IV
Elmer managed, during supper, to let them know that not only was he a theological seminary man, not only had he mastered psychology, Oriental occultism, and the methods of making millions, but also he had been general manager for the famous Miss Sharon Falconer.
Whether Bishop Toomis was considering, “I want this man—he’s a comer—he’d be useful to me,” is not known. But certainly he listened with zeal to Elmer, and cooed at him, and after supper, with not more than an hour of showing him the library and the mementos of far-off roamings, he took him off to the study, away from Mrs. Toomis, who had been interrupting, every quarter of an hour, with her own recollections of roast beef at Simpson’s, prices of rooms on Bloomsbury Square, meals on the French wagon restaurant, the speed of French taxicabs, and the view of the Eiffel Tower at sunset.
The study was less ornate than the living-room. There was a businesslike desk, a phonograph for dictation, a card catalogue of possible contributors to funds, a steel filing-cabinet, and the bishop’s own typewriter. The books were strictly practical: Cruden’s Concordance, Smith’s Dictionary of the Bible, an atlas of Palestine, and the three published volumes of the Bishop’s own sermons. By glancing at these for not more than ten minutes, he could have an address ready for any occasion.
The bishop sank into his golden oak revolving desk-chair, pointed at his typewriter, and sighed, “From this horrid room you get a hint of how pressed I am by practical affairs. What I should like to do is to sit down quietly there at my beloved machine and produce some work of pure beauty that would last forever, where even the most urgent temporal affairs tend, perhaps, to pass away. Of course I have editorials in the Advocate, and my sermons have been published.”
He looked sharply at Elmer.
“Yes, of course, Bishop, I’ve read them!”
“That’s very kind of you. But what I’ve longed for all these years is sinfully worldly literary work. I’ve always fancied, perhaps vainly, that I have a talent—I’ve longed to do a book, in fact a novel—I have rather an interesting plot. You see, this farm boy, brought up in circumstances of want, with very little opportunity for education, he struggles hard for what book-learning he attains, but there in the green fields, in God’s own pure meadows, surrounded by the leafy trees and the stars overhead at night, breathing the sweet open air of the pastures, he grows up a strong, pure, reverent young man, and of course when he goes up to the city—I had thought of having him enter the ministry, but I don’t want to make it autobiographical, so I shall have him enter a commercial line, but one of the more constructive branches of the great realm of business, say like banking. Well, he meets the daughter of his boss—she is a lovely young woman, but tempted by the manifold temptations and gaieties of the city, and I want to show how his influence guides her away from the broad paths that lead to destruction, and what a splendid effect he has not only on her but on others in the mart of affairs. Yes, I long to do that, but—Sitting here, just us two, one almost feels as though it would be pleasant to smoke—Do you smoke?”
“No, thanks be to God, Bishop. I can honestly say that for years I have never known the taste of nicotine or alcohol.”
“God be praised!”
“When I was younger, being kind of, you might say, a vigorous fellow, I was led now and then into temptation, but the influence of Sister Falconer—oh, there was a sanctified soul, like a nun—only strictly Protestant, of course—they so uplifted me that now I am free of all such desires.”
“I am glad to hear it, Brother, so glad to hear it. … Now, Gantry, the other day you said something about having thought of coming into the Methodist fold. How seriously have you thought about it?”
“Very.”
“I wish you would. I mean—Of course neither you nor I is necessary to the progress of that great Methodist Church, which day by day is the more destined to instruct and guide our beloved nation. But I mean—When I meet a fine young man like you, I like to think of what spiritual satisfaction he would have in this institution. Now the work you’re doing at present is inspiring to many fine young men, but it is single-handed—it has no permanence. When you go, much of the good you have done dies, because there is no institution like the living church to carry it on. You ought to be in one of the large denominations, and of these I feel, for all my admiration of the Baptists, that the Methodist Church is in some ways the great exemplar. It is so broad-spirited and democratic, yet very powerful. It is the real church of the people.”
“Yes, I rather believe you’re right, Bishop. Since I talked with you I’ve been thinking—Uh, if the Methodist Church should want to accept me, what would I have to do? Would there be much red tape?”
“It would be a very simple matter. As you’re already ordained, I could have the District Conference, which meets next month at Sparta, recommend you to the Annual Conference for membership. I am sure when the Annual Conference meets in spring of next year, a little less than a year from now, with your credits from Terwillinger and Mizpah I could get you accepted by the Conference and your orders recognized. Till then I can have you accepted as a preacher on trial. And I have a church right now, at Banjo Crossing, that is in need of just such leadership as you could furnish. Banjo has only nine hundred people, but you understand that it would be necessary for you to begin at the bottom. The brethren would very properly be jealous if I gave you a first-class appointment right at the first. But I am sure I could advance you rapidly. Yes, we must have you in the church. Great is the work for consecrated hands—and I’ll bet a cookie I live to see you a bishop yourself!”