by BJ Hoff
Everything in Samantha screamed to lash out at her, to finally tell her the truth about Bronson, the God-fearing man, the…saint she had married. Tears, not of sadness but of rage, scalded her eyes, and she actually had to turn away from her mother, else she knew she would lose the last thin shred of control left to her.
With her back still turned, she choked out, “Bronson is dead, Mother. I can’t live my life based on what he might think.”
“Well, your father and I aren’t dead, though heaven knows your willfulness may well drive us to early graves!”
Samantha heard the chair scrape the floor and turned to see her mother draw to her feet. Her face was no longer attractive but rather waxen and taut with anger. Samantha knew, however, that her mother would not lose any more of her composure than she already had. Angela Pilcher was far too genteel for vulgar displays of emotion. No, she would simply issue a final pronouncement and take her leave.
“I can see that I’ve made a mistake by coming here, Samantha. You obviously have no self-respect, no shame. I suppose that comes from associating with those immigrant people in the slums, not to mention your new employer. I would simply remind you that, ultimately, you are known by the company you keep.”
She rejected Samantha’s attempt to help her into her cloak. “You ought to know, Samantha, that you have broken your father’s heart. All he ever wanted for you was a good marriage to a decent man, with a home and children. It isn’t as if you couldn’t have married again, after all.”
Samantha cringed at the thought, but she kept her silence. At this point, it was best to let her mother believe what she wanted, have her final say, and leave the apartment.
At the door, her mother turned and said, “I cannot for the life of me understand why you’ve chosen to live your life among the dregs of the city. Your father and I don’t deserve this from you, Samantha. You do have a responsibility, whether you realize it or not—to your family and friends and to the members of Bronson’s congregation. Those people looked to you to continue in his work after he passed away, and instead, you not only abandon their fellowship but you defile your husband’s memory as well.” She paused, then fired her parting shot. “You should be ashamed, Samantha. Truly ashamed.”
Samantha waited until her mother had reached her waiting carriage. She suddenly felt feverish and closed the door, leaning against it with her cheek pressed to the cool wood.
After a moment, she went to the window and looked out on the street below. She stood, one hand against the windowpane, watching her mother leave. I am ashamed, Mother, she cried out in her spirit as she watched the carriage clatter off down the street. You’ll never know how ashamed. But not for the reason you think. Not because I’ve defiled Bronson’s memory…but because I allowed him to defile me…
Bronson Harte had been forty-seven when Samantha, then twenty-three, married him. At first her parents had attempted to dissuade her, in part because of the difference in their ages, but even more because they hadn’t realized right away that Bronson was from a “fine old family”—indeed, a very wealthy family. Later, after learning that his background was impeccable and that he wasn’t quite the zealot that some of his followers were, both Angela and Samuel Pilcher affected a real fondness for their renowned son-in-law, treating him with parental pride and affection even though Bronson was more nearly their age than Samantha’s.
The difference in years between her and her husband, though considerable, was of no importance whatsoever to Samantha. Nor did she care about the Harte family’s reputation or fortune. She loved Bronson for what he was, loved him deeply when she married him—at least she thought she did.
He had come into her life unexpectedly—and suddenly. One day Bronson Harte had been a cloud on the horizon, a name with increasing recognition about the city, but to Samantha still only a name. In a heartbeat, he became real to her, sweeping into her life…and sweeping her off her feet.
She met him through some friends, young adults who, like herself, had grown disenchanted with the lukewarm formality of their own congregation and, unlike Samantha, had left their home church to go seeking after something more dynamic, something more “spiritually challenging.” At first Samantha stayed put, unwilling to disappoint her parents, outwardly resigned but inwardly resentful. As time passed and her friends began to rhapsodize over the exciting new “fellowship” they had discovered—and its compelling, visionary leader—she finally gave in to their coaxing and accompanied them to a midweek meeting.
Although she went more out of curiosity than from any real intention to effect a change, after that night Samantha never went back to her former congregation.
The fast-growing new fellowship was made up of a wide spectrum of individuals. Many were members of the academic community—educators and intellectuals—but there were also a significant number from among the laboring classes. They were an outgoing, energetic group: friendly, warm, and seemingly hungry for a deeper experience with God.
As for Bronson Harte, he seemed unimpressed by his personal magnetism, if not entirely unaware of it. A vigorous, attractive man whose silvering hair marked him more with dignity than with aging, Harte had never married but instead had apparently led a life of quiet devotion and self-sacrifice, dedicating himself to his God, to the members of the fellowship, and to the work of the movement.
He was a man with great presence, yet a man who seemed possessed of a genuine humility and gentle nature. At the podium, he was nothing short of mesmerizing. Unlike the soft-spoken Pastor Chapman at Samantha’s family church, Bronson Harte wore no stately robes, used no notes when he spoke. In his rich, well-modulated voice, he addressed his listeners as if he were speaking to each one on an individual basis.
His messages were universal ones; he spoke about suffering and peace, death and eternity, the slavery of sin—and the enslavement of men. He neither thundered nor raved, yet his words about the depravity of man and the wrath of God caused many to squirm where they sat. For the first time, Samantha was convicted of a sense of her own worthlessness, a degradation of spirit so intense that she, who had never once breathed even the most frivolous of confidences to anyone else, was soon seeking out the counsel of Bronson Harte for her soul’s miasma.
He was not easy on her that day but instead instructed her about the weakness and corruption of the flesh to the point that she might have given in to total despair, had he not placed a firm but gentle hand upon her head as if to administer the healing of forgiveness. Through a veil of tears, Samantha looked up into his face, and from that moment she was never the same again.
Soon, despite the protests of her parents, she was spending more and more time with the fellowship—and with Bronson Harte. She devoted her days and most of her strength to following the example of other members, teaching and working among the immigrant settlements, even going into the vile streets of the Bowery and the hideous tenements of Five Points.
She was young and idealistic, and the beliefs of the fellowship appealed to that part of her that had always yearned to change the conditions of those less fortunate—indeed, to help change the world. Bronson Harte taught, and his congregation eagerly accepted, a doctrine of social reform—a type of “social Christianity” that began with self-examination and criticism, a continual purging of individual sin.
As the movement grew, it was often likened to the Utopians and other similar reformation groups, but in reality it shared little in common with any of them. It was, Samantha came to realize later, first and foremost Bronson Harte’s movement. Yet, in spite of the adulation of his followers and the phenomenal growth of the fellowship—they never referred to themselves as a “church”—Bronson never seemed to hold himself above the other members. He worked as tirelessly as anyone else, giving away most of his personal wealth to fund the work they carried on.
It was a fact that Bronson had a great deal to do with the reputation and effectiveness of the fellowship. The Hartes were an extremely wealthy New England family
, known for the fair labor practices in their textile mills and their charitable efforts among the underprivileged. Bronson had shortened an intellectual tour of Europe, during which he had studied under some of the great reform leaders of other countries, to return to the States and begin his own organization. His unceasing efforts, his compelling personality and riveting appeal as a speaker—combined with his family’s money—had brought a rapid, exceptional growth to the fellowship, which he soon moved from New England to upstate New York, then to the city.
The movement wasn’t without controversy and criticism. Some of the more traditional churches in the city had branded Harte’s followers as extremists, dangerous radicals, or socialists. Their reformist doctrine seemed threatening to many among the more conservative congregations, while other advocates of class equality and equal rights considered the fellowship’s work a distraction from the more critical problems facing the country. For the most part, however, the fellowship enjoyed a healthy measure of respectability, even admiration. It didn’t hurt that they counted among their members several esteemed leaders of the city: politicians, businessmen, and academics.
Samantha married Bronson six months after becoming a member of the fellowship. Her parents fought her, as she had known they would. But she had the support of her friends in the fellowship and Bronson’s dizzying devotion to buoy her resolve. Besides, by then she was so much in love—and so in awe of Bronson Harte—that she would have braved the gates of hell if he had demanded it of her.
To her near destruction, he did just that.
27
AMONG THE SHADOWS
A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love.
W. B. YEATS
Samantha’s second surprise of the day arrived with Cavan Sheridan, only minutes after her mother had left.
As was his practice, Cavan took the news copy to the kitchen for her and laid it out on the table. Today, however, he also handed Samantha an envelope. “From Mr. Kane,” he said.
Samantha looked at him as she took the envelope and placed it, unopened, with the news copy. They had fallen into a daily routine by now, she and Cavan, whereby he would bring the copy in and exchange pleasantries for a moment or two, then leave until it was time to return for the work. Samantha always offered him a drink of water or a cup of tea—which he always refused.
He never seemed quite as comfortable around her during these brief daily encounters as he did in class. Samantha thought she understood. Even though they were often alone in the school building on those evenings when they stayed over to drill on a particular assignment, it was a more impersonal setting than her apartment.
He had been the soul of propriety ever since that night when he had blurted out his interest in her. Samantha had hoped the infatuation would have ebbed by now, but she was sometimes aware of him watching her at odd moments, his gaze following her about the schoolroom. Occasionally, if by chance their eyes met, he would flush slightly and look away.
Cavan Sheridan was by far the most exceptional student she had ever taught. Samantha admired his intellect, his energy, and his eagerness to learn. Because she also liked him as a person, she hated the awkwardness between them. However, nothing she did seemed to ease the tension.
On his way out, Cavan turned. “I almost forgot—Mr. Kane said you could send your reply by me if you would,” he said, gesturing toward the envelope. “This morning or when I come back this afternoon would be fine.” He seemed to delay for a moment, but when Samantha merely nodded and smiled, he turned and started for the door.
After he left, Samantha raised the wick on the lamp. She was still shaken from her mother’s unpleasant visit, and her hand trembled as she slit the envelope and withdrew a thin sheet of paper. As she deciphered the broad scrawl of Jack Kane’s handwriting, she could feel the hammering of her pulse in her throat:
Dear Mrs. Harte,
It occurs to me that I might have appeared rude Saturday night when I left the church so abruptly. My only defense is that I was somewhat preoccupied that evening and needed to get away. I would very much like to apologize in person if you would extend me the opportunity. Moreover, I’d like to further discuss your ideas on our young Cavan Sheridan’s proposition regarding the stories and possible resettlement of some selected Irish immigrants.
I was wondering if you might allow me to take you to dinner one evening this week. Let me be very direct—since I sense that you would be too kind to address the subject: I understand if you’re reluctant to be seen in my company. That being the case, I have in mind a small, out-of-the-way—but perfectly respectable—club where we would be well chaperoned but afforded the sort of privacy I imagine you’d prefer.
I confess that I am most eager to see you again, not only to make amends for my boorishness Saturday night, but in hopes of getting to know you better. You’ve only to name your choice of evenings and can do so by sending a reply with Cavan Sheridan today.
I am most sincerely yours,
Jack Kane
Samantha stared at the note in her hand as if it were a snake. Heat rushed to her face. Her emotions began to riot, anger and indignation colliding with an unbidden tingling of excitement, which she instantly shook off.
As the full impact of the note struck her, she expelled a sharp breath. Her first thought was that he had an outrageous nerve, a man of his notoriety asking her out for an evening. Did it demean her somehow in his eyes that she had to work to make a living? Or did he think that just because he employed her she would feel an obligation to accept an invitation from him? Did he seriously believe she was that weak?
Her heart raced so crazily that she had to sit down at the table to steady herself. Her feelings were still warring against each other as she sat there, staring at the note, trying to fathom the intent behind it. A man like Jack Kane would hardly care if he’d been rude to an employee, would he? Certainly not enough to feel the need for an apology. And even if, by some stretch of the imagination, he did care, it wouldn’t require a dinner invitation to set things right. A simple note like the one he’d sent today would be more than adequate.
Could Kane have possibly sensed the pull she had felt toward him, the reluctant—but undeniable—attraction? Did he think she was the same as all the other women who reputedly threw themselves at him?
Samantha closed her eyes and fought down a wave of humiliation as she tried not to consider too closely the initial flush of excitement she had felt upon reading the note. Unexpectedly, it occurred to her that her feelings of “righteous indignation” might be just as misplaced as the forbidden sense of attraction. Surely it was insufferable snobbery on her part to consider his dinner invitation a kind of insult.
As Samantha reread his blunt assessment of her supposed unwillingness to be seen with him, something tugged at her heart. Even though she couldn’t deny the truth of his statement, she found herself mortified that he would have anticipated her so well.
The truth was that, for an instant, she had known a genuine desire to accept his invitation. She wouldn’t, of course, but not entirely because of his questionable character. There was the fact that whatever else Jack Kane might or might not be, depending on whose account she believed, he was by his own admission a “sinner”—an unbeliever. The very fact that he rejected everything on which Samantha had staked her life and her future made him forbidden.
She refused to delude herself for a moment that she could influence a man like Kane or change him. Her attraction to him had nothing to do with wanting to “win him for the Lord,” although she would certainly be willing to try just that if the opportunity presented itself. But her feelings were not godly, and she would not compound the sin by pretending they were.
For too long she had existed in the shadows of deception, and the darkness had almost sucked the very life from her. The worst of it had been self-deception. She had deceived herself—or attempted to—as well as her family and friends. It had taken her months—no, years—to
grope her way out of those shadows and find the truth. Once she found it, she promised herself that she would never live in darkness again.
She began each day by praying for the light of discernment, that she might recognize truth and find the strength to live by it. But she sensed that Jack Kane, and the conflicting feelings he evoked in her, held the potential to draw her back into the shadows.
She wasn’t at all certain she could escape the darkness a second time.
Finally, Samantha drew in a deep breath, then very deliberately and precisely shredded the note, as if by tearing it into pieces she could remove the temptation from her path.
It took her only a moment to pen a polite, but unmistakably firm, refusal.
Jack wasn’t surprised when he read Samantha Harte’s reply to his note later that afternoon. Her rejection, while courteous, could not have been more final. Whatever had possessed him anyway, to think she might have accepted? He had acted on impulse, and this was the humiliating result.
And it was humiliating, he realized. He wasn’t used to women turning him down. Some of them might be interested in him for their own mercenary reasons, that was true—but at least they were interested!
Samantha Harte was a cool one, all right. Not the sort he usually went for, as it happened. For the most part, he had little use for the “ice maidens,” those paragons of virtue and good breeding. If they weren’t altogether boring, they were often the worst sort of snobs.
So why couldn’t he get Samantha Harte out of his head? Oh, she was attractive, all right, an uncommonly lovely woman, and with an understated elegance about her that both intrigued and annoyed him. She was smart, too—not just book smart, but sensible as well, he’d wager. And he was almost certain she wasn’t entirely indifferent to him. He had sensed…something…at the church the other night—a look in her eyes, some pull between them that hadn’t really surprised him. He had felt it the first time he met her, and again the other night at the church. He suspected she had felt it too, though she would probably never admit it, not even to herself.