"It is here that God hath made room for us; but it is not that we may begin life anew. There is no such thing as beginning life anew; we may begin again, but we may not obliterate nor ignore the past. Rather we should turn to it more and more for those teachings of experience which build character. Here on the Western plains the light and heat of cloudless skies beat freely upon us; the soul, too, must yield itself to the sun. The spirit of man was not made for the pit or the garret, but for the open."
Wheaton stirred restlessly, so that Raridan turned his head and looked at him. He had been leaning forward, listening intently, and had suddenly come to himself. He crossed his arms and settled back in his seat. A man in front of him yawned, and he was grateful to him. But again his ear caught an insistent phrase.
"Life would be a simple matter if memory did not carry our yesterdays into our to-days, and if it were as easy as Cain thought it was to cast aside the past. A man must deal with evil openly and bravely. He must turn upon himself with reproof the moment he finds that he has been trampling conscience under his feet. An artisan may slight work in a dark corner of a house, thinking that it is hidden forever; but I say to you that we are all builders in the house of life, and that there are no dark corners where we may safely practise deceit or slight the task God assigns us. I would leave a word of courage and hope with you. Christianity is a militant religion; it strengthens those who stand forth bravely on the battle line, it comforts and helps the weak-hearted, and it lifts up those who fall. I pray that God may freshen and renew courage in us—courage not as against the world, but courage to deal honestly and fairly and openly with ourselves."
The organ was throbbing again; the massive figure had gone from the pulpit; the people were stirring in their seats. The young minister who had read the service repeated the offertory sentences, and the voice of a boy soprano stole tremulously over the congregation. Raridan had left the pew and was passing the plate. The tinkle of coin reassured Wheaton; the return to mundane things brought him relief and restored his confidence. His spirit grew tranquil as he looked about him. The pleasant and graceful things of life were visible again.
The voice of the bishop rose finally in benediction. The choir marched out to a hymn of victory; people were talking as they moved through the aisles to the doors. The organ pealed gaily now; there was light and cheer in the world after all. At the door Wheaton became separated from Raridan, and as he stood waiting at the steps Evelyn and her friends detached themselves from the throng on the sidewalk and got into their carriage. Mr. Porter, snugly buttoned in his frock coat, and with his silk hat tipped back from his forehead, stood in the doorway talking to General Whipple, who was, as usual in crowds, lost from the more agile comrade of his marches many. Wheaton hastened down to the Porter carriage, where the smiles and good mornings of the occupants gave him further benediction. Evelyn and Miss Warren were nearest him; as he stood talking to them, Belle Marshall espied Raridan across his shoulders.
"Oh, there's Mr. Raridan!" she cried, but when Wheaton stood aside, Raridan had already disappeared around the carriage and had come into view at the opposite window with a general salutation, which included them all, but Miss Marshall more particularly.
"I'm sure that sermon will do you good, Mr. Raridan," the Virginia girl drawled. She was one of those young women who flatter men by assuming that they are very depraved. Even impeccable youngsters are susceptible to this harmless form of cajolery.
"Oh, I'm always good. Miss Porter can tell you that."
"Don't take my name in vain," said Evelyn, covertly looking at him, but turning again to Wheaton.
"You see your witness has failed you. Going to church isn't all of being good."