determined that this time (was it by way of atonement, or safeguard?) he would do the thing thoroughly. He would enter once more into that great ark of refuge from perplexing thoughts, the Roman branch of the Catholic Church. There (so long as he should remain there) he would be safe. He would rest therein like a folded sheep, and wander no more. So, humbly, in the year 1886, he did allegiance again to this great and consoling Church (which, as he said, he had never left, for you cannot leave it, though you may be unfaithful) and worshipped inconspiciously and devoutly in a small and austere Dominican chapel.
His only grief was that mamma at this point struck. She made the great refusal. She loved papa no less faithfully than ever, but his continuous faiths had worn her out. She said quietly, “I am not going to be a Roman Catholic again, Aubrey.”
He bowed his head at her decision. It was perhaps, he admitted, too much to expect that she should. “But not
Roman
Catholic, dearest . . .” was his only protest. “Surely not
Roman
, now.”
“I beg your pardon, Aubrey. Catholic. Anyhow, I am too old to join new churches, or even the old ones again.”
“You will stay an Ethicist, then,” he said, tentatively.
“No. I have never cared very much for that. I don’t think I shall attend any place of worship in future.”
He looked at her, startled, and placed his hand on hers, impeding the rapidity of her embroidery needle.
“Anne—my dear love. You haven’t lost faith in everything, as I have been in danger of doing during the last year? The South Place chapel hasn’t done that to you, dear one?”
Mamma let her work lie still on her lap, while papa’s hand rested on hers. She seemed to consider, looking inwards and backwards, down and down the years.
“No, Aubrey,” she said presently. “The South Place chapel hasn’t done that to me. It wasn’t important enough . . .”
Her faint smile at him was enigmatic.
“I don’t,” she added, “quite know what I do believe. But I have long ago come to the conclusion that it matters very little. You, you see, have seemed equally happy for a time, equally unhappy after a time, in all the creeds or no-creeds. And equally good, my dear. I suppose I may say that I believe in none of them, or believe in all. In any case, it matters very little. I have come with you always into the churches and out of them, but now I think you will find peace in the Rom——in the Catholic Church, without me, and I fear that so much ritual, after so much lack of it, would only fuss me. I shall stay at home. There is a good deal to do there always, and I am afraid I am better at doing practical things than at thinking difficult things out. You won’t mind, Aubrey?”
“My darling, no. You must follow your own conscience. Mine has been a sad will o’ the wisp to us both—but, God helping me, it has lighted menow into my last home. . . . Yet who knows, who knows . . .?”
Mamma gently patted his hand and went on with her embroidery, bending over it her patient, near-sighted, spectacled eyes. She was mildly, unenthusiastically relieved to be done with the Ethical Church. She had never really liked those hymns. . . . Dear Aubrey, he would be happier again now. He could take to himself confidently once more those eternal moral values which had threatened him during the past six months with their utter wreckage and collapse. Once more he would be able to give reasons for his faith in virtue, for his belief that lying, theft, selfishness, and adultery were wrong. Once more the world’s foundations stood, and papa would not lie wakeful in the night and sigh to watch them shake.
But the solitary, unworthy little thought nagged at mamma’s mind, “Amy will sneer. Amy will make foolish, common fun of him . . .”
Dismissing Amy as a silly and vulgar little creature, mamma folded her embroidery and went to speak to the cook.
15
Keeping House
Speaking to the cook. What a
His only grief was that mamma at this point struck. She made the great refusal. She loved papa no less faithfully than ever, but his continuous faiths had worn her out. She said quietly, “I am not going to be a Roman Catholic again, Aubrey.”
He bowed his head at her decision. It was perhaps, he admitted, too much to expect that she should. “But not
Roman
Catholic, dearest . . .” was his only protest. “Surely not
Roman
, now.”
“I beg your pardon, Aubrey. Catholic. Anyhow, I am too old to join new churches, or even the old ones again.”
“You will stay an Ethicist, then,” he said, tentatively.
“No. I have never cared very much for that. I don’t think I shall attend any place of worship in future.”
He looked at her, startled, and placed his hand on hers, impeding the rapidity of her embroidery needle.
“Anne—my dear love. You haven’t lost faith in everything, as I have been in danger of doing during the last year? The South Place chapel hasn’t done that to you, dear one?”
Mamma let her work lie still on her lap, while papa’s hand rested on hers. She seemed to consider, looking inwards and backwards, down and down the years.
“No, Aubrey,” she said presently. “The South Place chapel hasn’t done that to me. It wasn’t important enough . . .”
Her faint smile at him was enigmatic.
“I don’t,” she added, “quite know what I do believe. But I have long ago come to the conclusion that it matters very little. You, you see, have seemed equally happy for a time, equally unhappy after a time, in all the creeds or no-creeds. And equally good, my dear. I suppose I may say that I believe in none of them, or believe in all. In any case, it matters very little. I have come with you always into the churches and out of them, but now I think you will find peace in the Rom——in the Catholic Church, without me, and I fear that so much ritual, after so much lack of it, would only fuss me. I shall stay at home. There is a good deal to do there always, and I am afraid I am better at doing practical things than at thinking difficult things out. You won’t mind, Aubrey?”
“My darling, no. You must follow your own conscience. Mine has been a sad will o’ the wisp to us both—but, God helping me, it has lighted menow into my last home. . . . Yet who knows, who knows . . .?”
Mamma gently patted his hand and went on with her embroidery, bending over it her patient, near-sighted, spectacled eyes. She was mildly, unenthusiastically relieved to be done with the Ethical Church. She had never really liked those hymns. . . . Dear Aubrey, he would be happier again now. He could take to himself confidently once more those eternal moral values which had threatened him during the past six months with their utter wreckage and collapse. Once more he would be able to give reasons for his faith in virtue, for his belief that lying, theft, selfishness, and adultery were wrong. Once more the world’s foundations stood, and papa would not lie wakeful in the night and sigh to watch them shake.
But the solitary, unworthy little thought nagged at mamma’s mind, “Amy will sneer. Amy will make foolish, common fun of him . . .”
Dismissing Amy as a silly and vulgar little creature, mamma folded her embroidery and went to speak to the cook.
15
Keeping House
Speaking to the cook. What a
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