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lay claim is not necessarily evidence of salvation,” he said, choosing his words carefully. According to his theology, election was an absolute mystery; however, the notion that this foul-smelling lout could lay claim to revelation seemed monstrous.
“The surest and most substantial proof of divine love is sober and well-behaved obedience to the commandments of God,” Hartshorn said. “The stronger God’s love, the more uniform and steady the obedience.”
But Stanwood was not as thickheaded as the pastor thought him. “So if I get steady and become obedient, that would clinch it, right?”
“Mr. Stanford,” said Hartshorn.
“Stanwood.”
“God’s grace is a mystery, but so is the bottomless depravity of mankind. If you wish instruction in the doctrines of the church, to learn the perseverance of saints in the paths of holiness, and to study the truth that salvation is available to us only through the atonement of the Redeemer, I would suggest you begin with attendance at divine worship.”
Stanwood did not understand that he was being
dismissed. “But since I was visited by the Holy Spirit, you want to study what she said to me, don’t you? It’s a miracle, it is. A kind of proof, eh?”
At that suggestion, the young minister lost the last of his composure. “Your presumption is evidence of utter depravity,” he shouted, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. “Indeed,” he continued, regaining control, “you are insolent proof of the worst corruption and degeneracy.
Good day.”
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Stanwood was not much chastened by the minister’s screed, as he knew all about Hartshorn’s famously dark views. Mrs. Stanwood had often returned from his Sunday service trembling at the prospect of certain damnation, which had been described in great detail and length during the sermon.
His next stop was at the parsonage attached to Second Parish, which was inhabited by the Reverend David Fuller, an elderly cleric whose great claim to fame was his selfless patriotism during the Revolutionary struggle and the merciful brevity of his service. That extremely bald gentleman was eating his dinner when word came of an urgent visitor who insisted upon waiting. Ever since his seventieth birthday, some seven years gone, Reverend Fuller had distrusted his fading memory and feared offending a parishioner, if not a patron, so he hurried his meat, stain
ing his waistcoat in the process, and postponed his port to attend to the troubled soul whose name was not immediately familiar.
Fuller permitted himself an audible sigh when he recognized his visitor as one of the more wretched fellows of the community. Regretting his haste and his wine, he called for his wife. The stout little woman, who had been waiting outside the door, stepped in immediately.
“Mrs. Fuller, give Mr. Stangood something from the kitchen, would you? He’s just leaving.”
“But I have to tell you of my meeting with the angel.”
Reverend Fuller shook his head sadly, feeling an imminent bout of dyspepsia due to his miscalculated rush.
“In these fallen times, the angels do not make themselves known to us,” he said. “Good-bye, Mr. Stangood.”
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Mrs. Fuller was glad to give her full attention to Stanwood’s story, while he consumed a chicken leg and two biscuits. She knew how well it would go over, when she served it, reheated, to her friends at tea later that afternoon.
Stanwood ran into the Reverend Elijah Leonard on the street as he approached the Third Parish parsonage, his next destination. The Universalist minister imposed upon Stanwood to tell his tale out of doors rather than inflict the fellow’s pungent company on his wife. Upon hearing it, Reverend Leonard broke into a beatific smile and said, “Oh, my good fellow, the Lord loves us all equally and makes no special case for you or me. Talk of revelation must be suspect in these modern times, for it is reason itself that reveals our Maker. As for angels,” he said, not letting Stanwood get in a word edgewise. “If wagering were not a sin, I would bet that you had been deep in your cups. I can see that the conscience that God has placed in the breast of every man, woman, and child has finally gotten the better of you.” As he closed the door behind him, Leonard wished him a breezy, “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanhope.”
Stanwood felt his mood darken. He pulled his hat down hard and walked away. After three ecclesiastical meetings and nothing stronger than milk to drink, Stanwood’s head ached and he wondered again if his vision had been nothing more than a rum dream. Still, the memory of that bright light and sweet voice was strong enough to get him past the taverns that had, only two days before, been his most familiar haunts. Ignoring the invitation of an old acquaintance who hailed him from one of those dark doorways, he went directly to his eldest daughter’s shabby room, where he also found his wife.
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