“I should have come, if it had been possible,” he replied. “It seems to have done you a world of good.”
“Oh, I!” She seemed slightly embarrassed, puzzled, and did not look at him. “I am burned as disgracefully as Evelyn. Phil came on for a month.
“He tells me he hasn't seen you, but that isn't surprising, for he hasn't been to church since June—and he's a vestryman now, too.”
She was in mourning for her father-in-law, who had died in the spring. Phil Goodrich had taken his place. Eleanor found the conversation, somehow, drifting out of her control. It was not at all what she would have desired to say. Her colour heightened.
“I have not been conducting the services, but I resume them next Sunday,” said the rector. “I ought to tell you,” he went on, regarding her, “in view of the conversation we have had, that I have changed my mind concerning a great many things we have talked about—although I have not spoken of this as yet to any of the members of the congregation.”
She was speechless, and could only stare at him blankly.
“I mean,” he continued, with a calmness that astonished her afterwards, “that I have changed my whole conception as to the functions and future of the Church, that I have come to your position, that we must make up our minds for ourselves, and not have them made up for us. And that we must examine into the truth of all statements, and be governed accordingly.”
Her attitude was one of mingled admiration, concern, and awe. And he saw that she had grasped something of the complications which his course was likely to bring about.
“But you are not going to leave us!” she managed to exclaim.
“Not if it is possible to remain,” he said, smiling.