. He had been used to
ordering matters much as he pleased. His parish at Cincinnati, being his
creation, had been managed by him as though he owned it, but at St.
John's he found himself less free, and was conscious of incessant
criticism. He had been now some months in his new pulpit; his popular
success had been marked; St. John's was overflowing with a transient
audience, like a theater, to the disgust of regular pew-owners; his
personal influence was great; but he felt that it was not yet, and
perhaps never could be, strong enough to stand the scandal of his
marriage to a woman whose opinions were believed to be radical. On this
point he was not left in doubt, for the mere suspicion of his engagement
raised a little tempest in the pool. The stricter sect, not without
reason, were scandalized. They held to their creed, and the bare mention
of Esther Dudley's name called warm protests from their ranks. They
flatly said that it would be impossible for Mr. Hazard to make them
believe his own doctrine to be sound, if he could wish to enter into
such a connection. None but a free-thinker could associate with the set
of free-thinkers, artists and other unusual people whose society Mr.
Hazard was known to affect, and his marriage to one of them would give
the unorthodox a hold on the parish which would end by splitting it.

One of his strongest friends, who had done most to bring him to New York
and make his path pleasant, came to him with an account of what was said
and thought, softening the expression so as to bear telling.

"You ought to hear about it," said he, "so I tell you; but it is between
you and me. I don't ask whether you are engaged to Miss Dudley. For my
own pleasure, I wish you may be. If I were thirty years younger I would
try for her myself; but we all know that she has very little more
religious experience than a white rosebud. I'm not strict myself, I
don't mind a little looseness on the creed, but the trouble is that
every old woman in the parish knows all about the family. Her father,
William Dudley, a great friend of mine as you know, was a man who liked
to defy opinion and never hid his contempt for ours. He paid for a pew
at St. John's because, he said, society needs still that sort of police.
But he has told me a dozen times that he could get more police for his
money by giving it to the Roman Catholics. He never entered his pew. His
brother-in-law Murray is just as bad, never goes near the church,