The Irrational Knot: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

One morning the Rev. George Lind received a letter addressed in a
handwriting which he did not remember and never thenceforth forgot.
Within the envelope he found a dainty little bag made of blue satin,
secured by ribbons of the same material. This contained a note written
on scented paper, edged with gold, and decorated with a miniature
representation of a _pierrot_, sitting cross-legged, conning a book, on
the open pages of which appeared the letters L.V. The clergyman
recognized the monogram no more than the writing. But as it was
evidently from a lady, he felt a pleasant thrill of expectation as he
unfolded the paper.

                                        "Laurel Grove West Kensington
                                             "Wednesday
  "Dear Mr. George
  "I have made poor little Lucy believe that Kew is the most heavenly
  place on earth to spend a May morning so Bob has had to promise to
  row her down there to-morrow (Thursday) after breakfast and I shall
  be at home alone from eleven to one this is very short notice I
  know but opportunities are scarce and another might not present
  itself for a month.
  "Believe me Dear Mr. George
                                     "Yours sincerely
                                            Lalage Virtue."

The Rev. George became thoughtful, and absently put the note in a little
rack over the mantelpiece. Then, recollecting that a prying servant or
landlady might misinterpret it, he transferred it to his pocket. After
breakfast, having satisfied himself before the mirror that his dress was
faultless, and his expression saintly, he went out and travelled by rail
from Sloane Square to West Kensington, whence he walked to Laurel Grove.
An elderly maid opened the gate. It was a rule with the Rev. George not
to look at strange women; and this morning the asceticism which he
thought proper to his office was unusually prominent in his thoughts. He
did not look up once while the maid conducted him through the shrubbery
to the house; and he fully believed that he had not seen at the first
glance that she was remarkably plain, as Susanna took care that all her
servants should be. Passing by the drawing-room, where he had been on a
previous occasion, they went on to a smaller apartment at the back of
the house.

"What room is this?" he asked, uneasily.

"Missus's Purjin bodoor, sir," replied the main.

She opened the door; and the clergyman, entering, found himself in a
small room, luxuriously decorated in sham Persian, but containing
ornaments of all styles and periods, which had been purchased and
introduced just as they had caught Susanna's fancy. She was seated on a
ottoman, dressed in wide trousers, Turkish slippers, a voluminous sash,
a short Greek jacket, a long silk robe with sleeves, and a turban, all
of fine soft materials and rare colors. Her face was skilfully painted,
and her dark hair disposed so as not to overweight her small head. The
clergyman, foolishly resisting a natural impulse to admire her, felt
like St. Anthony struggling with the fascination of a disguised devil.
He responded to her smile of welcome by a stiff bow.

"Sit down," she said. "You mustnt mind this absurd dress: it belongs to
a new piece I am studying. I always study in character. It is the only
way to identify myself with my part, you see."

"It seems a very magnificent dress, certainly," said the clergyman,
nervously.

"Thank you for the compliment----"

"No, no," said he, hastily. "I had no such intention."

"Of course not," said Susanna, with a laugh. "It was merely an
unpremeditated remark: all compliments are, of course. I know all about
that. But do you think it a proper costume?"

"In what sense, may I ask?"

"Is it a correct Eastern dress? I am supposed to be one of the wives of
the Caliph Somebody al Something. You have no idea how difficult it is
to get a reliable model for a dress before laying out a heap of money on
it. This was designed in Paris; but I should like to hear it
criticized--chronologically, or whatever you call it--by a scholar."

"I really do not know, Madam. I am not an Orientalist; and my studies
take a widely different direction from yours."

"Yes, of course," said Susanna, with a sigh. "But I assure you I often
wish for your advice, particularly as to my elocution, which is very
faulty. You are such a master of the art."

The clergyman bowed in acceptance of the compliment, and began to take
heart; for to receive flattery from ladies in exchange for severe
reproof was part of his daily experience.

"I have come here," he said, "to have a very serious conversation with
you."

"All right, Doctor. Fire away."

This sudden whim of conferring on him a degree in divinity, and her
change of manner--implying that she had been laughing at him
before--irritated him. "I presume," he said, "that you are acquainted
with the movements of your brother."

"Of Ned?" said Susanna, frowning a little. "No. What should I know about
him?"

"He is, I believe, about to be married."

"No!" screamed Susanna, throwing herself back, and making her bangles
and ornaments clatter. "Get out, Doctor. You dont mean it."

"Certainly I mean it. It is not my profession to jest. I must also tell
you that his marriage will make it quite impossible for you to continue
here with my cousin."

"Why? Who is he going to marry?"

"Ahem! He has succeeded in engaging the affections of my sister."

"What! Your sister? Marian Lind?"

"Yes."

Susanna uttered a long whistle, and then, with a conviction and
simplicity which prevented even the Rev. George from being shocked,
said: "Well, I _am_ damned! I know more than one fool of a girl who will
be sick and sorry to hear it." She paused, and added carelessly: "I
suppose all your people are delighted?"

"I do not know why you should suppose so. We have had no hand in the
matter. My sister has followed her own inclinations."

"Indeed! Let me tell you, young man, that your sister might have gone
farther and fared worse."

"Doubtless. However, you will see now how impossible it is that you
should remain in your present--that you should continue here, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

"You cannot," said the clergyman, accustomed to be bold and stern with
female sinners, "when you are sister-in-law to Miss Lind, live as you
are now doing with her cousin."

"Why not?"

"Because it would be a scandal. I will say nothing at present of the sin
of it: you will have to account for that before a greater than I."

"Just so, Doctor. You dont mind the sin; but when it comes to a
scandal----!"

"I did not say so. I abhor the sin. I have prayed earnestly for your
awakening, and shall do so in spite of the unregenerate hardness of
heart----"

"Hallo, Doctor! draw it mild, if you please. I am not one of your
parishioners, you know. Perhaps that is the reason your prayers for me
have not met with much attention. Let us stick to business: you may talk
shop as much as you please afterwards. What do you want me to do?"

"To sever your connexion with Marmaduke at once. Believe me, it will not
prove so hard a step as it may seem. You have but to ask for strength to
do it, and you will find yourself strong. It will profit you even more
than poor Marmaduke."

"Will it? I dont see it, Doctor. You think it will profit _you_: thats
plain enough. But it wont profit me; it wont profit Bob; and it wont by
any means profit the child."

"Not immediately, perhaps, in a worldly sense----"

"That is the sense I mean. Drop all that other stuff: I dont believe in
you parsons: you are about the worst lot going, as far as I can see.
Just tell me this, Doctor. Your sister is a very nice girl, I have no
doubt: she would hardly have snapped up Ned if she wasn't. But why is
she to have everything her own way?"

"I do not understand."

"Well, listen. Here is a young woman who has had every chance in life
that hick could give her: silk cradles, gold rattles, rank, wealth,
schooling, travelling, swell acquaintances, and anything else she chose
to ask for. Even when she is fool enough to want to get married, her
luck sticks to her, and she catches Ned, who is a man in a
thousand--though Lord forbid we should have many of his sort about! Yet
she's not satisfied. She wants _me_ to give up my establishment just to
keep her family in countenance."

"She knows nothing of my visit, I assure you."

"Even if she doesnt, it makes no odds as to the facts. She can go her
own way; and I will go mine. I shant want to visit her; and I dont
suppose she will visit me. So she need trouble herself no more than if
there was no such person as I in the world."

"But you will find that it will be greatly to your advantage to leave
this house. It is not our intention that you shall suffer in a pecuniary
point of view by doing so. My father is rich----"

"What is that to me? He doesnt want me to go and live with him, does
he?"

"You quite misunderstand me. No such idea ever entered----"

"There! go on. I only said that to get a rise out of you, Doctor. How do
you make out that I should gain by leaving this house?"

"My father is willing to make you some amends for the withdrawal of
such portion of Marmaduke's income as you may forfeit by ceasing your
connexion with him."

"You have come to buy me out, in fact: is that it? What a clever old man
your father must be! Knows the world thoroughly, eh?"

"I hope I have not offended you?"

"Bless you, Doctor! nobody could be offended with you. Suppose I agree
to oblige you (you have a very seductive High Church way about you) who
is to make Marmaduke amends for such portion of _my_ income as our
separation will deprive _him_ of? Eh? I see that that staggers you a
little. If you will just tot up the rent of this house since we have had
it; the price of the furniture; our expenses, including my carriage and
Marmaduke's horse and the boat; six hundred pounds of debt that he ran
up before he settled down with me; and other little things; and then
find out from his father how much money he has drawn within the last two
years, I think you will find it rather hard to make the two balance.
Your uncle is far too good a man to give Marmaduke money to spend on me;
but he was not too good to keep me playing in the provinces all through
last autumn just to make both ends meet, when I ought to have been
taking my holiday. I wish you would tell his mother, your blessed pious
Aunt Dora, to send Bob the set of diamonds his grandmother left him,
instead of sermons which he never reads."

"I thought Marmaduke had nearly a thousand a year, independently of his
father."

"A thousand a year! What is that? And your uncle would stop even that,
if he could, to keep it out of my hands. You may tell him that if it
didnt come into my hands it would hardly last a week. Only for the
child, and the garden, and the sort of quiet life he leads here, he
would spend a thousand a month. And look at _my_ expenses! Look at my
dresses! I suppose you think that people wear cotton velvet and glazed
calico on the stage, as Mrs. Siddons did in the old days when they acted
by candlelight. Why, between dress and jewellery, I have about two
hundred pounds on my back at the present moment; and you neednt think
that any manager alive will find dresses to that tune. At the theatre
they think me overpaid at fifty pounds a week, although they might shut
up the house to-morrow if my name was taken out of the bills. Tell your
father that so far from my living on Bob, it is as much as I can do to
keep this place going by my work--not to mention the worry of it, which
always falls on the woman."

"I certainly had no idea of the case being as you describe," said the
clergyman, losing his former assurance. "But would it not then be better
for you to separate?"

"Certainly not. I want my house and home. So does he. If an income is
rather tight, halving it is a very good way to make it tighter. No: if I
left Bob, he would go to the devil; and very likely I should go to the
devil, too, and disgrace you in earnest."

"But, my dear madam, consider the disgrace at present!"

"What disgrace? When your sister becomes Mrs. Ned, what will be the
difference between her position and mine? Dont look aghast. What will be
the difference?"

"Surely you do not suppose that she will dispense with the sacrament of
marriage before casting in her lot with your brother!"

"I bet you my next week's salary that you dont get Ned to enter a
church. He will be tied up by a registrar. Of course, your sister will
have the law of him somehow: she cant help herself. She is not
independent; and so she must be guaranteed against his leaving her
without bread and butter. _I_ can support myself, and may shew Bob a
clean pair of heels to-morrow, if I choose. Even if she has money of her
own, she darent stick to her freedom for fear of society. _I_ snap my
fingers at society, and care as little about it as it cares about me;
and I have no doubt she would be glad to do the same if she had the
pluck. I confess I shouldnt like to make a regular legal bargain of
going to live with a man. I dont care to make love a matter of money; it
gives it a taste of the harem, or even worse. Poor Bob, meaning to be
honorable, offered to buy me in the regular way at St. George's, Hanover
Square, before we came to live here; but, of course, I refused, as any
decent woman in my circumstances would. Understand me now, Doctor: I
dont want to give myself any virtuous airs, or to boast of behaving
better than your sister. I know the world; and I know that she will
marry Ned just as much because she thinks it right as because she cant
help herself. But dont you try to make me swallow any gammon about my
disgracing you and so forth. I intend to stay as I am. I can respect
myself; and I dont care whether you or your family respect me or not. If
you dont approve of me, why! nobody asks you to associate with me. If
you want society, you have your own lot to mix with. If I want it, I can
fill this house to-morrow. Not with stupid fine ladies, but with really
clever people, who are not at all shy of me. Look at me at the present
moment! I am receiving a morning visit from the best born and most
popular parson in Belgravia. I wonder, Doctor, what your parishioners
would think if they could see you now."

"I must confess that I do not understand you at all. You seem to see
everything reversed--upside down. You--I--you bewilder me, Miss Conol--"

"Sh! Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, if you please. Or you may call me
Susanna, if you like, since we are as good as related."

"I fear," said the clergyman, blushing, "that we have no common ground
on which to argue. I am sorry I have no power to influence you."

"Oh, dont say that. I really like you, Doctor, and would do more for you
than most people. If your father had had the cheek to come himself to
offer me money, and so forth, I would have put him out of the house
double quick; whereas I have listened to you like a lamb. Never mind
your hat yet. Have a bottle of champagne with me?"

"Thank you, no."

"Dont you drink at all?"

"No."

"You should. It would give a fillip to your sermons. Let me send you a
case of champagne. Promise to drink a bottle every Sunday in the vestry
before you come out to preach, and I will take a pew for the season in
your church. Thats good of me, isnt it?"

"I must go," said the Rev. George, rising, after hastily pretending to
look at his watch. "Will you excuse me?"

"Nonsense," she said, rising also, and slipping her hand through his arm
to detain him. "Wait and have some luncheon. Why, Doctor, I really think
youre afraid of me. _Do_ stay."

"Impossible. I have much business which I am bound----Pray, let me go,"
pleaded the clergyman, piteously, ineffectually struggling with Susanna,
who had now got his arm against her breast. "You must be mad!" he cried,
drops of sweat breaking out on his brow as he felt himself being pulled
helplessly toward the ottoman. She got her knee on it at last; and he
made a desperate effort to free himself.

"Oh, how rough you are!" she exclaimed in her softest voice, adroitly
tumbling into the seat as if he had thrown her down, and clinging to his
arms; so that it was as much as he could do to keep his feet as he
stooped over her, striving to get upright. At which supreme moment the
door was opened by Marmaduke, who halted on the threshold to survey the
two reproachfully for a moment. Then he said:

"George: I'm astonished at you. I have not much opinion of parsons as a
rule; but I really did think that _you_ were to be depended on."

"Marmaduke," said the clergyman, colouring furiously, and almost beside
himself with shame and anger: "you know perfectly well that I am
actuated in coming here by no motive unworthy of my profession. You
misunderstand what you have seen. I will not hear my calling made a jest
of."

"Quite right, Doctor," said Susanna, giving him a gentle pat of
encouragement on the shoulder. "Defend the cloth, always. I was only
asking him to stay to lunch, Bob. Cant you persuade him?"

"Do, old fellow," said Marmaduke. "Come! you must: I havnt had a chat
with you for ever so long. I'm really awfully sorry I interrupted you.
What on earth did you make Susanna rig herself out like that for?"

"Hold your tongue, Bob. Mr. George has nothing to do with my being in
character. This is what came last night in the box: I could not resist
trying it on this morning. I am Zobeida, the light of the harem, if you
please. I must have your opinion of the rouge song, Doctor. Observe.
This is a powder puff: I suppose you never saw such a thing before. I am
making up my face for a visit of the Sultan; and I am apologizing to the
audience for using cosmetics. The original French is improper; so I will
give you the English version, by the celebrated Robinson, the cleverest
adapter of the day:

  'Poor odalisques in captive thrall
  Must never let their charms pall:
    If they get the sack
    They ne'er come back;
  For the Bosphorus is the boss for all
  In this harem, harem, harem, harem, harum scarum place.'

Intellectual, isnt it?"

Susanna, whilst singing, executed a fantastic slow dance, stopping at
certain points to clink a pair of little cymbals attached to her ankles,
and to look for a moment archly at the clergyman.

"No," he said, hurt and offended into a sincerity of manner which
compelled them to respect him for the first time, "I will not stay; and
I am very sorry I came." And he left the room, his cheeks tingling.
Marmaduke followed him to the gate. "Come and look us up soon again, old
fellow," he said.

"Marmaduke," said the clergyman: "you are travelling as fast as you can
along the road to Hell."

As he hurried away, Marmaduke leaned against the gate and made the
villas opposite echo his laughter.

"On my soul, it's a shame," said he, when he returned to the house.
"Poor old George!"

"He found no worse than he had made up his mind to find," said Susanna.
"What right has he to come into my house and take it for granted, to my
face, that I am a disgrace to his sister? One would think I was a common
woman from the streets."

"Pshaw! What does he know? He is only a molly-coddling parson, poor
fellow. He will give them a rare account of you when he goes back."

"Let him," said Susanna. "He can tell them how little I care for their
opinion, anyhow."

The Rev. George took the next train to the City, and went to the offices
of the Electro-Motor Company, where he found his father. They retired
together to the board-room, which was unoccupied just then.

"I have been to that woman," said the clergyman.

"Well, what does she say?"

"She is an entirely abandoned person. She glories in her shame. I have
never before met with such an example of complete and unconscious
depravity. Yet she is not unattractive. There is a wonderfully clever
refinement even in her coarseness which goes far to account for her
influence over Marmaduke."

"No doubt; but apart from her personal charms, about which I am not
curious, is she willing to assist us?"

"No. I could make no impression on her at all."

"Well, it cannot be helped. Did you say anything about Conolly's selling
his interest here and leaving the country?"

"No," said the clergyman, struck with a sense of remissness. "I forgot
that. The fact is, I hardly had the oppor----"

"Never mind. It is just as well that you did not: it might have made
mischief."

"I do not think it is of the least use to pursue her with any further
overtures. Besides, I really could not undertake to conduct them."

"May I ask," said Mr. Lind, turning on him suddenly, "what objection you
have to Marian's wishes being consulted in this matter?"

The Rev. George recoiled, speechless.

"I certainly think," said Mr. Lind, more smoothly, "that Marian might
have trusted to my indulgence instead of hurrying away to a lodging and
writing the news in all directions. But I must say I have received some
very nice letters about it. Jasper is quite congratulatory. The _Court
Journal_ has a paragraph this week alluding to it with quite good taste.
Conolly is a very remarkable man; and, as the _Court Journal_ truly
enough remarks, he has won a high place in the republic of art and
science. As a Liberal, I cannot say that I disapprove of Marian's
choice; and I really think that it will be looked on in society as an
interesting one."

Mr. Lind's son eyed him dubiously for quite a long time. Then he said,
slowly, "Am I to understand that I may now speak of the marriage as a
recognized thing?"

"Why not, pray?"

"Of course, since you wish it, and it cannot be helped--" The clergyman
again looked at his father, still more dubiously. He saw in his eye that
there would be a quarrel if the interview lasted much longer. So he said
"I must go home now. I have to write my sermon for next Sunday."

"Very good. Do not let me detain you. Good-bye."

The Rev. George returned to his rooms quite dazed by the novelty of his
sensations. He had always respected his father beyond other men; and now
he knew that his father did not deserve his respect in the least. That
was one conviction uprooted. And Susanna had done something to him--he
did not exactly know what; but he felt altogether a different man from
the clergyman of the day before. He had come face to face with what he
called Vice for the first time, and found it not at all what he had
supposed it to be. He had believed that he knew it to be most
dangerously attractive to the physical, but utterly repugnant to the
moral sense; and such fascination he was prepared to resist to the
utmost. But he was attacked in just the opposite way, and thereby so
thrown off his guard that he did not know he was attacked at all; so
that he told himself vaingloriously that the shafts of the enemy had
fallen harmlessly from his breastplate of faith. For he was not in the
least charmed by Susanna's person. He had detected the paint on her
cheeks, and had noted with aversion a certain unhealthy bloat in her
face, and an alcoholic taint in her breath. He exulted in the
consciousness that he had been genuinely disgusted, not as a matter of
duty, but unaffectedly, as a matter of simple nature. What interested
him in her was her novel and bold moral attitude, her self-respect in
the midst of her sin, her striking arguments in favor of an apparently
indefensible course of life. Hers was no common case of loose living, he
felt: there was a soul to be saved there, if only Heaven would raise her
up a friend in some man absolutely proof against the vulgar fascination
of her prettiness. He began to imagine a certain greatness of character
about her, a capacity for heroic repentance as well as for heroic sin.
Before long he was amusing himself by thinking how it might have gone
with her if she had him for her counsellor instead of a gross and
thoughtless rake like Marmaduke.

It is not necessary to follow the wild goose chase which the Rev.
George's imagination ran from this starting-point to the moment when he
was suddenly awakened, by an unmistakable symptom, to the fact that he
was being outwitted and beglamoured, like the utter novice he was, by a
power which he believed to be the devil. He rushed to the little oratory
he had arranged with a screen in the corner of his sitting-room, and
prayed aloud, long and earnestly. But the hypnotizing process did not
tranquilize him as usual. It excited him, and led him finally to a
passionate appeal for pardon and intercession to a statuet of the Virgin
Mother, of whom he was a very devout adorer. He had always regarded
himself as her especial champion in the Church of England; and now he
had been faithless to her, and indelicate into the bargain. And yet, in
spite of his contrition, he felt that he was having a tremendous
spiritual experience, which he would not for worlds have missed. The
climax of it was the composition of his Sunday sermon, the labor of
which secured him a sound sleep that night. It was duly delivered on the
following Sunday morning in this form:

"Dearly beloved Brethren: In the twenty-third verse of the third chapter
of St. Mark's gospel, we find this question: '_How can Satan cast out
Satan_?' How can Satan cast out Satan? If you will read what follows,
you will perceive that that question was not answered. My brethren, it
is unanswerable: it never has been, and it never can be answered.

"In these latter days, when the power of Satan has become so vast, when
his empire and throne tower in our midst so that the faithful are cast
down by the exceeding great shadow thereof, and when temples innumerable
are open for his worship, it is no strange thing that many faint-hearted
ones should give half their hearts to Beelzebub, and should hope by the
prince of devils to cast out devils. Yes, this is what is taking place
daily around us. Oh, you, who seek to excuse this book to infidel
philosophers by shewing with how much facility a glib tongue may
reconcile it with their so-called science, I tell you that it is science
and not the Bible that shall need that apology in the great day of
wrath. And, therefore, I would have you, my brethren, earnestly
discountenance all endeavors to justify the Word of God by explaining it
in conformity with the imaginations of the men of science. How can Satan
cast out Satan? He cannot; but he can lead you into the sin of adding to
and of taking from the words of this book. He can add plagues unto you,
and take away your part out of the holy city.

"In this great London which we inhabit we are come upon evil day's. The
rage of the blasphemer, the laugh at the scoffer, the heartless
lip-service of the worldling, and the light dalliance of the daughters
of music, are offered every hour upon a thousand Baal-altars within this
very parish. I would ask some of you who spend your evenings in the
playhouses which multiply around us like weeds sown in the rank soil of
human frailty, what justification you make to yourselves when you are
alone in the watches of the night, and your conscience saith, '_What
went ye out for to see_?' You will then complain of the bitterness of
life, and prate of the refining influences of music; of the help to
spiritual-mindedness given by the exhibition on the public stage of
mockeries of God's world, wherein some pitiful temporal triumph of
simulated virtue in the last act is the apology for the vicious trifling
that has gone before. And in whom do you there see typified that virtue
which you should shield in your hearts from the contamination of the
theatre? Is it not in some woman whose private life is the scandalous
matter of your whispered conversations, and whose shameless face smirks
at you from the windows of those picture-shops which are a disgrace to
our national morality? Is it from such as she that you will learn to be
spiritual-minded? Does she appear before your carnal crowds repentant,
her forehead covered with ashes, her limbs covered with sackcloth? No!
Her brow is glowing with unquenchable fire to kindle the fuel that the
devil has hidden in your hearts. Her raiment is cloth of gold; and she
is not covered with it. Naked and unashamed, she smiles and weeps in
mockery of the virtue which you would persuade yourselves that she
represents to you. Will you learn spiritual-mindedness from the sight of
her eyes, from the sound of her mouth, from the measure of her steps, or
from the music and the dancing that cease not within the doors of her
temple? How can Satan cast out Satan? Whom think ye to deceive by
whitening the sepulchre? Is it yourselves? The devil has blinded you
already. Is it God? Who shall hide anything from Him? I tell you that he
who makes the pursuit of virtue a luxury, and takes refuge from sin, not
before the altar, but in the playhouse, is casting out devils by
Beelzebub, the prince of the devils.

"As I look about me in this church; I see many things intended to give
pleasure to the carnal eye. Were the cost of all these dainty robes,
this delicate headgear, these clouds of silk, of satin, of lace, and of
sparkling jewels, were the price of these things brought into the
Church's treasury, how loudly might the Gospel resound in lands between
whose torrid shores and the tropical sun the holy shade of Calvary has
not yet fallen! But, you will say, it is a good thing to be comely in
the house of the Lord. The sight of what is beautiful elevates the mind.
Uncleanness is a vice. This, then, is how you will war with uncleanness.
Not by prayer and holy living. Not by pouring of your superfluity into
the lap of the poor, and entering by the strait gate upon the narrow
path in a garment without seam. No. By the dead and damning gold; by
the purple and by the scarlet; by the brightness of the eyes that is
born of new wine; by the mincing gait and the gloved fingers; and by the
musk and civet instead of the myrrh and frankincense: by these things
are you fain to purge your uncleanness. And will they suffice? Can Satan
cast out Satan? Beware! '_For though thou wash thee with nitre and take
thee much soap, yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord
God_.' There shall come a day when your lace and feathers shall hang on
you as heavy as your chains of gold, to drag you down to him in whose
name you have thought to cast out devils. Do not think that these things
are harmless vanities. Nothing can fill the human heart and be harmless.
If your thoughts be not of God, they will keep your minds distraught
from His grace as effectually as the blackest broodings of crime. '_Can
a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire? Yet my people have
forgotten me days without number, saith the Lord God_.' Yes, your minds
are too puny to entertain the full worship of God: do you think they are
spacious enough to harbor the worship of Baal side by side with it? Much
less dare you pretend that the Baal altar is erected for the honor of
God, that you may come into His presence comely and clean. It is but a
few days since I stood in the presence of a woman who boasted to me that
she bore upon her the value of two hundred pounds of our money. I cared
little for the value of money that was upon her. But what shall be said
of the weight of sin her attire represented? For, those costly garments
were the wages of sin--of hardened, shameless, damnable sin. Yet there
is not before me a finer dress or a fairer face. Will you, my sisters,
trust to the comeliness of visage and splendor of raiment in which such
a woman as this can outshine you? Will you continue to cast out your
devils by Beelzebub, the prince of devils? Be advised whilst there is
yet time. Ask yourself again and again, how can Satan cast out Satan?

"When sin is committed in a great city for wages, is there no fault on
the side of those who pay the wages? There is more than fault: there is
crime. I trust there are few among you who have done such crime. But I
know full well that it may be said of London to-day '_Thou art full of
stirs, a joyous city: thy slain men are not slain with the sword, nor
dead in battle_.' No. Our young men are slain by the poison of
Beelzebub, the prince of the devils. Nor is the crafty old subterfuge
lacking here. There are lost ones in this town who say, 'It is by our
means that virtue is preserved to the rich: it is we who appease the
wicked rage which would otherwise wreck society.' There are men who
boast that they have brought their sins only to the houses of shame, and
that they have respected purity in the midst of their foulness. 'Such
things must be,' they say: 'let us alone, lest a worse thing ensue.'
When they are filled full with sin, they cry 'Lo! our appetite has gone
from us and we are clean.' They are willing to slake lust with satiety,
but not to combat it with prayer. They tread one woman into the mire,
and excuse themselves because the garment of her sister is spotless. How
vain is this lying homage to virtue! How can Satan cast out Satan?

"Oh, my brethren, this hypocrisy is the curse and danger of our age. The
Atheist, no longer an execration, an astonishment, a curse, and a
reproach, poses now as the friend of man and the champion of right.
Those who incur the last and most terrible curse in this book, do so in
the name of that truth for which they profess to be seeking. Art,
profanely veiling its voluptuous nakedness with the attributes of
religion, disguises folly so subtly that it seems like virtue in the
slothful eyes of those who neglect continually to watch and pray. The
vain woman puts on her ornaments to do honor to her Creator's handiwork:
the lustful man casts away his soul that society may be kept clean:
there is not left in these latter days a sin that does not pretend to
work the world's salvation, nor a man who flatters not himself that the
sin of one may be the purging of many. To such I say, Look to your own
soul: of no other shall any account be demanded of you. A day shall come
in which a fire shall be kindled among your gods. The Lord shall array
Himself with this land as a shepherd putteth on his garment. Be sure
that then if ye shall say 'I am a devil; but I have cast out many
devils,' He will reply unto you, How can Satan cast out Satan? Who shall
prompt you to an answer to that question? Nay, though in His boundless
mercy He give you a thousand years to search, and spread before you all
the books of science and sociology in which you were wont to find
excuses for sin, what will it avail you? Will a scoff, or a quibble over
a doubtful passage, serve your turn? No. You cannot scoff whilst your
tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth for fear, and there will be no
passage doubtful in all the Scriptures on that day; for the light of the
Lord's countenance will be over all things."

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