The Inside of the Cup — Complete. Winston Churchill
not enough,” the rector asserted. “You've had a great deal of experience with them. And I want to know why, in your view, more of them don't come into the Church.”
“Would ye put Jimmy Flanagan and Otto Bauer and Tony Baldassaro in Mr. Parr's pew?” McCrae inquired, with a slight flavour of irony that was not ill-natured. “Or perhaps Mrs. Larrabbee would make room for them?”
“I've considered that, of course,” replied Hodder, thoughtfully, though he was a little surprised that McCrae should have mentioned it. “You think their reasons are social, then—that they feel the gap. I feel it myself most strongly. And yet none of these men are Socialists. If they were, they wouldn't come here to the parish house.”
“They're not Socialists,” agreed McCrae.
“But there is room in the back and sides of the church, and there is the early service and the Sunday night service, when the pews are free. Why don't they come to these?”
“Religion doesn't appeal to them.”
“Why not?”
“Ye've asked me a riddle. All I know is that the minute ye begin to preach, off they go and never come back.”
Hodder, with unconscious fixity, looked into his assistant's honest face. He had an exasperating notion that McCrae might have said more, if he would.
“Haven't you a theory?”
“Try yourself,” said McCrae. His manner was abrupt, yet oddly enough, not ungracious.
“Don't think I'm criticizing,” said the rector, quickly.
“I know well ye're not.”
“I've been trying to learn. It seems to me that we are only accomplishing half our task, and I know that St. John's is not unique in this respect. I've been talking to Andrews, of Trinity, about their poor.”
“Does he give you a remedy?”
“No,” Hodder said. “He can't see any more than I can why Christianity doesn't appeal any longer. The fathers and mothers of these people went to church, in the old country and in this. Of course he sees, as you and I do, that society has settled into layers, and that the layers won't mix. And he seems to agree with me that there is a good deal of energy exerted for a comparatively small return.”
“I understand that's what Mr. Parr says.”
These references to Mr. Parr disturbed Hodder. He had sometimes wondered, when he had been compelled to speak about his visits to the financier, how McCrae regarded them. He was sure that McCrae did regard them.
“Mr. Parr is willing to be even more generous than he has been,” Hodder said. “The point is, whether it's wise to enlarge our scope on the present plan. What do you think?”
“Ye can reach more,” McCrae spoke without enthusiasm.
“What's the use of reaching them, only to touch them? In addition to being helped materially and socially, and kept away from the dance-halls and saloons, they ought to be fired by the Gospels, to be remade. They should be going out into the highways and byways to bring others into the church.”
The Scotchman's face changed a little. For an instant his eyes lighted up, whether in sympathy or commiseration or both, Hodder could not tell.
“I'm with ye, Mr. Hodder, if ye'll show me the way. But oughtn't we to begin at both ends?”
“At both ends?” Hodder repeated.
“Surely. With the people in the pews? Oughtn't we to be firing them, too?”
“Yes,” said the rector. “You're right.”
He turned away, to feel McCrae's hand on his sleeve.
“Maybe it will come, Mr. Hodder,” he said. “There's no telling when the light will strike in.”
It was the nearest to optimism he had ever known his assistant to approach.
“McCrae,” he asked, “have you ever tried to do anything with Dalton Street?”
“Dalton Street?”
The real McCrae, whom he had seemed to see emerging, retired abruptly, presenting his former baffling and noncommittal exterior.
“Yes,” Hodder forced himself to go on, and it came to him that he had repeated virtually the same words to Mr. Parr, “it is at our very doors, a continual reproach. There is real poverty in those rooming houses, and I have never seen vice so defiant and shameless.”
“It's a shifty place, that,” McCrae replied. “They're in it one day and gone the next, a sort of catch-basin for all the rubbish of the city. I can recall when decent people lived there, and now it's all light housekeeping and dives and what not.”
“But that doesn't relieve us of responsibility,” Hodder observed.
“I'm not denying it. I think ye'll find there's very little to get hold of.”
Once more, he had the air of stopping short, of being able to say more. Hodder refrained from pressing him.
Dalton Street continued to haunt him. And often at nightfall, as he hurried back to his bright rooms in the parish house from some of the many errands that absorbed his time, he had a feeling of self-accusation as he avoided women wearily treading the pavements, or girls and children plodding homeward through the wet, wintry streets. Some glanced at him with heavy eyes, others passed sullenly, with bent heads. At such moments his sense of helplessness was overpowering. He could not follow them to the dreary dwellings where they lodged.
Eldon Parr had said that poverty was inevitable.
Volume 2.
CHAPTER V. THE RECTOR HAS MORE FOOD FOR THOUGHT
I
Sunday after Sunday Hodder looked upon the same picture, the winter light filtering through emblazoned windows, falling athwart stone pillars, and staining with rich colours the marble of the centre aisle. The organ rolled out hymns and anthems, the voices of the white robed choir echoed among the arches. And Hodder's eye, sweeping over the decorous congregation, grew to recognize certain landmarks: Eldon Parr, rigid at one end of his empty pew; little Everett Constable, comfortably, but always pompously settled at one end of his, his white-haired and distinguished-looking wife at the other. The space between them had once been filled by their children. There was Mr. Ferguson, who occasionally stroked his black whiskers with a prodigious solemnity; Mrs. Ferguson, resplendent and always a little warm, and their daughter Nan, dainty and appealing, her eyes uplifted and questioning.
The Plimptons, with their rubicund and aggressively healthy offspring, were always in evidence. And there was Mrs. Larrabbee. What between wealth and youth, independence and initiative, a widowhood now emerged from a mourning unexceptionable, an elegance so unobtrusive as to border on mystery, she never failed to agitate any atmosphere she entered, even that of prayer. From time to time, Hodder himself was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and he read in her upturned face an interest which, by a little stretch of the imagination, might have been deemed personal. …
Another was Gordon Atterbury, still known as “young Gordon,” though his father was dead, and he was in the vestry. He was unmarried and forty-five, and Mrs. Larrabbee had said he reminded her of a shrivelling seed set aside from a once fruitful crop. He wore, invariably, checked trousers and a black cutaway coat, eyeglasses that fell off when