Hodder did not attempt to refute her—­she had, indeed, made discussion impossible.  She knew his arguments, as she had declared, and he had the intelligence to realize that a repetition of them, on his part, would be useless.  She brought home to him, as never before, a sense of the anomalistic position of the Church in these modern days, of its appallingly lessened weight even with its own members.  As a successor of the Apostles, he had no power over this woman, or very little; he could neither rebuke her, nor sentence her to penance.  She recognized his authority to marry her daughter, to baptize her daughter’s children, but not to interfere in any way with her spiritual life.  It was as a personality he had moved her—­a personality apparently not in harmony with his doctrine.  Women had hinted at this before.  And while Mrs. Constable had not, as she perceived, shaken his conviction, the very vividness and unexpectedness of a confession from her—­had stirred him to the marrow, had opened doors, perforce, which he, himself had marked forbidden, and given him a glimpse beyond before he could lower his eyes.  Was there, after all, something in him that responded in spite of himself?

He sat gazing at her, his head bent, his strong hands on the arms of the chair.

“We never can foresee how we may change,” he answered, a light in his eyes that was like a smile, yet having no suggestion of levity.  And his voice—­despite his disagreement—­maintained the quality of his sympathy.  Neither felt the oddity, then, of the absence of a jarring note.  “You may be sure, at least, of my confidence, and of my gratitude for what you have told me.”

His tone belied the formality of his speech.  Mrs. Constable returned his gaze in silence, and before words came again to either, a step sounded on the threshold and Mr. Constable entered.

Hodder looked at him with a new vision.  His face was indeed lined and worn, and dark circles here under his eyes.  But at Mrs. Constable’s “Here’s Mr. Hodder, dear,” he came forward briskly to welcome the clergyman.

“How do you do?” he said cordially.  “We don’t see you very often.”

“I have been telling Mr. Hodder that modern rectors of big parishes have far too many duties,” said his wife.

And after a few minutes of desultory conversation, the rector left.

CHAPTER VI

“Watchman, what of the night?”

It was one of those moist nights of spring when the air is pungent with the odour of the softened earth, and the gentle breaths that stirred the curtains in Mr. Parr’s big dining-room wafted, from the garden, the perfumes of a revived creation,—­delicious, hothouse smells.  At intervals, showers might be heard pattering on the walk outside.  The rector of St. John’s was dining with his great parishioner.

Here indeed were a subject for some modern master, a chance to picture for generations to come an aspect of a mighty age, an age that may some day be deemed but a grotesque and anomalistic survival of a more ancient logic; a gargoyle carved out of chaos, that bears on its features a resemblance to the past and the future.