The First Soprano | Page 6

sighed religiously at the thought of Winnie's
"gift." Winnie could have sighed, too, but it was with torture.
Mrs. Gray was a comfortable lady, absorbed in the quiet machinery of a
conventionally proper life. She loved her family, her church, and a
moderate amount of society. She loved things. Quiet satisfaction
beamed from the gentle eyes on the choice silver of the dining-room,
on her blue antique china, on the costly, tasteful accessories of the
drawing-room, and, indeed, on all the well chosen appointments of the
quietly elegant home. Interest in her own person and its adornment had
been gradually diverted toward Winifred, whose beauty, grace of
manner, and accomplishments, were an unfailing joy. Now she sighed
in quiet gratitude to the vague deity known as Providence for
Winifred's peculiarly sweet gift. As to the sermon of the morning, she
was one of those hearers in whose mind a sermon and its application do
not necessarily go together.
Winifred felt two pairs of eyes upon her from across the table as her
mother talked to her in a voice not intended to interrupt the gentlemen
in their conversation. There were Hubert's eyes of darker brown than
her own and very searching, and the preacher's blue eyes that looked
inquiringly through rimless eye-glasses. She could think of no answer
to her mother, and so bent her eyes silently upon her plate, while a
flush rose to her temples. Mrs. Butterworth's rapturous "heavenly" was
in strong contrast to the conviction of godless insincerity which filled
her own heart.
Mercifully to her embarrassment her father began again:
"But do you not think, Mr. Bond, that we must take things as they are?
Granted that there is a great deal of unreality in the church, what are we
going to do about it? Can one man who sees the point work a
revolution in the whole church? Must we not just take conditions as

they are and make the best of them?"
"Perhaps we may not hope to revolutionize a whole church," replied Mr.
Bond, "but," and his face grew stern with an expression that told of a
battlefield already fought for and won, "he may refuse to add one unit
to the aggregation of untrue worshipers, or to uphold an organized
system of unreality. I sometimes fear, Mr. Gray," and there was a ring
of sadness in his voice, "that we too readily take conditions as they are,
and make the worst of them!"
"Yes, I am afraid you are right--you are right," said the merchant
slowly. Then he added, "but so far you have given us only a negative
remedy. My son here could go so far with you. He washes his hands of
the whole matter."
Mr. Bond turned to Hubert inquiringly.
"Really?" he questioned.
"Yes," said Hubert, thus thrust unwillingly into the discussion, "I am no
worshiper at all."
"And may I ask why?" queried Mr. Bond.
"Your book says that whoever comes to God must believe that He is,
and that He rewards those who seek Him. I am not sure of either
proposition, and so I do not pretend to come to Him."
The frank eyes looked through the eyeglasses pleasantly. "Are you sure
of the contrary?" he asked.
"No," said Hubert honestly.
"Admitting the supposition that He is, and is a rewarder of them that
seek Him, does it cover the ground of responsibility to ignore Him
because you are not sure?"
"Perhaps not," said Hubert. "But," he added doggedly, "if He is, and
wishes to be known and worshiped, He ought to be demonstrable."

Mrs. Gray looked a little frightened. She never liked to hear Hubert talk
about those things, and it was so mortifying to have him take such a
stand against the church and everything everybody--at least most
respectable people--believed. She was sure he was saying something
dreadful now. Mr. Gray looked apprehensive, too. Winifred's
self-revelation of the morning made her feel like casting no stones at
her brother.
Mr. Bond looked at Hubert mildly.
"I think you are quite right," he said.
Here the discussion seemed to end. Hubert could make no reply to the
man who agreed with him. An instinct to fight for his position had
sprung up, but he was disarmed by Mr. Bond's assent to his proposition.
He was not accustomed to being met like that. His father's loyal policy
had been to protect his household from infidel talk, and he had not
taken too much pains to ascertain his son's point of view, and if
possible, to lead him from it into light. Hubert had found some
Christian people ready to argue with him who would admit no position
he held, however logical, believing that every arrow from the sceptic's
quiver must be a poisoned one. He withdrew in bitterness