xt795x25bb41 https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt795x25bb41/data/mets.xml Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman, d. 1936. 1907  books b92-171-30119794 English Charles Scribner, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Militants  : stories of some parsons, soldiers and other fighters in the world : illustrated / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. text Militants  : stories of some parsons, soldiers and other fighters in the world : illustrated / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. 1907 2002 true xt795x25bb41 section xt795x25bb41 
















  THE 'MILITANTS


" The sword of the Lord and of Gideon."

 



















BOOKS BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS



The Militants. Illustrated.....   . 1.50

Bob and the Guides. Illustrated . . . 1.50

The Perfect Tribute. With Frontispiece 0.50

Vive l'Empereur. Illustrated  . . . . 1.00

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" I took her il, ,ly arm.s and held her."

             -PAge 217.

 




  THE MILITANTS


STORIES OF SOME PARSONS, SOLDIE11S

AND OTHER FIGHTERS IN THE WNTORLI)



             BY

 MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS



      ILLUSTRATED









      NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
          1 9 07

 






Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons


              'u'llshed, May, 100T

 


















THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE
MEMORY OF A MAN WHO WAS WITH
HIS WHOLE HEART A PRIEST AND
WITH HIS WHOLE STRENGTH A
SOLDIER OF THE CHURCH MILITANT,

JACOB SlIA.W    SIIIPMAN

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               CONTENTS


   I. The Bishop's Silence                     1

   II. The Witnesses                        50

 III. The Dhiumnd Brooches                 78

 I V. Crowned with Glory and Honor       126

 V. A M3lesseniger                      148

 VI. The Aide-de-Camp                    185

 VII. Through the Ivory Gate              232

VIII. The TWife of the Governor           281

IX.  The Little Revenge                 3221

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I L U ST RAT IO N S



" I took her in 7ly arms and held her



"  Frontispiece
         Facin x



" JIa;iy waters shall not wash oat love," said
    Eleanor



He stared into the smoldering fire

" Look! " he said, and 3liles swung about
     toward the ridge behind

"I got behind a turn and fired as a mani
     camte on alone "

"I reckon I shall have to ask you to ntot
    pick any more of those roses," a voice
    said

" You see, the boat is very 'new  and clean,
    Miss," he was saying

I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands



page
48



54


182


214



266


346

376

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THE BISHOP'S SILENCE

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THE BISHOP'S SILENCE



THE Bishop was walking across the fields to
afternoon service. It was a hot July day, and he
walked slowly-for there was plenty of time -with
his eyes fixed on the far-off, shimmering sea. That
minstrel of heat, the locust, hidden somewhere
in the shade of burning herbage, pulled a long,
clear, vibrating bow across his violin, and the
sound fell lazily on the still air-the only sound
on earth except a soft crackle under the Bishop's
feet. Suddenly the erect, iron-gray head plunged
madly forward, and then, with a frantic effort
and a parabola or two, recovered itself, while
from  the tall grass by the side of the path
gurgled up a high, soft, ecstatic squeal. The
Bishop, bis face flushed with the stumble and
the heat and a touch of indignation besides,
straightened himself with dignity and felt for his
ba.t, while his eyes followed a wriggling cord that
lay on the ground, up to a small brown fist. A
                       3

 


          TrHE \MILITANTS

burnished head, gleamin',g in the suiislhiiie like
the gilded ball on a church steeple, rose su(lddeIly
out of the waves of dry grass, and a pilnk-ging-
hamed figure, radiant with joy and good-will, con-
fronted him. The Bishop's temper, roughly waked
tip by the unwilling and unepiscopal war-dance
just executed, fell back into its chains.
  "Did you tie that string across the path"
  "Yes." The shining head nodded. "Too bad you
(lidn't fell 'way down. I'm sorry. But you kicked
awf'ly."
  "Oh! I did, did I" asked the Bishop. "You're
an unrepentant young sinner. Suppose I'd broken
my leg"
  The head nodded again. "Oh, we'd have patzed
you up," she said cheerfully. "Don't worry. Trust
in God."
  The Bishop jumped. "'My child," he said, "who
says that to you"
  "Aunt Basha." The innocent eyes faced him
without a sign of embarrassment. "Aunt Basha's
my old black mammy. Do you know her All her
:imlle's longer'll that. I c(-II say it." rTihen w ith
                      4

 


TfjIIE BISHOP'S SILENCE



careful, slow enunciation, "Bathsheba Salina 3Mo-
siam Angelica Preston."
  "Is that your little bit of name too " the Bishop
asked. "Are you a Preston"
  "Why, of course." The child opened her gray
eyes wide. "Don't you know my name I'm
Eleanor. Eleanor Gray Preston."
  For a moment again the locust had it all to
himself. High and insistent, his steady note
sounded across the hot, still world. The Bishop
looked down at the gray eyes gazing upward
wonderingly, and through a mist of years other
eyes smiled at him. Eleanor Gray-the world is
small, the life of it persistent; generations re-
peat themselves, and each is young but once. Ile
put his hand under the child's chin and turned
up the baby face.
  "Ah !" said he-if that may stand for the
sound that stood for the Bishop's reverie. "Ah!
Whom were you named for, Eleanor Gray"
  "For my own muvver." Eleanor wriggled her
chin from the big hand and looked at him with
dignity. She did not like to be touched by strai-
                      5

 


          THE MILITANTS

gers. Again the voices stopped and the locust
sang two notes and stopped also, as if suddenly
awed.
  "Your mother," repeated the Bishop, "your
mother! I hope you are worthy of the name."
  "Yes, I am," said Eleanor heartily. "Bug's on
your shoulder, Bishop! For de Lawd's sake!" she
squealed excitedly, in delicious high notes that a
prima donna might envy; then caught the fat
grasshopper from the black clerical coat, and
stood holding it, lips compressed and the joy of
adventure dancing in her eyes. The Bishop took
out his watch and looked at it, as Eleanor, her
soul on the grasshopper, opened her fist and
flung its squirming contents, with delicious horror,
vards away. Half an hour yet to service and only
five minutes' walk to the little church of Saint
Peter's-by-the-Sea.
  "Will you sit down and talk to me, Eleanor
Gray " he asked, gravely.
  "Oh, yes, if there's time," assented Eleanor,
"but vou mustn't be late to church, Bishop. That's
1i1Ighty.''
                      6

 

    THE     BISHOP'S         SILENCE

  "I think there's time. How do you know who
I am, Eleanor"
  "Dick told me."
  The Bishop had walked away from the throb-
bing sunshine into the green-black shadows of a
tree, and seated himself with a boyish lightness
in piquant contrast with his gray-haired dignity
-a lightness that meant athletic years. Eleanor
bent down the branch of a great bush that faced
him and sat on it as if a bird had poised there.
She smiled as their eyes met, and began to hum an
air softly. The startled Bishop slowly made out a
likeness to the words of the old hymn that begins

           Am I a soldier of the Cross,
           A follower of the Lamb

Sweetly and reverently she sang it, over and over,
with a difference.

             Am I shoulder of a hoss,
             A quarter of a lamb

sang Eleanor.
  The Bishop exploded into a great laugh that
drowned the music.
                       7

 


          THE 1MILITANTS
  "Aunt Basha taught you that, too, didn't she"
he asked, and off he went into another deep-toned
peal.
  "I thought you'd like that, 'cause it's a hymn
and you're a Bishop," said Eleanor, approvingly.
Her effort was evidently meeting with apprecia-
tion. "You can talk to me now. I'm here." She set-
tled herself like a Brownie, elbows on knees, her
chin in the hollows of small, lean hands, and gazed
at him unflinchingly.
  "Thank you," said the Bishop, sobering at
once, but laughter still in his eyes. "Will you
be kind enough to tell me then, Eleanor, who is
Dick "
  Eleanor looked astonished. "You don't know
anybody much, do you " and there was gentle
pity in her voice. "Why, Dick, he's-why, he's
-why, you see, he's my friend. I don't know
his uvver names, but Mr. Fielding, he's Dick's
favver."
  "Oh !" said the Bishop with comprehension.
"Dick Fielding. Then Dick is my friend, too. And
people that are friends to the same people should
                      8

 


THE  BISHOP'S SILENCE



he friends to each other-that's geometry, El1-
eanor, though it's possibly not life."
  "Huh" Eleanor stared, puzzled.
  "Will you be friends with me, Eleanor Gray
I knew your mother a long time ago, when she was
Eleanor Gray." Eleanor yawned frankly. That
might be true, but it did not appear to her remark-
able or interesting. The deep voice went on, with
a moment's interval. "Where is your mother Is
she here"
  Eleanor laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "Don't you
know What a funny man you are-you know
such a few things. My muvver's up in heaven. She
went when I was a baby, long, long ago. I reckon
she must have flewed," she added, reflectively, rais-
ing clear eyes to the pale, heat-worn sky that
gleamed through the branches.
  The Bishop's big hands went up to his face sud-
denily, and the strong fingers clasped tensely above
his forehead. Between his wrists one could see that
his mouth was set in a hard line. "Dead !" he said.
"And I never knew it."
  Eleanor dug a small russet heel unconcernedly
                      9

 


          THE MILITANTS
into the ground. "Naughty, naughty, naughty
little grasshopper," she began to chant, address-
ing an unconscious insect near the heel. "Don't
you go and crawl up on the Bishop. No, just don't
you. 'Cause if you do, oh, naughty grasshopper,
I'll scrunch you !" with a vicious snap on the
"scrunch."
  The Bishop lowered his hands and looked at
her. "I'm not being very interesting, Eleanor,
am I"
  "Not very," Eleanor admitted. "Couldn't you
be some more int'rstin'"
  "I'll try," said the Bishop. "But be careful not
to hurt the poor grasshopper. Because, you know,
some people say that if he is a good grasshopper
for a long time, then when he dies his little soul
will go into a better body-perhaps a butterfly's
body next time."
  Eleanor caught the thought instantly. "And if
be's a good butterfly, then what'll he be A hum-
min'-bird Let's kill him quick, and see him turn
into a butterfly."
  '"Oh, no, Eleanor, you can't force the situation.
                     10

 


T' HE B I SHOP' S S ILE N CE



He has to live out his little grasshopper life the
best that he can, before he's good enough to be a
butterfly. If you kill him now you might send him
backward. He might turn into what he was before
-a poor little blind worm perhaps."
  "Oh, my Lawd !" said Eleanor.
  The Bishop was still a moment, and then re-
peated, quietly:

    Slay not the meanest creature, lest thou slay
    Some humble soul upon its upward way.

  "Oughtn't to talk to yourself," Eleanor shook
her head disapprovingly. " 'Tisn't so very polite.
Is that true about the grasshopper, Bishop, or is it
a whopper"
  The Bishop thought for a moment. "I don't
know, Eleanor," he answered, gently.
  "You don't know so very much, do you " in-
quired Eleanqr, not as despising but as wondering,
sympathizing with ignorance.
  "Very little," the Bishop agreed. "And I've
tried to learn, all my life"-his gaze wandered off
reflectively.
                      11

 


          THE lMILITANTS
  "Too bad," said Eleanor. "Maybe you'll learn
some time."
  "Maybe," said the Bishop and smiled, and sud-
denly she sprang to her feet, and shook her finger
at him.
  "I'm afraid," she said, "I'm very much afraid
you're a naughty boy."
  The Bishop looked up at the small, motherly
face, bewildered. "Wh-why" he stammered.
  "Do you know what you're bein' You're bein'
late to church !"
  The Bishop sprang up too, at that, and looked
at his watch quickly. "Not late yet, but I'll walk
along. Where are you going, waif Aren't you in
charge of anybody "
  "Huh" inquired Eleanor, her head cocked side-
ways.
  "Whom did you come out with"
  "Madge and Dick, but they're off there," nod-
ding toward the wood behind them. "Madge is
cryin'. She wouldn't let me pound Dick for makin'
her, so I went away."
  "Who is Madge"
                    12

 


THE BISHOP'S SILENCE



  Eleanor, drifting beside him through the sun-
shine like a rose-leaf on the wind, stopped short.
"Why, Bishop, don't you know even Madge
Funny Bishop! Madge is my sister-she's grown
up. Dick made her cry, but I think he wasn't much
naughty, 'cause she would not let me pound him.
She put her arms right around him."
  "Oh !" said the Bishop, and there was silence for
a moment. "You mustn't tell me any more about
Mladge and Dick, I think, Eleanor."
  "All right, my lamb !" Eleanor assented, cheer-
fully, and conversation flagged.
  "How old are you, Eleanor Gray"
  "Six, praise de Lawd !"
  The Bishop considered deeply for a moment,
then his face cleared.
  " 'Their angels do always behold the face of
my Father,' " and he smiled. "I say it too, praise
the Lord that she is six."
  "Madge is lots more'n that," the soft little
voice, with its gay, courageous inflection, went on.
"She's twenty. Isn't that old You aren't much
different of that, are you" and the heavy,
                     13

 


THE \MILITANTS



cropped, straight gold mass of hle lhair swuiTig
sideways as she turned her face up to scrutinize the
tall Bishop.
  He smiled down at her. "Only thirty years dif-
ferent. I'm fifty, Eleanor."
  "Oh!" said Eleanor, trying to grasp the prob-
lem. Then with a sigh she gave it up, and threw
herself on the strength of maturity. "Is fifty
older'n twenty " she asked.
  More than once as they went side by side on
the narrow foot-path across the field the Bishop
put out his hand to hold the little brown one near
it, but each time the child floated from his touch,
and he smiled at the unconscious dignity, the wom-
anly reserve of the frank and friendly little lady.
"Thus far and no farther," he thought, with the
quick perception of character that was part of his
power. But the Bishop was as unconscious as the
child of his own charm, of the magnetism in him
that drew hearts his way. Only once had it ever
failed, and that was the only time he had cared.
But this time it was working fast as they walked
and talked together quietly, and when they reached
                      14

 


THE BISHOP'S SILENCST



the open door that led from the fields into the lit-
tle robing-room of Saint Peter's, Eleanor had met
her Waterloo. Being six, it was easy to say so, and
she did it with directness, yet without at all losing
the dignity that was breeding, that had come to
her from generations, and that she knew of as lit-
tle as she knew the names of her bones. Three steps
led to the robing-room, and Eleanor flew to the
top and turned, the childish figure in its worn pink
cotton dress facing the tall powerful one in sober
black broadcloth.
  "I love you," she said. "I'll kiss you," and the
long, strong little arms were around his neck, and
it seemed to the Bishop as if a kiss that had never
been given came to him now from the lips of the
child of the woman he had loved. As he put her
down gently, from the belfry above tolled suddenly
a sweet, rolling note for service.
  When the Bishop came out from church the
"peace that passeth understanding" was over him.
The beautiful old words that to churchmen are
dear as their mothers' faces, haunting as the voices
that make home, held him yet in the last echo of
                      15

 


THE MILITANTS



their music. Peace seemed, too, to lie across the
world, worn with the day's heat, where the shadows
were stretching in lengthening, cooling lines. And
there at the vestry step, where Eleanor had stood
an hour before, was Dick Fielding, waiting for
him, with as unhappy a face as an eldest scion, the
heir to millions, well loved, and well brought up,
and wonderfully unspoiled, ever carried about a
country-side. The Bishop was staying at the Field-
ings'. He nodded and swung past Dick, with a look
from the tail of his eye that said: "Come along."
Dick came, and silently the two turned into the
path of the fields. The scowl on Dick's dark
face deepened as they walked, and that was all
there was by way of conversation for some time.
Finally:
  "You don't know about it, do you, Bishop" he
asked.
  "A very little, my boy," the Bishop answered.
  Dick was on the defensive in a moment. "My
father told you-you agree with himl"
  "Your father has told me nothing. I only came
last night, remember. I know that you made Madge
                      16

 


THE BISROP'S SILENCE



cry, and that Eleanor wasn't allowed to punish
you."
  The boyish face cleared a little, and he laughed.
"That little rat! Has she been talking It's all
right if it's only to you, but Madge will have to
cork her up." Then anxiety and unhappiness
seized Dick's buoyant soul again. "Bishop, let me
talk to you, will you please I'm knocked up about
this, for there's never been trouble between my
father and me before, and I can't give in. I know
I'm right-I'd be a cad to give in, and I wouldn't
if I could. If you would only see your way to talk-
ing to the governor, Bishop! He'll listen to you
when he'd throw any other chap out of the house."
  "Tell me the whole story if you can, Dick. I
don't understand, you see."
  "I suppose it will sound rather commonplace to
you," said Dick, humbly, "but it means everything
to me. I-I'm engaged to Madge Preston. I've
known her for a year, and been engaged half of
it, and I ought to know my own mind by now. But
father has simply set his forefeet and won't hear
of it. Won't even let me talk to him about it."
                      17

 



TIHE l MILITANTS



  Dick's hands went into his pockets and his head
drooped, and his big figure lagged pathetically.
The Bishop put his hand on the young imn's
shoulder, and left it there as they walked slowly
on, but he said nothing.
  "It's her father, you know," Dick went on.
"Such rot, to hold a girl responsible for her an-
cestors! Isn't it rot, now Father says they're a
bad stock, dissipated and arrogant and spend-
thrift and shiftless and weak-oh, and a lot more!
He's not stingy with his adjectives, bless you!
Picture to yourself Madge being dissipated and
arrogant and-have you seen Madge" he inter-
rupted himself.
  The Bishop shook his head. "Eleanor made an
attempt on my life with a string across the path,
to-day. We were friends over that."
  "She's a winning little rat," said Dick, smiling
absentmindedly, "but nothing to Madge. You'll
understand when you see Madge how I couldn't
give her up. And it isn't so much that-my feeling
for her-though that's enough in all conscience,
but picture to yourself, if you please, a man going
                     18

 


    TIlE BISHOP'S SILENCE

to a girl and saying: 'I'm obliged to give you up,
because my father threatens to disinherit me and
kick me out of the business. He objects because
your father's a poor lot.' That's a nice line of con-
duct to map out for your only son. Yet that's
practically what my father wishes me to do. But
he's brought me up a gentleman, by George," said
Dick straightening himself, "and it's too late to
ask me to be a beastly cad. Besides that," and voice
and figure drooped to despondency again, "I just
can't give her up."
  The Bishop's keen eyes were on the troubled
face, and in their depths lurked a kindly shade of
amusement. He could see stubborn old Dick Field-
ing in stubborn young Dick Fielding so plainly.
Dick the elder had been his friend for forty years.
But he said nothing. Itwas betterto let the boytalk
himself out a bit. In a moment Dick began again.
  "Can't see why the governor's so keen against
Colonel Preston, anyway. He's lost his money and
made a mess of his life, and I rather fancy he
drinks too much. But he's the sort of man you
can't help being proud of-bad clothes and vices
                     19

 


THE MILITANTS



and all-handsome and charming and thorough-
bred-and father must know it. His children love
him-he can't be such a brute as the governor says.
Anyway, I don't want to marry the Colonel-
what's the use of rowing about the Colonel" in-
quired Dick, desperately.
  The Bishop asked a question now: "How many
children are there"
  "Only Madge and Eleanor. They're here with
their cousins, the Vails, summers. Two or three
died between those two, I believe. Lucky, perhaps,
for the family has been awfully hard up. Lived on
in their big old place, in Maryland, with no money
at all. I've an idea Madge's mother wasn't so sorry
to die had a hard life of it with the fascinating
Colonel." The Bishop's hand dropped from the
boy's shoulder, and shut tightly. "But that has
nothing to do with my marrying Madge," Dick
went on.
  "No," said the Bishop, shortly.
  "And you see," said Dick, slipping to another
tangent, "it's not the money I'm keenest about,
though of course I want that too, but it's father.
                     20

 


    THE BISHOP'S SILENCE
You believe I think more of my father than of llis
money, don't you We've been good friends all my
life, and he's such a crackerjack old fellow. I'd
hate to get along without him." Dick sighed, from
his boots up-almost six feet. "Couldn't you give
him a dressing down, Bishop Make him see rea-
son " He looked anxiously up the three inches that
the Bishop towered above him.
  At ten o'clock the next morning Richard
Fielding, owner of the great Fielding Foundries,
strolled out on his wide piazza, which, luxurious
in deep wicker chairs and Japanese rugs and
light, cool furniture, looked under scarlet and
white awnings, across long boxes of geraniums
and vines, out to the sparkling Atlantic. The
Bishop, a friendly light coming into his thought-
ful eyes, took his cigar from his lips and glanced
up at his friend. Mr. Fielding kicked a hassock
aside, moved a table between them, and settled
himself in another chair, and with the scratch of
a match, but without a word spoken, they entered
into the companionship which had been a lifelong
joy to both.
                      21

 


          THE MILITANTS
   "Father and the Bishop are having a song and
dance without words," Dick was pleased sometimes
to say, and felt that he hit it off. The breeze
carried the scent of the tobacco in intermittent
waves of fragrance, and on the air floated deli-
cately that subtle message of peace, prosperity,
and leisure which is part of the mission of a good
cigar. The pleasantness of the wide, cool piazza,
with its flowers and vines and gay awnings; the
charm of the summer morning, not yet dulled by
wear and tear of the day; the steady, deliberate
dash of the waves on the beach below; the play and
shimmer of the big, quiet water, stretching out to
the edge of the world; all this filled their minds,
rested their souls. There was no need for words.
The Bishop sighed comfortably as he pushed his
great shoulders back against the cool wicker of the
chair and swung one long leg across the other.
Fielding, chin up and lips rounded to let out a
cloud of smoke, rested his hand, cigar between the
fingers, on the table, and gazed at him satisfied.
This was the man, after Dick, dearest to him in
the world. Into which peaceful Eden stole at this
                      22

 


THE BISHOP'S SILENCE



poillt the serpent, and, as is usual, in the shape of
woman. Little Eleanor, long-legged, slim, fresh as
a flower in her crisp, faded pink dress, came
around the corner. In one hot hand she carried, by
their heads, a bunch of lilac and pink and white
sweet peas. It cost her no trouble at all, and
about half a minute of time, to charge the at-
miosphere, so full of sweet peace and rest, with a
saturated solution of bitterness and disquiet. Her
presence alone was a bombshell, and with a sen-
tence or two in her clear, innocent voice, the fell
deed was done. Fielding stopped smoking, his ci-
gar in mid-air, and stared with a scowl at the
child; but Eleanor, delighted to have found the
Bishop, saw only him. A shower of crushed blos-
soms fell over his knees.
  "I ran away from Aunt Basha. I brought you a
posy for 'Good-mornin',' " she said. The Bishop,
collecting the plunder, expressed gratitude. "Dick
picked a whole lot for Madge, and then they went
walkin' and forgot 'em. Isn't Dick funny" she
went on.
  Mr. Fielding looked as if Dick's drollness did
                      23

 



          THE MILITANTS
not appeal to him, but the Bishop laughed, and
put his arm around her.
  "Will you give me a kiss, too, for 'Good-morn-
ing,' " he said; and then, "That's better than the
flowers. You had better run back to Aunt Basha
now, Eleanor-she'll be frightened."
  Eleanor looked disappointed. "I wanted to ask
you 'bout what dead chickens gets to be, if they're
good. Pups Do you reckon it's pups"
  The theory of transmigration of souls had
taken strong hold. Mr. Fielding lost his scowl in
a look of bewilderment, and the Bishop frankly
shouted out a big laugh.
  "Listen, Eleanor. This afternoon I'll come for
you to walk, and we'll talk that all over. Go home
now, my lamb." And Eleanor, like a pale-pink
over-sized butterfly, went.
  "Do you know that child, Jim" Mr. Fielding
asked, grimly.
  "Yes," answered the Bishop, with a serene pull
at his cigar.
  "Do you know she's the child of that good-for-
nothing, Fairfax Preston, who married Eleanor
                     24

 


    THE BISHOP'S SILENCE
Gray against her people's will aiid took her South
to-to-starve, practically "
  The Bishop drew a long breath, and then be
turned and looked at his old friend with a clear,
wide gaze. "She's Eleanor Gray's child, too, Dick,"
he said.
  MIr. Fielding was silent a moment. "Has the boy
talked to you " he asked. The Bishop nodded. "It's
the worst trouble I've ever had. It would kill mne
to see him marry that man's daughter. I can't and
won't resign myself to it. Why should I Why
should Dick choose, out of all the world, the one
girl in it who would be insufferable to me. I can't
give in about this. Much as Dick is to me I'll let
him go sooner. I hope you'll see I'm right, Jim,
but right or wrong, I've made up my mind."
  The Bishop stretched a large, bony hand across
the little table that stood between them. Fielding's
fell on it. Both men smoked silently for a minute.
  "Have you anything against the girl, Dick"
asked the Bishop, presently.
  "That she's her father's daughter-it's enough.
Tithe bad blood of generations is in her. I don't
                     25

 



          THE MILITANTS

Eke the South-I don't like Southerners. And I
detest beyond words Fairfax Preston. But the
girl is certainly beautiful, and they say she is a
good girl, too," he acknowledged, gloomily.
  "Then I think you're wrong," said the Bishop.
  "You don't understand, Jim," Fielding took it
up passionately. "That man has been the ba2te noir
of my life. He has gotten in my way half-a-dozen
times deliberately, in business affairs, little as he
amounts to himself. Only two years ago-but that
isn't the point after all." He stopped gloomily.
"You'll wonder at me, but it's an older feud than
that. I've never told anyone, but I want you to un-
derstand, Jim, how impossible this affair is." He
bit off the end of a fresh. cigar, lighted it and then
threw it across the geraniums into the grass. "I
wanted to marry her mother," he said, brusquely.
"That man got her. Of course, I could have for-
given that, but it was the way he did it. He lied to
her-he threw it in my teeth that I had failed.
Can't you see how I shall never forgive him-
never, while I live !" The intensity of a life-long,
silent hatred trembled in his voice.
                      26

 


TILE BISHOP'S SILENCE



   "It's the very thing it's your business to do,
I)ick," said the Bishop, quietly. " 'Love your ene-
mies, bless them that curse you'-what do you
think that means It's your very case. It may hie
the hardest thing in the world, but it's the simplest,
most obvious." He drew a long puff at his cigar,
and looked over the flowers to the ocean.
  "Simple! Obvious !" Fielding's voice was full of
bitterness. "That's the way with you churchmen!
You live outside passions and temptations, and
then preach against them, with no faintest notion
of their force. It sounds easy, doesn't it Simple
and obvious, as you say. You never loved Eleanor
Gray, Jim; you never had to give her up to a manl
you knew beneath her; you never had to shut mur-
(der out of your heart when you heard that he'd'
given her a hard life and a glad death. Eleanor
Gray! Do you remember how lovely she was, how
high-spirited and full of the joy of life" The
Bishop's great figure was still as if the breath in
it had stopped, but Fielding, carried on the flood
of his own rushing feeling, did not notice. "Do you
remember, Jim" he repeated.
                     27

 


          THE      MIILITANTS
  "I remember," the Bishop said, and his voice
sounded very quiet.
  "Jove! How calm you are !" exploded the other.
"You're a churchman; you live behind a wall, you
hear voices through it, but you can't be in the fight
-it's easy for you."
  "Life isn't easy for anyone, Dick," said the
Bishop, slowly. "You know that. I'm fighting the
current as well as you. You are a churchman as
well as I. If it's my metier to preach against human
passion, it's yours to resist it. You're letting this
man you hate mould your character; you're let-
ting him burn the kindness out of your soul. He's
making you bitter and hard and unjust-and
you're letting him. I thought you had more will-
more poise. It isn't your affair what he is, even
what he does, Dick-it's your affair to keep your
owvn judgment unwarped, your own heart gentle,
your own soul untainted by the poison of hatred.
We are both churchmen, as you put it-loyalty is
for us both. You live your sermon-I say mine. I
have said it. Now live yours. Put this wormwood
away from you. Forgive Preston, as you need for-
                     28

 


    THE BISHOP'S SILENCE
giveness at higher hands. Don't l)reak the girl's
heart, and spoil your boy's life-it may spoil it-
the leaven of bitterness works long. You're at a
parting of the ways-take the right turn. Do
good and not evil with your strength; all the rest
is nothing. After all the years there is just one
thing that counts, and that our mothers told us
when we were little chaps together-be good,
Dick."
  The magnetic voice, that had swayed thou-
sands, the indescribable trick of inflection that
caught the heart-strings, the pure, high personal-
ity that shone through look and tone, had never,
in all his brilliant career, been more full of power
than for this audience of one. Fielding got up,
trembling, and stood before him.
  "Jim," he said, "whatever else is so, you are
that-you are a good man. The trouble is you
want me to be as good as you are; and I can't. If
you had had temptations like mine, trials like
mine, I might try to follow you-I would try.
But you haven't-you're an impossible model for
me. You want me to be an angel of light, and
                     29

 


THE MILITANTS



Fill only-a man." He turned and went into the
]louse.
   The oldest inhabitant had not seen a devotion
like the Bishop's and Eleanor's. There was in it no
condescension on one side, no strain on the other.
The soul that through fulness of life and sorrow
and happiness and effort had reached at last a
child's peace met as its like the little child's soul,
that had known neither life nor sorrow nor con-
scious happiness, and was without effort as a lily
of the field. It may be that the wisdom of babyhood
and the wisdom of age will look very alike to us
when we have the wisdom of eternity. And as all
the colors of the spectrum make sunlight, so all his
splendid powers that patient years had made per-
fect shone through the Bishop's character in the
white light of simplicity. No one knew what they
talked about, the child and the man, on the long
walks that they took together almost every day,
except from Eleanor's conversation after. Trans-
migration, done into the vernacular, and applied
with startling directness, was evidently a fascinat-
ing subject from the first. She broug