Phyllis of Philistia [93]
will think precisely as you think to-day. That is the way with the Church. It opposes everything in the way of an innovation. You stated the case very fairly in your paper. The Church opposes every discovery and every new thing as long as possible. It then only accepts grudgingly what all civilization has accepted cordially. Oh, yes, you'll find it impossible to remain in the Church, Mr. Holland. 'Crabbed age and youth,' you know."
"I should part from the Church with the greatest reluctance, Mr. Linton."
"Then don't part from it, only don't place yourself in its power. Don't be beholden to it for your income. Don't go to the heads of the Church for orders. Be your own master and in plain words, run the concern on your own lines. The widow of the founder will have no power to interfere with you in the matter of such arrangements."
"I shall have to give the matter a good deal of thought. I should naturally have to reform a good deal of the ritual."
"Naturally. The existing ritual is only a compromise. And as for the hymns which are sung, why is it necessary for them to be doggerel before they are devotional?"
"The hymns are for the most part doggerel. We should have a first-rate choir and anthems--not necessarily taken from the Bible. Why should not Shakspere be sung in churches--Shakspere's divine poetry instead of the nonsense-rhymes that people call hymns? Shakspere and Milton; Shelley I would not debar; Wordsworth's sonnets. But the scheme will require a great deal of thought."
"A great deal; that is why I leave it in your hands. You are a thinking man--you are not afraid of tradition."
"Tradition--tradition! the ruts made in the road by the vehicles that have passed over it in years gone by!"
"The road to the Church is sadly in need of macadamizing, Mr. Holland --or, better still, asphalting. Make a bicycle road of it, and you are all right. Now, come with me to my club and have lunch. We'll talk no more just now about this matter."
They went out together.
CHAPTER XXX.
THERE IS NO ONE I LIKE BETTER THAN PHYLLIS.
Phyllis Ayrton had spent a considerable time pondering over that problem of how best to save a man and a woman from destruction-- social, perhaps; eternal, for certain. She felt that it had been laid upon her to save them both, and she remembered the case of one Jonah, a prophet, who, in endeavoring to escape from the disagreeable duty with which he had been intrusted, had had an experience that was practically unique, even among prophets. She would not try to evade her responsibility in this matter.
A few days after Herbert Courtland had witnessed by the side of Ella the representation of "Carmen," he had met Phyllis at an At Home. He had seen her in the distance through a vista of crowded rooms, and had crushed his way to her side. He could scarcely fail to see the little light that came to her face as she put out her hand to him, nor could her companion of the moment--he was one of the coming men in science, consequently like most coming men, he had been forced into a prominent place in the drawing room--fail to perceive that his farewell moment with that pretty Miss Ayrton had come. She practically turned her back upon him when Herbert Courtland came up.
For some moments they chatted together, and then it occurred to him that she might like some iced coffee. His surmise proved correct, and as there was at that moment a stream of people endeavoring to avoid the entertainment of the high-class pianoforte player which was threatened in a neighboring apartment, Phyllis and her companion had no trouble in slipping aside from the panic-stricken people into the tea room.
It was a sultry day, and the French windows of the room were open. It was Phyllis who discovered that there was a narrow veranda, with iron- work covered with creepers, running halfway round the house from window to window; and when he suggested to her that they might drink their coffee on this veranda, she hailed the suggestion as a very happy one. How did it come that none of the rest of the people
"I should part from the Church with the greatest reluctance, Mr. Linton."
"Then don't part from it, only don't place yourself in its power. Don't be beholden to it for your income. Don't go to the heads of the Church for orders. Be your own master and in plain words, run the concern on your own lines. The widow of the founder will have no power to interfere with you in the matter of such arrangements."
"I shall have to give the matter a good deal of thought. I should naturally have to reform a good deal of the ritual."
"Naturally. The existing ritual is only a compromise. And as for the hymns which are sung, why is it necessary for them to be doggerel before they are devotional?"
"The hymns are for the most part doggerel. We should have a first-rate choir and anthems--not necessarily taken from the Bible. Why should not Shakspere be sung in churches--Shakspere's divine poetry instead of the nonsense-rhymes that people call hymns? Shakspere and Milton; Shelley I would not debar; Wordsworth's sonnets. But the scheme will require a great deal of thought."
"A great deal; that is why I leave it in your hands. You are a thinking man--you are not afraid of tradition."
"Tradition--tradition! the ruts made in the road by the vehicles that have passed over it in years gone by!"
"The road to the Church is sadly in need of macadamizing, Mr. Holland --or, better still, asphalting. Make a bicycle road of it, and you are all right. Now, come with me to my club and have lunch. We'll talk no more just now about this matter."
They went out together.
CHAPTER XXX.
THERE IS NO ONE I LIKE BETTER THAN PHYLLIS.
Phyllis Ayrton had spent a considerable time pondering over that problem of how best to save a man and a woman from destruction-- social, perhaps; eternal, for certain. She felt that it had been laid upon her to save them both, and she remembered the case of one Jonah, a prophet, who, in endeavoring to escape from the disagreeable duty with which he had been intrusted, had had an experience that was practically unique, even among prophets. She would not try to evade her responsibility in this matter.
A few days after Herbert Courtland had witnessed by the side of Ella the representation of "Carmen," he had met Phyllis at an At Home. He had seen her in the distance through a vista of crowded rooms, and had crushed his way to her side. He could scarcely fail to see the little light that came to her face as she put out her hand to him, nor could her companion of the moment--he was one of the coming men in science, consequently like most coming men, he had been forced into a prominent place in the drawing room--fail to perceive that his farewell moment with that pretty Miss Ayrton had come. She practically turned her back upon him when Herbert Courtland came up.
For some moments they chatted together, and then it occurred to him that she might like some iced coffee. His surmise proved correct, and as there was at that moment a stream of people endeavoring to avoid the entertainment of the high-class pianoforte player which was threatened in a neighboring apartment, Phyllis and her companion had no trouble in slipping aside from the panic-stricken people into the tea room.
It was a sultry day, and the French windows of the room were open. It was Phyllis who discovered that there was a narrow veranda, with iron- work covered with creepers, running halfway round the house from window to window; and when he suggested to her that they might drink their coffee on this veranda, she hailed the suggestion as a very happy one. How did it come that none of the rest of the people