The Daughters of Danaus. Mona Caird
on this point continued till the church was reached. A psalm was being sung, in a harsh but devout fashion, by the congregation. The sound managed to find its way to the sweet outer air, though the ugly rectangular windows were all jealously closed against its beneficence.
The sky had become overcast, and a few drops of rain having given warning of a shower, it was thought advisable to take shelter in the porch, till it was over. The psalm was ground out slowly, and with apparent fervour, to the end.
Then the voice of the minister was heard wrestling in prayer.
The Professor looked grave and sad, as he stood listening. It was possible to hear almost all the prayer through the red baize door, and the words, hackneyed though they were, and almost absurd in their pious sing-song, had a naïf impressiveness and, to the listener, an intense pathos.
The minister prayed for help and comfort for his congregation. There had been much sickness in the village during the summer, and many were in trouble. The good man put forth his petition to the merciful and mighty Father, that strength might be given to the sufferers to bear all that was sent in chastisement, for they knew that nothing would be given beyond their ability to endure. He assured the great and mighty Lord that He had power to succour, and that His love was without end; he prayed that as His might and His glory were limitless, so might His mercy be to the miserable sinners who had offended Him.
Age after age, this same prayer, in different forms, had besieged the throne of heaven. Age after age, the spirit of man had sought for help, and mercy, and inspiration, in the Power that was felt, or imagined, behind the veil of mystery.
From the village at the foot of the hill, vague sounds floated up, and presently, among them and above them, could be heard the yelping and howling of a dog.
The minister, at the moment, was glorifying his Creator and his race at the same time, by addressing Him as “Thou who hast given unto us, Thy servants, dominion over the beasts of the field and over every living thing, that they may serve us and minister unto us——”
Again, and more loudly, came the cry of distress.
“I must go and see what is the matter,” exclaimed the Professor. At the moment, the howling suddenly ceased, and he paused. The minister was still appealing to his God for mercy. “Out of the deep have I cried unto Thee, O Lord——,” and then there was a general prayer, in which the voices of the congregation joined. Some more singing and praying took place, before the sound of a sudden rush and movement announced the conclusion of the service.
“We had better go,” said Miss Du Prel.
They had no more than time to leave the porch, before the doors burst open, and the people streamed forth. A whiff of evil-smelling air issued from the building, at the same time. The dog was howling more piteously than ever. Someone complained of the disturbance that had been caused by the creature’s cries, during worship. The congregation continued to pour out, dividing into little groups to discuss the sermon or something of more mundane interest. An appearance of superhuman respectability pervaded the whole body. The important people, some of whom had their carriages waiting to drive them home, lingered a few moments, to exchange greetings, and to discuss sporting prospects or achievements. Meanwhile, one of the creatures over whom God had given them dominion, was wailing in vain appeal.
“I can’t stand this,” cried the Professor, and he started off.
“I will come too,” Hadria announced. Miss Du Prel said that she could not endure the sight of suffering, and would await their return.
And then occurred the incident that made this afternoon memorable to Hadria. In her last letter to her sister, she had said that she could not imagine the Professor contemptuous or angry. She had reason now to change her mind. His face was at once scornful and sad. For a moment, Hadria thought that he was displeased with her.
“I sometimes feel,” he said, with a scornful bitterness that she had not suspected in him, “I sometimes feel that this precious humanity of ours that we are eternally worshipping and exalting, is but a mean, miserable thing, after all, not worth a moment’s care or effort. One’s sympathy is wasted. Look at these good people whining to their heavenly Father about their own hurts, craving for a pity of which they have not a spark themselves!—puffed up with their little lordship over the poor beasts that they do not hesitate to tear, and hurt, and torture, for their own pleasure, or their own benefit—to whom they, in their turn, love to play the God. Cowards! And having used their Godhead for purposes of cruelty, they fling themselves howling on their knees before their Almighty Deity and beg for mercy, which He too knows how to refuse!”
“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Hadria. She drew a deep sigh of relief. Without precisely realizing the fact, she had been gradually sinking into an unformulated conviction that human beings are, at heart, ruthless and hard, as soon as they are brought beyond the range of familiar moral claims, which have to be respected on pain of popular censure. Self-initiated pity was nowhere to be found. The merciless coldness of many excellent people (kind and tender, perhaps, within these accepted limits) had often chilled her to the heart, and prompted a miserable doubt of the eventual victory of good over evil in the world, which her father always insisted was ruled by mere brute force, and would be so ruled to the end of time. She had tried to find a wider, more generous, and less conventional standard in her oracle, Miss Du Prel, but to her bitter disappointment, that lady had shrugged her shoulders a little callously, as soon as she was asked to extend her sympathy outside the circle of chartered candidates for her merciful consideration. Hadria’s hero-worship had suffered a severe rebuff. Now, as the Professor spoke, it was as if a voice from heaven had bidden her believe and hope fearlessly in her race, and in its destiny.
“I had almost come to shrink a little from people,” she said, “as from something cruel and savage, at heart, without a grain of real, untaught pity.”
“There is only just enough to swear by,” said the Professor sadly. “We are a lot of half-tamed savages, after all, but we may be thankful that a capacity for almost infinite development is within us.”
“I wish to heaven we could get on a little faster,” exclaimed Hadria.
The incident proved, in the end, a fortunate one for the homeless, and almost starving terrier, of plebeian lineage, whose wail of distress had summoned two friends to the rescue. The creature had been ill-treated by some boys, who found Sunday afternoon hang heavy on their hands. The Professor carried the injured animal across the fields and through the woods, to Dunaghee.
Here the wounds were dressed, and here the grateful creature found a new and blissful home. His devotion to the Professor was unbounded; he followed him everywhere.
Hadria’s reverence and admiration rose to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. Her father laughed at her. “Just as if any decent fellow would not have done as much for a wounded brute!”
“There must have been a strange dearth of decent fellows in church that morning then.”
It was not merely the action, but the feeling revealed by the Professor’s words on that occasion, that had turned Hadria’s sentiment towards him, into one of worship.
Algitha warned her that even the Professor was human.
Hadria said she did not believe it, or rather she believed that he was inordinately, tenderly, superlatively human, and that he had gone many steps farther in that direction than the rest of his generation. He was dowered with instincts and perceptions belonging to some kinder, nobler race than ours.
Miss Du Prel looked grave. She took occasion to mention that the Professor had never ceased to grieve for his wife, to whom he had been passionately attached, and that he, almost alone among men, would never love any other woman.
“I admire him only the more for that,” said Hadria.
“Don’t let yourself care too much for him.”
“Too much!”
“Don’t fall in love with him, if I must be frank.”
Hadria