II

Something of the overwhelming nature of the forces Hodder had summoned was visibly apparent on that first Sunday after what many had called his apostasy.  Instead of the orderly, sprucely-dressed groups of people which were wont to linger in greetings before the doors of St. John’s, a motley crowd thronged the pavement and streamed into the church, pressing up the aisles and invading the sacred precincts where decorous parishioners had for so many years knelt in comfort and seclusion.  The familiar figure of Gordon Atterbury was nowhere to be seen, and the Atterbury pew was occupied by shop-girls in gaudy hats.  Eldon Parr’s pew was filled, Everett Constable’s, Wallis Plimpton’s; and the ushers who had hastily been mustered were awestricken and powerless.  Such a resistless invasion by the hordes of the unknown might well have struck with terror some of those who hitherto had had the courage to standup loyally in the rector’s support.  It had a distinct flavour of revolution:  contained, for some, a grim suggestion of a time when that vague, irresponsible, and restless monster, the mob, would rise in its might and brutally and inexorably take possession of all property.

Alison had met Eleanor Goodrich in Burton Street, and as the two made their way into the crowded vestibule they encountered Martha Preston, whose husband was Alison’s cousin, in the act of flight.

“You’re not going in!” she exclaimed.

“Of course we are.”

Mrs. Preston stared at Alison in amazement.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, irrelevantly.  “I’m pretty liberal, my dear, as you know,—­but this is more than I can stand.  Look at them!” She drew up her skirts as a woman brushed against her.  “I believe in the poor coming to church, and all that, but this is mere vulgar curiosity, the result of all that odious advertising in the newspapers.  My pew is filled with them.  If I had stayed, I should have fainted.  I don’t know what to think of Mr. Hodder.”

“Mr. Hodder is not to blame for the newspapers,” replied Alison, warmly.  She glanced around her at the people pushing past, her eyes shining, her colour high, and there was the ring of passion in her voice which had do Martha Preston a peculiarly disquieting effect.  “I think it’s splendid that they are here at all!  I don’t care what brought them.”

Mrs. Preston stared again.  She was a pretty, intelligent woman, at whose dinner table one was sure to hear the discussion of some “modern problem”:  she believed herself to be a socialist.  Her eyes sought Eleanor Goodrich’s, who stood by, alight with excitement.

“But surely you, Eleanor-you’re not going in!  You’ll never be able to stand it, even if you find a seat.  The few people we know who’ve come are leaving.  I just saw the Allan Pendletons.”

“Have you seen Phil?” Eleanor asked.

“Oh, yes, he’s in there, and even he’s helpless.  And as I came out poor Mr. Bradley was jammed up against the wall.  He seemed perfectly stunned . . . .”