{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40539/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40539","id":"gutenberg_40539","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40539","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Church of England -- Fiction","England -- Fiction"],"text":"A LOST CAUSE\n\n                          BY GUY THORNE\n\n                AUTHOR OF \"WHEN IT WAS DARK,\" ETC.\n\n\n    G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS\n    NEW YORK AND LONDON\n    The Knickerbocker Press\n    1905\n\n    The Knickerbocker Press, New York\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nA few words are necessary in preface to this story. After _When It Was\nDark_ made its appearance, the writer received a great number of letters\nfrom his readers, and up to the present moment he still continues to\nreceive them.\n\nOut of nearly two hundred communications, a large proportion are\nconcerned not so much with the main issue of the tale, as with\ncontroversial matters in the Church of England arising from it.\n\nThe definitely Catholic[1] tone of the first book aroused, as might be\nexpected, vigorous protest, and no less vigorous commendation. The five\nor six Bishops--and many other dignitaries--who preached or lectured\nabout the story avoided the controversial sides of it. But the writer\nhas received innumerable letters from the clergy and others to the\nfollowing effect.\n\n[Footnote 1: The term \"Catholic\" is here, and throughout the book, used\nin the sense in which it is employed by a certain division of the Church\nof England and of the Episcopal Church of America.--The PUBLISHERS.]\n\nIt was pointed out to him that while the extreme \"Protestant\" party was\nconstantly employing fiction as a method of propaganda, churchmen were\nalmost unrepresented in this way. The Catholic Faith has been bitterly\nassailed over and over again in books which are well enough written, and\nhave sufficient general interest to appeal to the man of the world, who\nis often indifferent to the points debated.\n\nAfter considerable discussion, the writing of _A Lost Cause_ was\nresolved upon. The author desires to thank those priests who have\nassisted him with their counsel and experience, and begs leave to\nexplain here something of his aims in publishing the tale.\n\nAt no period in modern Church history has the Church been assailed with\nsuch malignance, slander, and untruth as at the present. \"Protestantism\"\nwithin the Church is a lost cause, it is dying, and for just this reason\nthe clamour is loudest, the misrepresentation more furious and\nenvenomed. Shrewd opportunists are taking their last chance of emerging\nfrom obscurity by an appeal to the ignorance of the general public on\nChurch matters. Looking round us, we see dozens of uneducated and noisy\nnobodies who have elected themselves into a sort of irregular prelacy\nand dubbed themselves \"Defenders of the Faith,\" with about as much right\nas Napoleon crowned himself emperor.\n\nChurch people do not take them very seriously. Their voices are like the\ncries of hedge-birds by the road, on which the stately procession of the\nChurch is passing. But the man in the street is more attentive and he\nenjoys the colour and movement of iconoclasm. He believes also that the\nbrawlers have right on their side.\n\nBut there is an inherent fairness in the man in the street, and, if this\nstory reaches him, he will have his opportunity to hear the Catholic\nside of the argument.\n\nThe author begs to state that no single character in this tale is a\n\"portrait\" of any living person, or of any real person whatever. The\nimaginary folk are designed to be merely typical, their methods are\nanalogous to much that is going on to-day under the pretences of\npatriotism and love for religious liberty, but that is all.\n\nThere will probably be the usual nonsense written, and the braves of\n\"Protestantism\" will give the usual war-whoops. Whether this is to be\nso or not, the author is profoundly indifferent.\n\nHe attacks those of the extreme \"Protestants\" whom he believes to be\ninsincere and who rebel against the Truth for their own ends. He does\nnot say or think that all \"Protestants\"--even the extremists--are\ninsincere. He has endeavoured to point out that there is as much\ndifference between the street-corner \"Protestants\" and the pious\nEvangelical Party within the Church as there is between Trinitarians and\nUnitarians.\n\nThe incident in the tale where the Archbishop of Canterbury compels a\n\"Protestant\" publicist to give up the Blessed Sacrament, which he has\nstolen from a church for purposes of propaganda, is founded on fact. It\nhas not before been made public, except in a short letter to the _Church\nTimes_ a few months ago, which was written with the design of preparing\nChurch readers for the detailed publication of such a painful incident.\nThe facts, however, have been supplied to the writer to make such use of\nin the story as he thinks fit. The authors of this disgraceful\nprofanation have, naturally, been silent on the matter. It is not an\nisolated instance. But it is not to be thought that the imaginary\ncharacters concerned in the affair in the story, are intended to\nrepresent, or do in any way, the real heroes of this great blow struck\nfor \"Protestant\" truth.\n\nFinally, the noisiest \"Protestants\" are hitting the Church as hard as\nthey can. The author has endeavoured to hit back as hard as _he_ can--of\ncourse, in that spirit of Christian love in which the \"Protestants\"\nthemselves tell us these controversies are always conducted.\n\nThe brawlers have enjoyed an astonishing immunity hitherto, and it is\nonly fair that battle should be joined now. And, however inadequate his\nforces and generalship, that is the writer's aim. He is, of course, a\n_franc-tireur_, but he fires his musket on the right side, and with a\nperfect assurance of the justice of his Cause.\n\n\nG. T.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n\nCHAPTER PAGE\n\nI.--THE INTERRUPTED EUCHARIST 1\n\nII.--MR. HAMLYN AND SON AT HOME 19\n\nIII.--LORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE GUESTS AT SCARNING COURT 38\n\nIV.--LUCY BLANTYRE AT THE CLERGY-HOUSE 69\n\nV.--WEALTHY MISS PRITCHETT AND POOR GUSSIE DAVIES ENTER THE VICARAGE\nGARDEN 108\n\nVI.--BOADICEA, JOAN OF ARC, CHARLOTTE CORDAY, JAEL, AND MISS PRITCHETT\nOF HORNHAM 127\n\nVII.--THE OFFICES OF THE \"LUTHER LEAGUE\"--AN INTERIOR 146\n\nVIII.--A PRIVATE CONFERENCE AT MIDNIGHT A YEAR LATER 166\n\nIX.--A UNION OF FORCES 182\n\nX.--LOW WATER AND GREAT EXPECTATIONS 214\n\nXI.--THE NEWS THAT CARR BROUGHT 241\n\nXII.--THE REPARATION OF JANE PRITCHETT EX-PROTESTANT 281\n\nXIII.--THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE HAMLYNS 302\n\n\n\n\nA LOST CAUSE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE INTERRUPTED EUCHARIST\n\n\nThe Church of St. Elwyn was a building of brick that went up to a great\nheight.\n\nIn the crowded district between Hornsey and Wood Green, it was one of\nthe largest buildings, and, though not externally beautiful, acquired\ndignity and impressiveness from its setting of small villa houses, which\nmade an interminable brick wilderness all round it.\n\nIt was nearing the time of the High Celebration on a Sunday morning in\nsummer. Matins had been said in a side chapel, to a scanty congregation,\nat half-past nine, and now the central act of the day was to take place.\n\nThe interior of St. Elwyn's was severe but beautiful, save for one or\ntwo minor blemishes here and there.\n\nThe eye was caught and carried away down the aisles till it found its\nfocus on the high altar which was set like a throne, above many marble\nsteps, in the curve of the distant apse. The sanctuary was lighted from\nthe sides and so the eye was not disturbed and distracted by hideous\nwindows of stained glass with their clamorous coal-tar colours, but\ncould rest quietly upon the altar with its green and gold, its flowers\nand central cross.\n\nThe organ was hidden away in a side gallery and the pulpit was a stone\nbracket high in the sweep of the chancel arch, to which it clung like\nthe nest of a bird on a cliff side.\n\nAll this was as it should be. In so many English churches the object of\nthe builders appears to have been to destroy all the dignity and beauty\npossible in a service. The organ and the pulpit are elevated to the\nimportance of shrines, and dominate everything like Gog and Magog in the\nGuildhall. Everything is done to minimise the place and office of the\naltar, to exalt the less important functions of worship, and to prevent\ncomfortable consciences from being uneasy in the realisation of the\npresence of God.\n\nOnly one tawdry note could be detected in this beautiful church. The\npictures which hung on the walls round the aisles, and represented the\nstations of the cross, were ill-drawn, and stiff in colour and design.\nThese pictures, which were said by the ignorant and unimaginative to be\nidolatrous, or at least \"Roman\"--a little understood but very\nefficacious term of reproach in the parish--were sufficiently like the\nhideous stained-glass figures in the Evangelical Church of St. Luke hard\nby to have satisfied the most pious lover of ugliness. But those folk,\nwho so vehemently preferred the medallion portraits of their respectable\nancestors on the walls of a church to any other form of symbol or\ndecoration, did not see this. They spoke bitterly of the pictures as\nbeing \"high,\" suggesting to outsiders unfamiliar with the parrot cry of\nthe partisan that they had been kept too long in a warm place.\n\nSince Father Blantyre had been appointed vicar of St. Elwyn's, the\ncongregation had increased until few of the rush-bottomed chairs were\nempty, and on days of great festivals, people would be found kneeling in\nthe aisles. The opposition party in the parish frequently commented on\nthis custom, which was thought to savour of heathenism or worse. One or\ntwo people who had spent holidays in continental towns, and had made\nexcursions into foreign cathedrals in much the same spirit as they went\ninto the chamber of horrors in the wax-work exhibition, had brought back\nnews that this habit was in vogue among \"the Catholics.\" It was felt\nthat real salvation could only be found in a pew, with one's name\nlegibly written on an ivory tablet at the end and the vestry-clerk\ncalling for the rent once a quarter in the decent old-fashioned way. Any\none who knelt on the uncushioned stone showed an anxiety to worship and\na superstitious abasement quite unworthy of a bluff, honest, British\nChristian; and his doings must be displeasing to a Deity who, the\nobjectors were persuaded, was--though they did not say so in actual\nwords--a great _English_ God.\n\nThe single bell that summoned the people to Mass--that word which\nchurch-people are becoming less afraid to use in this century--had\nceased. The server was lighting the Eucharistic candles with a long\ntaper.\n\nAs the people came in, it was noticeable that they proceeded to their\nplaces without side-looks at each other, or muttered social greetings.\nThey went to their seats, young and old, men and women, and began to\nkneel and pray.\n\nNo one, apparently, had come there to be seen by his fellows.\n\nSince the Catholic Revival in the English Church, no fact has been more\nobvious and easily determined than this. It is one which the bitterest\nopponent of churchmanship has never been able to deny and has never\nattempted to deny. The most prejudiced observer paying an alternate\nvisit to a church where the Faith is taught and to another which is\nconfessedly \"Protestant\" cannot fail to observe the difference. At the\ncelebration of the Eucharist in a church of the former type, there is an\nabsolute stillness and reverence. The congregation kneels, it worships.\n\nIn the latter, there is an unrest. People do not show marked\nconsciousness of being in the presence of mysteries. Whatever they may\nthink, they do not give the observer the impression that they think God\nis there. They sit rather than kneel, they notice the clothes of other\npeople, there is a certain sense that they are doing the right thing in\n\"patronising\" the church, and the Sunday dinner looms large over all.\n\nThe man lit the candles. A moment afterwards Father Blantyre entered\nwith the servers and the service began.\n\nThe singing was simple but harmonious. There was nothing especially\nnoticeable in the hymn or the chanting of the Kyries after the\ncommandments.\n\nThe priest went into the pulpit, kissed the white stole, and placed it,\nas a yoke, upon his shoulders. Over his head was a crucifix. He was a\nsmall man, dark of hair, and swarthy of complexion. The nose was\nprominent and aquiline, the eyes bright, with a net-work of fine\nwrinkles round them, the mouth large and mobile. There was almost a\nsuggestion of the comedian in his face, that is, in its extreme mobility\nand good-humour. One could imagine him as a merry man in his private\nlife. But mingled with this, one saw at once the lines of an unalterable\npurpose, and of conviction. Any strong belief stamps itself upon a man's\nface in an unmistakable way. When that belief is purely holy and good,\nthen we say that the man has the face of a saint.\n\nFor a moment or two, Mr. Blantyre looked round the church. The eyes, so\npuckered at the corners, very much resembled the eyes of a sailor, who\nis ever gazing out towards a vast horizon and through furious winds. Men\nwho are much occupied with the Unseen and Invisible sometimes have this\nlook, which is the look of a man who is striving to see God.\n\nThe subject-matter of the sermon itself was not very remarkable. It was\na sermon dealing with the aids to worship that symbol gives, showing how\na proper use of material objects may focus the brain upon the reality\nbehind them. During the last week or two, the local paper had been\nprinting some violent attacks upon the services at St. Elwyn's, for\nthere was a by-election in progress and one of the candidates was\nseizing the opportunity afforded by a \"No Popery\" cry.\n\nThe local writer, the vicar pointed out, was obviously alarmed lest\npeople should worship too much. He spoke of the attacks with sincere\ngood humour and more than once his words provoked a smile. The\njournalist, with the sublime ignorance of lesser local scribes, had\nspoken of Queen Elizabeth and expressed a fervent desire that the times\nof \"good Queen Bess\" would come again and that the Royal Spinster could\ndescend on the purlieus of Hornsey and sternly order all Romish toys to\nbe removed. Father Blantyre quoted Elizabeth's letter to Sandys:\n\n     The queen's majesty considered it not contrary to the Word of\n     God--nay, rather for the advantage of the church--that the image\n     of Christ crucified,--together with Mary and John, should be placed\n     as heretofore in some conspicuous part of the church, where they\n     may the more readily be seen by all the people.\n\nThe last few words of the sermon were preparatory for the mystery that\nwas about to begin, an earnest exhortation to all there to make\nthemselves ready to receive the Lord, who was presently coming among\nthem.\n\nThere was nothing in the short discourse that was remarkable, but its\ndelivery was extraordinary. The words were uttered with a great\ntenderness and solemnity, but quite without any formal note. There was\nalmost a gaiety in them now and then, a spiritual gaiety that was very\nimpressive. Father Blantyre leaned over the rail and talked to his\npeople. The voice, which sank into a whisper at times, and at others\nrang out with a sharpness that echoed up in the lofty roof, never once\nlost its suggestion of confidential intimacy with those to whom it\nspoke. In the entire absence of the usual \"preaching\" note, the sermon\ngained immensely in value with this particular audience. Anything\nacademic would have been endured, but it would not have gone home.\n\nWhile the offertory sentences were being sung, the congregation saw\nthat a small group of people had entered the church, presumably to hear\nMass.\n\nOne of the churchwardens was able to find seats for the party about\nhalf-way down the central aisle. The new-comers were four in number. All\nof them were men.\n\nIt is perhaps strange to speak of one of their number as being the\n\"leader\" of the party, but that was the impression he gave to those\nmembers of the congregation immediately around him. At the close of the\nservice, moreover, several worshippers agreed with each other that this\nperson had suggested that to them.\n\nHe was a shortish, thick-set man of some five and forty years of age.\nHis large, intelligent face was clean-shaved. The eyes were small and\nvery bright, shifting hither and thither in a constant flicker of\nobservation. The mouth was large, and though the lips were thick and\nloose, there was nevertheless a certain resolution in them. They were\nfrequently curved into a half-smile which had something indescribably\nsinister and impudent about it. One saw that, in whatever situation he\nmight find himself, this person would not easily be abashed or unready.\n\nHe wore a frock-coat of shining broadcloth. The waistcoat was cut low,\nnot as well-dressed people would wear it, showing a large expanse of\nimitation shirt-front through which a black stud was thrust. A small bow\nof black ribbon served as necktie. In some nameless way, he suggested a\npeculiarly unpleasing type of irregular dissenting minister in his\nappearance, and this was enhanced by the fact that under one arm he\ncarried a large Bible of limp leather, secured by an india-rubber band.\n\nYet, with all this, the new-comer had a remarkable and even arresting\npersonality. Wherever he went, he would not easily escape notice.\n\nBy his side sat a tallish youth with sufficient likeness to him to\nproclaim a near relationship.\n\nThe young fellow's complexion was somewhat muddy, his hair was smooth\nand mouse-coloured, his mouth resembled his father's, except that it had\nnot the impudent good-humour of the elder man's, and was altogether more\nfurtive and sly.\n\nThe two remaining members of the party were men apparently of the\nprosperous small-tradesman type, pursy, flabby with good living, who\nhad added mutton-chop whiskers to their obvious self-esteem.\n\nTo one or two members of the congregation there, the father and son were\nnot unknown. The thick-set, clean-shaved man was Mr. Samuel Hamlyn, the\neditor and proprietor of a small local journal,--the _Hornham\nObserver_,--and the youth was his son, who acted as reporter to the\npaper and signed himself S. Hamlyn, Junior.\n\nBoth were well known in local affairs; Hamlyn was a member of the\nschool-board and held one or two kindred positions. His religious\nsympathies had hitherto been supposed to lie with the numerous\ndissenting sects in the parish, all of whom had their bills and other\nannouncements printed at his office.\n\nThe momentary interest and stir created by the entrance of the party\ndied away almost immediately and Mass continued. Certainly no one in the\nchurch realised that in a few short weeks the fat man with the smile\nwould be notorious all over England, and that they were to be present at\nthe very first step in the career of one of the shrewdest of vulgar\nopportunists the country had ever known.\n\nThe seats reserved for the churchwardens were on the opposite side of\nthe aisle, but almost upon a level with those in which the new-comers\nwere seated--perhaps some two rows of chairs behind.\n\nAccordingly Doctor Hibbert, the vicar's warden, had a clear view of the\nfour men just in front.\n\nHibbert was an upright, soldierly-looking man, who had, in fact, been an\narmy surgeon, and had now bought a practice in the parish. He was a\nskilful doctor, and a man of considerable mental strength, who had made\nhimself indispensable in the district and was in the way of becoming a\nwealthy man. His earnest churchmanship had not militated against his\nsuccess, even among the most extreme Protestants and Dissenters of\nHornham. He was known to be a first-class doctor, and he was too strong\na man for any one to take a liberty with, and of such superior power and\nmould to the mass of lower-class people whom he attended that his\nopinions were respected.\n\nBut going about as he did, among every one in the parish, the Doctor\nknew far more of its internal state than any one else. Nothing is\nconcealed from a medical man in general practice. Confession is\ncompulsory to him; he sees the secrets of men's lives, knows the\ntarnished story of the \"respectable\" person, as sometimes the heroism of\nthe outcast. Hibbert had his finger on the public pulse of Hornham in a\nmeasure that Father Blantyre himself could hardly achieve.\n\nIt was therefore with some little uneasiness and a good deal of\nconjecture that the doctor had noticed the advent of Hamlyn and his\nparty.\n\nThe disturbances to public worship which are so familiar to-day were\nquite unknown at that time. Hibbert anticipated nothing of what actually\noccurred, but his eye was watchful nevertheless.\n\nThe Mass went on.\n\nThe servers knelt on the altar steps in cotta and cassock, the priest\nmoved above them in his stiff, flowered chasuble, robed in the garments\nof the Passion of our Lord.\n\nThe Comfortable Words were said, and the Sursum Corda began.\n\nA deep throbbing sound came from the organ, and, in one great outburst\nof solemn avowal, the congregation lifted up their hearts to God.\n\n    SURSUM CORDA!\n    HABEMUS AD DOMINUM\n    GRATIAS AGAMUS DOMINO DEO NOSTRO!\n\nEver since the days of the Apostles, the Mass had been said thus, the\nmost solemn part of the service had begun with these profound words of\nadoration. The doctor forgot all else as he worshipped.\n\nLet it be remembered, in the light of what follows, that the vast\nmajority of the people there believed this, were waiting for\n_this_--they believed that when the priest said the Prayer of\nConsecration, our Lord Himself had come suddenly among them.\n\nThroughout the rite there was a growing sense and assurance of One\ncoming. Most of them were quite sure of it.\n\nHuman hearts, worn with the troubles of the week, sick to death, it may\nbe, of a hard material lot, now bowed in contrition and repentance, or\nwere filled with a certain Hope. Everything in this world was as\nnothing, because, upon the altar before which the priest was bending so\nlow, they believed that God had come.\n\nIn what way, or how, they did not know and could not have explained. Did\nthey _imagine_ it week after week as they knelt in church? Most of them\n_knew_ that it was no imagination or delusion that caught at their\nhearts, that changed the air of the building in a swift moment, that\ncaught up heart and soul and spirit in one great outpouring of love and\nfaith and adoration.\n\nWas _this_ a fable, as folks sometimes told them? This which dissolved\nand broke the chains of bodily sense, banished the world, and enfolded\nthem with its awful sweetness, its immeasurable joy? What else in life\nhad power to do this, power to hurry away clogging, material things as\nin a mighty spiritual wind, to show them once more the stupendous\nsacrifice of the Saviour--what else but the indubitable presence of our\nLord?\n\nThe priest held up the Host.\n\nAt that supreme moment, Doctor Hibbert, whose state of mind may be taken\nas typical of many others there, bent in humble adoration and\ncontrition.\n\nAn absolute silence lay over the church; there was not the slightest\nsound or movement in it.\n\nA chair was pushed harshly over the tiles, there was a heavy shuffling\nof feet. Such sounds in that holy moment affected some of the\nworshippers as a physical blow might have done.\n\nBut few people looked up. Many of them did not hear the sound, their\nears being tuned to harmonies that were not of this world.\n\nThe doctor heard the noise with his ears, but for a merciful moment it\ndid not penetrate to his brain. And then with a horrid clangour the\nvisible things of the world came rushing back to him.\n\nHe looked up.\n\nThe four men just in front of him had risen in their places. The two\ntradesmen were red in the face and manifestly uneasy. They breathed\nhard, a breath of ostentatious defiance.\n\nYoung Hamlyn was glancing round the church with swift, malevolent\nmovements of his head. His eyes flickered hither and thither until they\nfinally settled on the motionless figure at the altar, the figure with\nthe upstretched arm.\n\nThe elder Hamlyn held a paper in his hand, from which he began to read\nin a loud, unsteady voice:\n\n\"_I, Samuel Hamlyn, a lawful parishioner of St. Elwyn's parish, Hornham,\ndo hereby rise and protest against the illegal and blasphemous fable of\nthe Mass as performed in this church. And as a member of the Protestant\nChurch of England I give notice----_\"\n\nEvery one had risen to his feet. In a distant corner of the church, a\nwoman began to shriek. A murmur broke into shouts, there was a crash of\nsome heavy body falling.\n\nA horrid tumult seemed broken loose, as if it had been confined till now\nand had broken its bars with one great effort.\n\nIn a second, the four men were surrounded by a pushing crowd of men,\nbeside themselves with horror and anger. Sticks began to quiver in the\nair, the crash of the chairs as they were overturned was like the\ndropping rattle of musketry fire.\n\nThe hard voice of the brawler had gone up a full tone. In its\nexcitement, it dominated an abominable chorus of shouting.\n\nIn half a minute, the doctor and other members of the congregation had\nHamlyn and his son gripped by the arms and were hurrying them towards\nthe west door without any answer to their frantic threats and menaces.\nThe other two men followed stolidly.\n\nNearly every face was turned away from the altar.\n\nThe one or two people who had fallen trembling upon their knees when the\nriot was at its height saw that the vicar was also kneeling in adoration\nof the Blessed Sacrament.\n\nA loud metallic _clang_ resounded through the church. The door was\nbarred, the brawlers were shut out.\n\nWhen the maimed, polluted rite was at last concluded, amid deep sobs\nfrom men and women alike, Father Blantyre gave the blessing. They saw\nwith deep sympathy that the tears were rolling down his cheeks also.\n\nBut the doctor saw, with a sudden quickening of the pulses, that the\nfirst finger and the thumb were joined still. It is the custom of the\npriest, after he has broken the bread, that the finger and thumb are\nnever parted till Mass is said.\n\nThey were not parted now.\n\nThe fact comforted and cheered the doctor. He had been on battle-fields\nand had not known the fear and horror he had known to-day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nMR. HAMLYN AND SON AT HOME\n\n\nMr. Hamlyn lived in Alexandra Road, Hornham. The actual name of his\nhouse was \"Balmoral,\" and it was one of seven or eight other residences\ngathered together under the generic title of \"Beatrice Villas.\"\n\nThe father and son turned into the little path which led up to the\nimitation satin-wood door some twenty minutes after the gate of St.\nElwyn's had been barred to them. Their companions, Mr. Burgoyne and Mr.\nMoffatt, had left them at the corner of the street, very flustered at\nwhat they had done, and with a dull remorse flitting about their thick\nskulls, that they had joined in \"Hamlyn's little game.\" Nor did the\nrepeated assurances of the journalist, that Mr. Herbert--the Liberal\ncandidate--would \"see them through it,\" help them to recover their peace\nof mind. Visions of police-court proceedings and an unenviable notoriety\nin the daily papers were very vivid, and they parted with their chief\nin mingled sorrow and anger.\n\nMr. Hamlyn let himself and his son into the little hall of his villa. A\nsmell of roast meat gave evidence that dinner would soon be ready. Both\nmen turned into the parlour on the left of the passage. It was a room\nwhich showed signs of fugitive rather than regular use. Two or three\nlong boxes bearing the name of a local draper stood upon the round table\nin the centre. The contents showed that Miss Hamlyn, the agitator's only\ndaughter, had been occupied in the choice of corsets.\n\nThe walls of the parlour were covered with a rich mauve and gold paper,\nwhich gave a dignity to the cut-glass lustres of the chandelier. The\npictures, heavily framed in gold, were spirited representations of\nscenes from the Old Testament. On the rack of the rosewood piano--which\nstood open--was a song called \"Roses that Bloomed in my Heart.\"\n\nThe chairs, arranged around the wall with commendable regularity, were\nupholstered in plum-coloured plush. On one of them was a card-box of a\nvivid green, containing several clean collars of the particular sort\nHamlyn Junior wore; on another stood the wooden box where his father's\nsilk hat was kept when not in use on Sundays and other important days.\n\nMr. Hamlyn took off his frock coat and removed the reversible cuffs that\nwere attached to the sleeves of his flannel shirt by means of an\ningeniously contrived clip. He then put on a loose coat of black alpaca.\nHis son, having gone through something of the same process, followed his\nfather to the sitting-room next the little kitchen.\n\nAs the parlour was not often used for ceremonial occasions, the Hamlyns\nnot being very hospitable people, it served as an occasional\ndressing-room also, and saved running up-stairs.\n\nThe sitting-room window looked out into the backyard, immediately by the\nkitchen door, which led into it. As the Hamlyns came in, they were able\nto see their servant throwing some hot liquid--the water in which the\ncabbage had been boiled, as a matter of fact--into the grid in the\ncentre of the yard.\n\nThe table was already laid for the meal. As, however, it was rather a\nlong table and the Hamlyns were only three in family,--Hamlyn being a\nwidower,--the white cloth was laid only on half of it. One or two\nvolumes of the Heartsease Novelettes and some artificial flowers, with\nwhich a hat was to be trimmed by Miss Hamlyn, were thus left\nundisturbed.\n\n\"Dinner didn't ought to be long,\" Mr. Hamlyn remarked.\n\n\"'Ope not,\" said his son shortly. \"I'll holler to Maud.\"\n\nMiss Hamlyn came in soon afterwards, followed by the maid with a joint\nof roast beef. The editor's daughter was a tall girl with sulky lips,\nbold eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. This last was now screwed round\nher forehead in curling-pins.\n\nThe two men attacked their dinner in silence. Both of them had tucked a\nhandkerchief round their necks, in order to preserve the Sunday\nwaistcoat from droppings of food, a somewhat wise precaution, as both of\nthem ate very rapidly.\n\n\"Maud,\" said Hamlyn at length, \"can you do a bit of typing for me this\nafternoon?\"\n\n\"No, then, I can't, Pa,\" she replied resentfully, \"and it's like you to\nask it. On the Sabbath, too! I'm going out with Gussie Davies for a\nwalk.\"\n\n\"Touch the 'arp lightly, my dear,\" he replied, \"no need to get your\nfeathers up.\"\n\n\"Well, Pa,\" she answered, \"I'm sure I'm ready to spank the beastly\nmachine for you all the week, you know I am. But Sundays is different.\"\n\nHamlyn made no reply. Both he and his son were thinking deeply, and as\nyet no reference had escaped them as to the doings of the morning.\nAlthough the girl knew there was something special afoot, she was not\nmuch interested in the details, being at all times a person much\noccupied with her own affairs.\n\nDuring the pudding, she had a short and slangy conversation with her\nbrother, and directly the meal was over she went up-stairs to \"dress.\"\n\nThe servant removed the plates and dishes, and Hamlyn and his son sat\ndown at the table. The father drew a large portfolio of papers towards\nhim. The son lighted a cheap cigarette.\n\nBoth of the Hamlyns spoke fairly correctly in public, though with the\nusual cockney twang. In the seclusion of Balmoral, neither of them\nthought it necessary to be very particular about the aspirates which\nthey emphasised so carefully elsewhere.\n\n\"When will Mr. Herbert pay up?\" said Sam.\n\n\"To-morrow. I shall see him in the committee room during the afternoon,\nand it's five and twenty pound earned as easy as I ever earned anything\nin my life. It'll come in very 'andy too. There's the rent on the\nlinotype machine just due.\"\n\n\"The money's all right,\" answered the younger man, \"and, of course,\nwe're guaranteed against fines and anything of that sort. But do you\nthink the game's worth the candle? How will opinion in the parish go?\"\n\n\"Like a house on fire. Wait till you see my leader in Wednesday's issue.\nMr. Herbert has put me up to the whole thing. We're carrying out a\npatriotic Henglish duty. Public sympathy will all be with us. Rome is\ncreeping in among us!\"\n\nSam grinned. \"Well, you know best, Father, of course. And we're bound to\nsupport Mr. Herbert.\"\n\n\"I've been thinking a great deal,\" Hamlyn answered slowly. \"I've always\nbeen an ambitious man and I've always meant to come out on top somehow\nor other. But I've never had a big chance yet. I think,--I'm not\nsure,--but I _think_ I see that chance waiting now.\"\n\nHis shrewd face was lighted up with a curious excitement. The eyes\nglowed and the impudent merriment on the lips became more pronounced\nthan before.\n\n\"What is it then?\"\n\n\"Listen quietly to me for a few minutes. The idea came gradual to me. I\ngot on the track six months ago. First of all, it was the ten gross of\nreligious books I had down in the shop. They were of all sorts. Which\nwas the one that went best? Why, it was _The Adventures of Susan\nLefever, the Captive Nun_. I sold 'em all out in no time. The next best\nseller was _The Revelations of Pastor Coucherrousset, the Converted\nCatholic Priest_. Anything against Rome! Mr. Leatherbarrow, of the New\nConnection Methodists, preached three times on those books. He had all\nthe congregation fair shaking with indignation against the Scarlet\nWoman. You see it's like this. People want a cock-shy. They don't much\ncare about what it is, as long as they've got it--see the way they're\ndown on the Sheenies in France. Now a religious cock-shy is the best of\nall. It gives people a feeling that they're in real earnest, and they\ncan kid themselves and other people that it's more disinterested than\npolitics, for instance. They've nothing to get by it--except the fun of\ndoing it--and that flatters 'em because they're always on the grab in\nevery other way. See?\"\n\nSam nodded. He was not one of those youths who despise the words of\nparental wisdom. He was not himself a fool, and so he did not fall into\nthe mistake of underrating his father's capacity and knowledge of life.\nThe small and vulgar triumphs of Hamlyn's career were all appreciated\nand noted by his son, who had a sincere respect for him.\n\n\"Very well, then,\" Hamlyn continued. \"It's a sure draw, all over\nEngland, to raise the anti-popery cry. The wholesale trade tell me that\nthe business done in Fox's _Book of Martyrs_ is a perfect knock-out year\nby year, and there's a sure sale for the smaller books about the priests\nlarking with the girls in the confessional and so forth. Anything with\n'Secret History' or 'Jesuit' on the title-page 'll sell like the\n_Evening News_ on Derby Day. Now, I've been reading all the publications\nof the regular Protestant societies during the last few weeks. Plenty of\ncuts at the Ritualists, lots of little sixpennies bound in cloth to\nprove as there isn't no such thing as apostolic succession, that wafers\nis illegal, and the Eastern position rather worse than arson. They're\nall very well in their way, but they're written by D.D.'s and M.A.'s and\nsuch like, who don't care to go too far. I have a list in my portfolio\nhere of the regular Protestant writers--nearly all _class_, my boy.\nListen here:\n\n\"_Transubstantiation and the Invocation of Saints._ Rev. J. Cummer,\nCanon Residentiary of Ironpool.\n\n\"_Popery the Work of 'the Adversary,'--the Roman Clergy under Satanic\nInfluence._ Rev. R. S. Blanken, LL.D., incumbent of Christ Church,\nOxton.\n\n\"_Ritualism in the English Church: A Word of Warning._ Rev. Joshua Cafe,\nD.D., prebendary of Bath and Wells.\n\n\"There's dozens of others like this. They're all very well in their way,\nbut they don't strike the really _popular_ note. They've broken the\nground and sowed the seed, but they're not going to reap the harvest.\"\n\n\"Who is, then, Father? And what'll it be worth when it is reaped?\"\n\n\"Us, my boy. As to the worth of it, go on listening to me and you'll see\nthings gradually getting clearer. I want you to see how I've worked it\nall out. If we _do_ strike oil, all I'm telling you now will be\nvaluable. During my local work for the Protestant cause down here, I've\nbeen brought in touch with members of the old-established societies and\nI've taken the length of their foot. They're too dignified altogether.\nReal live methods don't appeal to them. Financially they don't do badly,\nbut nothing like what they _might_ do if they adopted the right methods.\nAll their subscriptions come from the upper classes, and there's a whole\ngoldmine lying at their doors which is quite untouched! _abso-lute-ly_\nunworked, Sam! The middle classes and the lower classes haven't _begun_\nto give to the Protestant cause. Why? Because it hasn't been put\nprominently before them in the way they'll understand. Bang the\nfield-piece! twang the lyre! thump the tub! rattle the tambourine!\nThat's the way. Look at the Salvation Army! The time is ripe for new\nmethods and for a new man who isn't a canon residentiary or a D.D. I've\ngot all the ritualistic statistics. Day by day the Ritualists are trying\nit on, getting nearer and nearer to Rome. Everything is ready.\"\n\n\"I see all that, Father. All you say is clear enough. What I _don't_ see\nyet is what you mean to do.\"\n\n\"I'm coming to that. For several years now, I've been prominent in\nHornham affairs. I'm known as a platform speaker in all the\ndenominations. What do you suppose I did this for six months ago?\" he\ntouched the lapel of his coat, looking down on it as he did so.\n\n\"Oh!\" he said, \"I forgot I'd changed into my old jacket. I was alluding\nto the temperance non-smoking ribbon. It's in my frock-coat. Well, I\nmentioned it just to point out that I'm known as a man associated with\nall good causes.\"\n\n\"But only locally, Pa.\"\n\n\"Exactly. That is all I need to start with. Now, to-day I began: 'Mr.\nHamlyn, a prominent resident in Hornham and a staunch supporter of the\nHenglish Protestant Church, has at last felt it his duty to protest\nagainst the illegal practices at St. Elwyn's in as public a manner as\npossible.' I've struck a new note, see? What I've done to-day has hardly\never been done before. Now, why shouldn't this inaugurate a big public\nmovement all over the country? Why shouldn't offices be taken in the\nStrand and a new League started, 'Hamlyn's Protestant Crusade' or\nsomething of that sort? To begin with, subscriptions are invited for\nthe circulation of real fighting Protestant literature, hot stuff,\ngiving accounts of the illegal and Romish doings all over the country. I\nknow where to get the pamphlets written for a mere song, and startlers,\ntoo. Of course, we have all the printing done at the works here in\nHornham,--that'll be worth something considerable. Meanwhile, mark what\nhappens. The 'silly season' comes on and the newspapers haven't got much\nto write about. Our little London concern is established and then we\nbegin touring round to all the Ritualistic churches and protesting\nagainst their aims. If I know what I'm talking about, in a fortnight or\nthree weeks one of the biggest booms of the century will begin!\nEverything we do will be in the papers, rows in the churches,\npolice-court proceedings--everything. Whenever I write a letter of\nprotest to the Bishop of London or the Archbishop of Canterbury it will\nappear in all the papers. It don't matter what they say as long as they\nmention the Crusade! Then'll come the moment when we really launch out\nand become a national Institution. We'll get half a dozen parsons and\nfifth-rate M.P.'s to form a committee, and some one to be a treasurer:\nhe's easy found. Then I become secretary and you assistant-secretary:\nwe are _salaried_ officials, of course, and we start a little magazine\nas the Society's official organ--to be printed at the works. I've many\nmore ideas for the extension of the plan,--brilliant ideas some of them,\ntoo. But I won't go into them now. I've only given you the roughest\noutline of the scheme as yet. Meanwhile, as a preliminary, I'm going to\nflimsy out a dozen short reports of to-day's proceedings at St. Elwyn's,\nand I want you to run up to Fleet Street with them, about five this\nevening. All the dailies will print it.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"That's the chief beauty of the scheme,\" he continued; \"you\nget the majority of your advertisements free, and in the best papers,\ntoo! It's about the only scheme I ever heard of that could.\"\n\nHe stopped at last and sank back in his chair, exhausted. He had spoken\nlong and with great animation, with all the tricks and mannerisms of\nrough-and-tumble platform oratory, in which he was a master. The\npantomime of his expressive gestures, the indescribable impudence of the\nsmile as he sought to prove some depth of folly in the public, the quick\ninflections of the voice, gave great force to his words. They sounded\nconvincing to the younger Hamlyn, into whose muddy pallor a deep red\nflush had gradually come.\n\n\"It's a big thing, Pa,\" he said at length, \"a very big thing. I see\nthat, and you're the one to make it go. But there's a lot to be done\nfirst. 'Ave we the ready money to start it? Even in a small way, to get\nit once before the public will cost four or five hundred pounds.\"\n\n\"That's the difficulty, Sam, I admit it. We are pretty low down at\npresent. The business just keeps its head above water, that's all. The\nmoney from Mr. Herbert is a help, but it's all gone as soon as we get\nit. I was thinking that if to-day's little protest makes a stir and we\ncan do ditto round-abouts during the next week or two, we could get\nMoffatt and Burgoyne to advance a hundred each, p'r'aps. As a personal\nloan. Mr. Herbert would be good for fifty now, but as soon as he's\nelected you'll see he won't bother any more. When we've made the whole\nthing hum, he'll come to us and offer to be our Parliamentary\nrepresentative. I'm reserving him for that. He'll be useful to ask\nquestions and help the fizz-up generally. It'll suit him because he'll\nhave a chance of getting his name in the papers, and it's about the\nonly chance he will have of getting prominent in the House. But, as far\nas the preliminary stages are concerned, my opinion is that he's N.G.\nThe worst of it is that with a scheme of this sort one can't very well\nput it on the market. That's the one drawback of a religious scheme.\nThere's lots of men who'd see the money in it, but who'd see that if\nthey joined they couldn't touch a cent. There can't be more than one or\ntwo salaried officials. No, we must depend upon ourselves entirely. I'm\nnot afraid. It's what Napoleon did, and I'm going to be the Protestant\nNapoleon! There's a lot in catchwords--speaking on a side issue--'The\nLuther League!' 'Smithfield Soldiers!' or Bunyan's 'Holy War' might be\nrevived.\"\n\n\"No, Pa, that wouldn't do now. 'Holy' is a regular Ritualistic word.\"\n\n\"Well, so it is, Sam. I hadn't thought of it. I'm glad to see that\nyou've got a good grip of the thing.\"\n\nThere was a silence in the mean little room. In the adjacent kitchen,\nthe servant could be heard singing, \"Ower lod geris anoice yeng men, ow\ndear, ow dear naow!\" A big green-bellied fly sung and drummed on the\nwindow-pane in the afternoon sunlight. Hamlyn, replete with enthusiasm\nand beef, had taken off his alpaca coat and unloosed his collar. The air\nwas heavy with the odour of food and the acrid smell of Sam's\n\"ten-for-threepence\" cigarettes, while a penetrating smell of new\ncalico, proceeding from some of Maud's dressmaking operations, dominated\nit all.\n\nA church bell, ringing for afternoon service, was heard not far away.\n\nSuddenly Hamlyn struck the table a sounding blow with his fist.\n\n\"It _is_ a good thing,\" he shouted in a wild burst of enthusiasm.\n\nThe voice was so full, and confident, that it rang out in the place like\na trumpet.\n\nIt had the true accent of an enthusiast, of a leader. There was\nmesmerism in it. Hearing it, one would have said that this man would\nsucceed.\n\nHe could influence others, he had energy, resource, and temperamental\nforce. It was true. The man was gifted. He had power, and to whatever\nend that might be directed it would not lose its efficacy. The\nconviction of success, its trumpet note, was to become familiar in vast\nhysterical assemblies. It was to be mistaken for a deep and earnest\nwish to purify the Church, to scatter the wolves from the environs of\nthe fold. Greed can be sonorous. Tartuffe can always find his Orgon, and\nto hawk a battle-cry among the ignorant and dull has ever been a\nprofitable game.\n\n\"I've a word to say, Pa,\" the son echoed; \"I've an idea where the first\ncash is to come from.\"\n\n\"Good, my boy. Let's have it.\"\n\n\"What about Miss Pritchett?\"\n\nHamlyn looked reproachfully at his son. \"What about the monument!\" he\nanswered with a sneer. \"She's got the cash, she's got tons of it. But\nshe's a red-hot Ritualist and Romaniser. Ask me another, Sam.\"\n\nSamuel smiled slyly. \"Wait a mo, Pa,\" he said. \"I know a good deal more\nabout Miss Pritchett than you do. I've been walkin' out with Augusta\nDavis lately. She's a friend of Maud's.\"\n\n\"The companion, you mean? Miss Pritchett's companion? Oh, you've been\nsmelling round in that quarter, have you?\"\n\n\"And I've learnt a bit. I know all that goes on. Gussie tells me and\nMaud everything. Miss Pritchett's getting tired of St. Elwyn's. She\ncan't boss the new vicar like she used the old one. As for the Roman\nbusiness, she doesn't really care for it. She's nothing to amuse herself\nwith except that and her ailments. It's the old cat's vanity, that's\nall. She likes to be a patroness.\"\n\n\"That's the sort of woman we want,\" answered Mr. Hamlyn, obviously\nstruck by the the word. \"There are a lot of rich, single old judies only\nfit to be patronesses. They're cut out for it. Do you really think\nanything could be done.\"\n\n\"I do most certainly, Pa. I 'appen to know that Miss Pritchett is\ngetting on very bad terms with Blantyre. He won't stand her meddling.\nI've one or two ideas in my head to help it along. Gussie'll do anything\nI tell her.\"\n\n\"Well, Sam, you do all you can. We won't talk about the matter any more\nnow. I've got a lot of strings to pull, and I've got a lot of matters in\nmy mind. We shall get a summons for brawling to-morrow, I expect. I'm\ndone up now, and I'm going to have a nap. Wake me up in an hour if I'm\nasleep, and I'll get out the flimsies for to-morrow's papers.\"\n\nHamlyn possessed that faculty of sleeping at any moment, and of waking\nwhen it suited him, that so often goes with any marked executive\ncapacity.\n\nHe stretched himself upon the little horsehair sofa and covered his face\nwith his handkerchief.\n\nSamuel picked up one of the \"Heartsease\" novelettes and tried to read in\nit. But his brain was alight with the splendour of the new project, and\nhe could not concentrate his thought upon _Joyce Heathcote's Lover_.\n\nIt was thus that the seeds of the new movement were sown, in the back\nparlour at Balmoral, Beatrice Villas, Alexandra Road. Historians tell us\nthat even greater and more epoch-making movements than Mr. Hamlyn's was\ndestined to be, have originated in even less pretentious dwellings.\n\nMany of us have seen the little house in the Brede Kirk Street of the\nold Dutch town, on which is written, _Haec est parva domus natus qua\nmagnus Erasmus_.\n\nMr. Hamlyn, Junior, had never heard of Erasmus, but he saw visions of\ngreatness on that afternoon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nLORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE GUESTS AT SCARNING COURT\n\n\nFrom April until the beginning of August, Lord Huddersfield generally\nlived at his house at Scarning, the famous old Tudor mansion on the\nriver, below Pangbourne.\n\nPeers who are something more than merely \"in society\" are generally\nknown to the public at large by reason of some cause which they benefit,\ndefend, or are associated with. When it is not a cause, it is a business\nthat gives such an one his label for the man in the street.\n\nLord _So-and-so_ is, of course, the great banker or brewer; Lord _This_\nis the famous picture collector, who has all the Holbeins; Lord _That_\nis known to be the best amateur actor, billiard player, or breeder of\nbloodhounds in England. In an age when all celebrities are easily\ndistinguished thus, Lord Huddersfield, was perfectly familiar to\neveryone as the great organising churchman. The ordinary person would\nsay, \"Lord Huddersfield? Oh, yes, the great Ritualistic Johnny,\"\nimagining that he had summed up his man with completeness. Yet, saving\nonly to churchmen and their antagonists--a very small proportion of the\npublic to-day--Lord Huddersfield was personally quite unknown. He was\nhardly ever caricatured in the comic papers or pictured in the more\nserious illustrated journals. His face was wholly unfamiliar; the\ndetails of his private life formed no portion of the gossip papers. To\nthe vast army of English folk, who are utterly indifferent to religious\nquestions, he was nothing more than a name.\n\nHe had only once excited a really general flicker of interest. On the\noccasion of a visit to Italy, like many other distinguished visitors to\nthe capital, he had been received in audience by the Bishop of Rome. As\nusual, the evening papers had published \"rumours.\"\n\n    \"LORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE POPE.\n      WILL HE BECOME A CATHOLIC?\"\n\nhad appeared as a scare head-line in one enterprising sheet, and the\npeer's telegram, stating that he had been one for many years had been\nhastily printed as a startling revelation--until some charitable person\nhad stepped round to the office and explained the joke to a bewildered\nScotch editor, and the paragraph was excised from later editions.\n\nThis much for the figure he cut to the outside world. In the English\nChurch, he was looked upon as one of the leading laymen, if not the\nchief of all of them. He was the proprietor of the great weekly paper\nknown as the _Church Standard_. He was the chairman of many church\nsocieties, the friend and patron of all Anglican movements and\ninstitutions, and a man whose word carried enormous weight and power.\n\nIn private life, his two children and his intimate friends found him\ntrue, devout, diligent, winning all hearts by opening his own, where one\nfound a singular freshness and simplicity. He went as little into\ngeneral society as he could, for all his thoughts and aims were occupied\nin one endeavour.\n\nOn the Monday after the events in Hornham, Agatha Poyntz and her brother\nJames were in the lovely private backwater of Scarning. Their punt was\nmoored to the side of a tiny island, set like a gem in the clear brown\nwater, the red silk cushions of the boat making a vivid splash of colour\non the bank. With these two was Miss Poyntz's great friend and\nconfidante, Lucy Blantyre, the only sister of the vicar of St. Elwyn's.\n\nLucy was a girl of medium height, not at all the willowy modern heroine\nof pictures and romance. Her hair was of a deep, dead black, coiled on a\nsmall Greek head. Her complexion was dark, like that of her brother, the\npriest, but quite without a certain sallowness that was noticeable in\nhim. It had the dusky paleness, the pearl-like _morbidezza_ of some\nsouthern types, and, despite the lack of colour, showed a perfect and\nhappy health. The mouth was rather large. Mockery lurked there, and in\nthe dark eyes a lambent and somewhat scornful humour was wont to play.\n\nAgatha Poyntz was a tall and merry girl--\"a nut-brown maid\" her father\ncalled her. Her round, plump face showed a sheer light-heartedness and\njoy in life that was always refreshing to people who found this life\nrather a drab and ordinary affair. The care-worn priests and churchmen\nwho were her father's friends, men who were always too painfully aware\nof the great stream of human tears which is for ever falling through the\nshadows of the world, were all fond of her freshness and sparkle. And,\nso the wisest of them thought that since she took nothing seriously, and\nwas quite untouched by the vexing problems in which they were\nsubmerged, it was perhaps a good thing that so gay and bright a creature\nshould come into their lives for a space, realising that, after all, God\nmade the butterflies which hovered so daintily over the Scarning\nwater-flowers upon their painted fans.\n\nJames Poyntz, Lord Huddersfield's only son, was a very different type.\nHe resembled his dead mother, a daughter of the Duke of St. Just. He was\ntall, slender, and muscular. His face was clean-shaved, lean, and with a\nheavy jaw, not the heaviness that signals sensuality and dulness, but\npurpose and resolution. His eyes were grey, and glittered when he became\nanimated, and his clear, cold voice grew emphatic.\n\nNot long before, he had come down from Oxford, where he had\ndistinguished himself in the history schools, and also by availing\nhimself of the little-used permission to absent himself from chapel and\nthe examination known as \"Divinity Moderations,\" granted to men who have\ncome of age, and who sign a declaration of their absolute and sincere\ndisbelief in the supernatural. It had been a piquant spectacle to the\nsceptic undergraduates and younger dons, to see the son and heir of\nLord Huddersfield openly scornful and protesting against all that his\nfather held so dear, and quietly taking the much severer tests that the\nUniversity statutes impose upon those who would dispense with the\npuerile divinity examination.\n\nJames Poyntz was on rather bad terms with his father. There was no\nconfidence between them, and perhaps but little love--though that had\nnever been tested. The young man had a sufficient fortune from his\nmother, and his father was prepared to supplement his income in any way\nhe might wish, being far too sensible and just a man to endeavour to\nmake his son suffer financially for his opinions. But James Poyntz\nrefused money which, as he said, would have been purely superfluous to\nhim, and was occupied in carving a career for himself at the common-law\nbar, where he was already a not inconspicuous figure among the junior\nmen.\n\nHis knowledge of ecclesiastical law was good, and in the wrangles\nbetween diocesan chancellors and recalcitrant clergy which were becoming\nmore and more frequent, he was frequently retained. He was a very\nfamiliar figure in Dr. Tristram's Consistory Court, and his familiarity\nwith ecclesiastical litigation only increased a contempt for those who\nprofessed and called themselves Christians, which was as profound as it\nwas sincere, and as fundamentally the result of ignorance as it was\nboth.\n\nFor, brilliant as he was, the young man had not the slightest\nacquaintance with modern religious thought. He saw everything through\nthe spectacles of temperamental distaste, and still believed that\nProfessor Huxley had dealt the final blow to Christianity in 1876! Lord\nHuddersfield had often pressed his son to read the question as it at\npresent stood, to see what Gore and the philosophic apologists were\nsaying, or even to note the cautious but inevitable conclusions that\nprominent scientists like Lord Kelvin and Sir Oliver Lodge were arriving\nat. But the young man always refused. The ancient indictment of the\nGadarene swine represented the last word in the controversy for him, and\na brain keen and finely furnished with facts on all other questions, on\nthis was not only content to be forty years behind the conclusions of\ntheological science, but imagined that it was in the van of contemporary\nthought.\n\nOf late, Lord Huddersfield had given up the attempt to influence his\nson's opinions. \"It is impossible,\" he had said, \"to explain that the\nsky is blue to a man who has blindfolded himself all his life, and one\ncannot build a basis in a vacuum.\" So, while both men respected each\nother's attainments on all subjects but religious ones, on these James\nthought his father a fool, and Lord Huddersfield knew that his son was.\n\nDespite all this difference, the younger man was a frequent and welcome\nvisitor at his father's various houses, and between him and his sister\nAgatha there was a real and deep affection. Agatha was conventionally\nindifferent to religious things, James was profoundly antagonistic to\nthem, and thus, if they did not meet quite on common ground, they were\nnever likely to disagree.\n\nAnd Lucy Blantyre, the third member of that gay young trio on the summer\nmorning, was a combination of both of them. She was very well off in the\naffairs of this world, as indeed was her brother, Bernard Blantyre of\nSt. Elwyn's. But, while he had early devoted his life and money to the\nservice of God, Lucy had refused to identify herself with his interests.\nShe lived with her aunt, Lady Linquest, a gay old dame of Mayfair, and\nit was only at rare intervals that she paid a duty visit to her\nbrother. Yet, though she was, from a surface point of view, purely a\nsociety girl, popular, and happy in a bright and vivid life, there were\ntemperamental depths in her, unsounded as yet, which showed her\nsometimes--to her own wonder and discomfort--that she was a true\nblood-sister to the priest in north-east London. At times, a wave of\nscorn for the Church possessed her. She saw the worst side of religious\nexternals and poured bitter fun upon their anomalies. This is, of\ncourse, a very easy thing to do. Any one can ridicule the unseen and its\nministers: it requires no special talent to be rude to God! At other\ntimes, the girl saw this very clearly and was ashamed. She had a good\nbrain and despised all that was cheap and vulgar at the bottom; and when\nher moods of wilfulness had passed, she stood upon the brink of devotion\nand belief.\n\nNothing serious animated any of the three. The day was wonderful. In a\nsky like a hard, hollow sapphire the sun burned like a white-hot disc of\nplatinum. The island was deliciously cool; the murmur of a near river\nmingled with the bourdon of the bees. The smooth turf on which they lay\nwas starred with chaste and simple flowers.\n\n\"Isn't it _perfect_ to-day!\" Agatha said. \"Bee, go away from my face!\n'Pleasant it is when the woods are green and the winds are soft and low,\nto lie amid some sylvan scene'--Lucy, dear, what are you thinking\nabout?\"\n\n\"I was wondering if we were really reclining in what the poets of last\ncentury called 'bosky shade.' Is this bosky, Mr. Poyntz?\"\n\n\"Decidedly bosky, I should say. But surely both of you can put the\nisland to a better use than merely to illustrate quotations from the\npoets? It's far too fine for that.\"\n\n\"Oh, do let me have 'bosky',\" Lucy replied. \"It's such a dear, comic\nword. I've always loved it. It always seems a fat word to me. I'm sure\nit's fat and it waddles--in the word world!\"\n\n\"Then what does Agatha's 'sylvan' do?\"\n\n\"Oh, sylvan?--well, I should think it was a slim, graceful, and very\nyoung-ladyish kind of word. It wears a neat grey tailor-made coat and\nskirt, and says, 'Papa is of opinion that,' or, 'Mamma has frequently\ntold me.'\"\n\nThey all laughed, pleased with themselves, the hour, and the charm that\nperfectly absurd talk has for young and happy people.\n\n\"Oh, don't talk of words, Miss Blantyre,\" Poyntz said, \"I'm tired of\nthem. The long vacation draws near, when I want to forget all about\nthem. My words, the words I live by, or for, are beasts.\"\n\n\"Quote, dearest,\" Agatha said.\n\n\"Well, this is the sort of thing I see more often than anything else at\npresent,\" he replied: \"'The humble petition of the vicar and\nchurchwardens of St. Somebody sheweth that, it being considered\ndesirable to make certain alterations and improvements in the church of\nthe said Parish, a meeting in Vestry duly convened for considering the\nsame, was held on the first of June, at which it was resolved that the\nalterations shown in the plan annexed hereto and there produced, should\nbe carried out, a copy of which resolution is also hereto annexed.'\"\n\nBoth the girls cried out to him to stop.\n\n\"What musty words, dry and rusty words!\" Lucy said. \"And, please, what\nare they all about, and what do they mean?\"\n\n\"They mean this--some worthy parson has badgered his congregation for\nmoney. It is the desire of his soul to have a rood-screen in his\nchancel, with a gilt and splendid crucifix upon the top. So, armed with\na mouthful of words like that, he gets him to a sort of cellar near St.\nPaul's, where a dear old gentleman, named the Right Worshipful T. H.\nTristram, K. C., D.C.L., sits, in a big wig and a red robe. The parson\neloquently explains his wishes, and the Right Worshipful tells him to go\nand be hanged--or polite words to that effect. Then I and other young\nlegal 'gents' get up and talk and argue, and the Right Worshipful\nlistens until he's tired, and then says no again. The parson goes back\nto his roodless temple and preaches against Erastianism, and I and the\nother young legal 'gents' pouch a few guineas, and go and play pool at\nthe Oxford and Cambridge Club.\"\n\n\"And then,\" Agatha went on,--\"then father makes a speech and writes a\nletter to the _Times_ and gets fearfully excited and worried for about a\nweek, neglects his meals, passes sleepless nights, and behaves in a\nperfectly foolish manner generally. Then he goes down to the parish and\nhas a convivial meat tea with the poor parson, and before he goes gives\nhim a cheque for fifty pounds to go and have a holiday with after all\nthe strain!\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Lucy, \"I will take up the parable. I have seen our\nfriend, the parson, in the unutterable north London slum, where my poor\ndear brother Bernard spends all his time and money. He goes, as you\nsay, for a holiday, to recover from the scene in the cellar near St.\nPaul's. He goes to Dieppe or Boulogne, where he attends the cathedral\nthree times a day, and tries to fraternise with the priests, who regard\nhim as a layman masquerading in borrowed plumes. In revenge, he goes and\nmakes things uncomfortable for the local English chaplain, who, in most\ncontinental towns, is an undersized person with a red nose and an\nenormous red moustache and a strong flavour of Chadband at home. So\n'all's well that ends well.' But, really, what fearful nonsense it all\nis! Isn't it wonderful that people should waste their energies so!\"\n\n\"If it amuses them it doesn't matter in the least,\" Agatha said. \"Look\nhow happy it makes poor dear father. And I daresay he does good in his\nway, don't you know. It's far better than racing or anything like that.\nPoor dear Hermione Blackbourne was staying here not long ago, and she\nwas telling me what a wretched time they have at home. Lord Saltire\nhardly ever pays the girls' allowances unless he's won a race, and the\npoor dears have to study the sporting papers to know if they'll be able\nto afford new frocks for Goodwood. Father's fads are at least harmless,\nor, at any rate, no one has to suffer for what he gives away.\"\n\n\"The old type of clergyman seems to have quite died out,\" Lucy said.\n\"When I was a little girl, the rector at home was a dear old man, who\ndressed just like an ordinary person, and went otter-hunting three days\na week. Yet I'm sure he was just as earnest as any of these new faddy\npeople. We had a delightful old pew, with a fireplace and chairs, and\npoor dear father used to get his nap. And as for altar lights and copes\nand incense, I don't suppose dear old Mr. Jenkyns had ever heard of such\nthings. The amount of money that Bernard spends on his church in that\nway is ridiculous.\"\n\n\"The only good I can see in it,\" James Poyntz said, \"is that it brings a\ncertain colour element into drab and dull lives. The people in your\nbrother's parish, who never see any thing artistic, must gain in that\nway, I suppose. After all, Miss Blantyre, 'it's an ill wind that blows\nnobody any good.' All this Church nonsense gives pleasure, however much\nwe may laugh at it. Take myself, for example. I'm intensely amused at\nall the squabbles that go on between Christians. More evil passions are\nstirred up and let loose over half a yard of green silk or the precise\nmanner in which half an ounce of flour and water is baked than the\npolitics of a century excite! It's perfectly true. There's a spirit of\nbitter hatred in it all that is intensely interesting to the student of\ncharacter. There are hundreds of thousands of people in England who\nwould burn my poor father in front of St. Paul's to-morrow if they\ncould--good, respectable, honest British folk!\"\n\n\"Well,\" Lucy said, with affected gloom, \"all this only reminds me of my\ncoming penance. In a day or so now, I must dive into Hornham for my\nyearly stay with Bernard. I shall emerge quite thin and crushed. I\nalways do. The 'clergy-house,' as they call the vicarage, is a\nlugubrious place that suggests a rather superior workhouse. When I go,\nthe drawing-room is solemnly opened by the housekeeper. Bernard gives a\ncouple of dinner parties and a garden party to a set of the most\nextraordinary people you ever saw in your life. I have to be hostess and\nchatter to weird people, with whom I haven't a single idea in common.\nLady Linquest drove down from Park Lane to the garden party last year. I\nshall never forget it. She gave Bernard such a talking to, told him to\n'dress like a gentleman,' and exchange to a nice country parish with\nsome county people close by, and marry. I wish he would, too! He's\nwasting his life, his money, and his health in that awful place. I don't\nwonder at aunt's being angry. Why can't he do as she says? He could have\nhigh jinks in a nice little country church in one of the home counties\njust as well as where he is now.\"\n\n\"Beastly life, I should think,\" James Poyntz said. \"Does he live all\nalone?\"\n\n\"Oh, the two curates live with him, Father Stephens and Father\nKing--they're all 'fathers,' it seems. These are two intense youths, who\ndress in cassocks and tippets all day long, and wear their berrettas\neverywhere. I think it's positively indecent to sit down to a meal\ndressed like that. But the worst of it is, that there's always some fast\nday or other, and I feel an awful pig to be having chicken and claret\nwhile the other three have oatmeal and apples. But I insisted on proper\nmeals last year, much to the disgust of a gaunt old cat of a\nhousekeeper, whom Bernard thinks the whole world of.\"\n\nShe stopped, laughing at her own volubility, and lay back upon the\ncushions, staring up at the green-leaf canopy above her head. All these\nquestions seemed very trivial and unreal at that moment, in that\npleasant place of sunshine, soft breezes, and the murmur of falling\nwater. She thought of the long, mean, suburban streets of Hornham with\nhumorous dismay. Thank goodness that she was only going to spend a\nfortnight there, and then would be away in a gay continental\nwatering-place with Lady Linquest. But the few days were imperative. She\nwas fond of her brother and knew how bitterly disappointed he would be\nif she were to withdraw from her promise to stay at St. Elwyn's. It was\na duty which must be done, and it was an unkind fate indeed that had\nplaced her brother in surroundings which were so uncongenial to her, and\nendowed him with opinions so alien to her own.\n\nJames Poyntz had lighted a cigarette. The smoke curled upwards in\ndelicate grey spirals, and he could see his sister's friend through\nthem, surrounded by a shifting frame which cut off the striking and\nclever face from its immediate surroundings, giving it a vivid and\nindependent individuality. He could survey it more completely so. There\nwas something in Lucy Blantyre that had begun to appeal to the young\nman with great and greater strength as the days went on. She was close\nupon beauty, and she had all the charm of a high-spirited and well-bred\ngirl in perfect health, and knowing no trouble in life. But in the life\nto which he had been born, girls like her were not uncommon. Despite the\nfiction-mongers who fulminate against the vices of \"society,\" and would\nhave their readers believe that the flower of English girlhood is to be\nfound in the middle class alone, Poyntz knew many gracious girls who\nwere worthy to stand by any man's side throughout life. But in Lucy\nBlantyre he was beginning to discern something deeper and stronger. He\nthought that he saw in her a wonderful capacity for companionship, a\nreal talent for wifehood. He could imagine that she would be more to her\nhusband than an ordinary wife, identified with his hopes and career with\nall her soul's power, one for whom Milton's epithalamium itself would\nnot be unworthy, with its splendid \"Hail, wedded love!\"\n\nBut, though such thoughts had been in and out of his mind for some time,\nhe was hardly in love with her as yet. His temperament was honest and\nsincere, but cool and judicial also. He was the last man to take any\ndefinite step without a full weighing of the chances and results.\n\nBut the two had become great friends. Agatha Poyntz had her own thoughts\nabout the matter, and they were very pleasant ones. Nothing would have\npleased her more than the marriage of her brother and her friend, and\nshe had made _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eates_ for them in the adroit, unobtrusive manner\nthat girls know.\n\nIn all his conversations with Lucy, Poyntz had found a keen, resilient\nbrain that answered to his thoughts in precisely the way he wished. The\ntinge of cynicism in her corresponded to the flavour of it in him, and\nthere was sometimes real wit and understanding in her mockery.\n\nShe \"suited\" him--that is how he would have put it--and he was now\nbeginning to ask and examine himself if love were not being born, a love\nwhich might make their union a perfect and lasting thing upon his way\nthrough life. Of her sentiments towards him he knew no more than that\nshe sincerely liked him and that they were friends.\n\nThe regular throbbing pant of a steam launch on the silver Thames\noutside was heard, and Lucy turned suddenly in Poyntz's direction. She\nsaw that he was looking at her gravely and steadily. A very faint flush\ncame into her cheeks, almost imperceptible indeed, and then she smiled\nfrankly at him.\n\nHe smiled also, pleased with himself and her, and with a sense that a\nnew intimacy was suddenly established between them, an odd sense of\nwhich he was quite certain.\n\nAgatha looked at the little watch in a leather bracelet on her wrist.\n\"It's nearly lunch time!\" she said; \"I don't know how you people feel,\nbut the word has a very welcome sound to me. Jim, get up and punt us\nhome. You'll be able to argue with Father Saltus; I've asked him to\nlunch with us to-day. I didn't know you were coming down.\"\n\nShe spoke of Lord Huddersfield's domestic chaplain, a wise and courtly\nelderly man, whom they all liked, without in the least realising the\npart he played in Church affairs, regarding him, indeed, as a harmless\nstudent and a pleasant companion, but no more.\n\nIn fact, as the light and careless conversation of all of them showed,\nnot one of the three young people had the remotest idea of what they\nwere discussing. And though each one of them had a sense of humour, they\nwere not able to see the humorous side of their airy patronage of the\nCatholic Church! This Mr. Saltus was known as one of the most profound\nmetaphysicians of the day. The greatest modern brains were influenced by\nhis writings in Christian apologetics; bishops, statesmen, great\nscientists knew of him as one to whom it was given to show how all\nthought and all philosophy were daily proving the truth of the\nIncarnation. His work in the life of the Church was this, and he was\nLord Huddersfield's chaplain because that position gave him leisure and\nfreedom for his work, and kept him in touch with the very centre of\nthings.\n\nJames Poyntz had arrived from London by an early train, and had joined\nthe girls at once.\n\nIn a moment or two, the young man was propelling the long mahogany punt\nwith easy strokes towards the artificial cutting which led to the\nSeaming boathouse. Then, laughing and talking together, the three\nstrolled over the wonderful lawns, pneumatic to the tread, brilliant as\nemerald to the eye, towards the old house with its encircling oaks and\nelms.\n\nThe tall red chimneys rose up between the leaves, that triumph of the\nTudor style, which alone of all architectural systems has shown how\nchimneys may aid and complete the beauty of a building. The house rested\nupon the lawns as if it might float away at any moment, as they passed\nround an ancient grey dove-cot and some formal box-trees, and came in\nsight of the beautiful place. James Poyntz gave a quick breath of\npleasure as he saw it, the old riverside palace of his ancestors. There\nwere other houses which would one day be his--a great, grim Yorkshire\nfortress, the gay villa at Nice by the old citadel of Mont-Albano, where\nthe Paglion sings its song of the mountain torrent, the decorous London\nmansion in Berkeley Square. But of all, he loved the old Tudor house by\nthe river best.\n\nHow well Lucy walked! her carriage was a pleasure to watch. Yes! she\nharmonised with her background, she was in correspondence with her\nenvironment, she would be a fit mistress of Scarning in some dim future\nday.\n\nThey sat down to lunch in an ancient, mellow room, panelled in oak, with\nTudor roses everywhere. It was beautifully cool and fresh after the\nglare outside. Father Saltus was a tall and very portly elderly man. His\nhead was large, formed on a grand scale, and his mouth powerful but\ngood-humoured. His eyebrows were very bushy and extremely white, and\nthey overhung eyes which were of a dark grey, deep but not sombre, with\nmuch that was latent there.\n\nThe meal was progressing merrily when the butler entered and spoke to\nthe footman who had been waiting on them. Then he went up to Agatha.\n\"His Lordship has returned, Miss,\" he said, \"and will be down to lunch\nin a moment.\"\n\nLord Huddersfield had been away for several days. The family house in\nLondon was let, as the Baron did not entertain largely since his wife's\ndeath. Agatha's season was spent under the wing of the St. Justs, her\nmother's people. But Lord Huddersfield had chambers in Piccadilly, and\nno one ever quite knew whether or not he would be at Scarning at any\ngiven time.\n\nHe entered in a moment, a slim, spectacled man, with a short beard, very\nquietly dressed, a man who did not, at first glance, in any way suggest\nthe power he wielded or the strenuous personality he was.\n\nHe kissed his daughter, shook hands with his son, Lucy, and the\nchaplain, and sat down. They noticed that he was pale and worried.\n\n\"Have any of you seen the papers?\" he said in a strong, resonant voice,\nwhich came oddly from a man so ordinary and undistinguished in\nappearance.\n\n\"I saw the _Times_ this morning, Father,\" Poyntz said, \"but that is\nall.\" The girls confessed that they had not touched the pile of journals\nin the library, and Mr. Saltus said he had been writing letters all the\nmorning and so had not yet been able to see the news.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said Lord Huddersfield sadly. \"I had hoped that you would\nhave seen the thing that has happened. I had hoped that I should not\nhave had to tell you, Miss Blantyre.\"\n\nHis voice was so charged with meaning that Lucy shivered. Her eyes\nbecame full of apprehension. \"Why me, Lord Huddersfield?\" she said,\n\"what has happened?\"\n\nAgatha, who was thoroughly frightened, laid a sympathetic hand upon her\nfriend's arm. James, who was gazing anxiously at the girl, suddenly\nturned to his father.\n\n\"I think you had better tell your news right out,\" he said quietly.\n\"Don't keep Miss Blantyre in suspense, Father; it is mistaken kindness.\nI am sure that she will be brave.\"\n\nEvery one looked at Lord Huddersfield; the air was tense with\nexpectation. \"Your good brother, Miss Blantyre,\" the peer began--Lucy\ngave a quick gasp and the colour faded from her lips--\"your good\nbrother, yesterday in church, was saying Mass when suddenly some local\nresidents rose in their places and made an open protest, shouting and\nbrawling at the very moment of the Prayer of Consecration!\"\n\nLucy gazed steadfastly at him, waiting. He said nothing more. \"Go on,\nplease,\" she managed to whisper at last.\n\n\"They were at once ejected, of course,\" Lord Huddersfield said.\n\n\"And Bernard?\"\n\n\"Although his state of mind must have been terrible, despite his pain, I\nlearn from a private telegram that he continued the service to the end.\"\n\nThe three young people stared incredulously; only Father Saltus suddenly\nlooked very grave.\n\n\"But--why--is that all, Lord Huddersfield?\" Lucy said with a gasp of\nhalf-relief. \"I thought you meant that something dreadful had happened\nto Bernard.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, very surprised, \"I have told you.\"\n\nJames picked up his knife and fork, and continued his lunch without a\nword. He was very angry with his father.\n\nAgatha shrugged her shoulders slightly.\n\n\"Oh, that wasn't quite fair, Lord Huddersfield,\" Lucy said tremulously.\n\"You really made me think some awful thing had happened. Only a brawl in\nchurch?\"\n\n\"I am very sorry, my dear,\" he answered quickly; \"I fear I have shown a\ngreat want of tact. I did not know. I forgot, that is, that you don't\nquite see these things as we do. You don't realise what it means.\"\n\n\"Shall I give you some chicken, Father?\" Agatha said, looking at a dish\nof mayonnaise before her. She thought that there had been quite a fuss\nmade about nothing.\n\nLord Huddersfield sighed. He felt that he was in a thoroughly\nuncongenial atmosphere, though he was sorry for the alarm he had caused.\nOnce his eye fell in mild wonder upon his guest. How unlike her brother\nshe was, he thought.\n\nThere was an awkward silence, which James broke at length.\n\n\"I always thought,\" he said, \"that there would be trouble soon. The days\nfor locking clergymen up have passed by, but Protestant feeling is bound\nto have its outlet.\"\n\nHis quick brain had seized upon the main point at once.\n\n\"Well, there will be more work for the lawyers,\" he continued.\n\nLord Huddersfield frowned a little. \"Of course, I can't expect you to\nsee the thing as I do, James,\" he said. \"To me such a public insult to\nour Lord is terrible. It almost frightens one. What poor Blantyre must\nhave felt, what every Catholic there must have felt, is most painful to\nimagine.\"\n\n\"I'm sure Mr. Poyntz has sympathy with any body of people whose most\nsacred moment has been roughly disturbed,\" the chaplain said. \"Whatever\na man's convictions may be, he must feel that. But the thing is over and\nnothing can put it right. What I fear is, that this is only the\nbeginning of a series of sacrilegious acts which may do the Church\nincalculable harm.\"\n\n\"The newspaper report, which appeared everywhere but in the _Times_,\"\nLord Huddersfield replied, \"stated that it was only the beginning of a\ncampaign. All the reports were identical and apparently supplied to the\npapers by the same person, probably the brawlers themselves--who appear\nto be people of no consequence whatever.\"\n\n\"There will be a service of reparation?\" asked the chaplain.\n\n\"Yes, to-morrow,\" answered Lord Huddersfield. \"I am going down to\nHornham and shall be present. We must discuss everything with Blantyre\nand settle exactly what lines the _Church Standard_ will take up.\"\n\n\"Of course, Mr. Blantyre will prosecute?\" James said.\n\n\"Oh, yes. My telegram told me that the summons had already been issued.\nThe law is quite clear, I suppose, on the point, James?\"\n\n\"Quite. Brawling in church is a grave offence. But these people will, of\ncourse, pose as martyrs. Public opinion will be with them, a nominal\nfine will be inflicted, and they'll find themselves heroes. I'm afraid\nthe Ritualists are going to have a bad time. In '68, the Martin _v._\nMackonochie judgment was very plain, and in '71 the judicial committee\nof the Privy Council was plainer still in the case of Herbert _v._\nPunchas. Then, after the Public Worship Regulation Act, the Risdale\njudgment clinched the whole thing. That was at the beginning of it all.\nNow, though prosecutions have been almost discontinued, the few cases\nthat have been heard before the ecclesiastical courts are all the same.\nSo far as I can see, if this pleasant little habit of getting up and\nbrawling protests in church becomes popular, a big fire will be lighted\nand the advanced men will have to draw in their horns.\"\n\nLord Huddersfield smiled. He attempted no argument or explanation. He\nhad thrashed out these questions with his son long ago. Father Saltus\nspoke instead.\n\n\"If this really spreads into a movement, as it may,\" he said, \"ignorant\npublic opinion will be with the protestors for a month or two. But that\nis all. The man in the street will say that every one has a right to\nhold whatever religious opinions he pleases, and to convert others to\nhis views--if he can--by the ordinary methods of propagandism. But he\nwill also say that no one has a right to air his opinions by disturbing\nthe devotions of those who don't happen to agree with him. And what is\nmore, no religious cause was ever advanced by these means. I have no\ndoubt that these people will boast and brag that they are vindicating\nthe cause of law in the Church of England. But if they knew anything of\nthe history of that Protestantism they champion--which, of course, they\n_don't_, for they know nothing whatever--they would know that the law is\nthe most impotent of all weapons to crush a religious movement.\"\n\nJames nodded. \"It is a truism of history,\" he agreed.\n\n\"Exactly. To call in the aid of the law to counteract the spread of any\nreligious doctrine or ceremonial is to adopt the precise means that sent\nthe Oxford martyrs to the stake and lighted the Smithfield fires. From\nthe days when the High Priests called in the law's aid to nip\nChristianity in the bud, the appeal to the law has never been anything\nbut an appeal to the spirit of intolerance and persecution against the\nfreedom of religious belief and worship.\"\n\nAgatha rose from the table. \"Come along, Lucy dear,\" she said; \"'all's\nwell that ends well,' and your brother's not going to have a bomb thrown\nat him just yet. You will be in the thick of the disturbance in a few\ndays; meanwhile, make the most of the river and the sunshine! Jim, come\nand punt us to the Eyot.\"\n\nShe kissed her father and fluttered away singing happily a snatch of an\nold song, _Green Grow the Rushes O!_\n\nThe others followed her. The two elder men were left alone, and for a\nminute or two neither spoke.\n\nThen Saltus said: \"They are all young, they have made no contact with\nreal life yet. God does not always call in early life. To some people,\nthe cross that is set so high over the world is like a great star,--it\nis not seen until the surrounding sky is darkened and the sun grows\ndim.\"\n\n\"I am going into the chapel,\" Lord Huddersfield said, \"to be alone for\nan hour. There must be many prayers going up to-day to God for the wrong\nthese poor ignorant men have done.\"\n\n\"Pray that they may be forgiven. And then, my dear Lord,\" he continued,\n\"suppose we have a talk over the situation that has been created--if any\nsituation beyond the purely local one _has_ been created.\" A fighting\nlook came into his face. \"We shall be wise to be prepared, to have our\nguns loaded.\"\n\n\"Yes, Father,\" Lord Huddersfield said rather grimly, \"we are not without\npower and influence, I am happy to think.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nLUCY BLANTYRE AT THE CLERGY-HOUSE\n\n\nLucy Blantyre left Scarning Court on Thursday morning. James Poyntz\ntravelled up to town with her. She was to go home to Park Lane for an\nhour or two, make one of the guests at a lunch party with Lady Linquest,\nand then, in the afternoon, drive down to Hornham.\n\nShe was alone in a first-class carriage with James during the whole of\nthe journey to London. The last three days had marked a stage in their\nintercourse. Both of them were perfectly aware of that. Intimacy between\na young man and a girl is very rarely a stationary thing. It progresses\nin one direction or another. James began to talk much of his ambitions.\nHe told her how he meant to carve his way in the world, the place he\nmeant to take. The Poyntz family was a long-lived one; Lord Huddersfield\nhimself was only middle-aged, and might live another thirty years. James\nhoped that it would be so.\n\n\"I want to win my own way by myself,\" he said. \"I hope the title will\nnot come for many years. It would mean extinction if it came now. You\nsympathise with that, don't you?\"\n\nShe was very kind to him. Her answers showed a real interest in his\nconfidences, but more than that. There was acumen and shrewdness in\nthem.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, \"I do hate and detest the way the ordinary young\nman in my position lives. It is so futile and silly. I recognised it\neven at Oxford. Because of one's father, one was expected to be a silly\nfool and do no work. Of course, there were some decent fellows,--Dover,\nthe Duke of Dover, was quiet and thought about things. But all my\nfriends were drawn from the social class which people suppose to be just\nbelow our own, the upper middle class. It's the backbone of England. Men\nin it take life seriously.\"\n\nHe stopped after a time, and gazed out of the window at the flying\nlandscape. Suddenly he turned to her. \"I'm so glad you are my sister's\ngreat friend, Lucy,\" he said.\n\nIt was the first time that he had spoken her first name to her. His tone\nwas charged with meaning.\n\nShe looked up quickly, and saw that his eyes were fixed upon her.\n\n\"You are all very kind to me,\" she said.\n\n\"Every one would be kind to you. I have been very happy since you have\nlet me be your friend. Do you know that my work and my hopes seem dearer\nthan ever to me now that I have told you so much of them. We have got to\nknow each other very well, haven't we?\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\n\"We shall know each other better. It is my hope. I wonder if I might\nwrite to you now and then, and tell you some of my thoughts and how\nthings are with me? Would such letters bore you?\"\n\n\"I should value them, and think them a privilege. A woman is always\ngratified when a man confides his thoughts to her. So many men never\nallow a woman friend to see below the surface, and so many men--at any\nrate, men that I am in the way of meeting--have no thoughts to tell one\neven if they would.\"\n\nThe train began to go more slowly as it rumbled through the dingy\nenvirons, and shook over the myriad points of Waterloo Station. Neither\nof them spoke again. There was no doubt in the mind of either as to the\nmeaning of the situation.\n\nThe girl had gathered all his thoughts from his tone. It was very\npleasant to be with him, this sane and brilliant young man with a great\nname and such powers. It made her happy to know how he regarded\nher--that out of all the girls he knew he had chosen her for a friend.\nHe would some day ask her to be something more; that also she knew, and\nknew that he was conveying it to her. She did not love him, love was a\nword not very real to her as yet. Her mental eyes had never visualised\nit, it was an abstraction. But she liked and admired him more than any\nother man of her set: he was a _man_. Well, there was time enough yet to\nthink of all that. Meanwhile his deference was sweet; her heart warmed\nto him as his, she knew, was warm to her at that moment.\n\nHe saw her to the door of the waiting victoria, and stood chatting for a\nmoment in the hurry of the station, making the footman mount his box\nagain.\n\nThen he gave the signal to start, and stood upon the platform by his\nhansom as she was driven rapidly away. Once she turned and waved a hand\nto him.\n\nLucy lay back in the carriage, pleased with herself and all the world.\nShe had come on to Victoria, instead of getting out at Vauxhall,\nspecially to enjoy the longer drive. It was a brilliant day, and as the\ncarriage came upon Waterloo Bridge, the wonderful panorama of riverside\nLondon was uplifting. Away to her right, the purple dome of St. Paul's\nshone white-grey in the sun. The great river glittered in the morning\nair, and busy craft moved up and down the tide. The mammoth buildings of\nthe embankment, Somerset House with its noble fa\u00e7ade, the Savoy, the\nmonster Cecil, the tiled roofs of Scotland Yard all came to the eye in\none majestic sweep of form and colour. And far away to the left, dim in\na haze of light, the towers of Westminster rose like a fairy palace,\ntipped with flame as the sun caught the gold upon the vanes and spires.\n\nLondon! yes! it was, after all, the most beautiful city in the world,\nseen thus, at this hour, from this place. How the heart quickened and\nwarmed to it.\n\nSuddenly the thought of Hornham came to her. She made a little\ninvoluntary movement of disgust. For a whole fortnight she would be\nthere. It would be intolerable. Why could not Bernard come to Park Lane\nfor a fortnight? How much more sensible that would be.\n\nWell, it was no good thinking of it. The thing must be done. Yet, from\none point of view how curious it was. How strange that a drive of two\nhours would plunge her into a world entirely foreign and alien in every\nway to her world.\n\nShe was driving up Grosvenor Place now, by the long walls of the King's\nPalace Garden, over which the trees showed fresh and green. The stately\nstreet, with the Park gates at the end of its vista, only accentuated\nthe contrast. She utterly failed to understand how any one could do what\nher brother did. There was not the slightest reason for the endurance of\nthese horrors. His personal income was large, his family connections\nwere influential. He could obtain a fashionable West End living without\nany trouble. She was still scornfully wondering as the carriage stopped\nat Lady Linquest's house in Park Lane.\n\nLucy found her aunt in a little room of china-blue and canary-yellow\nwhich looked out over the Park.\n\nShe was a tall woman, of full figure. The face was bright and animated,\nthough somewhat sensual, inasmuch as it showed that its owner\nappreciated the good material things that life has to offer. At\nsixty-two, when dames of the middle classes have silver hair and are\nbeginning to assume the gentle manners of age, Lady Linquest wore the\nhigh curled fringe of the fashion, a mass of dark red hair that had\nstarted life upon the head of a Br\u00e9ton peasant girl. Art had been at\nwork upon her face and she was pleasant to look on, an artificial\nproduct indeed, but with all the charm that a perfect work of art has.\n\nShe made no secret of it to her intimate friends, and no one thought any\nthe worse of her in a society where nearly every one who has need of\naids to good looks buys them in Bond Street. Indeed, she was quite\nunable to understand what she called \"the middle class horror of paint.\"\n\"Why on earth,\" she would say, \"any one can possibly object to an old\nwoman making herself look as pleasant as possible for the last few years\nof her life, I can't make out. It's a duty one owes to one's friends. It\nsweetens life. At any rate, _I_ don't intend to go about like old Mother\nHubbard or the witch in whatshername.\"\n\n\"Lucy, my dear,\" said this vivacious dame as her niece entered, \"you're\nlooking your best this morning. And when you look your best my\nexperience generally tells me that you've been up to some wickedness or\nother! How's Agatha, and has James Poyntz been at Scarning, and how's\nthat poor dear man, Huddersfield, who always reminds me of a\nchurchwarden? He is the king of all the churchwardens in England, I\nthink.\"\n\nLucy sat down and endeavoured to answer the flood of questions as\nsatisfactorily as might be, while Lady Linquest took her mid-morning\npick-me-up of Liebig and cognac.\n\nThe good lady gave her niece a rapid _pr\u00e9cis_ of the news of their set\nduring the few days she had been away. \"So that you'll know,\" she said,\n\"what to talk about at General Pompe's lunch--your last decent meal, by\nthe way, for a fortnight! I shall give orders to the cook to put a\nhamper in the carriage for you to take with you to Bernard's. All those\npoor young men starve themselves.\"\n\nShe rattled away thus while Lucy went to her own room to dress. For some\nreason or other, why she could not exactly divine, she was dissatisfied\nand ill at ease. The exhilaration of the railway journey, of the\nwonderful drive through sunlit London, had gone. Her aunt, kind\ncreature as she was, jarred upon her this morning. How terribly shallow\nthe good lady seemed, after all! She was like some gaudy fly dancing\nover a sunlit brook--or even circling round malodorous farmyard\nstuff--brilliant, useless, and with nothing inside but the mere muscles\nof its activity. James Poyntz's words recurred to her, his deep scorn of\na purely frivolous, pleasure-loving life was present in her brain.\n\nLucy was genuinely fond of Lady Linquest, but somehow on this bright\nmorning to hear a woman with one foot in the grave talking nothing but\nscandal and empty catchwords of Vanity Fair, struck with a certain chill\nto her heart.\n\nTo see her sitting there, curled, painted, scented, sipping her tonic\ndrink, ready for a smart party of people as empty and useless as\nherself, was to see a thing that hurt, after the experiences of the\nmorning.\n\nLucy had not taken her maid to Scarning. She had wanted to live as\nsimply as possible there, to live the outdoors riverside life. And she\nwas not going to take Angelique to Hornham either--where the girl would\nbe miserable and a nuisance to the grave little community there. She\nfelt very glad, as the chattering little French woman helped her to\ndress, that she was not coming with her. The maid's voluble boulevard\nFrench got on her nerves; the powder on her face, which showed violet in\nthe sunlight, the strong scent of verbena she wore, the expression of\nbeing abnormally \"aware\"--all these were foreign to Lucy's mood, and she\nnoticed them with an almost physical sense of disapproval that she had\nnever before felt so strongly.\n\nThe drive to the smart hotel near Piccadilly only took five or six\nminutes, and the two ladies were soon shaking hands with old General\nPompe, their host. General the Hon. Reginald Pompe was an old creature\nwho was only kept from senile decay by his stays. He was unmarried,\nextremely wealthy, and the fashion. In his younger days, his life had\nbeen abominable; now, his age allowed him to do nothing but lick the\nchops of vicious memories and prick his ears for scandals in which he\ncould not share. People said, \"Old General Pompe is really _too_ bad,\nbut where one sees the Duke of ---- and the Prince of ---- we may be\nsure that people like ourselves cannot be far wrong.\"\n\nThe other guests comprised Lord Rollington, of whom there was nothing to\nbe said save that he was twenty-four and a fool; Gerald Duveen, who was\na fat man of good family, and more or less of a success upon the stage;\nand his beautiful, bold-looking wife, a judge's daughter, who played\nunder the name of Miss Mary Horne, and of whom much scandal was\nwhispered.\n\nAfter a moment or two in the palm room, waiting for the Duveens, who\nwere a minute or two late, the six people went in to lunch. The special\ntable General Pompe always used was reserved for them, decorated with a\ntriumphant scheme of orchids and violets. Lumps of ice were hidden among\nthe masses of flowers, diffusing an admirable coolness round the table.\n\nThe host drew attention to the menu, which he had composed. He mumbled\nover it, and as he bent his head Lucy saw that his ears were quite\npointed, and that the skin upon his neck lay in pachydermatous folds,\ndry and yellowish.\n\n\"Baked red snapper, red wine sauce,\" said Mr. Duveen, with the purring\nand very distinct voice of high comedy. \"Hm--turtle steaks\n_miroton_--sweetbreads--_Tadema_, quite the best way to do sweetbreads.\"\n\nMrs. Duveen was talking in a low, rapid voice to Lady Linquest. Her\neyes were very bright, and malice lurked in the curves of a lovely mouth\nas she retailed some story of iniquity in high places, one of these\nprivate and intimate scandals in which the half-life of the stage is so\nrich--actors and actresses more than most people being able to see\nhumanity with the mask off. How greedy the three men looked, Lucy\nthought, as they devoured the lunch in prospect. \"Pigs!\" she said to\nherself with a little inward shudder.\n\nWhy was this? She had been at dozens of these functions before now and\nhad thought none of these thoughts. To-day a veil seemed removed from\nher eyes: she saw things as they really were. And as they really were,\nthese people were abominable.\n\nAny of them would\n\n    \"Buy a minute's mirth to wail a week,\n    And sell eternity to gain a toy.\"\n\nThey had the manners of organ-grinders and the morals of monkeys. She\ncaught some words of what Mrs. Duveen was saying now and again. Lord\nRollington began to tell her, with affected disgust, how he had been at\na burlesque theatre the night before, and the musical-comedy heroine of\nthe hour had been so intoxicated that she could hardly sing her song.\n\n\"Too bad, you know, Miss Blantyre. I spotted it at once. It's always\ndisgustin' to see a girl take too much to drink, but when she's caperin'\nabout the stage like that one really has a right to complain. Don't you\nthink so? Now, if it had been a poor little chorus girl, she'd have been\nfired out of the theatre in a second. For my part, I--\" and so on for an\ninterminable five minutes.\n\nGeneral Pompe began to flirt with Lucy in that elderly\n\"you-are-only-a-little-girl\" sort of manner, that is so difficult to\nrepel and which is so offensive. She saw his horny eyes roving over her\nperson with appreciation.\n\nA great many of Lady Linquest's particular set were like this. Not all\nof them, thank goodness, but so very many! And the worst of it was that\nsociety mingled and overlapped so strangely. The sheep and the goats\nwere not separated in any way. People like the Huddersfields stood\nalmost alone, and even Agatha, when she was with the St. Justs--her\nmother's family--constantly met this sort of people. But, then, Agatha\ndidn't seem to care, she didn't realise. She laughed at everything and\nthought it \"awfully good fun.\" In fact, Lucy realised Agatha was\nexactly the same as she herself had always been--with the very slightest\nintervals--until this moment. It was startling to think that the words\nof Lord Huddersfield's son had worked this revolution in her point of\nview. For she was quite persuaded that they were the reason of it. She\ncould find no other reason.\n\nShe did not realise then, as she was to realise with humble thankfulness\nand awe in the future, the august influence that was at work within her.\n\nShe was not gay at lunch. Usually she was a most welcome member of any\nsuch gathering as this. Her sayings were pointed, she entered fully into\nthe spirit of the hour, her wit adorned the charm of her personality,\nand she was universally popular and voted \"good fun\" in the\ncomprehensive epitome of her associates. This was the highest praise\nthey knew, and they gave it her without stint.\n\nTo-day the party fell flat--there was no doubt about it. The radiance of\nthe early morning had given place to a heat which became terribly\noppressive, and the sky was overclouded. Thunder was in the air, and\nLondon awaited a storm.\n\nThe electric lights began to glow in the restaurant.\n\nLady Linquest did her best to rouse her niece to gaiety, but her efforts\nwere futile. The old man who was entertaining them grew sulky, and Lord\nRollington drank glass after glass of champagne. The beautiful actress\nwas frankly bored, and became more cynical and bitter with every\nscandalous story she told.\n\nOnly Mr. Duveen preserved his equanimity. He ate and drank and purred\nwith secure complaisance. It was his r\u00f4le in life. Ever since he had\nbeen a little lick-trencher fag at Eton he had been thus. It was said by\nhis friends in society--after his back was turned--that on one occasion,\nhaving discovered the Earl of ---- kissing his wife, he had murmured an\napology, saying that he had come to find his cigarette case, and\nhurriedly retired from the room. This, no doubt, was scandal and untrue,\nbut it showed the estimation in which he was generally held.\n\nLucy knew this unpleasant story--Lady Linquest had told her. She thought\nof it as she watched the man pouring _mandarin_ into his coffee. Once\nmore she felt the shrinking and repulsion that had come over her more\nthan three hours ago.\n\nShe knew, or once had known, her Dante. She had had but little time for\nanything but frothy reading during the last year or two, but once she\nhad kept up her Italian. A passage from the _Inferno_ came into her\nbrain now,--a long-forgotten passage:\n\n    \"Quest i non hanno speranza di morte,\n      E la lor cicca vita \u00e8 tanto bassa\n    Che invidiosi son d'ogni altra sorte.\"\n\nShe saw the people of whom the Florentine spoke before her now, the\npeople for whom the bitterest fate of all had been reserved,--these who\n\"have no hope of death, and whose blind life so meanly drags that they\nare envious of every other fate.\"\n\nBefore she left Park Lane, it had been arranged that the small brougham\nshould call for her at the restaurant, and take her on to Hornham. Her\nluggage was small. This smart society girl was going to take her plunge\ninto the great London _Hinterland_ with a single trunk, like any little\ngoverness driving to her new situation, where she would learn how bitter\nthe bread of another may taste, and how steep are the stairs in the\nhouse of a stranger.\n\nThe carriage arrived just as lunch was over, and she left all of them\nwith immeasurable relief.\n\nDriving up Shaftesbury Avenue to find her northward route was like\ndriving into a black curtain. It was terribly hot and dark, the horses\nwere uneasy, and the people moving on the pavements seemed like phantoms\nin some city of dreadful night.\n\nLondon began to grip and hold her then as it had never done before. Seen\nunder this pall, its immensity and the dignity it gained by that was\nrevealed in a new aspect. _Her_ London, her corner of the town, the mere\npleasure-city, became of no consequence, its luxury, its parks and\npalaces, shrank and dwindled to nothing in her consciousness.\n\nShe was attuned to thoughts more solemn than were wont to have their way\nwith her. Her eyes and ears were opened to the reality of life.\n\nShe had lost her dislike for the visit she was going to pay. Below her\nfrequent irritation at her brother's way of life there had always been a\nstrong affection for him. And more than that, she had always respected\nhim, though often enough she would not admit it even to herself. As the\nbrougham turned into the surging arcana at Islington her curiosity\nabout the next few days was quickened: the thought of personal\ndiscomfort--discomfort of a physical kind--had quite gone. She felt that\nshe was about to have experience of something new, her pulses quickened\nto it.\n\nThe vicarage of St. Elwyn's was one of those stately old red-brick\nhouses, enclosed in a walled garden of not inconsiderable extent, that\nare still to be found here and there in north London. They date from the\nflorid Georgian times, when that part was a spacious countryside where\nwealthy merchants withdrew from commerce in the evening of their days\nand lived a decorous life among the fields and trees. Here and there, in\nthe vast overgrown and congested districts, one or another of these old\nfreeholds has been preserved inviolate--as may be seen in the ride from\nHackney to Edmonton--and becomes an alien in a wilderness of mean little\nhouses and vulgar streets.\n\nFather Blantyre had bought one of these few remaining mansions in\nHornham, at a high price, and had presented it to the parish of St.\nElwyn's as its vicarage. Here he lived with his two curates and a staff\nof four servants,--a housekeeper, two maids, and a man-of-all-work. The\npersonal wants of the three clergymen were very simple, but the servants\nwere useful in many parochial affairs. In times when work was scarce,\nthe vicarage staff boiled soup, like any cheap restaurant-keeper. The\nhouse was open at all times of the day or night to people who wanted to\nbe quiet and alone for a time; social clubs and guilds had their\nheadquarters there.\n\nIndeed, the place was the centre of a diversified and complex life--how\ncomplex, neither Lucy, nor any outsider, had the least conception.\n\nThe carriage stopped at the heavy square porch with its flight of steps,\nand the footman ran up them and rang the bell.\n\nLucy noticed with amusement that the man's face expressed a mild wonder\nat the neighbourhood in which he found himself, and that he winked\nsolemnly at the coachman on his box.\n\nLucy stood on the steps for a moment. The sky was quite dark, and the\nlittle side street in which she was, showed in a dim and sulphurous\nhalf-light--like the light round the House of Usher. A piano-organ close\nby was beating out its vibrant mechanical music with an incongruous and\nalmost vulgar disregard of the menace of the heavens.\n\nThe housekeeper opened the front door, and Lucy entered a big panelled\nhall, now in a gloom that was almost profound, and with a tiled floor\nthat clicked and echoed as the high heels of her shoes struck upon it.\n\n\"The vicar is in his study, Miss,\" the housekeeper said. She was a tall,\ngaunt, elderly woman, with a face that always reminded Lucy of a horse,\nand her voice was dry and hesitating.\n\nLucy crossed the hall, opened a door of oak and another of green baize,\nand entered her brother's room.\n\nIt was a large, lofty place. The walls were covered with books in sober\nbindings,--there must have been several thousands there. A soft carpet\ncovered the floor, in the centre of which stood an enormous\nwriting-table crowded with books and papers.\n\nHardly any light came into the place through the long window, and two\ncandles in massive silver holders stood upon the writing-table, throwing\na soft radiance around.\n\nThe light fell upon a tall crucifix of silver that stood upon the table,\na beautiful specimen of English Pre-Reformation work. A small couch had\nbeen drawn up close to the table, and on it the priest lay asleep. The\nface was lined and drawn with worry and with work, and all its secrets\nwere told as the man slept. One hand lay hanging from the side of the\nsofa--a lean, strong hand, with a coil of muscle upon the back. Seen\nthus in an abandonment of repose, Lucy's brother showed as a man worn\nand weary with battle, scarred and battered, bruised, but how\nirrevocably rich!\n\nA rush of tenderness came over the girl as she looked at him. Here was\nthe man who had not winced or cried aloud, whose spirit was unbowed\nbeneath the bludgeonings of life.\n\nA high serenity lay over the pain upon the face. It was a face vowed, a\nsaint's face, and even as he slept the great soul which shone like a\nmonstrance within him, irradiated the mask that hid it.\n\nLucy saw all this, received some such impressions as those in two or\nthree moments. Some attraction drew her eyes from the sleeper to the\nshining symbol of God's pain upon the table. Then they went back to\nBernard Blantyre. To her excited fancy there seemed some subtle sympathy\nbetween them, an invisible shuttle that was flying to and fro.\n\nThen Blantyre awoke and saw her. He did not come from the kingdom of\nsleep gradually, as most people do, loath to leave those silent halls.\nHe sprang suddenly into full consciousness, as soldiers upon fields of\nbattle, as old veterans used to sudden drums and tramplings are known to\ndo.\n\nHis eyes lighted up with merriment and triumph, his mobile face was one\ngreat smile. He caught her by the arms and kissed her repeatedly. \"It's\nsplendid to have you again, me darling,\" he said, with a slight Irish\naccent that came to both of them when they were excited. \"Ye little\nwretch, staying away so long! Why, ye're prettier than ever! Ye'll have\nall the Hornham boys waiting for ye outside the church door after Mass,\nfor we don't see your sort down our humble way--the rale West End\nproduct!\"\n\nLaughing and chattering, putting on the most exaggerated brogue, the\nbrother and sister moved out into the hall. Father Blantyre called\nloudly, \"King! Stephens! where are ye? she's come!--I don't know where\nmy boys are at all, mavourneen--We'll dress um down for not being in to\nwelcome the new clergywoman. Now, come up to your room, sweetheart, and\nBob'll bring your box up. Bob! bring me sister's trunk up-stairs.\"\n\nThe little man ran up the wide stairway, an odd, active figure in his\nblack cassock, laughing and shouting in an ecstasy of pleasure and\nexcitement. No schoolboy could have been more merry, more full of simple\njoy.\n\nLucy followed him, half laughing, half inclined to sob at this happy\nwelcome. She was carried off her feet by it all, by this strange arrival\nunder lurid skies at the dingy old house which suddenly seemed so\nhome-like.\n\nReproach filled her heart at her long neglect as she heard her brother's\njoy. Simplicity!--yes, that was it. He was utterly simple. The thought\nof the people she had left so short a time ago was more odious than\never.\n\nShe found herself alone in her bedroom, a big, gloomy place with solid\nmahogany furniture in the old style. There was nothing modern there save\na little _prie-dieu_ of oak by the bedside. But the sober colours and\noutmoded massiveness of it all no longer troubled her. She did not give\na single thought to her own luxurious nest in Park Lane--as she had done\nso often during her first visit to St. Elwyn's a year ago.\n\nWhen she went down-stairs once more, both the assistant priests had come\nin and were waiting with the vicar in the study, where some tea was\npresently brought.\n\nStephens was a tall, youthful-looking man, rather slangy perhaps, with a\ngood deal of the undergraduate about him still, but obviously in\nearnest. King was square-faced; the clean-shaved jaw showed powerful and\nhad a flavour of the prize-fighter about it, while his general\nexpression was grim and somewhat forbidding. He was much the elder of\nthe two. His expression, the outward shell, was no index to the man\nwithin. A tenderer heart never beat in a man; a person more\ntemperamentally kind never lived. But he had more capacity for anger,\nrighteous anger, than either the vicar or Stephens. There were moments\nwhen he could be terrible, and some savage strain in him leaped to the\nsurface and was only curbed by a will which had long been sanctified to\ngood.\n\nThe two men seemed glad to see Lucy again. She had seen little of them\non her first visit; neither of them had made any impression on her. Now\nthey interested her at once.\n\n\"Now, then, Bernard,\" Lucy said as she began to pour out the tea, \"what\nis all this I hear about a scene in church? Lord Huddersfield was full\nof it. He was most distressed.\"\n\n\"He has been awfully good about it,\" Blantyre said. \"He was down here on\nTuesday morning going into the matter. A man named Hamlyn, the editor of\na little local paper, threw the church into a miserable state of\nconfusion during Mass last Sunday, just after I had said the Prayer of\nConsecration. He read a document protesting against the Blessed\nSacrament. We had him ejected, and yesterday he was fined ten shillings\nin the local police court. The magistrate, who is a pronounced\nProtestant in his sympathies, said that though the defendant had\ndoubtless acted with the best intentions, one must not combat one\nillegality with another, and that the law provided methods for the\nregulation of worship other than protests during its process!\"\n\n\"Pompous old ass!\" said Stephens.\n\n\"Well, I'm glad they fined him,\" Lucy said.\n\n\"'All's well that ends well!' You won't have the services disturbed\nagain.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, dear, we are all very much afraid that this is the\nfirst spark of a big fire. We hear rumours of an organised movement\nwhich may be widely taken up by the enemies of the Church. All through\nthe ranks there's a feeling of uneasiness. Lord Huddersfield is working\nnight and day to warn the clergy and prepare them. We cannot say how it\nwill end.\"\n\nHe spoke with gravity and seriousness. Lucy, who privately thought the\nwhole thing a ridiculous storm in a teacup, and was utterly ignorant of\nthe points at issue, looked sympathetic, but said nothing. She was not\nin a flippant mood; she realised she was quite an outsider in the\nmatter, which seemed so momentous to the three intelligent men she was\nwith, and, unwilling to betray her lack of comprehension or to say\nanything that would jar, she kept a discreet silence.\n\n\"We all get shouted after already, when we go into the worst parts of\nthe parish,\" said Stephens cheerfully. \"They've been rousing the\nhooligan element. It's an old trick. Lazy bounders, who don't know a\nChristian from a Jew and have never been in a church in their lives,\nshout 'papist' after us as we go into the houses. Just before I came in,\nI was walking up the street when a small and very filthy urchin put his\nhead round the corner of a house and squeaked out, 'Oo kissed ve Pope's\ntoe?' Then he turned and ran for dear life. As yet, I haven't been\nassaulted, but King has! Haven't you, King?\"\n\nMr. King looked rather like a bashful bulldog, and endeavoured to change\nthe subject.\n\n\"Do you mean any one actually struck you, Mr. King?\" Lucy said,\nabsolutely bewildered. \"How awful! But why should any one want to do\nthat?\"\n\nThe vicar broke in with a broad grin that made his likeness to a\ncomedian more apparent than ever.\n\n\"Oh, King was splendid!\" he said with a chuckle. \"That ended very well.\nA big navvy chap was coming out of a public-house just as King was\npassing. He looked round at his friends and called out something to the\neffect that here was another monkey in petticoats--we wear our cassocks\nin the streets--and see how he'd do for um! So he gave poor King a clout\non the side of the head.\"\n\n\"Oh, I _am_ sorry,\" Lucy said, looking with interest upon the priest,\nand realising dimly that to be a clergyman in Hornham apparently ranked\nas one of the dangerous trades. \"What did you do, Mr. King?\"\n\nKing flushed a little and looked singularly foolish. He was a bashful\nman with ladies,--they did not come much into his pastoral way.\n\nLucy thought that the poor fellow had probably run away and wished that\nshe had not asked such an awkward question.\n\n\"Oh, he won't tell ye, my dear!\" Blantyre said, \"but I will. When the\ngentleman smacked um on the cheek, he turned the other to him and kept's\nhands behind's back. Then the hero smacked that cheek too. 'Hurroo!'\nsays King, or words to that effect, 'now I've fulfilled me duty to me\nreligion and kept to the words of Scripture. And now, me friend, I'm\ngoing to do me duty to me neighbour and thrash ye till ye can't see out\nof your eyes.' With that he stepped up to um and knocked um down, and\nwhen he got up, he knocked um down again!\"\n\nMr. King fidgeted uneasily in his seat. \"I thought it was the wisest\nthing to do,\" he said, apologetically. \"You see, it would stop anything\nof the sort for the future!\"\n\n\"And the fun of the whole thing, Miss Blantyre,\" Stephens broke in, \"was\nthat I came along soon after and found the poor wretch senseless--King's\ngot a fist like a hammer. So we got him up and refused to charge him to\nthe policeman who turned up after it was all over, and we brought him\nhere. We sponged him and mended him and fed him, and he turned out no\nend of a good sort when the drink was out of him. Poor chap gets work\nwhen he can, hasn't a friend in the world; hadn't any clothes or\npossessions but what he stood up in, and was utterly a waster and\nuncared for. We asked him if he knew what a papist was, and found he\nhadn't an idea, only he thought that they made love to workingmen's\nwives when their husbands were at work! He'd been listening to our\nfriend, Mr. Hamlyn, who called a mass-meeting after the police-court\nproceedings and lectured on the three men of sin at the vicarage!\"\n\nA flood of strange and startling ideas poured into the girl's brain. A\nnew side of life, a fourth dimension, was beginning to be revealed to\nher. She looked wonderingly at the three men in their long cassocks; she\nfelt she was in the presence of power. She had felt that when James\nPoyntz was talking to her in the train, in the fresh, sunlit morning,\nwhich seemed a thing of the remotest past now. Yet this afternoon she\nfelt it more poignantly than before. Things were going on down here, in\nthis odd corner of London, that were startling in their newness.\n\n\"And what happened to the poor man?\" she said at length.\n\n\"Oh,\" answered the vicar, \"very fortunately we are without a man of all\nwork just now, so we took him on. He carried your trunk up-stairs. He's\nwearing Stephen's trousers, which are much too tight for um! and an old\nflannel tennis coat of King's--till we can get his new clothes made. He\nwas in rags!\"\n\n\"But surely that's rather risky,\" Lucy said in some alarm. \"And what\nabout the other servants? I shouldn't think Miss Cass liked it much!\"\n\nMiss Cass was the housekeeper, the woman with the face like a horse. She\nalways repelled Lucy, who, for no reason than the old, stupid \"Dr. Fell\"\nreason, disliked her heartily.\n\nTo her great surprise, she saw three faces turned towards her suddenly.\nOn each was an expression of blank surprise, exactly the same\nexpression. Lucy wanted to laugh; the three men were as alike as\nchildren are when a conjuror has just made the pudding in the hat or\ntriumphantly demonstrated the disappearing egg.\n\nThe taciturn King spoke first. \"I forgot,\" he said; \"of course you don't\nknow anything about Miss Cass. How should you, indeed! Miss Cass is a\nsaint.\"\n\nHe said it quite simply, with a little pride, possibly, that the\nvicarage which housed him housed a saint, too, but that was all.\n\n\"Yes,\" the vicar said, his brogue dropping away from him, as it always\ndid when he was serious, \"Miss Cass is a saint. I'll tell you her story\nsome time while you're here, dear. It is a noble story. But don't you be\nalarmed about our new importation. Bob will be all right. We know what\nwe are doing here.\"\n\n\"It's wonderful, Miss Blantyre,\" Stephens broke out, his boyish face all\nlighted up with enthusiasm. \"You know, Bob'd actually never been in\nchurch before yesterday morning, when he came to Mass.\"\n\nHe stopped for a moment, out of breath in his eagerness. Lucy saw that\nhe--indeed, all of them--took it quite for granted that these things\nthey spoke of had supreme interest for her as for them. There was such\nabsolute _conviction_ that these things were the only important things,\nthat no excuse or apology was necessary in speaking of them. She found\nshe liked that, she liked it already. There was a magnetism in these\nmen that drew her within their circle. She saw that, whatever else they\nwere, they were absolutely consistent. They did not have one eye on\nconvention and the world, like the West End clergymen she knew,--some of\nthem at least. These men lived for one aim, one end, with tremendous\nforce and purpose. They simply disregarded everything else. Nothing else\noccurred! Yes, this was a fourth dimension indeed. She bent herself to\nlisten to the boy's story, marking, with a pleasure that had something\nmaternal in it, the vividness and reality of his interest and hopes.\n\n\"Before he went,\" the young man said, \"I explained the Church's teaching\nexactly to him. Don't forget that the poor chap hadn't the slightest\nidea of anything of the sort. He was astounded. A mystery that I could\nnot explain to him, a mystery for which there were no _material_\nevidences at all, came home to him at once. _I saw faith born._ And they\nsay this is not an age of miracles! Think of the tremendous revolution\nin the man's mind. He talked to me after the service. It was all\nwonderfully real to him. He was absolutely convinced of the coming of\nour Lord. There isn't a rationalist in London that could shake the\nman's belief. I asked him why he was so sure--was it merely because I\nhad told him, because I believed in it? His answer was singularly\ntouching. 'Nah,' he said, scratching his head,--they all do when they\ntry to think,--'It wasn't wot you said, guvnor, it was wot I _felt_. I\n_knowed_ as 'E wos there. Why, I ses to myself, _It's true!_'\"\n\n\"It is very wonderful,\" Lucy said. \"It's more wonderful by far than a\nman at a Salvation Army meeting or a revival. One can understand that\nthe sudden shouts and the trumpets and banners and things would\ninfluence any one. But that a service which is inexplicable even to the\npeople who conduct it should influence this poor uneducated man is\nstrange.\"\n\n\"Now, I don't think it strange, Lucy, dear,\" the vicar said; \"it's far\nmore natural to me than the other. The wonderful power of the Church\nlies in this, _that her mysteries appeal to quite simple people whose\nminds are a blank on religious questions. They appeal to the simple\ninstantly and triumphantly._ They feel the power of the Blessed\nSacrament. And _only_ Catholicism can do this in full and satisfying\nmeasure. We find that over and over again. The jam-and-glory teas, the\nkiss-in-the-ring revivals, have a momentary and hysterical influence\nwith the irreligious. But it doesn't last, there is no system or\ndiscipline, and above all, _there is no dignity_. Only priests realise\nthoroughly how the poorer and less-educated classes crave for the proper\ndignity and beauty of worship. It has always been so. It is the secret\nof the power that the Roman Church has over the minds of men.\"\n\n\"Then why are there so many Salvationists and Dissenters?\" Lucy asked.\n\n\"For a multitude of reasons. A dislike to discipline chiefly. People\ndon't go to church because the novelties of thirty or forty years ago\nhave filtered down into the omnibuses and people who are naturally\nirreligious prefer to make a comfortable little code for themselves. The\nChurch says you _must not_ do this or that; its rules are thoroughly\nwell defined. Folk are afraid to come as near to God as the Church\nbrings them. Their cry is always that the Church comes between them and\nGod. Often that is a malevolent cry, and more often still it's pure\nignorance. The silly people haven't an idea what they're talking about.\nIt would be just as reasonable for me to say, 'I hate and abominate\nNicaragua, which is a pernicious and soul-destroying place,' when I've\nnever been nearer to Nicaragua than Penzance.\"\n\n\"There is one thing that we do see,\" King continued in his slow,\npowerful way. \"Whenever we have open-minded men or women come to church\nto pray and find help, they find it. Dozens and dozens of people have\ncome to me after they have become members of the Church and said that\nthey could not understand the anti-Church nonsense they themselves had\njoined in before. '_We never knew_,' that is the cry always.\"\n\n\"The thunder's beginning!\" Father Blantyre said suddenly, realising\napparently that the talk was straying into channels somewhat alien to a\nyoung society lady presiding at afternoon tea.\n\n\"Lucy, me dear, it's tired you'll be of sitting with three blathering\nold priests talking shop in a thunderstorm--there's a flash for ye!\"\n\nA sheet of brilliant steel-blue had flashed into the room as he spoke,\nshowing every detail of it clear and distinct as in some lurid day of\nthe underworld. The books, the writing table, the faces of the three\nclergymen, and the tall silver crucifix between the candles, which had\nmomentarily faded to a dull and muddy yellow, all made a sudden tableau\nwhich burned itself upon the retina. Then came darkness once more and\nthe giant stammer of the thunder far overhead.\n\nThe thunder ceased and they waited, expectant of the next explosion,\nwhen the penetrating and regular beating of an adjacent bell was heard.\n\n\"There's the bell for evensong!\" Blantyre said; \"I did not know it was\nso late.\" He put on his berretta and left the room, the other men\nfollowing him. Lucy rose also. She felt that she would make one of them,\nand going up-stairs to get a hat, she presently found herself in the\nlong, covered passage that connected the vicarage with the church.\n\nThe idea of a house which was but an appanage of the church was new to\nher. The passage had been built since her last visit. And as she entered\nthe huge, dim building, she saw clearly how powerful in the minds of her\nbrother and his friends its nearness must be. All their life, their\nwhole life, centred in this church. Its services were as frequent and\nnatural as their daily food. How strangely different it all was to the\nlife of the outside world! She herself had not been to church for six\nweeks or more. Even people who \"called themselves Christians\" only\nentered a pew and enjoyed a hebdomadal siesta in church. But these men\ncould not get on without it. Every thought and action was in communion\nwith the Unseen. And she was forced to acknowledge it to herself,--if\none actually did believe in a future life, in eternity, then this was\nthe only logical way in which to prepare for it. If life was really like\na sojourn of one night in an inn, then the traveller who made no\npreparation for the journey, and spent the night in careless disregard\nof the day, was an utter fool. But no one called worldly people\nfools!--it was all very puzzling and worrying, and common-sense did not\nseem like common-sense in Hornham.\n\nAnd was James Poyntz a fool?\n\nIt was the last question she asked herself as she turned into the side\nchapel where evensong was to be said. Some twenty kneeling figures were\nthere. The place was dimly lighted save for the tall gas standards by\nthe priests' seats in front of the altar.\n\nHigh up before the painted reredos hung a single lamp that burned with a\ndull red glow. There were many sick folk in the parish of St. Elwyn's:\nat all hours of the day and night, the clergy were sent for to help a\ndeparting soul upon its way hence, and the Blessed Sacrament was\nreserved upon this altar in the side chapel.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe simple and stately service was nearly over. The girl had listened to\nthe sonorous words as if she heard them now for the first time. As she\nknelt, her heart seemed empty of the hopes, fears, and interests of\ndaily life. It seemed as a vessel into which something was steadily\nflowing. And the fancy came to her that all she experienced was flowing\nto her from the dim tabernacle upon the altar. It was almost a\n_physical_ sense, it was full of awe and sweetness. She trembled\nexceedingly as the service ended and her brother prayed for the\nfellowship of the Holy Ghost.\n\nFor a time after the echoing footsteps of the clergy had died away, she\nremained upon her knees. She was praying, but without words; all her\nthoughts were caught up into one voiceless, wordless, passionate\nejaculation.\n\nWhen at length she bowed low,--it was the first time she had ever done\nsuch a thing,--before the altar, and left the church, it was by the west\ndoor.\n\nShe had a fancy for the street, and she found that the thunder had all\npassed away and that a painted summer's evening sky hung over the garish\ntown.\n\nAs she finally turned into the vicarage, she cast one look back at the\nchurch. It rose among the houses high into the air. The sunset fired the\nwet tiles of the roof and gilded the cross upon the lantern. She thought\nof That which was within.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nWEALTHY MISS PRITCHETT AND POOR GUSSIE DAVIES ENTER THE VICARAGE GARDEN\n\n\n\"Todgers,\" Mr. Stephens remarked to Lucy, as they went down into the\ngarden after lunch on Saturday, \"could do it when it chose.\"\n\nThe last preparations for the garden party were being made. The big\nmarquee was erected, the tennis lawns were newly marked, there was a\nsmall stand for the string band.\n\nWaiters, looking oddly out of their element in the brilliant sunshine,\nwhich showed dress-coats, serviceable enough at night, tinged with a\nmetallic green like a magpie's wing, were moving about with baskets of\nstrawberries and zinc boxes of ice.\n\nThe old-fashioned garden, an oasis in the wilderness of brick all\naround, was brilliant with sunflowers, stocks, and geraniums; the lawns\nwere fresh and green. The curate was in tennis flannels and an Oxford\nblazer, and Lucy meditated upon the influence of clothes, as her\nbetters had done before her. Stephens seemed to have put off his\npriesthood with his tippet and cassock, and the jaunty cap covered a\nhead which seemed as if it had never worn a berretta. Lucy found, to her\nown surprise, that she liked the man less so. It was a total inversion\nof her ordinary ideas. She began to think that a priest should be robed\nalways.\n\nMiss Cass, the housekeeper, in a new cap, came up to them. Lucy had\ntalked to the woman for more than an hour on Friday afternoon, and the\nprejudice caused by her appearance was removed.\n\n\"I hope everything is satisfactory, Miss,\" she said. \"It all seems to be\ngoing on well. The men from Whiteley's know their business.\"\n\n\"It all seems splendid, Miss Cass,\" Lucy said. \"I'm sure it couldn't be\nbetter. Have the band people come?\"\n\n\"Yes, Miss, and the piano-entertainer too. They're having some\nrefreshment in the library. His Reverence is telling them funny stories,\nMiss.\"\n\nShe hurried away to superintend further arrangements.\n\n\"The vicar is always so fine,\" the young man said, with a delighted\nenthusiasm in his chief that was always pleasant for Lucy to hear. \"He\ngets on with men so well; such a lot of parsons don't. There's nothing\neffeminate about the vicar. He's a man's man. I'll bet every one of\nthose fellows in there will go away feeling they've made a friend, and\nthat parsons aren't such scalawags after all.\"\n\nA burst of laughter came from the door leading into the garden, as if to\nconfirm his words, and Father Blantyre descended the steps with a little\nknot of men dressed in something between livery and uniform, carrying\noddly shaped cases of black waterproof in their hands.\n\nLaughing and joking, the men made their way towards the music stands.\n\nThe vicar came up to Lucy. \"How will it do?\" he said. \"It seems all\nright. Just walk round with me, my dear, and I'll give ye a few tips how\nto play hostess in Hornham.\"\n\nThey strolled away together. \"Now, ye'll be careful, won't ye,\nmavourneen?\" he said rather anxiously. \"The folk coming this afternoon\nrequire more management and tact than any I've ever met. They'll all\nhave what they think is the high society manner--and ye mustn't laugh at\num, poor dears. I love 'em all, and I won't have you making fun of\nthem. I like them better in church than in society, I'm quite free to\nadmit to you, and their souls are more interesting than their bodies!\nPerhaps half a dozen people here this afternoon will be what you'd call\ngentlefolk--the doctor, Dr. Hibbert, and a few others. The rest of them\nwill be fearfully genteel. The young gentlemen will be back early from\nthe city, and they'll come in flannels and wear public-school ribbons\nround their hats, roses in their button-holes and crimson silk\ncummerbunds!\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" Lucy said.\n\n\"Yes, and they'll all want to flirt with ye, in a very superfine, polite\nsort of way, and mind ye let um! They'll ask if they might 'assist you\nto a little claret cup,' and say all sorts of strange things. But\nthey're good enough at heart, only they will be so polite!\"\n\n\"And the women?\"\n\nFather Blantyre shrugged his shoulders. \"You'll find them rather\ndifficult,\" he said. \"You bet they see your name in the papers--they all\nread the 'Fashionable Intelligence'--confound um!--and the attitude will\nbe a little hostile. But be civil for my sake, dear. I hate all this\njust as much as you do. I can get in touch with them spiritually, but\nsocially I find it hard. But I think it's the right thing to do, to\nentertain them all once or twice a year, and they do enjoy themselves!\nAnd I owe them a deep, deep debt of gratitude for their loyalty during\nthis trying week. I have had dozens and dozens of letters and calls.\nEvery one has rallied to the church in a wonderful and touching way\nsince the Sunday affair. God bless them all!\"\n\nLucy squeezed his arm with sympathy. In an hour, the guests began to\narrive.\n\nLucy and her brother met them by the garden door of the house. It was a\ngay scene enough. A brilliant flood of afternoon sunshine irradiated\neverything; the women were well and fashionably dressed, the band\nplayed, and every one seemed happy.\n\nLucy found it much easier than she expected. The guests were suburban,\nof course, and not of the \"classic suburbs\" at that. But, she reflected,\nthere was hardly a man there who had not better manners than Lord\nRollington or General Pompe. And if they wore Carthusian or Zingari\nribbons, that meant no more than that they were blessed with a\ncolour-sense; while a slight admixture of \"i\" in the pronunciation of\nthe first vowel was certainly preferable to the admixture of looseness\nand innuendo that she was sometimes forced to hear in much more exalted\ncircles. So she received tea and strawberries at the hands of gallant\nand debonair young gentlemen engaged in the minor walks of commerce; she\nchatted merrily with fluffy young ladies who, when they had gotten over\ntheir first distrust of a girl who went to the drawing-room and stayed\nwith lords, finding that she wasn't the \"nasty, stuck-up thing\" they\nexpected, were somewhat effusively affectionate. She talked gravely\nabout the \"dear vicar and those dreadful men\" to ample matrons who for a\nmoment had forgotten the cares of a small suburban villa and a smaller\nincome, in the luxury of fashion, the latest waltz tunes, the champagne\ncup, and a real social event. Indeed, everything went \"with a snap,\" as\none young gentleman remarked to Lucy. She became popular almost at once,\nand was surrounded by assiduous young bloods of the city \"meccas.\"\n\nFather Blantyre, as he went about from group to group, was in a state of\nextreme happiness, despite his somewhat gloomy anticipations. It was an\nhour of triumph for him. His people, for whom he prayed and laboured and\ngave his life and fortune, were one and all engaged to show him how\nthey would stand by him in the anticipated trouble. Everywhere he was\ngreeted with real warmth and affection, and before long the quick Celtic\ntemperament was bringing a mist before the merry grey eyes and a riot\nand tumult of thankfulness within.\n\nOn all sides, he heard praises of his sister. \"The pretty dear,\" one\ngood lady, the wife of a cashier in a small Mincing Lane firm, said to\nhim. \"I had quite a long talk with her, Father Blantyre. And a sweet\ngirl she is. We're not in the way of meeting with society folk, though\nwe read of all the gay goings-on in the _Mail_; but I said to Pa, 'Pa,'\nI said, 'if all the society girls are like that, then there's nothing\nmuch the matter with the aristocracy, and _Modern Society_ is a\ncatchpenny rag.' And Pa quite agreed. He was as much struck by her as I\nwas.\"\n\nAnd so on. Every one seemed pleased with Lucy. The guests began to\narrive less and less frequently, until at length the gardens were\ncrowded and no one else appeared to be coming. All the various games and\nentertainments were in full swing, and Lucy was about to accept the\ninvitation of a tall boy in a frock coat and a silk hat to sit down and\nwatch a set of tennis with him, when there was a slight stir and\ncommotion at the garden door of the house.\n\nMiss Cass came hurriedly down the steps, as a sort of advance guard for\ntwo ladies who were ushered into the garden by a waiter. The housekeeper\ndived into the crowd and found the vicar, who turned and went with her\nat once to meet the late-comers.\n\n\"There's Miss Pritchett and Gussie Davies,\" said the young man to Lucy\nin rather an awed voice, and then, as if to banish some unwelcome\nimpression, relieved his feelings by the enigmatic remark of \"Pip, pip,\"\nwhich made Lucy stare at him, wondering what on earth he meant.\n\nShe noticed that nearly every one at this end of the garden was\nwatching, more or less openly, the meeting between the vicar and his\nguests. She did not quite understand why, but guessed that some local\nmagnate had arrived, and looked with the rest.\n\nThe elder of the two women was expensively dressed in mauve silk, and\nwore a small bonnet with a white aigrette over a coffee-coloured fringe\nof hair that suggested art. Her face was plump and pompous, a\nparrot-like nose curved over pursy lips that wore an expression of\narrogant ill-temper, and the small eyes glanced rapidly hither and\nthither. In one white-gloved hand, the lady held a long-handled\nlorgnette of tortoise-shell and gold. Every now and then she raised\nthese glasses and surveyed the scene before her, in exactly the manner\nin which countesses and duchesses do upon the stage.\n\nHer companion was young, a large, blonde girl, not ill-looking, but\nwithout character or decision in her face or walk. She was dressed very\nsimply.\n\nLucy turned to her companion. \"Do you know them, then?\" she said.\n\n\"Rather,\" he replied. \"I should think I did. That's Miss Pritchett, old\nJoseph Pritchett's daughter, old Joseph, the brewer. He left her all his\nmoney, she's tons of stuff--awfully wealthy, I mean, Miss Blantyre.\"\n\n\"Does she live here, then?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes. In spite of all her money she's always been an unappropriated\nblessing. She's part of Hornham, drives a pair in a landau. The girl is\nGussie Davies, her companion. She's not half a bad sort. All the Hornham\nboys know Gussie. Nothing the matter with Gussie Davis! The old cat sits\non her fearfully, though. She can't call her soul her own. It's bally\nawful, sometimes, Gussie says.\"\n\nLucy gasped. These revelations were startling indeed. She was moving in\nthe queerest possible set of people. She hadn't realised that such folk\nexisted. It took her breath away, like the first plunge into a bath of\ncold water.\n\nThe artless youth prattled on, and Lucy gathered that the lady with\nthe false front was a sort of female _arbiter elegantarium_\nto Hornham, indubitably the richest person there, a leading light.\nShe saw her brother talking to the woman in an eager way. He seemed\nafraid of her,--as, indeed, the poor man was, under the present\ncircumstances,--and Lucy resented it. With a quick feminine eye, she saw\nthat Miss Pritchett was assuming an air of tolerance, of patronage even,\nto the vicar.\n\nAt last, Bernard caught sight of her. His face became relieved at once\nand he led the spinster to the place where she was sitting.\n\nEvery instinct of the girl rose up in dislike and rebellion as the woman\ndrew near. She had felt nothing of the sort with the other people. In\nthis case, it was quite different. She prepared to repel cavalry, to use\nthe language of the military text-books.\n\nOn the surface, the incident was simple and commonplace enough. A\nwell-bred girl felt a repulsion for an obviously unpleasant and\npatronising woman of inferior social rank. That was all. It is a trite\nand well-worn aphorism that no event is trivial, yet it is\nextraordinarily true. Who could have said that this casual meeting was\nto be fraught with storm and danger for the Church in England; that out\nof a hostile handshake between two women a mighty scandal and tumult was\nto rise?\n\nMiss Pritchett came up to Lucy, and Father Blantyre introduced her.\nThen, with an apologetic murmur, he hurried away to another part of the\ngarden.\n\n\"Won't you sit down?\" Lucy said, looking at the chair that had been left\nvacant by her late companion.\n\n\"Thank you, Miss Blantyre, but I've been sitting in my carriage. I\nshould prefer to stand, if it's the same to you,\" said Miss Pritchett.\n\nLucy rose. \"Perhaps you would like to walk round the grounds?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"Probably I know the grounds better than you,\" the elder woman answered\nwith a patronage which was bordering on the purely ludicrous. \"This\nresidence was one of my dear father's houses, as were many of the\nHornham houses. When the vicar acquired the property, the brewery\ntrustees sold it to him, though I think it far from suitable for a\nparish clergyman.\"\n\n\"Well, yes,\" Lucy answered. \"It certainly is a dingy, gloomy old place,\nbut what else can you expect down here?\"\n\nMiss Pritchett flushed and tossed her head till the aigrette in her\nsmart little bonnet shook like a leaf.\n\n\"One is liable to be misunderstood,\" she said. \"Your brother's small\nprivate means enable him to live in a house which the next vicar or any\nordinary clergyman could hardly hope for.\"\n\n\"It _is_ very good of Bernard to come down here and spend his life in\nsuch an impossible place,\" Lucy said. She was thoroughly angry now and\nquite determined to give the woman a lesson. Her impertinence was\ninsufferable. To hear this creature speak of Bernard's income of three\nthousand a year--every penny of which he gave away or spent for good--in\nthis way was unendurable.\n\nMiss Pritchett grew redder than ever. She was utterly incapable of\nbearing rebuff or contradiction. Her local eminence was unquestioned.\nShe had never moved from Hornham, where her wealth and large interests\nsecured for her that slavish subserviency that a vain and petty spirit\nloves. For months past, she had been gradually gathering up cause for\nquarrel and bitterness with the clergy of St. Elwyn's. She had found\nthat once within the portals of the church she was just as anyone else.\nShe could not lord it over the priests as she wished to do. For once,\nshe was beginning to find that her money was powerless, there was no\n\"high seat in the synagogue\" that it could buy.\n\n\"The place has been good enough for _me_,\" she said angrily, never\ndoubting that this was final.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" Lucy answered. \"That, Miss Pritchett, I can quite\nunderstand.\" The Hornham celebrity was a stupid woman. Her brain was as\nempty as a hen's, and she was not adroit enough to seize upon the real\nmeaning of this remark. She had an uneasy suspicion that it was\noffensive, and that was all.\n\n\"What you may mean by 'impossible' I am not aware,\" she continued. \"I\nspeak plain English myself. But those that don't know of a place didn't\nought to speak unfavourable of it. As for your brother, I've always said\nthat he was a worthy person and acted as well as he might, until late\nmonths, when I've felt it my duty to say a word or two in season as to\nsome of the church matters.\"\n\n\"I hope he profited, Miss Pritchett.\"\n\n\"I fear that he did not receive my words as he should, coming from a\nlady of standing in the place--and him only here three years. I'm\nbeginning to think that there's something in the popular agitation. Upon\nmy word! Priests do take a good deal on themselves nowadays. It wouldn't\nhave been allowed when I was a girl.\"\n\n\"Things have altered very much for the better during the last fifty\nyears,\" Lucy said pointedly.\n\nThis the lady did immediately apprehend. She lifted the lorgnette and\nstared at her companion in speechless anger. The movement was meant to\nbe crushing. It was thus, Miss Pritchett knew from her reading, that\nwomen of the aristocracy crushed inferiors.\n\nIt was too much for Lucy. She endeavoured to control her feelings, but\nthey were irresistible. She had not seen anything so funny as this\nvulgar and pompous old thing for years. A smile broadened out upon her\nface, and then, without further ado, she burst out into peal after peal\nof laughter.\n\nThe flush on Miss Pritchett's face died away. It grew perfectly white\nwith passion.\n\nShe turned round. Her companion had been walking some three yards behind\nthem in a listless and dejected fashion, looking with greedy eyes at the\nallurements on every side, and answering the furtive greetings of\nvarious male friends with a pantomime, expressive of contempt,\nirritation, and hopeless bondage in equal parts.\n\nMiss Pritchett stepped up to her, and caught hold of her arm. Her\nfingers went so deep into the flesh that the girl gasped and gave a\nhalf-smothered cry.\n\n\"Take me to the carriage,\" Miss Pritchett said. \"Let me leave this place\nof Popery and light women!\"\n\nThe obedient Gussie Davies turned and, in a moment or two, both women\nhad disappeared.\n\nLucy sought her brother. She found him eating a large pink ice in\ncompany with a florid, good-humoured matron in maroon, with an avalanche\nof lace falling from the edges of her parasol. \"Hallo, dear!\" he said.\n\"Let me introduce you to Mrs. Stiffe, Dr. Hibbert's sister. And where's\nMiss Pritchett?\"\n\n\"She's gone,\" Lucy answered. \"And, I'm very much afraid, in a towering\nrage. But really she was so insolent that I could _not_ stand it. I\nwould do most things for you, Ber, but, really, that woman!\"\n\n\"Well, it can't be helped, I suppose,\" the vicar said with humorous\nresignation. \"It was bound to come sooner or later, and I'm selfish\nenough to be glad it's you've given me lady the _cong\u00e9_ and not me. Mrs.\nStiffe here knows her, don't you, Mrs. Stiffe?\"\n\n\"I do, Mr. Blantyre,\" the stout lady said. \"I've met the woman several\ntimes when I've been staying down here with my brother. A fearful old\ncat _I_ call her! I wonder that you put up with her so long!\"\n\n\"Policy, Mrs. Stiffe--ye know we're all Jesuits here, the local paper\nsays so in yesterday's issue--policy! You see, when I first came here\nMiss Pritchett came to church. She's a leading person here and I made no\ndoubt others would follow her. Indeed, they did, too! and when they saw\nwhat the Catholic Church really was they stayed with us. And then,\nagain, Miss Pritchett was always ready to give us a cheque for any good\nwork, and we want all the money we can get! Oh, there's a lot of good in\nMiss Pritchett!\"\n\n\"I fail to see it on a short acquaintance,\" Lucy remarked; \"if she gave\ngenerously, it was only to flatter her vanity. I'm sure of that.\"\n\n\"It's a great mistake to attribute unworthy motives to worthy deeds,\"\nthe vicar said. \"We've no right to do it, and it's only giving ourselves\naway when we do, after all!\"\n\n\"Oh, it's all very well, Vicar,\" said good Mrs. Stiffe; \"we know you\nnever say anything against any one. But if Miss Pritchett is such an\nangel, what's the reason of her behaviour now? My brother told me that\nthings were getting very strained.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's a different matter entirely,\" Blantyre said. \"She began to\ninterfere in important things. And, of course, we couldn't have that.\nI'd have let her manage the soup-kitchens and boss the ladies' guilds\ntill the sky fell. But she wanted to do more than that. Poor dear King\noffended her in some way--he's not what ye'd call a ladies' man--and she\nwrote to me to send him away at once! And there were other incidents.\nI've been doing my best to meet her views and to keep in with her, but\nit's been very difficult and I felt the storm would burst soon. I wanted\nto keep her in the Faith for her own silly sake! She's not a very\nstrong-minded person beneath her manner, and she's just the sort of\nwoman some spiritualistic quack or Christian Science gentleman would get\nhold of and ruin her health and happiness. I did hope she'd find peace\nin the Church. Well, it can't be helped,\" he ended with a rather sad\nsmile, for his heart was tender for all his flock and he saw far down\ninto the human soul and loved it. Then he changed suddenly. \"What am I\ndoing!\" he cried, \"talking parochial politics at a garden party! Shame\non me! Come on, Mrs. Stiffe, come on, Lucy, Mr. Chaff, the\npiano-entertainer, is going to give his happy half-hour at Earl's\nCourt.\"\n\nThey went merrily away with him. As they approached the rows of chairs\nin front of the piano, he turned suddenly to his sister.\n\n\"Why didn't ye knock her down?\" he said suddenly, with an exaggerated\nbrogue and real comic force. Both ladies burst out laughing.\n\n\"You ought to have been on the music-hall stage, Vicar,\" Mrs. Stiffe\nsaid, \"you're wasted in Hornham.\"\n\n\"So I've been told,\" he said. \"I shall think seriously of it. It's a\npity to waste a talent.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nBOADICEA, JOAN OF ARC, CHARLOTTE CORDAY, JAEL, AND MISS PRITCHETT OF\nHORNHAM\n\n\nPeople of taste are never without wonder at the extraordinary lack of it\nthat many well-to-do folk display. It was but rarely that a person of\ntaste entered Malakoff Lodge, where Miss Pritchett dwelt, but when such\nan event did happen, the impression was simply that of enormous\nsurprise. The drawing-room into which visitors were shown was an immense\nplace and full of furniture. In each of the corners stood a life-sized\npiece of statuary painted in \"natural colours.\" Here one saw an immense\nnegro, some six feet high, with coffee-coloured skin, gleaming red lips,\nand a gaudy robe of blue and yellow. This monster supported a large\nearthenware basket on his back, painted, of course, in correct\nstraw-colour, from which sprang a tall palm that reached to the ceiling.\nIn other corners of the room were an Egyptian dancing-girl, a Turk, and\nan Indian fakir, all of which supported ferns, which it was part of\nMiss Gussie Davies' duty to water every morning.\n\nThe many tables, chiefly of circular or octagonal form, which stood\nabout the room, bore a multitude of costly and hideous articles which\nshould have been relegated to a museum, to illustrate the deplorable\ntaste of the middle classes during the early and mid-Victorian era.\nHere, for example, was a model of the leaning tower of Pisa done in\nwhite alabaster, some two feet in height, and shielded from harm by a\nthick glass case. There, the eye fell upon a bunch of very purple grapes\nand a nectarine or two, made of wax, with a waxen bee settling upon\nthem, all covered with glass also. Literary tastes were not forgotten.\nImmense volumes of Moore's poems, the works of Southey or Robert\nMontgomery lay about on the tables. These were bound in heavy leather\nboards, elaborately tooled in gold representations of Greek lyres and\ngolden laurel crowns. The shining gilt edges were preserved from the\nprofanation of a casual opening by two or three immense brass clasps\nwhich imprisoned the poet's thoughts within.\n\nThe time in which these things were made was a sentimental age, and it\nwas well reflected in its _bijouterie_. Innumerable nymphs and\nshepherdesses stood about offering each other hearts, madrigals, and\nother dainties. But they had none of the piquant grace that Watteau\nwould have given them, or the charm the white-hot fires of Dresden might\nhave burnt into them. They were solid, very British nymphs, whose\ndrapery was most decorously arranged that one thick ankle might be\nvisible, but no more;--nymphs and shepherdesses who, one might imagine,\nsat happily by the bank of some canal, singing the pious ditties of Dr.\nWatts as the sun went down,--nymphs, in short, with a moral purpose. The\nhangings of Miss Pritchett's room, the heavy window curtains that\ndescended from baldachinos of gleaming gold, were all of a rich crimson,\nan extraordinary colour that is not made now, and the wall-paper was a\nheavy pattern in dark ultramarine and gold. Indeed, there was enough\ngold in this mausoleum to have satisfied Miss Killmansegg herself.\n\nOne merit the place had in summer, it was cool, and when the barouche\nthat was the envy of Hornham drove up at Malakoff gates, Miss Pritchett\nrushed into the drawing-room, and, sinking into an arm-chair of purple\nplush, fanned a red and angry face with her handkerchief.\n\nThe companion followed her meekly.\n\n\"Wait there, Miss Davies,\" said the spinster sharply; \"stand there for a\nmoment, please, till I can get my breath.\"\n\nMiss Davies remained standing before her patroness in meek obedience.\nAfter a minute or two, Miss Pritchett motioned with her hand towards an\nadjacent chair. Gussie Davies sat down.\n\nIt was part of the spinster's life to subject her companion to a kind of\ndrill in this way. The unfortunate girl's movements were regulated\nmathematically, and in her more genial and expansive moments Miss\nPritchett would explain that her \"nerves\" required that this should be\nso--that she should have absolute control over the movements of any one\nwho was in the room with her.\n\nThere had been spirited contests between Miss Pritchett and a long\nsuccession of girls who had refused to play the part of automaton, but\nin Gussie Davies, the lady had found a willing slave. She paid her well,\nand in return was served with diligence and thorough obsequiousness.\nGussie was adroit, more adroit than her somewhat lymphatic appearance\nwould have led the casual observer to suppose. Properly trained, she\nmight almost have made a psychologist, but her opportunities had been\nlimited. However, for several years, she had directed a sharp brain to\nthe study of one person, and she knew Miss Pritchett as Mr. Sponge knew\nhis Mogg. Her influence with that lady was enormous, the more so in that\nit was not at all suspected by the object, who imagined that the girl\nwas hers, body and soul. But, nevertheless, Miss Davies, who hailed from\nWales and had a large share of the true Cymric cunning, could play upon\nher mistress with sure fingers, and, while submitting to every form of\npetty tyranny, and occasionally open insult, she ruled the foolish woman\nshe was with.\n\nGussie sat down. Miss Pritchett did not speak at once, and the girl\njudged, correctly enough, that she was meant to open the ball.\n\n\"O Miss Pritchett!\" she said with a little shudder, \"what a relief it\nmust be to you to be back in your own mansion!\"\n\nNothing pleased the spinster more than the word mansion as applied to\nher house. Gussie used the term with discretion, employing it only on\nspecial occasions, unwilling to be prodigal of so sure a card.\n\n\"You may well say that, child,\" Miss Pritchett answered faintly.\n\n\"Now you must let me ring for a glass of port for you,\" the young lady\ncontinued. \"You need it, indeed you do. I'll take the responsibility on\nmyself.\"\n\nShe rose and rang the bell. \"Two glasses,\" said Miss Pritchett when the\nanswering maid had received her order. \"You shall have a glass, Gussie,\nfor I feel I am to blame in taking you to such a place. I have seen the\nworld, and I have met women of that class before, I am sorry to say. But\nhitherto I have managed to shield you from such contamination.\"\n\nGussie sighed the sigh of innocence, a sigh which the young men with\nwhom she larked about in Alexandra Gardens never heard.\n\n\"I wish I had your knowledge of the world,\" she said. \"But, of course,\nI've never mixed in society, not like you.\"\n\nThe port arrived and in a minute or two the experienced damsel saw that\nher patroness was settling down for a long and confidential chat. The\nmoment promised a golden opportunity, of which she meant to take\nadvantage if she possibly could. She had a big scheme in hand; she was\nprimed with it by minds more subtle than her own. The image of Sam\nHamlyn was before her and she burned to deserve that gentleman's\ncommendation.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miss Pritchett, \"as a girl, when I used to go to the Lord\nMayor's balls at the Mansion House with papa and mamma, I saw what\nsociety really was. And it's worse now! That abandoned hussy at the\nvicarage is an example of what I mean. I must not go into details before\nyou, child, but I know what I know!\"\n\n\"How _awful_, Miss Pritchett! I saw her making eyes at all the gentlemen\nbefore you went up to her.\"\n\n\"All's fish that comes to the net of such,\" replied Miss Pritchett. \"An\nearl's toy, the giddy bubble floating on the open sewer of a London\nseason, or the sly allurer of an honest young city gentleman. Anything\nin trousers, child, is like herrings to a cat!\"\n\n\"How _awful_! Miss Pritchett,\" repeated Gussie, wondering what it would\nbe like to be an earl's toy, and rather thinking she would enjoy it. \"I\nsuppose you'll go to the vicarage just as usual, though,--on parish\nbusiness, I mean.\"\n\nThis, as the girl expected, provoked a storm, which she patiently\nendured, certain that she was in a way to gain her ends. At length, the\nflow of voluble and angry words grew less. Miss Pritchett was enjoying\nherself too much to risk the girl's non-compliance with her mood.\n\n\"There, there,\" she said eventually, \"it's only your ignorance I know,\nGussie, but you do aggravate me. You don't understand society. Never\nshall I set foot in that man's house again!\"\n\nGussie gasped. Her face expressed fervent admiration at such a daring\nresolve, but slight incredulity as well.\n\nThe bait took again. \"Never, as I'm a living lady!\" said Miss Pritchett,\n\"and I don't know as I shall ever drive up to the church doors in my\ncarriage on a Sunday morning more! Opinions may change. I _may_ have\nbeen--I don't say I _have_ been, yet, mind you--I _may_ have been led\naway by the false glitter of Roman doctrine and goings on.\"\n\nThe idea seemed to please the lady. She saw herself picturesque in such\na situation.\n\nGussie started suddenly.\n\n\"What's the matter, child?\" she was asked tartly; \"do you think no\none's got any nerves? Keep still, do!\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry, Miss Pritchett, but when you said that, I remembered\nsomething I was reading last night in the _Hornham Observer_.\"\n\n\"I was keeping it for Sunday afternoon,\" said Miss Pritchett. \"I did\nmean to go to morning service and then read Mr. Hamlyn's side of last\nSunday's proceedings at home, comfortable like. But what's in the\npaper?\"\n\n\"A great deal that will interest you, dear Miss Pritchett, though I do\nnot know if you will be pleased.\"\n\n\"Pleased? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Your name is mentioned several times.\"\n\n\"Is it, indeed! We'll soon see about that! Fetch the paper at once and\nread what it says. If Mr. Hamlyn's been foolish enough to talk about his\nbetters, I'll very soon have him turned neck and crop out of the place.\nHe's a man I've never spoken to more than twice, and he must be taught\nhis place in Hornham.\"\n\nGussie went out to fetch the paper. She smiled triumphantly as she came\ninto the hall. All was going well and, moreover, her quick ear had\ncaught the slight trace of wavering and alarm in the concluding words\nof her mistress. Miss Pritchett, like many other people, was never able\nto rid herself of a superstitious reverence for print. She devoutly\nbelieved the cheap romances that formed her literary food, and even a\nsmall local newspaper was not without a strong influence on one whose\nwhole sympathies and interests were local.\n\nGussie came back with the paper. \"There's two whole pages about the St.\nElwyn's business,\" she said, \"column after column, with great big\nletters at the top. Shall I begin at the beginning?\"\n\n\"No, no; read the bits about me, of course. Read what it was that made\nyou jump like a cat in an oven just now.\"\n\n\"That particular bit did not mention your name, Miss Pritchett, but it\nchimed in so with what you said just now. I wonder if I can find\nit?--ah, here it is--\n\n\"'And so I think I have accounted for the reason of the popularity of\nsuch services as go on at St. Elwyn's among the poorer classes. A\nwealthy clergyman can buy attendance at any idolatry, and who would\nblame a starving brother, desperate for food, perhaps, for attendance at\na mummery which is nothing to him but the price of a much-needed meal?\nNot I. Tolerance has ever been the watch-word of the _Observer_, and,\nhowever much I may regret that even the poorest man may be forced to\nwitness the blasphemous and hideous mockery of Truth that takes place at\nSt. Elwyn's, I blame not the man, but the cunning of a priesthood that\nbuys his attendance and then points to him as a convert to thinly veiled\nRomanism.'\"\n\nGussie stopped for a moment to take breath. Miss Pritchett's face was\ncomposed to pleasure. This was hot and strong indeed! She wondered how\nFather Blantyre liked this!\n\nWorthy Mr. Hamlyn, indeed, had heard of the little incident of the navvy\nand Father King, and knew that the erstwhile antagonist was now housed\nin the vicarage. Hence the preceding paragraph. Gussie went on:\n\n\"'But what shall we say when we find rank and fashion, acute\nintelligence and honoured names bowing down in the House of Rimmon? How\nshall we in Hornham regard such a strange and--so it seems to\nus--unnatural state of affairs?\n\n\"'The Scarlet Woman is powerful indeed! It would be idle to attempt to\ndeny it. The drowsy magic of Rome has permeated with its subtle\ninfluence homes where we should have hoped it would never enter. And why\nis this? I think we can understand the reason in some measure. Let us\ntake an imaginary case. Let us suppose that there is among us a woman of\nhigh station, of intellect, wealth, and charm. She sees a struggling\npriesthood establish itself in a Protestant neighbourhood. The sympathy\nthat woman will ever have for the weak is enlisted; she visits a church,\nnot realising what its sham and ceremony leads to, under what Malign\nInfluence it is carried on. And then a gracious nature is attracted by\nthe cunning amenities of worship. The music, the lights, the flowers,\nthe gorgeous robes, appeal to a high and delicate nature. For a time, it\npasses under the sway of an arrogant priesthood, and, with that sweet\nsubmission which is one of the most alluring of feminine charms, bows\nbefore a Baal which it does not realise, a golden calf that it would\nabhor and repudiate were it not blinded by its own charity and\nunsuspicious trust! Have I drawn a picture that is too strong? I think\nnot. It is only by analogy that we can best present the Truth.\n\n\"'Nevertheless we do not hesitate to assert, and assert with absolute\nconviction, that, if such a clouding of a fine nature were temporarily\npossible, it would be but transient. Truth will prevail. In the end, we\nshall see all those who are now the puppets and subjects of a Romanising\nattempt come back to the clear sunlight of Protestantism, away from the\nstink-pots and candles, the toys of ritual, the poison of a painted\nlie.'\"\n\nGussie read the paragraphs with unction. She read them rather well. As\nshe made an end, her guilty conscience gave her a fear that the unusual\nemphasis might have awakened some suspicion in Miss Pritchett's mind.\nBut with great relief she saw that it was not so. That lady was\nmanifestly excited. Her eyes were bright and there was a high flush on\nthe cheek-bones. Truth to tell, Miss Pritchett had always suspected that\nthere were depths of hidden gold in her nature. But they had never been\nso vividly revealed to her before.\n\n\"Give me the paper,\" she said in a tremulous voice; \"let me read it for\nmyself!\"\n\nHer unguarded words showed Miss Davies how completely the fortress was\nundermined. The spinster read the words through her glasses and then\nhanded the paper back to her companion.\n\n\"The man that wrote that,\" she said, \"is a good and sincere man. He\nknows how the kind heart can be imposed upon and deceived! I shall take\nan early opportunity of meeting Mr. Hamlyn. He will be a great man some\nday, if I am any judge.\"\n\n\"He must have had his eye on the Malakoff,\" Gussie said. \"Why, dear Miss\nPritchett, he has described you to a T. There is no one else in Hornham\nto whom it could apply.\"\n\n\"Hush, child! It may be as you say. This worthy man may have been\ncasting his eye over the parish and thought that he saw in me something\nof which he writes. It is not for me to deny it. I can only say that in\nhis zeal he has much exaggerated the humble merits of one who, whatever\nher faults, has merely tried to do her duty in the station to which she\nhas been called. And if Providence has placed that station high, it is\nProvidence's will, and we must not complain!\"\n\n\"How beautifully you put it, Miss Pritchett!\"\n\nThe chatelaine of Malakoff wiped a tear from her eye. The excitement of\nthe afternoon, the glass of port, the periods of Mr. Hamlyn's prose,\nhad all acted upon nerves pampered by indulgence and tightened with\nself-irritation.\n\n\"I believe you care for me, child,\" said Miss Pritchett with a sob.\n\n\"How it rejoices me to hear you say so, Miss Pritchett,\" Gussie replied,\nseeing that her opportunity had now come. \"But your generous nature\ngives way too easily. You are unstrung by the wanton insults of that\nwoman! Let me read you the concluding portion of Mr. Hamlyn's article.\nIt may soothe you.\"\n\n\"Read it,\" murmured the spinster, now lost in an ecstasy of luxurious\ngrief, though she would have been puzzled to give a reason for it.\n\nGussie took up the paper once more. Now that her battle was so nearly\nwon, she allowed herself more freedom in the reading. The Celtic love of\ndrama stirred within her and she gave the pompous balderdash _ore\nrotundo_.\n\n\"'And in conclusion, what is our crying need in England to-day? It is\nthis: It is the establishment of a great crusade for the crushing of the\ndisguised Popery in our midst. One protest has been made in Hornham,\nprotests should be made all over England. A mighty organisation should\nbe called into existence which should make every \"priest\" tremble in his\ncope and cassock, tremble for the avalanche of public reprobation which\nwill descend upon him and his.\n\n\"'I may be a visionary and no such idea as I have in my mind may be\npossible. But I think not. Who can say that our borough of Hornham may\nnot become famous in history as the spot in which the second Reformation\nwas born!\n\n\"'Much needs to be done before such a glorious movement can be\ninaugurated; that it will be inaugurated a band of earnest and\ndetermined men and women live in the liveliest hope.\n\n\"'I am confident that a movement having its seed in the borough, if\nwidely published and made known to patriotic English people, would be\nsupported with swift and overwhelming generosity by the country at\nlarge. The public response would appal the Ritualists and even astonish\nloyal sons of the Church of England. But, in order to start this\ncrusade, help is required. Some noble soul must come forward to start\nthe machine, to raise the Protestant Flag.\n\n\"'Where shall we find him or her? Is there no one in our midst willing\nto become the patron of Truth and to earn the praise of thousands and a\nplace in history?\n\n\"'Once Joan of Arc led the forces of her country to victory. A Charlotte\nCorday slew the monster Marat, a Boadicea hurled herself against the\nlegions of Rome! Who will be our Boadicea to-day, who will come forward\nto crush the tyranny of Rome in our own England? For such a noble lady,\nwho will revive in her own person the undying deeds of antiquity, I can\npromise a fame worth more than all the laurels of the old British queen,\nthe heartfelt thanks and love of her countrymen, and above all of her\ncountry-women--over whose more kindly and unsuspicious natures the\ndeadly Upas-tree of Romanism has cast its poisonous shade. Where is the\nJael who will destroy this Sisera?'\"\n\nMiss Davies ceased. Her voice sank. No sound was heard but the snuffle\nthat came from the plush arm-chair opposite, where Miss Pritchett was\naudibly weeping. Mr. Hamlyn's purple prose had been skilfully introduced\nat the psychological moment. The woman's ill-balanced temperament was\nawry and smarting. Her egregious vanity was wounded as it had rarely\nbeen wounded before. She had been treated as of no account, and she was\nburning with spite and the longing for revenge.\n\nGussie said nothing more. She let the words of the newspaper do their\nwork without assistance.\n\nPresently Miss Pritchett looked up. She wiped her eyes and a grim\nexpression of determination came out upon her face.\n\n\"I see it all!\" she said suddenly. \"My trusting nature has been terribly\ndeceived; I have been led into error by evil counsellors; the power of\nthe Jesuits has been secretly brought to bear upon one who, whatever her\nfailings, has scorned suspicion!\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Pritchett, how _awful_!\" said Gussie.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued the lady with a delighted shudder, \"the net has been\nthrown over me and I was nigh to perish. But Providence intervenes! I\nsee how I am to be the 'umble instrument of crushing error in the\nChurch. I shall step into the breach!\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Pritchett, how _noble_!\"\n\n\"Miss Davies, you will kindly put on your jacket and walk round to Mr.\nHamlyn's house. See Mr. Hamlyn and tell him that Miss Pritchett is too\nagitated by recent events to write personally, but she begs he will\nfavour her with his company at supper to discuss matters of great public\nimportance. Tell Jones to send up some sweetbreads at once, and inform\ncook as a gentleman will be here to supper, and to serve the cold\nsalmon.\"\n\nGussie rose quickly. \"Oh, Miss Pritchett,\" she cried, \"what a great day\nfor England this will be!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE OFFICES OF THE \"LUTHER LEAGUE\"--AN INTERIOR\n\n\nOn the first floor of a building in the Strand, wedged in between a\nlittle theatre and a famous restaurant, the offices of the \"Luther\nLeague\" were established, and by late autumn were in the full swing of\ntheir activity.\n\nVisitors to this stronghold of Protestantism mounted a short flight of\nstairs and arrived in a wide passage. Four or five doors opening into it\nall bore the name of the association in large letters of white enamel.\nThe first door bore the legend:\n\n     \"PUBLISHING AND GENERAL OFFICE INQUIRIES\"\n\nThis room, the one by which the general public were admitted to the\ninner sanctuaries, was a large place fitted up with desks and glass\ncompartments in much the same way as the ordinary clerks' office of a\nbusiness house. A long counter divided the room, and upon it were\nstacked piles of the newly published pamphlet literature of the League.\nHere could be seen that stirring narrative, _Cowed by the Confessional;\nor, The Story of an English Girl in the Power of the \"Priests.\"_ This\npublication, probably the cheapest piece of pornography in print at the\nmoment, was published, with an illustration, at three pence. Upon the\ncover a priest--for some unexplained reason in full eucharistic\nvestments--was pointing sternly to the armour-plated door of a grim\nconfessional, while a trembling lady in a large picture hat shrunk\nwithin.\n\nThis little book was flanked by what appeared to be a semi-jocular work\ncalled _Who Said Reredos?_ and bore upon its cover the already\ndistinguished name of Samuel Hamlyn, Jr. The eye fell upon that popular\npamphlet in a wrapper of vivid scarlet--now in its sixtieth\nthousand--known as _Bow to the \"Altar\" and Light Bloody Mary's Torture\nFires Again_.\n\n_As Soon Pay the Devil as the Priest_ lay by the side of a more\nelaborately bound volume on which was the portrait of a lady. Beneath\nthe picture appeared the words of the title, _My Escape; or, How I\nBecame a Protestant_, by Jane Pritchett.\n\nTwo clerks wrote in the ledgers on the desks, attended to visitors, and\nlooked after what was known in the office as the \"counter trade\"--to\ndistinguish it from the sale of Protestant literature in bulk, which was\nmanaged direct from the \"Luther League Printing Works, Hornham, N.\"\n\nA second room opening into the general office was tenanted by the\nassistant secretary of the League, Mr. Samuel Hamlyn, Junior. Here the\nwalls were decorated with scourges, horribly knotted and thonged;\n\"Disciplines,\" which were belts and armlets of sharp iron prickles,\ndesigned to wear the skin of the toughest Ritualist into an open sore\nafter three days' wear. There were also two hair shirts, apparently the\nworse for wear, and a locked bookcase of Ritualistic literature with a\nlittle _index expurgatorius_ in the neat, clerkly writing of Sam Hamlyn,\nand compiled by that gentleman himself.\n\nIn this chamber of horrors, the assistant secretary delighted to move\nand have his being, and three or four times a day it was his pleasing\nduty to show friends of the League and its yearly subscribers, the\npenitential machinery by which the priest-ridden public was secretly\ninvited to hoist itself to heaven.\n\nThe innermost room of all was where Mr. Hamlyn, Senior, himself\ntransacted the multifarious and growing business of his organisation.\nThe secretary sat at a large roll-top desk, and a substantial safe stood\nat his right hand. An air of brisk business pervaded this sanctum. The\ndirectories, almanacs, and account-books all contributed to it, and the\nend of a speaking-tube, which led to the outer office, was clipped to\nthe arm of the revolving chair.\n\nThree portraits adorned the wall. From a massive gold frame the features\nof that fiery Protestant virgin, Miss Pritchett, stared blandly down\ninto the room. Opposite it was a large photograph of Mr. Hamlyn himself,\nwith upraised hand and parted lips--in the very act and attitude of\nmaking one of his now familiar protests. The third in this trio of\nProtestant champions was a drawing of Martin Luther himself,\n\"representing the Reformer,\" as Mr. Hamlyn was wont to say, \"singing for\njoy at the waning power of Rome.\" The artist of this picture, however,\nbeing a young gentleman of convivial tastes, had portrayed the\n\"Nightingale of Wittemberg\" in a merry mood, remembering, perhaps,\nCarlyle's remark, \"there is laughter in this Luther,\" or perhaps--as is\nindeed most probable--remembering little of the great man but his\nauthorship of the ditty that concludes:\n\n    Who loves not women, wine, and song\n    Will be a fool his whole life long.\n\nFortunately, Mr. Hamlyn, whose historical studies had been extremely\nrestricted, did not know of this effort--just as he did not know that to\nthe end of his life the student of Erfurt steadily proclaimed his belief\nin the Real Presence in the Eucharist.\n\nAbout ten o'clock on a grey, cold November morning, the two Hamlyns\narrived at the offices of the Luther League together, walked briskly up\nthe stairs, and, with a curt \"good morning\" to the clerks, entered the\ninnermost room together.\n\nPeople who had known the father and son six months ago, seeing them now,\nwould have found a marked, though subtle, difference in both of them.\n\nThey were much better dressed, for one thing. The frock-coats were not\nmade in Hornham, the silk hats were glossy and with the curly brims of\nthe fashion. Both still suggested a more than nodding acquaintance with\nreligious affairs in their costume, some forms of Christianity always\npreferring to evince themselves by the style of a cravat or the texture\nof a cloth.\n\nConfidence had never been lacking in either of the two, but now the\nsense of power and success had increased it, and had also imposed a\ncertain quietness and gravity which impressed people. Here, at any rate,\nwere two men of affairs, men whose names were beginning to be known\nthroughout the land, and Mr. Hamlyn's manner of preoccupation and\nthought was only natural after all in one who (as his son would remark\nto Protestant visitors) \"practically held the fortunes of the Church in\nhis hands, and was destroying the Catholic wolves with the sword of\nProtestant Truth.\"\n\nThe two men took off their overcoats and hung them up. Then Mr. Hamlyn,\nfrom mere force of old habit, pulled at his cuffs--in order to lay them\naside during business hours. Finding that he could not withdraw them,\nfor increasing position and emolument had seemed to necessitate the\nwearing of a white shirt, he sat down with a half sigh for the freedom\nand comfort of an earlier day and began to open the large pile of\ncorrespondence on the table before him.\n\n\"We'll take the cash first, Sam,\" he said, pulling a small paper-knife\nfrom a drawer.\n\nSam opened a note-book in which the first rough draughts of matter\nrelating to this most important subject were entered, preparatory to\nbeing copied out into one of the ledgers in the outer office.\n\nHamlyn began to slit up the letters with a practised hand. Those that\ncontained the sinews of war he read with a running comment, others were\nplaced in a basket for further consideration.\n\n\"'Well-wisher,' five shillings; 'Well-wisher,' \u00a32 0 0, by cheque, Sam.\n'Ethel and her sisters,' ten and six--small family that, I should think!\n'Protestant,' five pounds--a note, Sam, take the number. It's curious\nthat 'Protestant' always gives most. Yesterday seven 'Protestants'\ntotalled up to fourteen, twelve, six, while five 'Well-wishers' worked\nout at slightly under three shillings a head. What's this? Ah! cheque\nfor a guinea and a letter on crested paper! Enter up the address and\nmake a note to send half a dozen _Bloody Marys_, one Miss Pritchett's\n_Escape_, and a few _Pay the Devils_. During the last week or two, the\nupper classes have been rallying to the flag. They're the people. I'll\nsend this woman the ten-guinea subscription form and ask her to be one\nof the vice-presidents. Listen here:\n\n\n     MARGRAVINE HOUSE,\n     LEICESTER\n\n     Lady Johnson begs to enclose a cheque for one guinea to aid Mr.\n     Hamlyn in his splendid Crusade against the Ritualists. She would be\n     glad to hear full details of the \"Luther League\" and its objects.\n     She wonders why Mr. Hamlyn has confined his protests against\n     _Romanism_ in the guise of _English Churchmanship_ to the London\n     district, and would point out that in her own neighbourhood there\n     is a hot-bed of Ritualism which should be exposed.\"\n\nSam went to the book shelf and took down a Peerage. \"She's the wife of a\nknight,\" he said, \"one of the city knights.\"\n\n\"Probably very well off,\" said Mr. Hamlyn. \"We'll nail her for the\nCause! See that the books go off at once, and I'll write her a personal\nletter during the day.\"\n\nHe rubbed his hands together with a movement of inexpressible\nsatisfaction. His keen face was lighted up with the pleasures of power\nand success.\n\n\"She's got her own axe to grind,\" remarked Sam. \"Had a flare-up with the\nlocal parson, I expect.\"\n\n\"Shouldn't wonder,\" replied his father indifferently. \"Here's two\np.o.'s, one for seven bob and one for three. From a Wesleyan minister at\nCamborne in Cornwall. I'll put him down to be written to under the local\nhelpers' scheme. His prayers'll be with us, he says!\" Mr. Sam sniffed\nimpatiently as he wrote down the sum in his book.\n\nIn a few more minutes, the contributions were all booked up and the\nChurch of England--as represented by these two eminent laymen--was\nbulwarked against the enemies to the extent of some seventeen pounds.\n\n\"Now,\" said Mr. Hamlyn, \"let's take the press-cuttings next.\" He opened\na large envelope.\n\nA day or two before Mr. Hamlyn had varied his pleasant little habit of\nturning up during the most solemn moments of a church service and\nbrawling until he was ejected with more or less force, being brought up\nat a police-court a day or two afterwards and paying the fine imposed\nupon him with a cheque from Miss Pritchett. During the blessing of a new\npeal of bells in a provincial cathedral, he had risen and read a paper\nof protest. He had read the paper in a low, hurried voice, and the\ndisturbance had been purely local and attracted but little attention in\nthe huge building. In a moment, almost, the secretary of the Luther\nLeague had been conducted to the door of the building by vigilant\nvergers.\n\nBut the commotion in the press next morning had been enormous. Lurid\nreports of this great protest appeared in leaded type, comment of every\nkind filled the papers, and their editors were inundated with letters on\nthe subject. As an editor himself, Mr. Hamlyn well understood the\ninterior machinery of a newspaper office, and was perfectly well\nacquainted with the various methods by which things get into print. He\nbegan to examine the cuttings from the weekly papers that Durrant's had\nsent him.\n\n\"All goes on well,\" he said at length. \"It really is astonishing the\nspace they give us! Who'd have thought it six months ago! Don't they go\nfor the League in some of them! Just listen to this, it's the finish of\na column in _Vigilance_:\n\n\"'... and I shall therefore await the publication of the promised\nbalance-sheet of this precious \"League\" with more than usual interest.\nSuch an indecent and futile campaign as this deserves to be thoroughly\nscrutinised.'\"\n\n\"That's nasty, Pa,\" said Sam.\n\n\"It don't matter in the least. Our League is perfectly honest and\nabove-board, thank goodness! We shall publish the balance-sheet, of\ncourse. We are doing a great and glorious work for Hengland, and the\nlabourer is worthy of his hire. We are perfectly justified in taking our\nsalaries. What does a parson do? And, besides no one reads _Vigilance_\nthat's likely to give Protestant campaigns a penny. It's a society\npaper. Religious people don't see it.\"\n\n\"Quite so. And all the Protestant papers are with us; that's the great\nthing.\"\n\n\"Exactly, even the old established evangelical papers like the _Church\nRecorder_ daren't say anything against us. You see our advertisements\nare worth such a lot to 'em! Half the Low Church papers can't pay their\nway, the big advertisers won't look at them. All the money goes to the\n_Church Standard_ and the other Ritualistic rags. The _Standard's_ one\nof the best paying properties in London. So the Low Church papers\n_can't_ do without us. Wait a year, Sam, and we'll have our own paper,\nput in some Fleet Street hack as editor, publish at a separate office,\nand charge the account what we like for our own articles.\"\n\n\"Our position is practically unassailable, as far as I can see.\"\n\n\"It's just that, my boy--as long as people send in the money. But\ngradually we shall find London getting dry. It's all right now that the\nboom's on, but the novelty of the thing will wear off after a bit. And\nwhat we want is to get ourselves so strong that the League will go on\n_for ever_! Now, I look on it in this way: Much as I 'ate the Ritualists\nand love true Henglish Protestantism\"--Mr. Hamlyn's face grew full of\nfervour as he said this--\"much as I 'ate Romanising tricks and such, I'm\njolly well certain that neither we nor any one else is going to make\nmuch difference to them! They're too strong, Sam. You'll find a red-hot\nRitualist would give up his arms and legs for his carryings-on.\nRitualism's getting stronger and stronger. _They've got the best men for\nparsons_, and you see those chaps aren't in it for their own game, as a\nrule. They live like paupers and give all they've got away. Well, that\ngives 'em grip.\"\n\n\"Silly fools,\" said Sam contemptuously.\n\n\"Poor deluded tools of Rome,\" said Mr. Hamlyn, who, now that his great\nmission was an accomplished fact, was really beginning to believe in it\nhimself. \"Well, my point is this: Ritualism will never stop. It's too\nwell organised, and the clergy are too well educated. And most of 'em\nare 'class' too. It all tells.\"\n\n\"Well, then, if our efforts aren't going to do any good, in a year or so\nthe public will notice that, and the public will stop subscribing.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it, Sam, you don't see as deep as I do. As long as we keep\nthe question prominent, it will be all right. First of all, we shall\nalways get the Nonconformist contribution. In every town, the\nNonconformist minister can be trusted to stir up people against a\nRitualistic 'priest,' especially if he's vowed to celibacy. Married ones\nget on better. But what I'm coming to is this: All over Hengland there\nare parishes where the vicar is more or less of a Romaniser. But he's\npersonally liked, perhaps, or no one makes the protest. But in every\nparish, experience shows there's two or three prominent folk who hate\nthe vicar. Now, where there's a spark a flame can be got. It's all very\nwell to go and protest in a parish where there's a strong feeling\nagainst Ritualism--like St. Elwyn's, for example. But think of the\nhundreds of parishes where people jog along quite content, not knowing\nthe darkness in which they're groping! Now, we'll stir these places up,\nwe'll raise the flag of the League in places which have been going along\nquiet and peaceable for years. There won't be a church from which we\ncan't get some people away. The Luther League shall become a household\nword from John o' Groat's to Land's End.\"\n\n\"Good scheme, Father, if you can do it. But think of the work, and think\nof the risks of letting any one else into the League. We might find\nourselves in the second place some day.\"\n\n\"Not at all, Sam. Not as I've worked it out. You ought to know that I\nnever start anything without going careful into the details.\"\n\n\"Sorry, Father. Let's have the plan.\"\n\n\"I'm going to start a band of 'Luther Lecturers' to carry Protestant\nTruth into the 'idden places. I'm beginning with six young fellows I've\ngot. They'll travel all over the country, holding open-air meetings of\nagitation, with a collection for the League--making public protests in\nsuch churches as I give the order to be gone for, and lecturing on what\nRitualism really is. Now, these chaps will have two lectures. I've had\n'em written already. One's on the Mass, another's on the\nconfessional,--hot Protestant stuff. They'll go like wild fire. The\nyoung men'll learn these lectures off by heart and deliver 'em with\nlocal allusions to the vicars of the parishes as they come to. I've got\na supply of the illegal wafers as the Ritualists use for the Lord's\nSupper. Each lecture'll have one or two to show in the meetings. He'll\npull it out and show the poor deluded people the god of flour and water\ntheir priests tell 'em to worship. There's lots of real humour in the\nlectures. They'll fire the popular imagination. Every crowd likes to\nhear a parson abused. I got the idea of humour and fun in the lectures\nfrom the Salvation Army. You see, we want to reach the class of folk as\ndon't mind standing round a street-corner meeting and listening. The\nArmy makes it pay wonderfully! But they only attack sin. They don't\nbother what a man does as long as he's good. We're attacking Rome in the\nHenglish Church, and it's remarkable what a lot of ridiculous things and\npoints I've got into these lectures. There's one thing, for instance,\nthat'll keep all a crowd on the grin--I mean the directions to a\n'priest' if an insect gets into the 'consecrated' wine. It has to be\nburnt. Can't you see the lecturer with his 'Now, my friends, I ask you\nwhat a poor little spider's done to be used like that?' It's all an\nunworked mine! And you see there's no answer to it! A Ritualist 'priest'\nwho comes to argue--of course, discussion will be invited--is bound to\nget left. He'll be so solemn and that, that the ordinary man in the\nstreet won't understand a word he's driving at. My men'll win every\ntime. You'll see.\"\n\n\"As usual, Pa,\" said Sam, \"you've hit on a good thing. It'll extend the\nLeague wonderful. But what about your men--where'll you get 'em? and\nwhat guarantee will you have that they won't rob the League?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all thought out. I shall have quite young chaps and pay them\nabout eighteen shillings a week and travelling expenses. Each two or\nthree days they'll have to send in reports as to the work, and each week\nforward the collection. I shall try, eventually, to get real earnest\nyoung men who believe in our glorious Henglish Protestant 'eritage.\n_They_ won't rob us. I shall get smart young chaps with plenty of bounce\nand go, but not much education. It's not _wanted_ for popular\nstreet-corner work. You get a Ritualist parson coming to try and answer\none of my chaps--take the crucifix question, now. My man will talk about\nPopish idols and that--it's all in the lecture--and all the parson will\nsay is that a crucifix is legal in the Church of Hengland--I believe, as\na strict matter of fact, it _is_. Then my man turns round and tells the\ncrowd that a crucifix is nothing but a dolly on a stick--he gets the\nlaugh, see? The 'priest' can't explain all his humbugging reverence and\nthat in an open-air meeting, with one of my chaps ready with a joke\nevery time he speaks. I've got four out of my six men already, and if\nthe thing hums as I expect, I'll put twenty or thirty in the field at\nonce. They're easy found! There's lots of young chaps connected with\nchapels that would far rather tour the country attracting attention\nwherever they go, and do nothing but agitate, than work hard! There's\nyoung Moffatt, Peter Moffatt's son. He's a plumber, but he 'ates work.\nHe's got cheek for twenty, and he'll do no end of good. As for the cost,\nwhy, the men will pay for themselves over and over again. They'll be\nwell supplied from the central office--extracts from the papers and so\non--they'll take local halls and advertise in local papers. I shall\nexpect that each man, if he's any good _at all_, will pay all his own\nexpenses each week and forward a clear two pounds to me! A man that\ncan't do that, at least, with such backing as we can give him and such a\nsplendid war-cry--well, I wouldn't give twopence for him.\"\n\n\"I see it all clear now,\" answered Sam, a flush of excitement coming\ninto his face. \"And besides the money and extension of the League there\nwill be splendid opportunities for you and me to run down now and then\nto support our men and get an 'oliday--take Brighton, for instance! It's\nfull of Ritualists. A couple of men could spend a month there.\"\n\n\"And take from two to three hundred pounds, I should think,\" said the\nsecretary, thoughtfully, \"besides dealing an 'orrid blow to the wolves\nin the fold of the Protestant Henglish Church. We'll have some good\nprotests in Brighton! Then, when our lecturers are fined for brawling,\nwe'll instruct them _not to pay the fine_, but to go to prison for a\nfortnight instead! Of course, it'll be considered 'andsomely in their\nsalaries. Then we'll send them round the country with a magic lantern\nand a rousing lecture. 'Imprisoned by the Romanisers,' 'In Gaol for the\nProtestant Faith!' or something like that.\"\n\n\"That's _fine_,\" said Sam, in an ecstasy of enjoyment. \"Why, Father, the\nwhole thing grows like a snowball! It _must_ grow.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you, six months ago?\" said Mr. Hamlyn. \"Look at us then\nand now! What were we then? Nothing, 'ardly. What are we now? Directors\nof a big concern, becoming known all over Hengland, drawing good\nsalaries, and with all the pleasure of bossing a big show. Look at the\nprinting account the works have against the League, look at our expenses\nwhen we've got thirty or more Luther lecturers all over the country! And\nyet there's nothing risky in it. Nothing at all. No bogus-company\npromoting, no snide article to sell. We've no limited-liability company\nact to fear, no treasury investigations. We stand upon solid rock and\nnobody can't touch us! And why? Because we are championing the freedom\nof the people's religion, we are fighting for glorious Protestantism!\"\n\n\"Fancy no one thinking of it before!\" said Sam.\n\nMr. Hamlyn's shrewd, able face beamed with merriment. \"Providence,\" he\nsaid, \"chooses its own instruments. Now, then, send me in the shorthand\nclerk; I shall be at work all day. To-night I address a public meeting\nin the 'Olborn Town Hall, and before ten I'm due to sup with Miss\nPritchett. She wants something definite done in St. Elwyn's, and I must\nthink out a slap in the face for Blantyre.\"\n\n\"I'll run round to the bank,\" said Sam, \"and pay this morning's little\nlot into the general fund, and post the statement to the treasurer.\"\n\n\"Right, my son. What was it?\"\n\n\"Seventeen pounds odd, Pa.\"\n\n\"Protestants are waking up,\" said Mr. Hamlyn, \"our work for the Cause\nhas a blessing upon it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nA PRIVATE CONFERENCE AT MIDNIGHT A YEAR LATER\n\n\nIt was late at night in Father Blantyre's study at Hornham. King and\nStephens had gone to bed, but the vicar sat with Dr. Hibbert, his\nchurchwarden.\n\nBoth men were smoking. By the side of the doctor stood a modest peg of\nwhiskey; the priest contented himself with a glass of soda-water. The\ncandles by which the room was lighted showed that Mr. Blantyre's face\nwas very worn and weary. He seemed a man who was passing through a time\nof stress and storm. The bronzed countenance of the doctor wore its\nusual aspect of serenity and strength. Both men had been talking\ntogether earnestly for a great part of the night. A true and intimate\nfriendship obtained between them, and it was a plan that fortnightly\nthey should meet thus and make confidences to each other about that\nwhich they held so dear.\n\n\"It is just a year,\" Blantyre said, \"since Hamlyn committed his first\nsacrilege in our own church.\"\n\n\"The time goes very fast,\" Hibbert answered, \"yet look at the changes!\nThe man has become almost a power in the land, or at least he seems to\nbe. It is his talent for organisation. It's supreme. Look how this\nwretched 'League' has grown. It has its spies and agents everywhere, its\ncommittee has names of importance among its members, the amount of money\nthat rolls into Hamlyn's coffers must be very large.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid so. But think of the turmoil and unrest one man can\ncreate--the misery and pain churchmen feel every day now as they see the\njocose blasphemies of these people and see the holiest things held up to\nan utterly vulgar and soulless ridicule. It's a wrong thought, Hibbert,\nperhaps, but I do sometimes long to be out of it all, to start afresh on\nsuch new work as God may give one in another life!\"\n\n\"Such a thought comes to all of us at times, of course. But it's\nphysical mainly. It's merely a languor of overstrain and a weak nervous\nstate. You know yourself how such thoughts come chiefly at night, and\nhow after your tub, in the morning light and air they all go.\"\n\n\"Materialist! But you're right, Hibbert, quite right.\"\n\n\"You go on taking the physic I've sent you and you'll pick up soon. But,\nof course, this _is_ a very trying time. The parish is in a constant\nturmoil. These Sunday evening Protestant meetings when folk are coming\nout of church are a bad nuisance. That's a new move, too.\"\n\n\"Yes. They found that the hooligan riot-provoking business was very\nsimply dealt with, and so they are trying this. It is that poor, silly\nold creature, Miss Pritchett. The Hamlyns are hand and glove with her. I\nsuppose she is sincere, poor old lady! I hope so. She was an ardent\nCatholic, and I hope she does honestly believe in the new substitute for\nthe Faith. I am very sorry for her.\"\n\n\"I'm less charitable, Blantyre; she's a spiteful old cat. I am not\nviolating any professional confidence in telling _you_ that she won't\nlive long if she goes on living in the thick of this noisy Protestant\nagitation. I do my best for her, of course, but she won't do as she's\ntold.\"\n\n\"She's a nuisance,\" the vicar said, \"but I hope she won't go yet. I\nshould like to make friends with her before she dies. And I should like\nher to die in the Faith.\"\n\n\"She won't do that, I'm afraid, Blantyre. She has gone too far away from\nthe Church. But, now, what do you honestly think the effect of this\nLuther crusading business has been on the Church.\"\n\n\"Well, I think there can be no doubt of that. I was talking it over with\nLord Huddersfield last week and we both agreed. The _Church_ has gained\nenormously. People who were simply attracted by ceremonial and what was\nnovel to them have gone out, in a restless endeavour to find some new\nthing. But that is all. Our congregations here, our communicants, have\ngrown very much. There is a deeper spiritual fervour among us, I am sure\nof it. No churchman has taken Hamlyn seriously for a moment. He has\nfailed in every attempt he has made to interfere with our teaching or\nour ceremonial, failed absolutely. All his legal cases have fallen\nthrough, or proved abortive, or are dragging on towards extinction. The\ndays of ritual prosecutions are utterly dead. All the harm Hamlyn has\ndone the Church itself is to weary our ears and hearts with a great\nnoise and tumult, with floods of empty talk. He has stung our nerves,\nhe hasn't penetrated to any vital part.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is so. It needs more than the bellowings of such a man, more\nthan the hostility of people who are not members of the Church, to hurt\nher in any serious degree. The man and his friends have a large rabble\nbehind them, but they can only parade through the streets of England\nbeating their drums and rattling their collecting boxes. The Church is\nsafe.\"\n\n\"It is. And yet in another way, all this business is doing fearful harm\nto the _morale_ of the country, limited though it may be. The mass of\nnon-Christian people who might be gathered into the Church are looking\ndown upon these unseemly contests with a sneer. They feel that there can\nbe little good or truth in a system of philosophy which seems to them to\nbe nothing but an arena of brawling fools. Therein comes the harm.\nHamlyn isn't injuring church people, he is giving contraband of war to\ninfidelity. And just at this particular moment in the world's history\nthis is extremely dangerous. In thirty years, the danger will have\npassed away; to-day, it is great.\"\n\n\"And why particularly at this moment?\"\n\n\"Why, because the world is utterly changing with extraordinary rapidity.\nThat world which once adjusted itself so sweetly to our faith is\nvanishing, is gone. The new world which is arriving is unassimilated,\nunsorted, unexplained. The light hasn't entered it yet, it doesn't know\nhow to correspond. The trouble lies in that. The new politics, science,\nphilosophy, art, are only social habits. And these will not talk our\nlanguage yet, or confess Christ. And this squabble and turmoil will\nretard the new adjustment for years, because outsiders won't even\ntrouble to examine our claims or make experience of our system. _And\npeople are glad of any excuse to ignore or at least avoid Christianity._\nYou see, a new religion has sprung up.\"\n\n\"Yes--go on.\"\n\n\"It is the religion of pleasure, excitement, nervous thrill bought at\nany cost. Renan, who had eyes and used them, saw that. He has given us\nthe hint in his _Abbess of Jouarre_. 'Were the human race quite\ncertain,' he says, 'that in two or three days the world would come to an\nend, the instinct of pleasure'--_l'amour_ is his word--'would break out\ninto a sort of frenzy; in the presence of death, sure and sudden,\nnature alone would speak, and very strange scenes would follow. The\nsocial order is preserved by restraint; but restraint depends upon a\nbelief in a hereafter.' And already, 'If a man dies, shall he live\nagain?' is the burden of a new soliloquy on the lips of a new Hamlet.\nFaith is becoming more and more an act, a habit, of heroism. So you see\nthe harm Hamlyn and his gang are indirectly doing. But do you know where\nit seems to me the great counteracting influence to his work lies at the\nmoment?\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"You will wonder to hear me say so, but I firmly think for the moment it\nlies in the ranks, and true love of our Lord, of the pious Evangelical\nParty in the Church! They are Catholic without knowing it. They think,\nand think sincerely, that the forms the Church has appointed, some of\nher Sacraments even, obscure the soul's direct communion with God. They\nare not in line with us yet. But there is a sterling and vivid\nChristianity among them. There is a personal adoration of Jesus which is\nstrong and sweet, a living, wonderful thing. And, you see, all this\nsection of the Church is exempt from the attacks of the _extreme_\nProtestants--who seem themselves to have hardly any Christianity at all.\nNor do the really pious Evangelicals approve of this civil war. They\nwon't be mixed up in it. They are far too busy doing good works and\npreparing themselves for the next world to join in these rowdy\nprocessions of the shallow, the ill-informed, or the malevolent. They\ndon't approve of _us_, of course, but they have no public quarrel with\nwhat they see is substantially powerful for good. Since Hamlyn's brigade\nhas been throwing mud at us, and we, of course, have defended ourselves\nto the best of our ability, the minds of those who are eager to justify\ntheir adhesion to the religion of pleasure cannot, at least if they have\nany logic or sincerity, avoid a consideration of the quiet\nEvangelicals.\"\n\n\"It is a new idea to me,\" said the doctor, refilling his pipe, \"but I\nsuppose you are right. They despise the whole business of agitation, and\nyet don't make it a pretext as the rationalists are glad to do. The\nwhole thing is a miserable business! What annoys _me_, Vicar, is the\nfacility with which a rowdy, ignorant man of the lower classes has been\nable to make himself a force.\"\n\n\"It is hard. But one must remember that however sincere he is--and I\nknow nothing against his personal character--he only appeals to the\nignorant and rowdy. Have you seen his new leaflet?\"\n\n\"No, I think not. What is it?\"\n\n\"It came by post last night; apparently the whole district is being\ncircularised. Really, the thing is quite a curiosity. I will read you a\nfew paragraphs.\"\n\nHe opened a drawer and took a small pamphlet from it, which was headed\n\"THE HORNHAM SCANDAL.\" \"Listen to this:\n\n\"'At St. Elwyn's, Hornham,' writes a lady member of the Luther League,\n'I recently attended the so-called \"High Mass.\" There were three priests\nin vestments; there were eight candles burning at eleven o'clock on the\naltar; there was incense and all the appurtenances of a Roman Mass; the\nmen bore that ignorant and unwashed appearance which is commonly to be\nseen at any time in an Italian church. At times they crossed themselves,\nbut often they seemed to forget, and then suddenly to remember. I stayed\nas long as I could, but it was not long, for I was sick at heart at the\nthought of what our country is being mercilessly dragged into, and that\nit is for services of this description that we hear from time to time\nour foolish girls exclaim, \"How I hate the name of Protestant.\"'\"\n\n\"Elegant style,\" said the doctor dryly, \"but to call our congregation\n'unwashed' is not only perfectly untrue, but a little touch of feminine\nspite that shows the spirit in which these crusades are carried on. I\nwonder how many of the five thousand were unwashed when our Lord fed\nthem!\"\n\n\"That is a quotation,\" said the vicar, \"now hear the robuster prose of\nthe great Hamlyn himself:\n\n\"'It appears that there are literally no lengths of lawlessness,\necclesiastical insubordination, blasphemous poperies, or unscriptural\nprofanation of places of worship to which Ritualistic innovators will\nnot proceed. Among other Romanising acts of the vicar of St. Elwyn's,\nthe notorious \"Father\" Blantyre, is a direction to some of his\ncongregation who attend the Lord's Supper. These members have taken the\nbread from him--or rather the superstitious wafer which is substituted\nfor bread--with the thumb and finger. \"Oh, no,\" says our priest, \"you\nmust hold out your hand for it.\" These are the \"instructions\" of\n\"Father\" Blantyre to those about to attend the Lord's Supper for the\nfirst time after confirmation:\n\n\"'_As soon as the priest comes up to you, hold up your hands as high as\nthe chin, so that he may place the Blessed Sacrament in your hand while\nhe says the words, The Body of our Lord._\n\n\"'But we ask our Protestant brethren how, if the minister--falsely\ncalled \"priest\"--places the bread in the hand of the communicant, how\nthe latter can comply with the direction \"take this\"? Let England awake\nto this \"priestly\" and insidious Popish plan.'\"\n\n\"Well!\" said the doctor, \"of all the--\" Words failed him.\n\n\"Isn't it vulgar and childish!\" said the vicar, \"but how admirably\nadapted to suit the ignorant folk who will read it. The adroit\nsubstitution of a colloquial use of the word 'take' for its real meaning\nof 'receive'! And then the continual effort to degrade the Mass, to rob\nit of its mystery and holy character--it's clever, it's subtle. Hamlyn\nis a man of parts!\"\n\n\"Is there any more?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, plenty. So far I have only read the mildest parts. Here is a\ndistorted simile which I should hardly have thought even Hamlyn would\nhave printed. It is painful to read:\n\n\"'One of our Luther Lecturers recently asked a poor, deluded young\nfemale who is in the habit of attending the pantomime at St. Elwyn's why\nshe went there. The poor, deluded creature replied--doubtless with words\nput into her mouth by her \"Father Confessor\"--that its \"spirituality\"\nand \"devotion\" attracted her. Ah! Rome and Ritualism have ever known how\nto appear as a pure and modest virgin, even when rotting (to use the\nimage of the Holy Spirit in the Word) with fornication. O foolish young\nwoman! How have you been bewitched with these sorceries? A clean thing\nis to be got of an unclean thing!'\"\n\nThe doctor ground his teeth. \"I wish we'd had the man in the regiment!\"\nhe said. \"Unclean! I'd have cleaned the brute!\"\n\nThe vicar sighed. \"Of course it doesn't really matter,\" he said. \"This\nsort of stuff carries its own condemnation with it. Still it is most\ndistressing. It does wound one deeply to hear the highest and holiest\nthings spoken of in this way. All my people feel it. Some of them--poor\nthings--have come to me weeping to hear such words--weeping for shame\nand sorrow. Here is the last paragraph. The pamphlet concludes with a\nfine flow of rhetoric, and an invitation to me:\n\n\"'The late Dr. Parker said: \"Popery is the vilest blasphemy out of hell.\nIt is the enemy of liberty; it is the enemy of intelligence; it is the\nenemy of individuality, of conscience, and responsibility; it is the\nsupreme wickedness of the world, the master effort of the devil.\"\n\n\"'And so say we. Therefore, honest, English, Protestant people of\nHornham, look to it that these doings in your midst are put down with a\nstern hand. A great meeting of ratepayers will shortly be held in the\nVictoria Hall under the auspices of the Luther League. A lecture, with\nlime-light views, will be delivered on the cloaked and hooded Popery\nthat stalks in our midst. An invitation will be extended to \"Fathers\"\nBlantyre, King, and Stephens, the \"Priests\" of St. Elwyn's church, who\nwill be accommodated with seats upon the platform if they care to come.\nWe of the Luther League invite them to public controversy, to an open\ndebate upon the great questions at issue. Will they be present? Time\nwill show.'\"\n\nHibbert rose. \"Well, it's time we were in bed,\" he said. \"Good-night. I\nshould think over that sporting offer of Hamlyn's if I were you. A\npublic appearance might do good. I like a fight.\"\n\n\"I doubt it,\" the vicar answered; \"still, it may be worth considering.\nOne never knows. One doesn't want people to say that one is afraid.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Vicar.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Hibbert. Forget all about these surface worries and sleep\nwell.\"\n\nThe vicar was left alone.\n\nHe took a letter from his pocket. It was from Lucy, who wrote from Park\nLane. In the letter, she said that she purposed--if he would care to\nhave her--to come down to Hornham at once and spend some months at the\nclergy-house.\n\n\"If you can put up with a girl for a time in your bachelor stronghold!\nI'm sick to death of this life; it has lost all its attractions for me.\nI want to _live_, not play, and you, my dear old boy, will show me the\nway. A letter is no way--for me--to tell you of my thoughts. But higher\nthings than of old are working in me. St. Elwyn's calls me, it seems\nhome; I so often think of the big quiet church and the ceaseless\nactivity that centres round it. I long for the peace there! I have much\nto tell you, much to consult you about, and I am beginning to wonder why\nI have left you alone so long. Good-night, dear.\"\n\nPutting down the letter, he looked at the clock. It was now far after\nmidnight, and he stayed the hand that was about to raise the glass that\nstood on the table beside him.\n\nIn a few hours it would be dawn, the dawn when in the dim hour he daily\nwent to meet the Lord in the Eucharist. How wonderful that was! What\nunending joy the break of day had for this good man, as he began the\nancient and mysterious rite of the Church! There, there, beside the\naltar, there was peace! In this desert world, that was so far from Home,\nthere was always that daily glimpse into the Unseen, that Communion in\nwhich dead friends and great angels joined, when the Paraclete came to\nthe weary, sinful hearts of men like fire, when our Lord in his risen\nmajesty came to the world to hearten his soldiers, to fill his toiling\nsaints with power to continue to the end.\n\nIf only the whole world _knew_ and realised this! Sometimes the priest\nthought with simple wonder, that if only men knew, all trouble and\nsorrow would be over. To him the material world was the unreal place,\nthe dream, the fable. Daily he _knew_ that the Unseen was ever near,\nclose, close!--how blind and sorrowful the world was, that did not know\nor care for Jesus.\n\nHe knelt down now to say his prayers. He prayed for the Church, his\ncongregation, for his sister, and his friends. Then he prayed that he\nmight be worthy to receive the Blessed Sacrament at dawn.\n\nAnd then, happy, comforted, and at peace, with the certainty of an\nunseen glory all round him, with august watchers to shield him through\nthe night, he sought his couch and slept a deep, dreamless sleep with\ncrossed hands.\n\n\"_From henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks\nof the Lord Jesus._\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nA UNION OF FORCES\n\n\nIn Hornham, the vast majority of a poor and teeming population was quite\nwithout interest in any religious matter. The chapels of the various\nsects were attended by the residuum, the congregations at St. Elwyn's\nwere large--to the full holding capacity of the mother church and the\nsmaller mission building--and a fair proportion of people worshipped at\nSt. Luke's, the only other church in the neighbourhood.\n\nMr. Carr, the vicar of St. Luke's, was a man of about thirty-five. He\nhad taken a good degree at Cambridge, spent a few years in various\ncuracies, and had been appointed vicar of St. Luke's, Hornham, which was\nin the gift of an Evangelical body known as Simon's Trustees, about four\nyears before Mr. Hamlyn had thrown Hornham into its present state of\nreligious war.\n\nThe vicar of St. Luke's was a man of considerable mental power. He was\nunmarried, had no private means, and lived a lonely, though active,\nlife in his small and ill-built vicarage. In appearance, he was tall,\nsomewhat thin, and he wore a pointed, close-cropped beard and moustache.\nHis face was somewhat melancholy, but when he was moved or interested,\nthe smile that came upon it was singularly sweet. In the ordinary\nbusiness of life, he was reserved and shy. He had none of the genial\nIrish _bonhomie_ of Blantyre, the wholesome breezy boyishness of\nStephens, or the grim force of King. He had a \"personality\"--to the\neye--but he failed to sustain the impression his appearance made in\ntalk. He was of no use in a drawing-room and very nearly a failure in\nany social gathering. Those few members of his flock with whom, now and\nagain, he had to enter into purely social relations, said of him: \"Mr.\nCarr is a thorough gentleman, but the poor fellow is dreadfully shy. He\nwants a wife; perhaps she'd liven him up a bit.\"\n\nSuch was the man in private life. In his clerical duties, as a\npriest--or, as he would have put it, a pastor--his personal character\nwas sunk and merged in his office as completely as that of Father\nBlantyre himself. His sermons were full of earnest exhortation, his\nprivate ministrations were fervent and helpful, and there was a power in\nhis ministry that was felt by all with whom he came in contact.\n\nHe was distinctly and entirely what is known as an \"Evangelical,\" using\nthat fine word in the best and noblest sense. He belonged to a school of\nthought which is rapidly becoming merged in and overlapped by others,\nsometimes to its betterment, but more frequently to its destruction, but\nwhich standing by itself is a powerful force.\n\nHe did not realise the state of transition in which he and other men of\nhis school must necessarily stand to-day. Their position, admirable as\nit often is, is but a compromise. He did not as yet realise this.\n\nOf Blantyre and the people at St. Elwyn's he knew little or nothing. He\nhad met the clergy there once or twice upon official occasions, but that\nwas all. He was too busy with his own work to have much time to attend\nto that of other people, but he had the natural distaste of his school\nand bringing-up for ceremonial and teaching of which he had no\nexperience, and merely regarded as foreign, anti-English, and on the\nwhole dangerous.\n\nHe was not a bigot, and the leading feature in his religion was this: He\nassigned an absolute supremacy to Holy Scripture as the only rule of\nfaith and practice, the only test of truth, the only judge of\ncontroversy. He did not think that there was any guide for man's soul\nco-equal or co-ordinate with the Bible. He did not care to accept such\nstatements as \"the Church says so,\" \"primitive antiquity says so,\" or\n\"the Councils and the Fathers also say so,\"--unless it could be shown to\nhis satisfaction that what is said is in harmony with Scripture.\n\nDisregarding as superfluous all external and \"vicarious\" form in\nreligion, he attached paramount importance to the work and office of our\nLord, and the highest place to the inward work of the Holy Spirit in the\nheart of man. And he attached tremendous importance to the outward and\nvisible work of the Holy Ghost in the heart of man. His supreme belief\nwas that the true grace of God is a thing that will always make itself\nmanifest in the behaviour, tastes, ways, and choices, of him who has it.\nHe thought, therefore, that it was illogical to tell men that they are\n\"children of God, and members of Christ, and heirs of the kingdom of\nHeaven\" unless they had really overcome the world, the flesh, and the\ndevil. But he could not be stern or menacing in his dealings with\nsouls. The mercy of God was more in his thoughts, always and at all\ntimes, than the wrath and judgment of God.\n\nHis attitude toward the pressing questions that were agitating the\nChurch of England, all over England, was in logical correspondence with\nhis beliefs. There was much within the Church that he had not understood\nor realised as yet, but he was no Hamlyn, to break down and destroy all\nthat has made the Church of England what it is.\n\nHe neither undervalued the Church nor thought lightly of her privileges.\nIn sincere and loyal attachment to her, he would give place to none. His\napprehension of churchmanship was limited, that was all.\n\nNor did he--as far as he knew--under-value the Christian ministry. He\nlooked upon it as a high and honourable office instituted by Christ\nHimself, and on priests as God's ambassadors, God's messengers, God's\nstewards and overseers. Nevertheless he looked upon what he knew as\n\"sacerdotalism\" and \"priestcraft\" with unfeigned dislike and uneasiness.\n\nHe believed in baptism as the appointed means of regeneration and that\nit conveyed grace _ex opere operato_; a position in which he was a\nlittle in advance of some of his school. His views on the Eucharist were\nhardly so sound, though there was nothing in them absolutely\nantagonistic to the truths which he had not yet realised. He certainly\ndid not regard Holy Communion as the chief service in the Church, its\ncentral point.\n\nOn outward things, he was sane enough. He liked handsome churches, good\necclesiastical architecture, a well-ordered ceremonial, and a\nwell-conducted service. If any one had told Mr. Carr that he was as\nnearly as possible \"Catholic\" in his views, that if they were logically\npushed forward to their proper development he would be practically one\nwith the St. Elwyn's people, he would first have been startled somewhat\nunpleasantly, and then he would have laughed incredulously.\n\nAnd if some one had gone to Blantyre and told him that Carr was thus, he\nwould have smiled rather sadly to think that his informant had realised\nthe truths taught by the Anglican Church in a very limited way.\n\nThis mutual misunderstanding between the only two schools of thought in\nthe Church of England that have enduring value is very common. The\n_extreme_ Protestants are not church-people at all in any right sense\nof the word. The \"Broad\" party are confused with their own shifting\nsurmises from day to day, and make too many \"discoveries\" to have real\nand lasting influence. But the \"High Church\" people and the pious\n\"Evangelicals\" are extraordinarily close to one another, and neither\nparty realises the fact, while both would repudiate it. Yet both schools\nof opinion are, after all, occupied with one end and aim to the\nexclusion of all others--the attaining of personal holiness.\n\nIt was on a bright morning that Mr. Carr came down-stairs and\nbreakfasted, after he had read prayers with his two servants. There was\nno daily service in St. Luke's, though evensong was said on Wednesdays\nand Saturdays. He read his morning paper for a few moments, then put it\ndown and pushed his plate away. He was unable to eat, this morning.\n\nHe got up and walked uneasily about the room. His face was troubled and\nsad. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and read it with a doubtful\nsigh. This was the letter:\n\n     \"LUTHER LODGE,\n     \"HORNHAM, N.\n\n     \"DEAR SIR:\n\n     \"Your letter duly to hand. I note that you are desirous of having a\n     private conversation with me, and shall be pleased to grant\n     facilities for same. I shall not be leaving for the Strand till\n     mid-day, and can therefore see you at eleven.\n\n     \"Faithfully yours,\n     \"SAMUEL HAMLYN.\n\n     \"_Secretary of the Luther League,_\n     \"_Chairman of The New Reformation Association._\"\n\nThe clergyman read and reread the letter, hardly knowing what to make of\nit. He had done so many times. The infinite condescension of it annoyed\nhim; the recapitulation of the writer's position seemed a piece of\nimpudent bravado, and reminded the vicar of St. Luke's of the unhappy\nstate that religious life was in at Hornham.\n\nSome days before, shocked and distressed beyond measure at the growing\nturmoil in Hornham, startled by the continued evidences of it that he\nmet with in his pastoral life, he had written to Mr. Hamlyn asking for a\nprivate interview. He had shrunk from doing anything of the sort for\nweeks. His whole nature revolted against it. But he had dimly recognised\nthat in some measure he might be said to be in a middle position between\nthe two conflicting parties, and thought that his mediation might be of\nsome avail. Repugnant as it was to him, he resolved that he must do\nwhat he thought to be his duty, and after he had made it the subject of\nanxious and fervent prayer he had made up his mind to see if he could\nnot prevail with the leader of the \"New Reformation\" to cease his\nagitation, in Hornham at any rate. He imagined that Hamlyn could hardly\nrealise the harm he was doing to the true religious life in the place.\nIt was not his business to argue with the reformer about his work\nelsewhere. He knew nothing of that. But in Hornham, at any rate, he did\nsee that the civil war provoked nothing but the evil passions of hatred\nand malice, had no effect upon either party, and prevented the steady\npreparation for heaven which he thought was the supreme business of\nChristians.\n\nHamlyn's letter certainly didn't seem at all conciliatory. It disturbed\nhim. He had hardly ever spoken to the man in the past, but he had known\nof him, as he necessarily knew of every tradesman in the borough. Social\nconsiderations hardly ever entered his mind, but he had not thought of\nHamlyn as a potentate in any way when he had written to him. He knew him\nfor a plump, shrewd, vulgar man, who dropped his aspirates and said\n\"paiper\" for \"paper,\" and, indeed, had thought none the worse of him\nfor that. But the letter surprised him. It was almost offensive, and he\nwas as near anger as a gentle-minded man may be.\n\nAt half-past ten o'clock, he sighed, realising that a most distasteful\nduty had to be done, and prepared to leave the house. Before he left his\nstudy, he knelt down and prayed for a blessing in his mission. He always\nprayed before any event of any importance in life. An enormous number of\npeople still do, and it is a very great pity that some people do not\nbelieve or realise the fact. Prayer is not the anachronism many\npublicists would have us believe. If among all classes, Christians by\nopen profession, and people who make no profession at all, save only\ncontempt for Christianity, a census of prayers prayed during one day\ncould be taken, the result would be very remarkable indeed. It would\ncertainly startle the rationalists. Statistics show that every second a\nchild is born and a person dies. It is during the approach of such\noccasions that even people who call themselves \"atheists\" generally\npray. Ask hospital nurses, doctors, or parish priests! There is no\ngreater humbug than the pretence that prayer as a general necessity and\npractice is dead. There is more irreligion visible to-day than at any\nother time in English history, perhaps. But that does not mean that\npeople do not pray. The majority live a jolly, godless life till they\nare frightened. Then they pray. The minority pray always.\n\nMr. Carr left his house with a more vigorous step after his petition. As\nso many folk know, the help that comes from prayer is only\nself-hypnotism--of course. But it is certainly odd what power some of\nthe least gifted and most ordinary people have of this self-hypnotism.\nOne had always thought it rather a cryptic science, the literature of\nIndia, for example, regarding it as a supreme achievement. But it must\nbe very simple after all! And if the help that comes to the human heart\nafter prayer _is_ a result of this magnetic power, all we can say is\nthat in the depths of a Whitechapel slum, the outcast, forgotten, and\noppressed have each and all the most remarkable, delicate, and cultured\ntemperaments, not in the least seared or spoilt by privation and want.\nThe only point that one quite fails to understand is, why are the\nleading reviews and scientific publications still discussing this art,\nor talent, as something rare, abnormal, and as yet little understood?\n\nMr. Carr drew near to \"Luther Lodge.\" \"Balmoral\" had been deserted for\nsome time by the Hamlyn family, who very properly felt that it was\nbeneath the dignity of its celebrated head, and would also be harmful to\nthe glorious Protestant cause, if they remained among the\nundistinguished inhabitants of Beatrice Villas.\n\nAbout the time that this decision had been arrived at, a substantial\nsquare house, unornamental but sound--like Protestantism itself--was\nvacated by its former inhabitant, the Mayor of Hornham, a\nleather-dresser in a large way, who had sold his business to a company\nand was retiring to the country. Mr. Hamlyn looked over the place--then\nknown as Hide-side House--and saw that it would exactly suit him and his\naltered fortunes. He changed the name to \"Luther Lodge,\" made some\nextensive purchases of furniture, and established himself there with his\nson and daughter.\n\nCarr drew near to the iron gates before the circular sweep of gravel\nknown to the past and present inhabitants of the house as the \"drive.\"\nThe gates were hung from two stone pilasters, each surmounted by a small\nbut extremely rampant lion, fiercely Protestant of aspect and painted a\ndull purple. The whole aspect of the place was chilling, as the\nclergyman walked up to the door. The formal lace curtains in the\nwindows, the brilliant black-leaded boot-scraper which reflected the\nsunlight in a dozen facets of vicious leaden fire, the great apple of\nshining brass which was the bell-pull--all these affected him in an\nunpleasant manner. He was supremely unconscious of any artistic likings\nor knowledge, but the seeds of them were latent in him nevertheless, and\nthe place hurt his senses in a strange way.\n\nA trim maid came to the door, the extreme antithesis of the\nfilibustering \"general\" of a year ago, and showed him into the hall.\n\n\"I'll see if master's disengaged,\" she said; \"are you the gentleman as\nhas an appointment with master for eleven?\"\n\nMr. Carr confessed to being that gentleman and the girl left him\nstanding there. From some room in the upper part of the house, so it\nseemed, the tinkling notes of a piano came down to him. Some one--it was\nMiss Hamlyn herself--was singing fervently of \"violets, violets, I will\nwear for thee.\"\n\nAfter a considerable interval, the maid came back. \"Master will see you\nnow, sir,\" she said, and ushered the visitor into Mr. Hamlyn's study.\n\nIt was a fair-sized room with a long French window opening upon a lawn\nin the centre of a small, walled garden. Many book-shelves filled with\ngrave and portly tomes lined the walls, a large writing-table stood in\nthe middle of the carpet. Some months before, a struggling firm of\n\"religious publishers\" had failed, and their stock of theology was\nthrown upon a flooded market as \"Remainders.\" Mr. Hamlyn, as being in\nthe trade himself, was enabled to acquire a library suited to his\nposition at remarkably cheap rates.\n\nMr. Hamlyn rose from his chair.\n\n\"Glad to see you,\" he said hastily, and with great condescension and\ngood humour. \"Fortunate I happened to have a morning free. Now, what can\nI do for you? No spiritual trouble, I hope? Ritualists been prowling\nround St. Luke's? If so, say the word, give me the facts, and I'll see\nyou are protected!\"\n\n\"It is on a question connected with the state of affairs in the district\nthat I called to see you, Mr. Hamlyn.\"\n\n\"Quite so, Mr. Carr, just what I expected. Well, I've always heard good\naccounts of you as a loyal Protestant minister--though I can't approve\nof your using that pestilential book, _Hymns Ancient and Modern_, in\nyour church--and I will do what I can for you. Providence has placed a\nscourge in my hand to drive the idolaters from the Temple, so tell me\nyour trouble.\"\n\nCarr had listened to this, which was delivered in a loud, confident\nvoice, with growing amazement. He hardly knew how to take the man.\n\n\"I deplore very much,\" he said, making a great effort, \"the state into\nwhich Hornham has been thrown. I cannot, of course, approve of much that\nI understand takes place at St. Elwyn's. Yet I am beginning to fear that\nthe remedy is worse than the disease. I am sure, Mr. Hamlyn, that your\ngreat desire must be to see the people led to love the Lord Jesus and to\nlive godly, sober lives. Well, I find that the crusade of the Luther\nLeague is unsettling the minds of weaker brethren. They are becoming\nexcited, forgetful of duty, carried away by the flood of a popular\nmovement. All this is hurtful to souls. Men should have peace to make\nthemselves right with God. Strife and anger hurt the soul and wound it.\nNow I have no concern with any other place but this, in which my\nministry is set. But in Hornham, at least, I have come to ask you to\nmoderate your attacks upon the High Church party, to extend to them the\nsame tolerance they extend to us.\"\n\nHamlyn stared at the speaker.\n\n\"To moderate MY methods?\" he shouted in a coarse voice. \"Do you know\nwhat you're asking? Do you realise who I am?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, Mr. Hamlyn,\" the clergyman answered with considerable\ndignity. \"I am speaking, I hope, to a brother Christian, and as such, in\nthe name of our dear Lord, I ask you to cease this strife and discord\namong us. God will show his desires in his own way; prayer is a more\npowerful weapon than public invective. And it is idle to deny that the\nvicar of St. Elwyn's and his curates are doing good. I believe their\nteaching on fundamental truths is wrong, I deprecate the ceremonial with\nwhich they veil and cover the simple beauties of the Christian faith.\nBut Mr. Blantyre is a good and noble-hearted man. He gives his life and\nhis large income--it is a matter of common knowledge--to the service of\nthe poor and needy. He is utterly unselfish, he loves Jesus. Let him\nwork in his own way in peace.\"\n\nMr. Hamlyn's face grew very red. The man was mentally bloated by\nprosperity and success. Daily he was hailed by fools as the saviour of\nhis country, his name was on many lips, and his sense of proportion was\nutterly gone.\n\n\"Really!\" he said, \"of all the mad requests as was ever made me this is\nthe maddest! Are you in your senses, Mr. Carr--you a Protestant minister\nof the Word? You can't be. You come to me, me, who Providence has set at\nthe head of Henglish Protestantism, and ask me to join a base conspiracy\nto silence the clarion of Truth! to leave my 'igh ground of Principle\nand grovel before a petticoated 'priest'! Why, you're asking me to let\nthe Pope and the devil into Hornham. Have you ever cast your eye upon\nthe works of the immortal John Bunyan? What about Mr. Facing-both-ways?\"\n\nMr. Carr kept his temper. He was there upon an important issue. What did\nit matter if the man was rude? \"But don't you think, as a Christian,\" he\nsaid mildly, \"that it is hard enough to fight the devil, the world, and\nthe flesh without private differences in the Christian camp?\"\n\n\"Who's speaking of Christians?\" Hamlyn cried; \"not I. Blantyre is no\nChristian; he is doing the devil's work, which is the work of Rome. He\ngives away his money because the devil showed him that it was a good\nmove, to win souls to Rome. As for his goodness, how do we know what\ngoes on in the confessional? I've heard----\"\n\nCarr stood up. \"Let me tell you at once, sir,\" he said in a hard voice\nand with flashing eyes, \"that any scandal and slander you make before me\nabout a man I know to be pure and good I will at once repeat to him, and\nyou will have to take the consequences.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the agitator sharply and suddenly and with his impudent smile\nflashing over his face, mingled with a sneer, \"I see now! I ought to\nhave seen it before. You are a wolf in sheep's clothing! While we all\nthought you a faithful Protestant, you have secretly joined causes with\nthe enemy. The cloven 'oof 'as peeped out! You come as a sneaking\nambassador of Rome in the garb of a Protestant. The Jesuits have been\nhaving a go at you, Mr. Carr, and they've got you! I shouldn't wonder if\nyou've got your 'air-shirt on now! Go back to them as sent you and say\nthat I've scourged 'em with whips in the past and I'll give 'em\nscorpions now. This will make a fine story at our next meeting in the\npublic 'all!\"\n\nCarr turned on his heel without a word and left the room. He crossed the\nhall in a couple of strides, opened the door, and walked quickly over\nthe gravel sweep. As his hand was on the latch of the gate, the\nreformer's voice hailed him. Mr. Hamlyn was looking round the corner of\nthe door; a genial grin--a clown's grin--lay upon his face. \"Mr. Carr!\"\nhe bawled with unabashed and merry impudence, \"been to Mass yet?\"\n\nThen, with a final chuckle, he closed the door.\n\nThe peacemaker walked sadly away. He saw at once the sort of man he had\nbeen dealing with, and recognised how futile any protest would be in the\ncase. He saw clearly how unassailable Hamlyn's position was, while the\ncountry was full of people who would pay him to keep them in a state of\npleasurable excitement. It was better than the theatre to which Hamlyn's\nsubscribers loudly protested that their consciences would not allow them\nto go! It was a sort of bull-baiting revived; the lust of the public at\nseeing some one hunted was satisfied.\n\nHow infinitely better the sober methods of the old-established\nProtestant societies were! Legitimate propaganda, a dignified and\nscholarly controversy, these were right and sane. But this clown's\nbusiness, this noise and venom, was utterly disgusting. He had caught a\nglimpse into the machinery of the whole movement that sickened him.\n\nHe went home to his lonely house and made a frugal lunch. Something\nought to be done, but what? He was not a man to fail in any efforts he\nmade in a good cause. He did not propose to cease his attempts to\nrestore Hornham to decent calm, even now. But he could not see, at the\nmoment, what was the next move he should make.\n\nDuring the afternoon he set out on a round of parochial visiting. He sat\nby the bedsides of the sick, the querulous, the ungrateful, and told his\nmessage of comfort. He heard much of Hamlyn's campaign. The new leaflet\nwith its violent language was thrust into his hand. Every one wondered\nwhat would happen next. Would Mr. Blantyre face the Luther Lecturers in\nthe public hall? One old bedridden dame Carr found all agog with\nexcitement and spite. \"It'd come to a fight,\" she expected, and \"wot an\nawful thing it was to have them wicked monsters the Papists so close.\nShe could 'ardly sleep o' nights thinking of it all.\" Carr found that\nthe poor old creature had not the remotest idea of what \"Papist\" meant,\nof what anything meant, indeed; but she would hardly listen to his\nprayers and Bible-reading nevertheless, so eager was she to discuss the\n\"goings on.\"\n\nAbout four, as he left the last house he purposed to visit just then, a\nstrange thought came to him suddenly. He was at the extreme end of his\nparish, not far from St. Elwyn's. Would it not be a good thing to go and\nvisit Blantyre, to express his sympathy and to discuss whether some way\nout of the present trouble could not be found?\n\nThe idea strengthened and grew. He knew Blantyre was a decent\nfellow--every one said so. But, nevertheless, he had the sense of\nventuring into the lion's den! He should feel strange among these\npriests with their foreign ways, their cassocks and berrettas; there\nwould be discomfort in the visit.\n\nIt is curious how, in the minds of the least prejudiced, the dislike to\nthe definite and outward symbols that a priest wears still lingers. In\nanother generation, it will have been swept away, but it still survives\nas a relic of the dark, secularising influences of the eighteenth\ncentury. And, again, the man in the street does not like to be reminded\nthat there is a God and a class of men vowed to His service, and the\ncomplete distinction of a priest's costume is too explicit a reminder.\n\nCarr thought the matter out for a minute or two and then made up his\nmind. He would go and talk over the situation with Blantyre. With a\nvivid sense of how his host of the morning would call his action \"bowing\ndown in the house of Rimmon,\" a sense that only quickened his steps and\nsent a contemptuous curl to his lip, he turned and walked towards the\nclergy-house.\n\nHe rang the bell, and a tall and rather hulking man in livery showed him\ninto a large drawing-room. This was the navvy, Mr. King's former\nassailant, who had been promoted, at his own request, to a distinctive\ncostume, which he wore with pride and diligence. His only grief was that\nhe was not allowed to \"wipe the floor with that there Hamlyn,\" but he\nlived in hope that some fresh outrage would provide him with the\nnecessary permission.\n\nCarr looked round the room. There was nothing ecclesiastical about it,\nno flavour of the monk at home. It had been newly papered; the walls\nwere covered with pictures so fresh and new in treatment that they might\nhave come from the Academy of that year. The vicar of St. Luke's\nsuddenly awoke to the fact that he was in a very charming room indeed.\nThere was a Steinway grand piano there, a beautiful instrument; he saw\nthat the Twelfth Nocturne of Chopin stood open upon it. Everywhere he\nsaw a multitude of photographs in frames of silver, copper, ivory,\npeacock leather--every imaginable sort of frame. A great many of these\nphotographs were signed in the corner, and looking at some of them he\nwas surprised to see that they were of very well-known people. Here was\na well-known general, there a judge, again the conscious features of a\nsociety actor beamed out at him. His eye, unobservant at first, began to\ntake in the details of the room more rapidly. There were a hundred\nluxurious little trifles scattered about, numerous contrivances for\ncomfort. He was wondering to whom this room could belong, when the door\nopened and his doubts were resolved.\n\nA girl came in, a girl with a beautifully modelled face, healthy and yet\nwithout crimson in it. A pair of frank, dark eyes looked at him from\nbeneath an overshadowing mass of dead black hair.\n\n\"How do you do, Mr. Carr,\" she said,--he had given the man his card,--\"I\nam Mr. Blantyre's sister; I've only just pitched my tent in Hornham.\nBernard will be in for tea in half an hour.\"\n\nRather nervously, Carr explained that he had called on a matter of\nparochial business. He remained standing, a little at a loss. This girl\nwas not like the young ladies of Hornham.\n\n\"Well, you must have some tea,\" Lucy said with decision as she rang the\nbell. Carr sat down. He anticipated a somewhat trying half hour until\nthe vicar should arrive. He was a gentleman, well bred in every way, but\nhis life, from the time of his school days, had been lonely and without\nmuch feminine companionship.\n\nIn five minutes he found, to his own great surprise, that he was talking\nvividly and well, that he was quite pleased to be where he was. And the\ngirl seemed to be interested and pleased with him. It was a very new\nsensation, this feeling of mutual liking, to the lonely man. The\nconversation turned naturally to the unrest around them. Carr said\nnothing as yet of his morning's experience.\n\n\"Well, I must confess, frankly, Mr. Carr,\" Lucy said, \"that until lately\nI never took any interest at all in these things. They seemed humbug to\nme. Now, of course, I know better. It's a _shame_! a black shame, that\nBernard and the others should be treated so by this disgusting man. If\nhe only knew what their life was! how self-denying, how full of\nunceasing labour and worry, how devoted. Take Mr. Stephens, for\ninstance: he's only a boy, yet he's killing himself with work and\nenthusiasm. He was up all last night with a man that has delirium\ntremens, yet he said Mass at half-past seven, came to breakfast as merry\nas a sand-boy, and was teaching in the national schools at nine. And\nhe'll be on his feet to-day until nearly midnight without a word of\ncomplaint. He'll spend nearly the whole evening in the boys' club,\nboxing and playing billiards with them--oh, you can't think how the\nthree of them work!\"\n\nShe went on with a series of anecdotes and explanations, told with great\nvividness and power, in her new enthusiasm for the men among whom she\nhad come. And throughout all her talk, the clergyman heard frequent\nreferences to the services that went on almost unceasingly in the great\nchurch hard by. He heard names, strange and yet familiar, startling to\nhis ear, and yet which seemed quite natural and fitting in the place\nwhere he was. One thing he began to see clearly, and with interest:\nwhatever these men were in opinion, a life of real and active holiness\nwent on among them. And he noticed also, with wonder, how everything\nseemed to draw its inspiration from the church, how constantly the\nclergy were there, hearing confessions, saying services, praying, and\npreaching. The whole thing was new to him.\n\nThey were the best of friends, talking brightly together, when the door\nburst open and the impetuous priest rushed in. \"Well, I'm glad to see\nyou!\" he said with a broad grin of welcome. \"Had tea?--that's right. I\nsee you've made friends with my clergywoman! I've been in church hearing\nconfessions, or I'd have been in sooner.\"\n\nHis manner was extremely genial. He seemed genuinely glad to see his\nbrother vicar and not in the least surprised or puzzled.\n\nCarr looked attentively at him. So this merry Irishman, with the lined,\npowerful face, the grey hair, and eyes which sometimes blazed out like\nlamps--this was the great Ritualist, the Jesuit, the thief of English\nliberty!\n\nHe had a wonderful magnetic power, that was evident at once. His\nsympathy for everything and everybody poured from him; he was \"big,\" big\nin every way.\n\nHe chatted merrily away on a variety of topics while taking his tea.\nAsking his sister for another cup, he suddenly turned to Carr. \"That\nreminds me,\" he said, \"of a good story I heard yesterday. Father\nCartwright was here to lunch, he is one of the St. Clement Fathers at\nthe Oxford monastery. Not long ago a young nobleman--rather a _bon\nvivant_, by the way--went down to spend a few days with the Fathers. He\nmade his arrival, very unfortunately for him, poor fellow! on a Friday,\nwhen the fare's very frugal indeed. He had very little to eat, poor\nchap, and went to bed as hungry as a hunter, quite unable to sleep he\nwas. Now, it's the custom for one of the Fathers to go round in the\nnight with a benediction, 'The Lord be with you.' They always say it in\nLatin, _Dominus tecum_. The young man heard some one rapping at the\ndoor. 'Who's there?' says he. '_Dominus tecum_,' was the answer.\n'Thanks, very much,' said the nobleman, 'please put it down outside'!\"\n\nWhile they were laughing at the story, Lucy rose and, shaking hands\nwith Carr, went away.\n\nThe two clergymen were left alone. \"You'll not mind talking in here?\"\nFather Blantyre said. \"I've got a poor chap in me study I don't want to\ndisturb. I found um after lunch making a row in the street with a crowd\nround him, a poor half-clothed scarecrow, beastly drunk--never saw a man\nin such a state. I asked one of the crowd who he was and he said he was\na stranger, a ship's fireman, who'd been about the place for a day or\ntwo, spending all his money in drinks, and he hadn't a friend in the\nworld. A policeman came along and wanted to lock um up, but I managed to\nget him in here and he's sleeping it off. I shall give um egg in milk\nwhen he comes round: his poor stomach's half poisoned with bad liquor\nand no food. I always find egg and milk the best thing in these cases. I\nwish he wasn't so dirty! We shall have to give 'm a hot tub before he\ncan go to bed.\"\n\n\"What will you do with him?\"\n\n\"Oh, keep him here for a day or two to pull round, give um some clothes,\nand pack 'm off to sea again where he can't get any drink.\"\n\n\"Don't such men ever rob you?\"\n\n\"Hardly ever. It's not your real outcast who steals much. They're\ngenerally so astonished to find a parson isn't as black as he's painted\nthat they don't think of anything else. They go away feeling they've got\na _pal_, made a friend! That's the awful want in their lives. A lot of\nthem come back, and write to me while they're away, too, queer letters\nfull of gratitude and bad language! But ye came to see me, my friend.\nI'm so glad you've found your way here. Now, what can I do for you, or\nare ye going to do anything for me?\"\n\nHis manner had changed. His tone was indescribably sympathetic and\ngentle. If ever the wisdom of charity and the light of holiness shone\nout on a man's face, Carr thought that he saw it now.\n\nHe was entirely dominated by the man. In a burst of nervous words, he\npoured out his thoughts. He told of his futile visit to Hamlyn, his keen\ndistress at the result, the misery the agitation gave him, and the harm\nhe believed it to be doing.\n\nBlantyre listened with few words. Now and then he made a warm and\npenetrating remark.\n\n\"It will pass,\" he said at length; \"God will give us peace again. He is\ntrying the faith of the poor and ignorant among us. Our prayers will\navail. But we will concert together that we may take such measures to\nstop the local evil as we properly can. I have been loath to move in the\nmatter, but now that you have come to me we will join forces and take\naction. There are ways and means. I hate pulling wires and using\ninfluence, but one must sometimes. I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary.\nBut something must be done. Lord Huddersfield will take action for us.\nThe street meetings can be stopped at once. Then we can inaugurate a\nreal press campaign and let the leader-writers loose. Hitherto it's been\nour policy to say nothing much, except in the religious papers, of\ncourse. But the time has come when we must fight, too. I was talking to\nSir Michael Manicho about it the other day. A word or two from him and\nthe country will be ringing with warnings. We can rob this Luther League\nof its powers in a week. It will _go on_, of course, but with its fangs\ndrawn. The people who support it will, many of them, cease their\nsubscriptions. And there is the law also. The magistrates of London are\nquite ready to take a strong stand. That is settled. And a word from\nthe Archbishop, perhaps, would be a help. Public opinion is very easily\nturned.\"\n\nHe spoke calmly, but with conviction and a quiet sense of power. Carr\nbegan to see dimly what great forces were behind this man and others of\nhis kind. The tremendous organising machinery of the Catholic Church was\nlaid bare for a moment.\n\nA most confidential talk followed. Blantyre gave the other details and\nnames. He made it plain to Carr's astonished ears that those in high\nplaces were waiting to act, waiting to see if the Church needed them.\nThe depth and force of it all astonished him.\n\nA bell began to ring. \"There's evensong,\" said Blantyre, \"I must be off.\nIt's my turn to say it to-night.\"\n\n\"I will come, too,\" Carr answered.\n\n\"Do, do! and take some food with us all afterwards, and we'll have a\nlonger talk. You can't think how happy I am that we have come together.\nWhat? You've never seen our church? Why, then, you've a treat in front\nof ye! Every one says it's beautiful. We all love it, we're all proud of\nit!\"\n\nHe took him by the arm and led him away.\n\nNot a word of the differences that separated them, no suspicion, or\ndistrust, nothing but welcome and brotherhood!\n\nThe tall, bearded man and the quick, shaven Celt in his cassock went\ninto the church together to pray--\n\n\"Give peace in our time, O Lord.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nLOW WATER AND GREAT EXPECTATIONS\n\n\nIn a couple of months after the meeting between Carr and Blantyre,\npublic opinion had spoken in no uncertain way about the \"Luther League.\"\nPublic opinion in these days is very easily led in this or that\ndirection--but only for a time. There is a vast stratum of common-sense,\nof love of justice, of wholesome sanity, in England, and it can always\nbe reached by a little boring. In the end, especially upon any question\nwhich is in its essence sociological, a proper balance is found and the\ntruth of a matter firmly established.\n\nAnd Hamlyn's agitation was treated as a social question rather than a\nreligious one, at any rate by a secular press. Whether the doings of the\nHigh Church party were legal or illegal according to the prayer-book\n(such was the line the papers took) was a question to be decided by\nexperts in history and the authorities of the Church; a question, in\nfact, that ought to be decided in a legitimate way. What was, however,\nquite certain, was that the proceedings of Hamlyn and his party were\nimproper, vulgar, and indecent. It was simply misleading nonsense to\ncover the Ritualistic party, a body of high-minded and earnest men, with\nthe noisy and venomous vituperation of the streets. Freedom of thought\nwas the heritage of every Englishman, and Hamlyn had simply elected\nhimself a grand inquisitor of matters that did not concern him and which\nhe was unable to understand. No dishonesty on the man's part was\nalleged. But his history was unearthed by one or two enterprising\njournalists, following the popular lead. It was shown that while nothing\nhad ever been said against his personal character--and nothing was said\nnow--he had risen from the position of a struggling local newspaper man\nto comparative affluence and the control of a large and costly\norganisation. The cash accounts of the League were scrutinised, and\nunkind remarks were made upon the constant advertisements of the League,\nwith their cry for increased income and fresh subscribers. It was\npointed out that people who supported a crusade made without authority\nby a self-constituted Peter the Hermit, over whom no proper control\ncould be exercised and whose methods of prosecuting it were a mixture of\nbuffoonery, uncharitable malice, and untruth, were incurring a serious\nresponsibility.\n\nIn short, public opinion was told in plain language exactly how it ought\nto regard the campaign. Great newspapers spoke out during one fortnight\nwith singular unanimity. Street meetings were promptly broken up by the\npolice, and after some of the Luther Lecturers had been to prison,\nfinding that public interest in their \"martyrdom\" was languishing, they\nsubsided into quiet, devotional meetings on the sands at popular\nwatering-places. Whenever Mr. Hamlyn hired a hall and lectured on the\niniquities of the local clergy, he was confronted by the spectacle of a\nsharp-faced man who took down every word of his utterances with\nscrupulous fidelity. It was always the same machine-like man, in\nLiverpool or in Plymouth, in Bath or Dundee--there he was. The\nagitator's eloquence was considerably checked. He was in no condition to\nsustain an action for slander or libel in which, he well knew, some poor\nclergyman would somehow be able to brief all the great hawk-faced\nleaders of the bar, gentlemen with whom Mr. Hamlyn wished to have as\nlittle as possible to do.\n\nAt such open-air meetings as were permitted, some unobtrusive stranger\nwas generally to be found distributing leaflets among the crowd, which\nresembled nothing so much as the literature of the Luther League itself\nin its general \"get-up\" and appearance. On perusal, however, it proved\nto be of quite a different tenor, being nothing else than extracts from\nthe best-known English newspapers on Mr. Hamlyn and his mission. This\nwas very trying and disturbed the harmony of many meetings.\n\nIn the assemblies convened at halls hired for the occasion,--admission\nby ticket only,--it frequently happened that some well-known local\nresident, who could not be denied, made his appearance, and with a few\nweighty words entirely changed the character of the meeting. The reports\nfrom his myrmidons all over the country, which reached Mr. Hamlyn in the\nStrand, showed a series of counter-moves which alarmed him in their\nneatness and ingenuity.\n\nIt had been for months a pleasing habit of the peripatetic Protestants\nunder the Hamlyn banner to visit churches and make notes of the\nornaments therein, afterwards lecturing on them in their own inimitable\nand humorous manner to crowds in back streets.\n\nMr. Moffatt, indeed--the young gentleman who had forsaken the plumbing\nand gas-fitting industry to become incandescent and watery on the\nProtestant war-path--had more than once broken a small crucifix with an\numbrella. The lecturers found, however, that, as if by some concerted\naction, church doors were locked wherever they might go. The poor\nfellows' hunger for the sight of candlesticks and sanctuary lamps was\nhardly ever gratified now, and they were compelled to the somewhat\nignominious expedient of nailing the bulls of Mr. Hamlyn to the doors of\nsacred buildings and going gloomily away.\n\nOn one occasion, Mr. Moffatt, who was a young fellow of considerable\nhardihood, arrived at a well-known sink of ritual during the week, where\nthe incense used in church cost, it was reported, as much as _eight\nshillings a pound_! Failing in every effort to penetrate the building,\none Sunday morning he mingled with a group of worshippers and made an\nattempt to enter the church. Being a somewhat tubby youth of no great\nheight, he followed closely on the footsteps of a ponderous gentleman\nquite six feet high, and congratulated himself he was escaping\nobservation, just as one has seen a small dog slink nearer and nearer to\nthe tempting joint upon the dinner-table. His hopes were doomed to\nfailure. He was almost inside the porch when two stalwart church wardens\nbarred the way and read him a paper, which stated that, as he was a\nknown brawler who had been convicted of other illegal disturbances in\nGod's house, entry was refused him.\n\nAt the moment, in his chagrin and surprise, Mr. Moffatt could think of\nno better retort than an injunction to the reader of the document to\n\"keep his hair on.\" Then, gathering his faculties together, he commenced\na vigorous protest as to his rights as a \"baptized, confirmed\ncommunicant member of the Church of England\" to make one of the\ncongregation. No answer whatever was vouchsafed him, and he was\ncompelled to stand meekly by while the usual members of the congregation\nwere admitted.\n\nHe bethought himself of an appeal to the majesty of the law! \"Very well,\nthen,\" he said, \"I shall go and fetch a policeman. That's all.\"\n\nOne of the church wardens opened the inner door of the church and\nbeckoned to some one. A sergeant of police, in his uniform, emerged\nquietly. Mr. Moffatt started, muttered something about \"writing to the\nBishop,\" and left the vicinity of the church without further ado.\n\nAnd it was thus all over the country. Hamlyn and his son realised that a\nstrong and powerful organisation was arrayed against them. Their tactics\nwere counter-checked at every turn.\n\nAs a natural consequence of all this, the subscriptions to the League\nfell away at a most alarming rate. The street and public hall\ncollections of the lecturers dwindled until they could hardly pay\nthemselves their own modest emoluments. The general subscriptions and\nspecial donations to the head office were in a no less unsatisfactory\ncondition.\n\nA very great number of people, with an honest dislike and distrust of\npractices which seemed to them against the law of the Church of England\n(as they understood it), had hitherto sent Hamlyn considerable sums of\nmoney. His campaign seemed to them a real and efficacious method of\ndealing with the question, and his methods had not been very clear to\nthem in their actual detail.\n\nBut when the most influential part of the press began to speak with no\nuncertain voice, these people began to hurriedly repudiate any\nconnection with the Luther League and to tie their purse-strings in a\nvery tight knot indeed. Then, again, there was a second not\ninconsiderable class of people whose support was withdrawn. These were\nmore or less of the Miss Pritchett order. They had some real or fancied\ngrievance against the vicar of the parish in which they lived, and the\nmachinery of Hamlyn's League was found to be at their service for the\npurposes of revenge. Under the cover of religious truth they were able\nto gratify a private spite--a method of campaign as old as history\nitself. The aims of these people had been achieved. That is to say, Mr.\nHamlyn or his friends had made themselves more or less a thorn in the\nsides of the local clergy, had \"banged the field-piece, twanged the\nlyre,\" and departed with as much money as they were able to collect in\nthe cause of Protestant Truth.\n\nAnd those people who had first moved in the matter saw that, after all,\nthe _status ante quo_ had not been altered in the least, that nothing\nhad happened at all! One or two people of no importance whatever might\nhave left the Church, but the general result was, as a rule, an\nincrease of the attacked congregation and, inevitably, an enormous\nincrease of personal popularity of the priest and of loyalty to him and\nhis teachings.\n\nSo this second class of worthies also became hard-hearted to the\nperfervid advertisements of the League, buttoned up their pockets, and\ntried to behave as though the names of those twin greatnesses, Martin\nLuther and Samuel Hamlyn, had never crossed their lips.\n\nIn the offices in the Strand, all these causes were thoroughly\nappreciated and understood. The prosperity, or rather the consciousness\nof it, which had seemed to ooze from Mr. Hamlyn's features, was no more\nto be seen. The countenance of the Protestant Pope wore an anxious and\nharassed expression when he was alone with his son, and their talks\ntogether were frequent and of long duration.\n\nOne disastrous morning the post brought nothing in the way of fuel for\nthe Protestant fire except a single miserable little post-office order\nfor seven shillings and sixpence, a donation from \"A Baptist Friend.\"\n\nProtestant Truth was in a bad way. Both the Hamlyns thought so as they\nsat down gloomily for a private conference in the inner room.\n\n\"There's a good balance in the bank, of course,\" Hamlyn said. \"We've got\nstaying power for some time yet, and the salaries are safe. But it's the\nfuture we've got to look to. The righteous cause can't go on nothing.\"\n\n\"Don't you worry, Father,\" said Sam, \"that Exeter Hall speaking has\npulled you down a bit. You're not your real self. I haven't a doubt that\nyou'll think of something to wake things up in a day or two.\"\n\n\"Hope so, I'm sure, though I can't think of anything at present. But\nseven and six! It's the first day Protestantism's dropped below a matter\nof two pound odd.\"\n\n\"There's plenty of other posts during the day, Pa.\"\n\n\"That's true. One day or three days don't matter. But it shows how\nthings are going. The Romans have been too cunning for us, Sam. The\nwiles of the Scarlet Woman are prevailing; honest, straightforward\nProtestants are being undermined.\"\n\n\"But think of the letters of sympathy we've 'ad since the great\nRitualistic conspiracy has come up. The real hearty Protestants are as\nfaithful as they ever were.\"\n\n\"Yes, they are,\" said Mr. Hamlyn reflectively; \"we can always fall back\non them, and we've got some thousands of names and addresses on the\nbooks. The League'll _go on_ safe enough, there'll always be labourers\nin the vineyard and them as will pay the overseer his just dues. But\nit's 'ard, after the splendid success we've had, to sink down into a\nsmall commonplace affair with just a bare living. The real red-hot\nProtestants, who are really _afraid_ of Rome and that, are so few! These\ndisgusting newspapers been showing up everything and the lukewarm people\nhave been falling away. All the real money is flowing back into Roman\nchannels. If there were more really earnest Protestants we might keep on\nas good as ever. But there's not. We haven't sold a gross of _Bloody\nMarys_ during the month. It's a pity we had to suppress the\n_Confessional_; that was a real seller--and did a lot of good,\" Mr.\nHamlyn added as an afterthought.\n\n\"We couldn't well do no other after the 'int we got from the _Vigilance_\npeople,\" said Sam.\n\n\"I suppose not. But it was a great pity.\"\n\n\"You're due at Malakoff House to-night, aren't you, Pa?\"\n\n\"Yes, at seven. I'm very uneasy in my mind about Miss P., Sam.\"\n\n\"Gussie says she's worse than she knows herself. She hasn't been out of\nbed for a fortnight now.\"\n\n\"She's not long for this world, I'm afraid,\" Hamlyn answered. \"While\nshe's alive we are fairly safe. But when she's in Glory where shall we\nbe?\"\n\n\"That's the question, Father. Gussie knows nothing and can't find out\nanything, neither. A really handsome legacy invested in some good stock\nwould put us right again whatever might happen.\"\n\n\"It would. But just at present the old lady's awful to deal with. You\nsee, I'm in an awkward position, Sam. I'm not such a fool as to tell her\nhow we've been bested lately--that's to say, I can't bring myself to\nwound a faithful Protestant heart by stories of persecution of them as\nis doing the Lord's work against Rome. Miss P. don't know anything about\nthe checks we've received of late. Well, then, she's always bothering me\nto know why we aren't keeping it up in Hornham, why we aren't going for\nBlantyre and that lot. She hears everything that goes on in the parish,\nthough Gussie Davies does her best to stop it. But she don't seem to\ntrust Gussie as she did, which is a pity. Miss P. quite sees that, for\nsome reason or other, things have gone quiet in the parish, and she's\ngetting restive. Something must be done soon, that's quite evident. Some\nbig thing to wake her up--and everyone else, too.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter much how far we go now.\"\n\n\"Not a bit. The further the better, as a matter of fact. The lecturers'\nhands are so tied now, what with all these cunning moves of the\nRomanists, that _they_ can't do anything. It seems we've alienated all\nthe moderate people and we've only the extreme ones to rely on. Well,\nthen, we must wake _them_ up, that's all. The papers can't well say\nworse of us than they do already, so it really is the best policy to\ngive the whole country a regular startler. I can't think of anything new\nat present, but I shall. I expect a bit of inspiration'll come before\nlong. Anyway, I shall tell Miss Pritchett to-night to wait and have\npatience a little longer, as there's something in the wind that will do\nall she wants. It's her illness. She _must_ have continual bits of\nexcitement to keep her going, it's a regular disease with her now. If I\ncan think of a good scheme to liven up things generally, in the first\nflush of it she'll be so pleased that we might venture a word or two\nupon her testamentary dispositions. I should feel so much happier about\nthe Cause if I knew the League was down in her will for a thumping sum.\nOf course, anything of the sort would have to be said most careful.\nShe'd get up and be healthy again in a week if she thought we thought\nshe was going to peg out!\"\n\nMr. Hamlyn concluded his remarks with a somewhat resentful sigh, and,\nwhistling down the speaking-tube for the correspondence clerk, began to\ndictate his morning's letters.\n\nIt was about seven o'clock when the secretary arrived at Malakoff House,\ntired and dispirited. The whole day had gone unsatisfactorily. An\nevening paper had come out with a leaded column about the League which\nwas far from complimentary. The various callers at the office were all\nmore or less disagreeable, and even the volatile Samuel had been plunged\ninto a state of furtive gloom that radiated mis-ease upon all who came\nnear him.\n\nMr. Hamlyn was shown into the drawing-room and in a minute or two,\nGussie Davies came to him. The girl was white and tired of feature.\nDark semicircles were under her eyes, but her manner had a nervous\nexcitement that was infectious.\n\nBoth of them spoke in that agitated whisper that some people affect in\nthe neighbourhood of those who are seriously ill and whom they think\nlike to die. It is a whisper in which there is a not unpleasurable note,\na self-congratulation at being near to the Great Mystery, as spectators\nmerely.\n\n\"How is she?\" whispered Hamlyn.\n\n\"Bad,\" answered Gussie. \"Dr. Hibbert's been and I had a chat with him\nafterwards. He daren't speak as plain as he'd like, for fear of\nfrightening her. But he says she must _not_ keep on exciting herself. It\nwill be fatal if she does. Another two months of this St. Elwyn's\nexcitement will kill her, Mr. Hamlyn. I'm sure of that.\"\n\n\"What's she been saying?\"\n\n\"Oh, the same old thing: Why doesn't Mr. Hamlyn do something decisive?\nWhy doesn't he strike these proud priests some crushing blow? You know\nshe's heard that Miss Blantyre has come to live at the vicarage, and\nthat makes her keener than ever.\"\n\n\"Well, I must think of something, that's all,\" said the secretary in a\ndecisive whisper. \"I'll promise her a new move almost at once. I\nsuppose you've had no chance to get in a word about the will?\"\n\n\"Not a chance. I can't find out anything either. All I know is that her\nsolicitor hasn't been here since she joined the League. So that looks as\nif there isn't anything done _yet_.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose there is, my dear. But if I can keep her quiet _now_,\nand do something big in the parish in a few days, then I suppose we\nmight broach it?\"\n\n\"Certainly, Mr. Hamlyn, I should say so.\"\n\n\"Good. One more question, Gussie, before I go up. Do you think it wise\nto mention a contribution to the working fund just now? One can never be\ntoo zealous in the cause of Protestant Truth, but I want to deal wisely\nwith her.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think you'll be safe enough for a hundred or two,\" Gussie said,\n\"as long as you promise her a good rumpus soon! She ain't mean, I will\nsay that for her.\"\n\nMr. Hamlyn nodded in a brisk, business-like way, rang for the maid, and\nwas shown up to the sick-room.\n\nGussie remained in the drawing-room. She wondered how successful her\nfriend and lover's father would be. She had immense faith in his\nabilities and already looked forward to the time when, released for ever\nfrom her duties at Malakoff House, she would, as Mrs. Hamlyn, Junior,\nbecome a leading lady of True Protestantism. Not that the girl hated her\nemployer. She had no affection for Miss Pritchett--and it would have\nbeen wonderful if she had--but her feeling was not stronger than that.\nAs for the money question, the money that the rich old lady was giving\nto the Luther League, Gussie saw no harm in that. The money was for a\ngood cause, so she believed, and the Hamlyns, _p\u00e8re et fils_, had much\nbetter have the handling of it than any one else!\n\nMr. Hamlyn was a considerable time. The girl wandered about the room,\nagog to hear his news, thinking with a certain terror of the grim old\nwoman up-stairs. For what had been tartness and acerbity had become\ngrimness now, in the pompous old-fashioned bed-chamber, where she lay\nwaiting the beating of those great black wings which all, save she, knew\nwere drawing near.\n\nAlthough Gussie Davis knew all the foibles of her mistress and could\nplay upon them with adroitness and success, she felt, nevertheless, a\nfear of the old woman. Miss Pritchett, with all her absurdities, her\npetty jealousies, her greed for flattery, was a woman with a\npersonality. She was very rich, and she had chosen to remain among the\nsurroundings of her youth and be great among the small. Yet even a petty\nsupremacy awes the petty, and the sly Welsh girl was indubitably awed.\nShe was not wholly bad, not unfeeling in her way, but she was weak. In\nthe hands of the Hamlyns, she had been as putty from the very first.\nThey were strong men. There was no doubt about that. With all the\ntemperamental vulgarity and greed of both father and son, there was\nindubitable strength--and, in the case of the elder, considerable\nmagnetic power.\n\nThey had been kind to her also. She was genuinely fond of Sam, and he\nwas fond of her. The accident of her position, that she was able to help\nand forward their plans, made no difference as to that. Hamlyn, Senior,\nliked her. He would, she knew, be kind and fatherly to her when she was\nmarried to Sam. He was that now.\n\nFor, if Hamlyn had been able to employ his cleverness to good advantage\nin the exploitation of any other thing save of religion, he would have\nbeen counted as a shrewd business man and nothing more. Nothing worse\nthan that at any rate. He had no personal vices. He did not in the least\nrealise that he was living a life that was shameful. Religion meant no\nmore to him than any other way of making money would have meant. That\nwas all. And, oddly enough, Blantyre himself shrewdly suspected this,\nwhile Carr looked upon the agitator as infamous.\n\nHamlyn was perfectly aware that he was a humbug, but he thought that his\nhumbug was perfectly legitimate in the war of life.\n\nThe priest at St. Elwyn's whom he had so bitterly attacked and wounded\nwas a psychologist. Most priests are. Men who sit in churches and hear\nthe true story of men's lives learn an infinite tenderness. Men come to\nthem for comfort, to hear the comfortable words that our Lord has spoken\nfor the sinful who are penitent, to receive from them that absolution\nwhich is nothing more than the confirmation, in a concrete and certain\nway, of the promise of God. It is only the people who have never\nconfessed their sins, not to a priest, but to God through a priest, who\nspeak against the Sacrament of Penance.\n\nThey do not know they are tilting at windmills. And the bitter shame\nthat sometimes comes to a man as he tells another man the true story of\nhis life is in itself the truest evidence that he means to amend it. No\none would do that without penitence. There is a motive for every action;\nthe motive would be wanting if confession were made without a resolve to\nlead a new life. If those who fulminate against the Church's method, and\nsneer at the members of the Church who follow it, as dupes and fools,\ncould understand that it is discipline that purifies and exalts, they\nwould sneer no longer. It is all very well to be a _franc-tireur_, no\ndoubt. But it is better to be a member of the regular forces. It is not\nso jolly for a time, perhaps, but in event of capture, the former is\nshot at sight, the latter becomes a prisoner of war with all the rights\nand traditions of his lot.\n\nSimile was one of Mr. Hamlyn's pet weapons, but in his noisy syllogisms,\nhe left out the first two premises and confined himself to the\nconclusion--generally an emphatic epithet.\n\nMr. Hamlyn came down-stairs at last. His face was grave, but peaceful.\nPerspiration showed upon it. He had been having a hard time.\n\n\"I say, my dear,\" he whispered, \"I wonder if you've got a cup of tea\nhandy. I've had a thick time!\"\n\nIt is better to take the stimulant of tea than the more usual brandy and\nsoda. Hamlyn was a strong teetotaller, and that counted to his credit at\na moment like this. For the man had obviously been through an unnerving\nexperience. He was not his ready and impudent self.\n\nThe tea was brought. It revived him.\n\n\"Well!\" he said in a low voice, \"I don't want to go through many scenes\nlike that again, Gussie! She's getting worse and worse. Her brain can't\nlast much longer if she goes on like this! However, I managed to calm\nher down. She's going off to sleep now. I told her I'd wake Hornham up\nin a few days--and I'll _have_ to do it, what's more!\"\n\n\"Did you get a cheque?\" said the practical Gussie.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Hamlyn in a slightly more relieved voice. \"She gave me a\ncouple of hundred in the end. At heart, she's devoted to the cause of\nProtestant Truth. But she's getting horribly restive, my dear. I'm sorry\nfor her. She's a wreck of what she used to be--but she's a wreck that\nwants a lot of salvage!\"\n\nThe colour came back into the plump, clean-shaven face as the tea did\nits work.\n\n\"I forgot, my dear,\" he said; \"I brought you a box of chocolates. It\nclean went out of my 'ead,\" he waved an exhausted hand towards his small\nbrown leather bag, which stood on the table between a plaster model of\nthe leaning tower of Pisa and a massive volume entitled _Every Young\nLady's Vade Mecum_.\n\nGussie smiled her thanks and opened the bag, while Mr. Hamlyn poured out\nanother cup of tea.\n\nGussie felt in the bag. It was full of papers, but there were two\nparcels there. She took them out. They were of much the same size. Each\nwas neatly tied up in white paper.\n\nShe pulled the string from one of them. A number of thin\nsemi-transparent white wafers fell out upon the table.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry!\" she cried, \"I thought this was the box of chocolates.\"\n\nHamlyn looked up wearily. To his immeasurable surprise, he saw that the\ngirl's face had grown very pale. She shrunk away from the table.\n\n\"What's the matter, my dear?\" he said, thoroughly alarmed.\n\nShe suddenly flushed a deep scarlet.\n\n\"What are these?\" she said, pointing with a shaking finger to the things\non the table.\n\n\"Them?\" said Mr. Hamlyn in cheerful surprise. \"Mass wafers, my dear. I\nbuy them in a shop in Covent Garden. We distribute them among the Luther\nLecturers, for object lessons to the poor deluded Ritualists.\"\n\nThe girl had crouched to the wall of the room. Hamlyn was seriously\nalarmed. Her face was almost purple, her eyes started out of her head.\n\n\"They're not con--_consecrated_?\" she gasped.\n\nHamlyn could not understand her emotion. \"No,\" he said; \"why, Gussie,\nwhat a superstitious little thing you are. And if they were, what then?\"\nFrank amazement showed on his face.\n\n\"Oh, nothing, Mr. Hamlyn,\" the girl said at length, becoming more normal\nin her manner.\n\nIn a few minutes, Hamlyn left the house, leaving the girl in her\nordinary manner, eating the chocolates that he had brought her.\n\nHis able mind was busily at work. He knew that during Miss Pritchett's\nadhesion to St. Elwyn's Gussie had, perforce, been one of the\ncongregation there and had been taught and trained by the clergy.\n\n\"No wonder,\" he thought bitterly to himself; \"no wonder that they can\nwin along the line, when they can sow seeds like that in a girl's mind.\nWhy, she's a thorough little Protestant at heart. To think that those\nthings should have startled her so! It's a lingering prejudice, I\nsuppose. They _are_ a queer lot--the Romanists!\"\n\nAs he communed thus with himself, a swift thought came to him. At the\nmoment of its arrival in his brain, he almost staggered. Then, pulling\nhimself together, he walked rapidly to his own house.\n\nHe thought he saw his way to a _coup_ that would make all his previous\nefforts as nothing. How wonderfully simple it was! Why had he never\nthought of it before--_what_ a fool he had been! Here was the solution\nof all the difficulties he was in. The answer seemed to have come to his\nconversation with Samuel in the morning.\n\nHe went to his study and fortunately found that Sam was already there.\nMiss Maud Hamlyn sat in the room also, but when she saw her father's\nface, she left the room at once. It wore the \"business look\" she knew\nwell, and, though she but dimly understood what her brother and father\nwere engaged in, she knew it had brought great prosperity and honour to\nall of them, and was loath to intrude upon any profitable confabulation.\n\n\"Have you got it, Pa?\" said Samuel, eagerly.\n\n\"Yes, I _'ave_,\" answered the secretary, \"and very fine it is too!\"\n\n\"How much?\" asked Sam.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"The cheque, Miss Pritchett's latest.\"\n\n\"Oh, _that_,\" said Hamlyn. \"Two hundred, what we expected. I meant\nsomething else. I've got the new scheme to wake things up! The best\nthing we've done yet, my boy!\"\n\nSam rubbed his hands. \"What did I say this morning? I knew you'd do it,\nPa. Well, let's have it.\"\n\nMr. Hamlyn sat back in his chair, willing to dally a moment with his\ntriumph and enjoy the full savour of it.\n\n\"Why we never thought of it before,\" he said, \"beats me entirely!\nSomething suggested it to me to-night, and I've been wondering at our\nneglecting such a move.\"\n\n\"What _is_ it then?\"\n\n\"What about one of us going to the Mass and bringing away the\nconsecrated wafer? Then a big public meeting's called and I _show_ the\npeople what we've got! The 'flour-and-water god' of the Romanists! Not\nthe usual plan of producing a wafer we've bought from a shop, but the\n_real thing_, Sam! Then they'll all be able to see that there's no\ndifference between before and after! It'll explode the whole thing and\ngive the League an advertisement better than anything that's gone\nbefore!\"\n\nSam looked very grave indeed. \"It's a little bit _too_ much, I'm afraid,\nFather,\" he said.\n\n\"What do you mean, my son?\" answered the secretary in extreme and real\nsurprise.\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" Sam said doubtfully, \"but I shouldn't like to\nmeddle with it myself.\"\n\nMr. Hamlyn leaned forward. \"Sam,\" he said, \"you're a fool. You're as bad\nas Gussie Davies! Leave the matter to me. Who's awakened Protestantism\nin Hengland? ME! Who knows how to work a popular cause? ME! Who's going\nto boom the Luther League up to the top again? ME!\"\n\n\"Have it your own way, Father,\" Sam said, \"you generally do come out on\ntop.\"\n\n\"Ring the bell for some tea,\" said Mr. Hamlyn, \"and let's talk out the\ndetails. We'll 'ave to get it where we aren't known by sight.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE NEWS THAT CARR BROUGHT\n\n\nAs the days wore on, and Lucy Blantyre became accustomed to her\nsurroundings, she found that she was in thorough tune with them. During\nthe year she had been away from St. Elwyn's, she had spent most of the\ntime abroad, at first with Lady Linquest, afterwards with friends. The\nold life of fashionable people and \"smart\" doings palled horribly.\nTravelling was a diversion from that, and, in some sense, a preparation\nfor the more useful life that she determined to live in the future.\n\nShe had quite made up her mind to that. Nothing would induce her to go\nback to live in Park Lane once more. Life offered far more than the West\nEnd of London could offer; so much was plain. She kept up a regular\ncorrespondence with her brother and was fully informed of all that took\nplace in Hornham. Her thoughts turned more and more affectionately\ntowards the dingy old house, centre of such ceaseless activities, the\nold house with the great church watching over it.\n\nDown there it seemed as if provision was made for all one's needs of the\nmind. Stress and storm beat upon it in vain, and it combined the joys of\nboth the cloister and the hearth.\n\nIn her limited experience, there had been nothing like it. A year or two\nago, she would have smiled incredulously if any one had told her that\nshe would like going to church twice or three times on a week-day. But\nduring her stay at St. Elwyn's how natural and helpful it had seemed,\nhow much a part of the proper order of things. The morning Eucharist\nwhile day in the outside world was beginning, the stately and beautiful\nevensong as men ceased their toil, these coloured all the day, were\nwoven into its warp and woof. She knew that the _abnormal_ life was the\nlife of the majority, the life of those who lived in a purely secular\nway, who never worshipped or prayed.\n\nWhen any mind, in its settling of its attitude towards the Unseen, gets\nas far as this; when it realises that, despite the laughter of fools and\nthe indifference of most people, the _logical_ use of life is to make\nit in constant touch with God, then, as a rule, the personal religious\nconviction will come in due time. It had not come to Lucy yet in full\nand satisfying measure, it had not come even when she determined to make\nher home with her brother for a time and help in any way she could.\n\nDuring the year of travel, she was also in regular communication with\nJames Poyntz. Insensibly his letters to her had become the letters of a\nlover. He told her all his thoughts and the details of his work and\nhopes, and, mingling with what were in fact a series of brilliant\npersonal confessions, there began to be a high note of personal devotion\nto her. One does not need the simple alphabet of lover's words to write\nlove letters. Poyntz used no terms of endearment, and as yet had made\nher no definite proposal of marriage. But the girl knew, quite\ncertainly, exactly how he felt towards her. There was no disguise in his\nletters, and the time was drawing near when he would definitely ask her\nto share his life.\n\nShe had not yet definitely summed up her attitude towards him. She was\nat the crossing of the roads; new influences, new ideas were pouring\ninto her brain from every side. It was necessary to readjust herself to\nlife completely before she could settle upon any course.\n\nShe knew that to be Lady Huddersfield was to take a high seat in Vanity\nFair. The Huddersfields belonged to the old order of society, to that\ninner circle of the great who never open their door indiscriminately to\nthe Jew and the mining millionaire. People laughed at them and called\nthem pompous and dull, but there was a high serenity among them\nnevertheless. She might have married half a dozen times had she so\nchosen. Her income was large enough to make her a small heiress, at any\nrate to be an appreciable factor in the case, besides which her birth\nwas unexceptionable. It was known that when Lady Linquest fluttered away\nto another world, the old lady's money would come to her niece. But\nposition merely, rank rather, did not attract a girl who already went\nwherever she chose. And among the men in society who had offered her\nmarriage, or were prepared to do so, she found no one capable of\nsatisfying her brain. Poyntz did this. She found power in him, strength,\npurpose. She knew that, in whatever station of life he was, the man was\nfinely tempered, high in that aristocracy of intellect which some people\nsay is the only aristocracy there is.\n\nShe was conscious of all this, but, especially since she had been\nsettled in the vicarage as a home, she was becoming conscious of many\nother influences at work upon her. Religion, the personal giving of\none's self to God, was tinging all her life and actions now. Hour by\nhour, she found herself drawing nearer to the Cross. Her progress had\nbecome a matter of practical experience. It was impossible to live with\nthe people she was among, to watch every detail of their lives, to find\n_exactly where the motive power and the sustaining power came from_,\nwithout casting in her lot with them in greater or less degree. Every\nday she found some hold upon the outside world was loosened, something\nshe had imagined had great value in her eyes suddenly seemed quite\nworthless! Looked at in the light that was beginning to shine upon her,\nshe was frequently surprised beyond measure to find how worthless most\nthings were! Her brain was keen, cool, and logical. Hitherto she had\nrefused to draw an inference--no proof, by the way, of any want of\nlogical skill;--now she was drawing it.\n\nShe was great and intimate friends with the two assistant priests,\nStephens and King. Stephens was engaged to a girl in the country, King\nbelonged to some confraternity of celibates. Both were high-minded men,\nwho appreciated to the full the charm of cultured feminine society and\nfound her drawing-room a most pleasant oasis now and then. And every one\nat the clergy-house began to see a great deal of Mr. Carr. The lonely\nman found companionship and sympathy there. He found intellectual men,\nuniversity men like himself, with whom he could talk. He had been\nintellectually starving in Hornham, and good brains rust unless they\nhave some measure of intercourse with their kind.\n\nHe was constantly with his new friends. One Sunday Father Blantyre\npreached at St. Luke's. The church was crowded, to hear a man whom a\ngreat many there believed capable of almost any form of casuistry and\nsly dealing. But when the little Irishman got into the pulpit he gave\nthem a simple, forcible discourse on some points of conduct, delivered\nwith all his personal charm, his native raciness and wit; many wagging\ntongues were silenced in the parish. Carr's experiment was a bold one,\nbut it succeeded. An ounce of fact is worth a pound of hearsay.\nBlantyre was so transparently honest, so obviously incapable of any of\nthe things imputed to him by the Luther Leaguers, that the most\nprejudiced folk at St. Luke's said no more than that it was a pity such\na decent fellow, who could preach such a good sermon, wasted so much of\nhis time over unnecessary fads!\n\nFor some reason or other,--she could not quite explain it to\nherself,--Lucy looked on Carr with different eyes from those with which\nshe viewed Stephens or King. He seemed less set apart from the ordinary\nlot of men than they were. His ordinary clerical costume may have had\nsomething to do with it, the contrast between his clothes and those of\nthe laymen not being so marked as in the case of the High Church clergy.\nAnd his manner also was different in a subtle way. Lucy liked the manner\nof King and she liked the manner of Carr, but they were markedly unlike\neach other. The former spoke of everything from the Church's point of\nview, the latter more from the point of view of an ordinary layman who\nloves and serves our Lord.\n\nLucy had no fault to find with the ecclesiastical attitude. She had long\nbefore realised what were the spiritual results of rebellion and\nschism; they were too patent in Hornham. She was definitely Catholic.\nTherefore she approved of King as a priest and liked him as a man. But\nCarr seemed to be more upon her own level, not set apart in any way. She\nknew he was just as much a priest as the other, but he came into her\nconsciousness from a purely human standpoint, while the other did not.\n\nViewing him thus, she had come to find she liked him very much indeed.\nHe was a very \"manly\" man, she found, with a virile intellect which had\nhad too little play of late years. She came to know of his life and\nfound it as full of good works as her brother's. The methods differed,\nthe Church and its services took an altogether secondary place in these\nministrations; the charities of a poor man were necessarily more\ncircumscribed than those of his rich neighbour, but the spiritual\nfervour was as great.\n\nLucy could not help wondering why a man who had such abundant means to\nhis hand of holding and influencing his people used so few of them. Why\nwas his church not beautiful? How did he exist spiritually without the\nsacramental grace so abundantly vouchsafed at St. Elwyn's?\n\nShe had a glimpse deep down into the man once. One evening at St.\nElwyn's, when Carr had come to supper, the conversation turned upon a\nrather serious epidemic of typhoid fever that had only just been\novercome in Hornham and which had caused a widespread distress among the\npoorer classes.\n\n\"I'm getting up a fund,\" Father Blantyre said, \"to relieve some of the\nworst cases and to send as many as possible of the convalescents off to\nthe seaside. Now, Lucy, my dear, what will you stump up? This girl's\nrolling in money, Carr! She's more than she knows what to do with!\"\n\nLucy noticed--no one else did--that Mr. Carr flushed a little and\nstarted as Blantyre finished speaking.\n\nShe turned to her brother. \"I'll give you a hundred pounds, dear,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"Good girl!\" he shouted in high good humour.\n\nLucy turned to Carr. \"I suppose you've a great many destitute cases in\nSt. Luke's?\" she asked.\n\n\"Very many, I'm sorry to say,\" he answered sadly. \"I've done what I\ncould, but I've hardly any money myself until next quarter-day, and our\npeople are nearly all of them poor.\" He thought with gentle envy of\nthese wealthy folk who were able to do so much, while he, alas! could do\nso little.\n\n\"I'll subscribe something to St. Luke's, too,\" Lucy said. \"I'll give you\nthe same, Mr. Carr. I'll write you a cheque after supper.\"\n\n\"That's a sportswoman!\" said Father Blantyre; \"good for you, Lucy!\"\n\nCarr flushed up. The destitution in his parish had been a constant grief\nto him during the last few weeks. He had not known where to turn to\nrelieve it. He had prayed constantly that help might be forthcoming. He\nbroke out into a nervous torrent of thanks which came from his very\nheart, becoming eloquent as he went on and revealing, unconsciously\nenough, much of his inward self to them. They were all touched and\ncharmed by the man's simplicity and earnestness. He showed a great love\nfor the poor as he talked. Sympathy for suffering and kindness towards\nit are not rare things in England. We are a charitable folk, take us in\nthe mass. But this quality of personal love for the outcast and\ndown-trodden is not so often met with. It is a talent, and Carr\npossessed it in a high degree.\n\nA step in their intimacy was marked that night; all felt drawn more\nclosely to the Evangelical vicar. He stood alone; his life seemed\ncheerless to them all and their sympathy was his--though he had never\nmade the least parade of his troubles. Moreover, the three clergy of St.\nElwyn's were beginning to find out, with pleased surprise, how near he\nwas to them in the great essentials, how Catholic his views were.\nAlready much of Carr's dislike to the ceremonial of St. Elwyn's was\nfading away. He had witnessed it, found that there was absolutely no\nharm in it, that it did _not_ stand between the soul and God, but even\nsometimes assisted in the journey upwards. He did not endorse it as yet,\nhe did not contemplate anything of the sort for himself or his people,\nbut he saw the good there and found nothing to disgust or harm.\n\nLater on that evening, Dr. Hibbert came in, and there was music. Lucy\nplayed and sang to them, and Carr, who had a fine baritone, sang an old\nfavourite or two, college songs, _Gaudeamus Igitur_, _John Peel_, and\nthe like.\n\nThen, while the four other men took a hand at whist--if only Mr. Hamlyn\ncould have seen the \"devil's picture books\" upon the table!--Carr had a\nlong, quiet talk with Lucy Blantyre. He found himself telling her much\nof his work and hopes, of his early life in a bleak Northumberland\nvicarage, of Cambridge, and the joyous days when he rowed three in the\nKing's boat and all the skies were fair.\n\nNow and then, when he would have withdrawn into himself again, fearing\nthat he was boring her, she encouraged him to go on. With her cheque in\nhis pocket, he went home in a glow that night. He thought constantly of\nher, and when he went to bed, he looked curiously in the mirror, turning\naway from it with a sigh, a shake of the head, and the chilling memory\nthat the girl was rich, allied to great families, a personage in London\nsociety, and that a poor gentleman toiling in Hornham could never be a\nmate for such as she was.\n\nThree or four days after the incident of the subscription, Lucy received\na letter from Agatha Poyntz, who was staying with the St. Justs in\nBerkeley Square. The letter begged Lucy to \"come up to town\" for an\nafternoon. A theatre party had been formed, which was to consist of\nAgatha herself, Lady Lelant, a young married cousin of hers, and James\nPoyntz. Lucy was begged to come and complete the party. They were to go\nto tea afterwards at the Savoy or somewhere, and Lucy could drive home\nin the evening. The letter was quite imperative in its demand for Lucy's\npresence, and the girl had a shrewd suspicion who it was that had\ninspired it. Her last few letters from Poyntz had been almost, so she\nfancied, leading up to just some such occasion as this which was now\nproposed.\n\nShe thought it all over during the morning of that day. Her mind\nwavered. A few weeks ago she knew that she would not have hesitated for\na moment. Whatever her answer might eventually be to what James Poyntz\nhad to say, she would have gone to the tryst and listened to him. To\nhear him pleading, to see this scion of an ancient and honourable house,\nthis big-brained man, pleading for her, would be sweet. Every woman\nwould feel that. But now she hesitated very much. She hardly owned it to\nherself, but a very different figure was coming to have a continual\nplace in her thoughts. A graver figure, a less complex figure, and one\ninvested with a dignity that was not of this world, a dignity that the\npeer's son had not.\n\nFor now, most indubitably, a new element was coming into her life, one\nthat had not been there before.\n\nAnd there was yet another cause for her hesitation. She had come to see\nthat the supremely important thing in life was religion; she knew that\nit was going to be so for her. She wasn't bigoted, she realised the\nblameless life that many people who did not believe in our Lord appeared\nto live. But that was not the point. Works were good, they were a\nnecessary concomitant of any life that was to be bound up with hers. But\nfaith was a paramount necessity also. She had no illusions about James\nPoyntz. She did not think, as less keen-sighted girls have thought of\natheist lovers, that she could ever bring him to the Faith. She knew\nquite well that it would be impossible, that he was one of those folk to\nwhom the \"talent\" of faith does not seem to have been given, and who\nwill have to begin all over again in the next world, learning the truths\nof Christianity like children.\n\nWhile she was thinking out the question of acceptance or refusal, her\neye caught a date on her tablets. It was the date of the theatre party\nand also of a meeting to be held during the afternoon in the public\nhall at Hornham, at which Father Blantyre had consented to hold public\nargument upon the legalities of ritual and the truth of Catholic dogma\nwith some of the Luther Lecturers.\n\nHamlyn had intended that this meeting should take place in the evening,\nfor two reasons. In the first place, during the afternoon he was himself\nto address a great meeting in London, to which all the \"red-hot\nProtestants\" on the lists of the League had been specially invited by\nticket, and at which a great sensation was hinted at, in much the same\nway as music-hall managers announce the forthcoming appearance of some\nentirely new spectacle, trick, or performer.\n\nMr. Hamlyn had hoped to arrive in Hornham from the Strand flushed with a\ngreat victory, the news of which would have preceded him during the\nafternoon.\n\nMoreover, in the evening an audience would assemble with which the\nLuther Lecturers would be thoroughly at home--Mr. Sam Hamlyn would have\nseen to that--and the place would be packed by rowdy non-churchgoers who\nwould come with the intention of witnessing a row, even if they\nthemselves had to create it. Thus a \"great Protestant demonstration of\nNorth London\" would be absolutely assured.\n\nUnfortunately, Mr. Hamlyn received the plainest of plain hints from the\nlocal chief of police that he would get himself into particularly hot\nwater if he proceeded with his little scheme, and that the words of one\nof his men--the ingenuous Mr. Moffatt indeed, who, locked out of every\nchurch in England, had lately returned to his parental roof for a\nholiday--to a certain rough section of the community, in connection with\nthis very meeting, would be brought up against him.\n\nThe police had no objection to a meeting during the afternoon. The\ndangerous element would still be pushing their barrows of plums and\npears through the city streets, and though the meeting would, no doubt,\nbe skilfully packed with partisans, many women would be present and\nnothing more than a wordy war would be likely to result.\n\nLucy saw the date and considered that the question of the matin\u00e9e was\ndecided for her. She mentioned the invitation at lunch, and was very\nmuch surprised to find that her brother strongly deprecated her\nintention of being present at the discussion and welcomed this\ninvitation.\n\n\"I don't want you to go, dear,\" he said; \"I beg of you not. It will be\nrough and bitter. I know it. I shrink from it myself, but I must show\nthem that we are not afraid to meet them openly. But it would do nothing\nbut distress you. Write to Miss Poyntz this afternoon and say you'll go.\nThen you can hear all about the meeting in the evening when you get\nback.\" He was so obviously in earnest that Lucy could not but agree.\n\nIt seemed fate sent her to meet James. Well, it must be, that was all.\nCircumstances must be faced, and if she did not know her own mind now,\nit was possible that the event itself would decide it for her.\n\nBut she addressed the letter with marked nervous excitement, and the\n\"Hon. Agatha Poyntz\" was more tremulous than her writing was wont to be.\n\nThere were two days more to wait, a Sunday intervened, and she hardly\nleft the church during the whole day, seeking counsel and help where\nonly they are to be found.\n\nOn Monday, she arrived at the theatre at about two. She had refused to\nlunch with her friends and drove from Hornham in a hansom cab, meeting\nthem at the door of the building.\n\nThey went at once to their box and found that there were some five\nminutes to wait before the rise of the curtain.\n\nThe theatre was curious after the glare of the sun outside, fantastic\nand unreal. Hardly anybody talked, though there was a good house, and\nthe strange quiet of a matin\u00e9e audience seemed to pervade the four\npeople in the box also.\n\nLucy leaned back in her chair with the sensation of dreaming. This\nmorning she had knelt in the side chapel at St. Elwyn's! A moment before\nshe had been alone in the cab, among the roar and bustle of Trafalgar\nSquare. Now she was in a dream. Agatha and Adelaide Lelant smiled at her\nwithout speaking--just like odd dream people. James Poyntz sat just\nbehind her. She was acutely conscious of his presence. Now and then he\nbent forward and made some remark or other in a low voice. That also\nseemed to come from a distance. She seemed to have left all the real\nthings behind in Hornham.\n\nThe scents, the dresses of the fashionable people in the stalls, the\ndim, apricot light, seemed alien to her life now, a reminder of\nexperiences and days long since put away and forgotten.\n\nThe little band below had been playing a waltz of Weber's, a regret\nwhich was strangled into a sob as the curtain rose suddenly upon the\nfirst act of the play.\n\nHow acutely conscious one was at first of the artificial light! The big\nframe of the proscenium enclosed a rich garden scene, beautifully\npainted. But it was full of hot yellow light, until the eye forgot the\noutside day it had lately quitted. Lucy thought that for the sake of\nillusion it was a mistake to come to the play in the afternoon. She said\nso to James.\n\n\"Well,\" he whispered, \"for my part, there is never any illusion in the\nstage for me. It is a way of passing an idle hour now and then. That is\nall. I came here not to see the play, but to see you.\"\n\nShe turned towards the stage again with a slight flush.\n\nBehind the footlights the perfectly dressed men and women went through\ntheir parts. All appeared as if they had put on for the first time the\nclothes they wore; both men and women had the complexion of young\nchildren--peaches and cream--unless the light fell on the face at an\nawkward angle. Then it glistened.\n\nAnd all the people on the stage talked alike, too. They did not speak\nquite like ladies or gentlemen, but imitated the speech of ladies and\ngentlemen wonderfully! The play did not interest Lucy. It was a\nsuccessful play, it was played by people who were celebrated actors, but\nshe was out of tune with the whole thing. It wasn't amusing. Between the\nacts, Lady Lelant chatted merrily, of such news as there was to be\ngleaned during a passage through town. She spoke of the movements of\nthis or that acquaintance, whom this girl was engaged to, why Lord\nDawlish had quarrelled with the Duke of Dover. Lucy had no interest in\nthese matters any more. She realised that with astonished certainty. She\ndidn't care a bit. After all, these smart people and their doings were\nnot, as she had thought in the past, any more interesting than the group\nof church people at St. Elwyn's. Indeed they were less so. Dr. Hibbert,\none or two of the nursing sisters, some of the choir men, King,\nStephens, Carr--all these people had more individuality, _lived,\nthought, felt, prayed_ more intensely than Lady Lelant's set, Lady\nLinquest's set, any purely fashionable set. There was not a doubt that\nin the mere worldly economy of things, in the state politic, every one\nof these Hornham people _mattered more_ than those others. And, where\nhearts and wills are weighed, to the critical Unseen eyes, their value\nwas greater still. Lucy was glad when the play began again, and she was\nrelieved of the necessity for a simulated interest in things she had\nlong since put away from her.\n\nThe last act of the mimic story dragged on. Agatha and Lady Lelant were\nabsorbed in it. Lucy withdrew a little from the front of the box. She\ncared nothing for the play, nor did her companion. Both of them knew of\nthings imminent in their twin lives greater than any mimic business\ncould suggest to them.\n\nHe began to tell her in a low voice of his joy in seeing her again. It\nthrilled her to hear the lover-like tones creeping into a voice so\nclear, cold, and self-contained in all the ordinary affairs of life. It\nwas an experience that disturbed and swayed all the instincts of her\nsex. For she knew that this was no ordinary conquest that she had made,\nno ordinary tribute to her mind and person. She might have received the\nhighest compliment that he was about to pay her from many a man as\nhighly placed and socially fortunate as he. There was no exhilaration,\nno subtle flattery of her pride and the consciousness of her womanhood\nin that. But she knew him for what he was. She had learned of the\nintellect and power of the man--herein lay an exquisite pleasure in his\nsurrender. And she liked him immensely. Physically, he pleased her eye,\nand her sense of what was fitting in a man. Mentally he compelled her.\nAnd now and again in their intimacy, an intimacy that had grown\nenormously during the last year, fostered on their mutual epistolary\nconfidences, she had found a sudden surrender, a boyish leaning on her,\na waiting for her approving or helpful word, that was sweet to her.\n\nAt last the curtain fell.\n\n\"Now, then,\" Poyntz said, \"we'll go and have tea on the terrace at the\nSardinia. There will be a band, a really good band, and the embankment\nwill look beautiful just now. Come along, young ladies; we'll walk,\nshall we? It won't take us five minutes.\" They left the theatre.\n\n\"Ah!\" Lucy said with a sudden gasp of relief, \"how good the air is after\nthat dark place and the stage. My eyes feel as if they had been actually\nburnt.\"\n\nThe long lights of the summer afternoon irradiated everything. There\nare moments in summer when the busiest London street seems like a street\nin fairy-land. It was so now as they walked to the great riverside\nhotel; a tender haze of gold lay over all the vast buildings, the sky\nbegan to be as if it were hung with banners.\n\nThey passed from the roar of the street to the great courtyard, with its\ngay awnings of white and red, its palms and tree-ferns in green tubs,\nits little tables like the tables of a continental caf\u00e9. Little groups\nof people of all nationalities sat about there. The party heard the\ntwanging accent of the United States, the guttural German, the purring,\nspitting Russian.\n\nThey entered the hotel, walked down a corridor, descended some steps,\nand came out upon the terrace.\n\nLucy had a finely developed social instinct. She knew what was going on\ninstinctively, and it was plain to her at once that the moment had come.\nAgatha Poyntz and her cousin had disappeared as she sat down at a small\ntable with James, hidden by shrubs from the rest of the terrace.\n\nBelow and beyond were gardens in which children were playing, the wide\nembankment, and the silver Thames itself, all glowing under the\nlengthening sun rays.\n\nWhat did she feel at that moment? She found that she was calm, her\npulses were quiet, her breathing untroubled and slow.\n\nHe leaned forward and took her hands strongly in both of his. At first,\nhis words came haltingly to him, but then, gathering courage, he made\nher a passionate declaration.\n\nHer heart cried out vaguely to some outside power for guidance; her\ninarticulate appeal was hardly a prayer, it was the supreme expression\nof perplexity and doubt.\n\n\"For months, all my work and life have been coloured by thoughts of you,\nhave had reference to you. I can conceive, since I have been writing to\nyou, and you to me, I have had hopes and dreams that have become part of\nmy life! If you could accept this, this devotion, this strong feeling of\nlove which has grown up in me, I feel that our companionship would be a\nbeautiful thing. Lucy, I am not eloquent in love as some men are said to\nbe, I can only tell you that I love and admire you dearly and have no\ngreater hope than to share everything with you, my lady, my love!\"\n\nThe strong, self-contained young man was deeply moved. He continued, in\na monologue of singular delicacy and high feeling, to pour out the\nrepressed feelings of the past year, to offer her a life that was more\nstainless--she knew it well--than that of most young men.\n\nShe was deeply touched, interested, and rather overawed. But there was\nno thrill of passion in her that could answer to the notes of it that\nwere coming into his voice and shaking it from its firmness, sending\ntremulous waves quivering through it.\n\nHer hand shook in his hold, but it was passive. Emotion rushed over her,\nbut it was a cool emotion, so to say; she was touched, but her blood did\nnot race and leap at his touch, she felt no wish to rest in his arms, to\nfind her home there!\n\nAt last she was able to speak. There was a pause in his pleading, his\neyes remained fixed upon her face in anxious scrutiny.\n\nShe withdrew her hand gently.\n\n\"You have touched me very deeply,\" she said. \"But I can't, oh, I _can't_\nanswer you now. This is such a great thing. There is so much to think\nover, so much self-examination. It might all look quite different to\none to-morrow! Let me wait, give me time. I will write to you.\"\n\nHis ear found the lack of what he sought in her voice. Even to herself\nher tones sounded cold and conventional after his impassioned pleading.\nBut she found herself mistress neither of reason nor of feeling as she\nspoke. She was bewildered, though not taken by surprise.\n\nHe seemed to understand something of her state of mind. If his\ndisappointment was keen, he showed nothing of it, realising with the\npertinacity of a strong, vigorous nature that nothing really worth\nhaving was won easily, thankful, perhaps, that he had won as much as he\nhad--her consideration.\n\n\"You know how great a thing this is to me,\" he said. \"You would never be\nunkind or hard to me and it would be an unkindness to prolong my\nsuspense. When will you give me my answer?\"\n\n\"Oh, soon, soon! But I must have time. I will write to you soon, in a\nfortnight I will write.\"\n\n\"That is so long a time!\"\n\n\"It will pass very swiftly.\"\n\n\"Then I accept your decree. But I shall write to you, even if you don't\nanswer me until I get the letter, oh, happy day! on which you tell me\nwhat my whole heart longs to hear. You will read my letters during the\ntime of waiting? Promise me that, Lucy.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I promise,\" she said hastily, seeing that Agatha and Adelaide\nLelant were coming towards them.\n\nHer brain was whirling; James himself was agitated and unstrung by the\nvehemence of feeling, the nerve storm, that he had just passed through.\nAnd in the minds of Miss Poyntz and Lady Lelant the liveliest curiosity\nand interest reigned, as it naturally would reign, under such\ncircumstances, in the minds of any normal young women, gentle or simple,\nwith blue blood or crimson.\n\nBut the four people had learned the lessons their life-long environment\nhad taught. Their faces were masks, their talk was trivial.\n\nWhen at length Lucy rose to go, declining to drive home with Lady\nLelant, they all came into the big, quiet courtyard of the hotel, \"to\nhelp her choose her hansom.\" Every unit of the little party felt her\ndeparture would be a relief, she felt it herself. The two girls did not\nknow what had happened and were eager to know. James wanted to be\nalone, to go through the interview step by step in his brain,\nreconstructing it for the better surveyal of his chances, and to plan an\nepistolary campaign, or bombardment rather.\n\nLucy felt the desire, a great and pressing desire, for home and rest.\nShe arrived at the vicarage an hour or so after. As the cab had turned\ninto the familiar, sordid streets she had felt glad! She smiled at her\nown sensations, but they were very real. This place, this \"unutterable\nNorth London slum,\" as she used to call it, was more like home than Park\nLane had ever been.\n\nHow tired she felt as she went up-stairs to her room! Her face was pale,\ndark circles had come out under her eyes, she bore every evidence of\nhaving passed through some mental strain.\n\nAfter a bath she felt better, more herself, after these experiences of\nthe afternoon. And to change every article of clothing was in itself a\nrestorative and a tonic. It was an old trick of hers, and she had always\nfound it answer. When she went down-stairs again she was still pale, but\nhad that freshness and dainty completeness that have such enormous\ncharm, that she always had, and that her poorer sisters are so unable\nto achieve in the _va et vient_ of a hard, work-a-day life.\n\nShe wanted to see Bernard, she hungered for her brother. With a pang of\nself-reproach, she remembered, as she came down-stairs, that this had\nbeen the afternoon of the public debate with Hamlyn's people. It was an\nimportant event in the parish. And from her start from the clergy-house\nto her arrival back at its doors, she had quite forgotten the whole\nthing! In the absorption with her own affairs, it had passed completely\nfrom her brain and she was sorry. Of late, she had identified herself so\ngreatly with the affairs and hopes of the little St. Elwyn's community,\nthat she felt selfish and ashamed as she knocked at the door of the\nstudy. She waited for a moment to hear the invitation to enter. It was\nnever safe to go into Bernard's room without that precaution. Some\ntragic history might be in the very article of relation, some weary soul\nmight be there seeking ghostly guidance in its abyss of sorrow and\ndespair.\n\nSome one bade her enter. She did so. The room was dark, filled with the\nevening shadows. For a moment or two, she could distinguish nothing.\n\n\"Are you here, Ber?\" she said.\n\n\"The vicar is up-stairs, Miss Blantyre,\" came the answer in King's\nvoice, as he rose from his seat. \"I'm here with Stephens.\"\n\n\"Well, let me sit down for a little while and talk,\" Lucy said. \"May\nI?--please go on smoking. I can stand Bob's pipe, so I can certainly\nstand _yours_. I want to hear all about the meeting in the Victoria\nHall.\"\n\nThey found a chair for her; she refused to have lights brought, saying\nthat she preferred this soft gloom that enveloped them.\n\nHer question about the meeting was not immediately responded to. The men\nseemed collecting their thoughts. By this time, she was really upon\nsomething that resembled a true sisterly footing with these two. Both\nwere well-bred men, incapable of any slackening of the cords of\ncourtesy, but there was a mutual understanding between them and her\nwhich allowed deliberation in talk, which, in fact, dispensed with the\nnecessity of conventional chatter.\n\nKing spoke at length. \"Go on, young 'un,\" he said to Stephens, waving\nhis pipe at him, as Lucy could see by the red glow in the bowl. \"You\ntell her.\"\n\n\"No, _you_ tell her, old chap.\"\n\nLucy wanted to laugh at the odd pair with whom she was in such sympathy.\nThey were just like two boys.\n\nKing sighed. Conversation of any sort, unless it was actually in the\ncourse of his priestly ministrations, was always painful to him. He was\na man who _thought_. But he could be eloquent and incisive enough when\nhe chose.\n\n\"Well, look here, Miss Blantyre,\" he said, \"to begin with, the whole\nthing has been an unqualified success for the other side! That is to say\nthat the people in the hall--and it was crammed--have gone away in the\nfirm conviction and belief that the Luther Lecturers have got the best\nof the priests, that, in short, the Protestants have won all along the\nline.\"\n\n\"Good gracious! Mr. King, do you really mean to say that one of these\nvulgar, half-educated men was able to beat Bernard in argument, to\nenlist the sympathies of the audience against _Bernard_?\"\n\n\"That's exactly what has happened,\" King answered. \"The vicar is\nup-stairs now, utterly dejected and worn out, trying to get some sleep.\"\n\n\"But I don't understand how it could be so.\"\n\n\"It is difficult to understand for a moment, Miss Blantyre. But it's\neasily explained. One good thing has happened: Every priest in the\nkingdom will have his warning now----\"\n\n\"Of what?\"\n\n\"Never to engage in public controversy with any man of the type sent out\nto advertise the Luther League. I'll try and explain. You'll know what I\nmean. The controversy upon any sacred and religious subjects, subjects\nthat are very dear to and deeply felt by their defender, is only\npossible if their attacker pursues legitimate methods. What happened to\nday is this:\n\n\"The audience was mostly Protestant, with a strong sprinkling of people\nwho cared nothing one way or the other, but had come to be amused, or in\nthe expectation of a row. And even if the meeting wasn't 'packed,'--and\nI've my doubts of that,--you see Catholics don't like to come much to\nanything of the sort. It is so terribly painful to a man or woman whose\nwhole life is bound up in the Sacraments, who draws his or her 'grace of\ngoing on' and hope of heaven from them, to sit and hear them mocked and\nderided by the coarse, the vulgar, the irreligious. It's an ordeal one\ncan hardly expect any one to go through without a burning indignation\nand a holy wrath, which may, in its turn, give place to action and words\nthat our Lord has expressly forbidden. One remembers Peter, who cut off\nthe ear of the High Priest's servant, and how he was rebuked. That's why\nthere were not many Catholics present, and besides, the chief had asked\nmany of the congregation to stay away. He wouldn't let Dr. Hibbert go;\nhe knew that he'd lose his temper and that there would be a row.\"\n\nLucy listened eagerly. \"And what did happen?\" she cried.\n\n\"Tell Miss Blantyre, Stephens,\" King answered. \"I'm not lazy, but\nStephens has got colour in his descriptions! It's like his sermons, all\npoetry and fervour and no sound discipline! And besides, he's got the\n'varsity slang of the day. It's nasty, but it's expressive. When I was\nup, we talked English--go on, young 'un.\"\n\nHis voice sank, his pipe glowed in the gloom. Stephens took up the\nparable. \"Well, I can't go into all the details,\" he said. \"But the\nfirst thing that happened was that the lecturer stood upon the platform,\nshut his eyes, and prayed that Hornham might be delivered from the\ncurse of priesthood and the blasphemy of the Mass!--this while the vicar\nwas on the platform. The man was going to begin right away, after this,\nwhen Mr. Carr stopped him and said that he wished to offer up a prayer\nalso. The fellow frowned, but he dare not stop him. So Carr prayed for a\nquiet and temperate conduct of the meeting! Then the man began. It was\nthe usual thing, mocking blasphemy delivered in the voice of a\ncheap-jack, with a flavour of the clown.\n\n\"The man had two sacramental wafers and he kept producing them out of a\nBible, like a conjuring trick! They were of different sizes, and he\nsaid: 'Now, here you see what the Ritualists worship, a biscuit god! And\nyou'll notice there's a little one for the people and a big one for the\npriest--priests always want the biggest share!' Roars of laughter from\nevery one, of course. Then the fellow went on to speak of the fasting\ncommunion. 'For my part,' he said, with a great grin, 'I like to have my\nbreakfast comfortable in the morning before I go to church, and I\nhonestly pity the poor priests who have to starve themselves till\nmid-day. I shouldn't wonder if the Reverend Blantyre'--with a wink\ntowards the vicar--'often has visions of a nice bit of fried bacon or an\n'addock, say, about eleven o'clock in the morning.'\"\n\nLucy gasped. \"How utterly revolting,\" she said, \"and people really take\nthat sort of thing seriously?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, the sort of people to whom these Luther Leaguers appeal. You\nsee it's their only weapon. They can't argue properly, because they are\nutterly without education, and they only supplement the parrot lectures\nthey've been taught with their own native low comedy. Our friend this\nafternoon wound up his oration by inviting the vicar to ask\nquestions--he didn't want him to speak at length, of course. 'Now,' he\nsaid, 'I call upon the Reverend Blantyre to ask me any questions he\nchooses. And I'll just ask him one myself--if God had meant him to wear\npetticoats, wouldn't He have made him a woman?' This was rather too\nmuch, and there were some hisses. The vicar was in his cassock. But the\nvicar laughed himself, and so every one else did. It seemed to restore\nthe good humour of the meeting, which was just what the lecturer didn't\nwant.\n\n\"Well, to cut a long story short, every question the vicar put was the\nquestion of a cultured man, that is to say, it assumed _some_ knowledge\nof the point at issue. Each time he was answered with buffooneries and a\nblatant ignorance that gave the whole thing away at once to any one that\n_knew_. But there was hardly any one there that did, that was the point.\nThe whole audience imagined that we were being scored off tremendously.\nThey got noisy, cheered every apish witticism of the lecturer--oh! it\nwas a disgusting scene. I'll give you an instance of what was said\ntowards the end. The vicar was appealing to the actual words of the\nGospel in one instance. 'The Greek text says,' he was beginning, when\nthe man jumps up--'Greek!' he shouted, 'will Greek save a man's soul?\n_Do you suppose Jesus of Nazareth understood foreign tongues?_'\n\n\"There was a tremendous roar of applause from the people at this. They\nthought the lecturer had made a great point! They actually _did_! Well,\nof course, there was hardly any answer to that. In the face of such\nblack depths of ignorance, what _could_ any one do? It would be as easy\nto explain the theory of gravity to a hog as to explain the Faith to a\ngrinning, hostile mob like that. The vicar sat down. The clown always\nhas the last word in argument before an audience of fools or children.\nIt must be so.\"\n\n\"How did it all end up?\"\n\n\"Oh, the lecturer got upon his hind legs again and made a speech in\nwhich he claimed to have triumphantly refuted the sophistry of the vicar\nand to have shown what Ritualism really was. Then, encouraged by the\ngeneral applause, he was beginning to be very personal and rude, when\nthere was a startling interruption. Bob got up from the back of the\nhall--we didn't know he was there--and began to push his way towards the\nplatform, with a loudly expressed intention of wringing the lecturer's\nneck there and then. I got hold of him, but he shook me off like a fly.\n'Let me be, sir!' he said, 'let me get at the varmin, I'll give him a\nthick ear, I will!' Then King saw what was going on and rushed up. Bob\nremembered what King gave him last year and he tried to dodge. By this\ntime, the whole place was in an uproar, sticks were flying about, people\nwere struggling, shouting, swearing, and it looked like being as nasty a\nlittle riot as one could wish to see.\"\n\n\"How _horrible_!\" Lucy said with a shudder. \"I wish Bernard had never\nbeen near the place.\"\n\n\"Well, then, all of a sudden,\" the curate continued, \"a mighty voice was\nheard from the platform. It was Carr! I never heard a man with such a\nbig, arresting voice. He was in a white rage, his eyes flashed, he\nlooked most impressive. He frightened every one, he really did, and in a\nminute or two he got every one to leave the hall quietly and in order.\"\n\n\"How splendid!\" Lucy said. She thought that she could see the whole\nscene, the squalid struggle, the strong man dominating it all. Her hands\nwere clenched in sympathy. Her teeth were locked.\n\n\"He's a big man,\" the young fellow replied, \"a bigger man than any one\nknows. He'll be round here this evening, I expect. You must get him to\ntell you all about it, Miss Blantyre.\"\n\nA few minutes afterwards every one went to church. It was a choral\nevensong that night, and sung somewhat later than the usual service was.\nBlantyre did not appear. Lucy would not have him wakened. She knew that\nsleep was the best thing for over-tired nerves, that he would view the\nfutile occurrences of the afternoon less unhappily after sleep.\n\nIt was after nine o'clock when the vicar eventually made his appearance.\nHe was worn and sad in face, his smile had lost its merriment. Lucy had\nmade them all come into her room for music. They wanted playing out of\ntheir depression, and in ministering to them she forgot her own quandary\nand perplexities. At last the light, melodious numbers of _Faust_ and\n_Carmen_ had some influence with them, and about ten the three men were\nvisibly brighter. They were in the habit of taking a cup of tea before\ngoing to bed; to-night Lucy made them have soup instead.\n\nIt was a few minutes after the hour, when the bell rang; in a moment or\ntwo, Bob--extremely anxious to efface himself as much as possible after\nthe event of the afternoon--showed Mr. Carr into the drawing-room.\n\nHis face was very white and set. \"I am extremely sorry,\" he said, \"to\ncall on you so late, but have you seen the evening papers, any of you?\"\nNo one had seen them.\n\n\"I'm afraid there is something that will give you great pain, a great\nshock. It has grieved me deeply, it must be worse for you, my\nfriend--thinking as you do of the Eucharist.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Father Blantyre said.\n\nCarr held out an evening paper. \"Briefly,\" he said, \"while we were at\nthe meeting down here, Hamlyn, Senior, had a special gathering of\nextreme Protestants in Exeter Hall. He produced a _consecrated wafer_\nand exhibited it, stating that he had purloined it from the Holy\nCommunion service the day before. This was corroborated by two men who\nwent with him and were witnesses of the act.\"\n\nEvery vestige of colour left the faces of the three priests of St.\nElwyn's. Suddenly Blantyre gave a little moan and fainted, sinking on to\na couch behind him.\n\nThey brought him round without much trouble, and King helped him\nup-stairs to bed, refusing to let him go into the church as he wished.\nLucy saw that tears were falling silently over the grim, heavy face of\nKing.\n\nWhen the vicar was safely bestowed in his room, Stephens and King,\nsaying nothing to each other, but acting with a common impulse, went\ninto the church. In the side chapel, where the dim red glow of the\nsanctuary-lamp was the only light, they remained on their knees all\nnight, praying before the Blessed Sacrament.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE REPARATION OF JANE PRITCHETT, EX-PROTESTANT\n\n\nOn the following morning, Blantyre went away. He was absent from Hornham\nfor two days, and it was understood that he had gone to visit Lord\nHuddersfield. Hamlyn and his doings were not in any way mentioned by the\ntwo other clergy.\n\nThe days of his absence were a time of great unrest and mental debate\nfor Lucy.\n\nShe was at a crisis in her life. She had definitely come to a moment\nwhen she must choose between one thing or another. It is a commonplace\nof some preachers to say that this moment of definite choice comes to\nevery one at least once in their lives. But the truth of the assertion\nis at least doubtful. Many people are spared the pain of what is more or\nless an instantaneous decision. They merge themselves gradually, in this\nor that direction, the right or the wrong. And they are the more\nfortunate.\n\nFor Lucy, however, the tide was at the flood. She must push out upon it\nand hoist her sail, but whether she should go east or west, run before\nthe wind or beat up into the heart of it--that she must now decide.\n\nShe had no illusions about her position. To marry James Poyntz meant one\nthing, to refuse him meant another. In the first place, she wanted to be\nmarried. Physically, socially, mentally, she was perfectly aware that\nshe would be happier. Her nature needed the complement of a husband. She\nwas pure, but not virginal, in temperament. She put it to herself\nthat--as she believed--she had a talent for wifehood.\n\nHere was a young man who satisfied all her instincts of what was fitting\nin a man she could marry. She did not love him, but she admired, liked,\nand respected him. Something of the not unhealthy cynicism--the sane\ncynicism--of a woman of the world had entered into her. She wasn't a\nsentimentalist, she didn't think that the \"love\" of the poet and\nstory-teller was the only thing in the relation of a wife to a husband.\nShe had seen many marriages, she had watched the firm, strong affection\nthat came after marriage, and she saw that it was a good, worthy, and\nconstant thing.\n\nShe had been much in France. Lady Linquest had friends and relatives\namong the stately families of the Faubourg St. Germain. Those weddings\nin France that were decorously arranged by papa and mamma, how did they\nturn out? On the whole well enough, happily enough. It was only the\nignorant lower middle-class of England that thought France was a mighty\n_lupanar_ and adultery a joke.\n\nAnd in marrying Poyntz she would marry a man whom she was worthy of\nintellectually. He would satisfy every instinct she possessed--_every\ninstinct but one_.\n\nAnd here, she knew, here lay the root of the whole question.\n\nThe very strongest influence that can direct and urge any soul towards a\nholy life is the society and companionship, even the distant\ncontemplation, of a saintly man or woman.\n\nThe force of example acts as a lens. It focuses all the impulses towards\ngood and concentrates them. In making clear the beauty of holiness, it\nshows that it is not a vague beauty, but an ideal which may be realised\nby the observer.\n\nLucy had been living with saintly folk. Bernard was saintly--if ever a\nman was; the bulldog, King, was a saint and walked with God. Stephens\nwas a schoolboy, full of slang and enthusiasm, blunders and love of\nhumanity, but he was saintly too. Miss Cass, the housekeeper with the\nface of a horse, who called \"day\" \"dy\" and the Mass \"Mess,\" she was a\nholy woman. Before the ugly, unlettered spinster, the society girl, with\nall her power and charm, had learned to bow in her mind.\n\nThat was Lucy's great virtue. She was frank with herself. She glossed\nover nothing, she pretended nothing. It is the person who postures and\nposes before himself who is in the chiefest danger. And Carr, well, Carr\nwas a saintly man also. He hadn't got the more picturesque trimmings\nthat the others had. His spiritual life was not so vividly expressed in,\nand witnessed to, by his clothes and daily habit of life. But he was a\nsaintly man. As she thought of him Lucy thought of him as man _and_\nsaint.\n\nAll these people lived for one thing, had one aim, believed one thing.\n\nThey lived to serve our Lord, to do His work, to adore Him.\n\nWhy, even Bob, the navvy, whom Father King had knocked down as a beery\nblackguard and set up again as a butler, even Bob was feeling a slow\nand ponderous way towards sainthood! He could not boast a first-rate\nintelligence, but, he _loved_ our Lord.\n\nYes!--ah, that was the most beautiful thing of all. To _love_ Him.\n\n\"Do I _love_ Him?\" Lucy asked herself during those two days.\n\nAnd the answer that came to her was a very strange one. It was this. She\nloved our Lord, but she could not make up her mind to give up everything\nearthly and material for Him. She wanted a compromise.\n\nIn fact, she was near the gates of the spiritual life, but she had not\nentered them.\n\nShe did not disguise one fact from herself. If she married Poyntz she\nwould immediately be withdrawn, and withdrawn for ever, from the new\ninfluences which were beginning to permeate her, to draw her towards the\nstate of a Christian who is vowed and militant.\n\nShe knew the influence that as her husband James would have. His ideals\nwere noble and high, his life was pure and worthy. But it was not the\nlife that Christ had made so plain and clear. The path the Church showed\nwas not the path James would follow, or one which as his wife she could\nwell follow.\n\nShe believed sincerely, as her brother himself would have told her, that\na man like Poyntz was only uneducated in spiritual things, not lost to\nthem for ever.\n\nBut she was also sure that he would make no spiritual discoveries in\nthis world.\n\nMarriage with him meant going back. It meant turning away from the\nLight.\n\nThe struggle with the training of years, the earthly ideals of nearly\nall her life, was acute. But hour by hour, she began to draw nearer and\nnearer to the inevitable solution.\n\nNow and again, she went into the silent church. Then, kneeling before\nthe Blessed Sacrament, she saw the path quite clear.\n\nAfterwards, back in her room again, the voices of the material world\nwere heard. But they became weaker and more weak as the hours went on.\n\nOn the day that Bernard was to return, she received a long and\npassionate letter from her lover.\n\nHe had the wonderful gift of prose. He understood, as hardly any of us\nunderstand, how to treat words (on certain occasions of using them) as\nif they were almost notes in some musical composition. His letter was\nbeautiful.\n\nShe read it page by page, with a heart that had begun to beat with\nquickened interest, until she came to a passage which jarred and hurt.\nJames had made an end of his most impassioned and intimate passages, and\nwas making his keen satiric comment upon general affairs--quite as he\nhad done in his letters before his actual avowal.\n\n\"I saw my father to-day in St. James, and we went to his club and\nlunched together. I respect him more and more, for his consistency,\nevery time I meet him. And I wonder more and more at his childishness at\nthe same time. It seems he had just left your brother. As you are in the\nthick of all the mumbo-jumbo, perhaps you will have heard of the\nbusiness that seems to be agitating my poor dear sire into a fever. It\nseems that, a day or two ago, an opposition hero who has consecrated his\nlife to the Protestant cause--none other than the notorious Hamlyn\nhimself--purloined a consecrated wafer from some church and has been\nexhibiting it at public meetings to show that it is just as it ever\nwas--a pinch of flour and no more. My father has made himself utterly\nmiserable over the proceedings of this merry-andrew. As you know, I take\nbut little interest in the squabbles of the creeds, but the spectacle\nof a sane and able man caught up in the centre of these phantasies makes\nme pause and makes my contempt sweeten into pity.\"\n\nAs Lucy read the letter, she thought of the scene on the night when Carr\nhad brought the news. She thought of her own quick pain as she heard it,\nof how her brother was struck down as with a sword. And especially there\ncame to her the vision of the two priests, King and Stephens, praying\nall night long before the Host.\n\nShe pushed the letter away from her, nor did she read it again. It\nseemed alien, out of tune with her life.\n\nShe went into the church to pray.\n\nWhen she came away, her resolution was nearly taken.\n\nBernard came home about three in the afternoon. His manner was quiet. He\nwas sad, but he seemed relieved also.\n\nLucy was walking in the garden with him, soon after his return, when\nStephens and Dr. Hibbert came down from the house and walked quickly up\nto them.\n\n\"Vicar,\" the doctor said, \"Miss Pritchett is dying.\"\n\nBlantyre started. \"Oh, I didn't know it was as bad as that,\" he said.\n\"Is it imminent?\"\n\n\"A matter of twenty hours I should say,\" the doctor replied; \"I bring\nyou a message from her.\"\n\nBlantyre's face lighted up. Great tenderness came over it as he heard\nthat the woman who had injured him and sought to harm the Church had\nsent him a message.\n\n\"Poor woman,\" he said; \"what is it--God bless her!\"\n\n\"She has asked for you and the other clergy to come to her. She wishes\nme to bring you and such other members of the congregation as will come.\nShe wishes to make a profession of Faith.\"\n\n\"But when, how--\" the vicar asked, bewildered.\n\nThe doctor explained. \"The Hamlyns are with her; she is frightened by\nthem, but not only that, she bitterly repents what she has done. Poor\nsoul! Blantyre, she is very penitent, she remembers the Faith. She\nasks--\" He drew the vicar aside. Lucy could hear no more. But she saw\ndeep sympathy come out upon her brother's face.\n\nThe three men--Stephens had remained with the doctor--came near her\nagain.\n\n\"My motor is outside,\" the doctor said hurriedly.\n\n\"How long would it take?\" asked the vicar.\n\n\"----if the Bishop is in--back in an hour and a half----\"\n\nThe vicar took Stephens aside and spoke earnestly with him for a few\nmoments. The young man listened gravely and then hurried away. Before\nthe vicar and the doctor joined Lucy again--they stood in private talk a\nmoment--she heard the \"toot\" of the motor-car hum on the other side of\nthe garden wall.\n\nWondering what all this might mean, she was about to cross the lawn\ntowards the two men, when she saw Father King and Mr. Carr coming out of\nthe house. These two joined the vicar and Dr. Hibbert. The four men\nstood in a ring. Blantyre seemed to be explaining something to the\nnew-comers. Now and then the doctor broke in with a burst of rapid\nexplanation.\n\nLucy began to be full of wonder. She felt ignored, she tried not to feel\nthat. Something was afoot that she did not quite understand.\n\nIn the middle of her wonder the men came towards her.\n\nBernard took her arm. \"Mavourneen,\" he said, \"will you come with us to\npoor Miss Pritchett? She's been asking if you'll come and forgive her\nand part good friends. She may die to-night, the doctor says. You'll\ncome?\"\n\n\"Of course I'll come, dear.\"\n\n\"She has repented of her hostility to the Church, and desires to make a\npublic statement of her faith before she dies. And she has asked for the\nSacrament of Unction.... Stephens has gone to the Bishop of Stepney on\nthe doctor's motor-car. In an hour we will go to Malakoff.\"\n\nThe doctor took King by the arm and led him away. They talked earnestly\ntogether.\n\nBlantyre turned to Carr.\n\n\"Will ye come with us all to the poor soul's bedside?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" Carr answered. \"I don't know what you purpose exactly--and I\ndon't care! I trust you as a brother now, Blantyre, I am learning every\nday. I'm a conservative, you know, new things are distasteful to me. But\nI am learning that there are medicines, _pro salute anim\u00e6_.\"\n\n\"New things!\" Blantyre said; \"ye're an old Protestant at heart still.\nDid they teach ye _no_ history at Cambridge except that the Church of\nEngland began at the Reformation? Now, listen while I tell you what the\nservice is. You remember St. James v. 14, 15?\"\n\nCarr nodded. He began to quote from memory, for his knowledge of the\nScriptures was profound, a knowledge even more accurate and full than\nperhaps any of the three priests of St. Elwyn's could claim, though they\nwere scholars and students one and all.\n\n\"Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and\nlet them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of our Lord;\nand the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise\nhim up, and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose that is fairly explicit?\" Blantyre said. \"Mr. Hamlyn\nwould tell us that Unction is a conjuring trick invented by the Jesuits.\nAnd you have always thought it Popish and superstitious. Now, haven't\nyou, Carr, be honest!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, you will see the service to-day. We follow the ancient order of\nthe Church of England. Why did you object, Carr? I'd like to get at\nyour mental attitude. What is there unscriptural, bad, or unseemly about\nUnction? Here's a poor woman who has strayed from the fold. She wishes\nto die at peace with every one, she wishes that the inward unction of\nthe Holy Spirit may be poured into the wounds of her soul, she wants to\nbe forgiven for the sake of our Lord's most meritorious Cross and\nPassion! If it is God's will, she may be cured.\"\n\nHe spoke with great fervour and earnestness.\n\nCarr bowed his head and thought. \"Yes,\" he said, \"I have been very\nprejudiced and hard, sometimes. It is so easy to condemn what one does\nnot know about, so hard to have sympathy with what one has not\nappreciated.\"\n\nBlantyre caught him by the arm and they walked the lawn for a long time\nin fraternal intercourse.\n\nLucy sat down with the doctor, but her eyes often turned to the tall,\ngrave figure, whose lengthening shadow sometimes reached to her feet and\ntouched them.\n\nAt last they heard the panting of the returning motor-car. Stephens had\narrived with the oil that the Bishop had blessed.\n\nThe whole party got into the car, which was a large one, and they set\noff rapidly through the streets towards Malakoff House.\n\nHow strange it was, Lucy thought, this swift career of moderns in the\nwonderful machine of their age, this rush to the bedside of a dying\nwoman with the last consolation of the Church! It was full of awe, but\nfull of sweetness also. It seemed to show--and how plainly--the divine\ncontinuity of the Faith, the harmonic welding of the order and\ntraditions of our Lord's own time with the full vivid life of the\nnineteenth century.\n\nThey were shown into the grim house. Truly the shadow of death seemed to\nlie there, was exhaled from the massive funereal furniture of a bygone\ngeneration, with all its faded pomp and circumstance.\n\nThe mistress of it all was going away from it for ever, would never hold\nher tawdry court in that grim drawing-room any more.\n\nDr. Coxe, Hibbert's assistant, came down-stairs and met them.\n\n\"I have got the two Hamlyns out of the house at last,\" he whispered.\n\"They were distressing the patient greatly. I insisted, however. We had\na row on the stairs--fortunately, I don't think the patient could hear\nit. I'm sorry, doctor, but I had to use a little physical persuasion to\nthe young one.\"\n\n\"Never mind, Coxe,\" Hibbert answered. \"I'll see that nothing comes of\nit. They won't dare to do anything. I will see to that. Is Miss\nPritchett ready? Can we go up?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the young man answered, looking curiously at the four priests and\nthe grave girl who was with them in her gay summer frock. \"Miss Davies\nis there.\"\n\nHe was a big, young Scotsman, with a profound contempt for religion, but\nskilled and tender in his work, nevertheless.\n\n\"Will you come up?\" Hibbert whispered, taking him a little apart from\nthe others.\n\n\"I'd rather be excused, old man,\" he answered. \"Call me if I'm wanted. I\ncan't stand this mumbo-jumbo, you know!\"\n\nHibbert nodded curtly. He understood the lad very well. \"Will you follow\nme, Father?\" he said to Blantyre.\n\nBlantyre put on his surplice and stole. Then they all went silently up\nthe wide stairs, with their soft carpet and carved balusters, into the\ndarkened chamber of death.\n\nThe dying woman was propped up by pillows. Her face was the colour of\ngrey linen, the fringes of hair she wore in health were gone.\n\nA faint smile came to her lips. Then, as she saw Lucy, she called to her\nin a clear, thin voice that seemed as if it came from very far away.\n\n\"Kiss me, my dear,\" she said; \"forgive me.\"\n\nLucy kissed the old, wrinkled face tenderly. Her tears fell upon it in a\nsacrament of forgiveness and holy amity.\n\n\"I want just to say to all of you,\" Miss Pritchett said, \"that I have\nbeen untrue to what I really believed, and I have helped the enemies of\nthe Faith. I never forgot your teaching, Father, I knew all the time I\nwas doing wrong. I ask all of you to forgive me as I believe Jesus has\nforgiven me.\"\n\nA murmur of kindliness came from them all.\n\n\"Then I can go in peace,\" she gasped. Then with a faint and pathetic\nshadow of her old manner she turned to Gussie. \"Hush!\" she said. \"Stop\nsniffling, Miss Davies! I am very happy. Now, Father----\"\n\nHer eyes closed and her hands remained still. They saw all earthly\nthoughts die out of the wrinkled old face, now turned wholly to God.\n\nThey all knelt save the vicar, who had placed the oil in an ampulla upon\na table.\n\nThen he began the 71st Psalm. \"In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust, let\nme never be put to confusion: but rid me, and deliver me, in Thy\nrighteousness, incline Thine ear unto me, and save me.\"\n\nThere was no sound in the chamber save that of the ancient Hebrew song.\n\n\"Forsake me not, O God, in mine old age, when I am grey-headed: until I\nhave showed Thy strength unto this generation, and Thy power to all them\nthat are yet for to come.\n\n\"Thy righteousness, O God, is very high: and great things are they that\nThou hast done; O God, who is like unto Thee?\"\n\nThen, all together, they said the antiphon: \"_O Saviour of the world,\nwho by Thy Cross and precious Blood hast redeemed us, save us and help\nus, we humbly beseech Thee, O Lord._\"\n\nThe central figure in the huge four-post bed lay still and waxen. But\nwhen the priest came up to it with the oil, the eyes opened and looked\nsteadfastly into his face.\n\nHe dipped his thumb into the silver vessel and made the sign of the\nCross on the eyes, the ears, the lips, the nostrils, and the hands,\nsaying each time as he did so:\n\n\"_Through this unction, and of His most tender mercy, may the Lord\npardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed._\"\n\nThe whispering words that brought renewal of lost innocence to the dying\nwoman sank into Lucy's heart, never to leave it. In the presence of\nthese wondrous mysteries, death, and death vanquished by Christ, sin\npurged and forgiven in the Sacrament, her resolution was made. She knew\nthat she would fix her eyes upon the Cross, never to take them from it\nmore.\n\nShe saw her brother bending over the still figure, his white surplice\nghostlike in the gloom of the hangings, as he wiped the anointed parts\nwith wool.\n\nThen Stephens brought him a basin of clear water and he washed his\nhands.\n\nRaising his arm, he said:\n\n\"_In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, may\nthis anointing with oil be to thee for the purification of thy mind and\nbody, and may it fortify and defend thee against the darts of evil\nspirits._ Amen.\"\n\nTwo more prayers were said and then came the Blessing.\n\nAll rose from their knees. As Lucy slipped from the room, she saw the\ndoctor was bending over the waxen figure in the bed.\n\nShe heard her brother and his two assistant priests beginning other\nprayers, in a louder voice, a sort of litany, it seemed.\n\nShe found Carr was beside her descending the stairs.\n\n\"What is that?\" she whispered.\n\n\"The prayers for the commendation of a departing soul; she is going. God\nrest her and give her peace.\"\n\n\"Amen,\" said Lucy.\n\nThey came down into the hall, where they stood for a moment quite alone.\nBoth were greatly agitated, both felt drawn together by some great\npower.\n\n\"How beautiful it is!\" Carr said at length. \"Our Lord is with her. May\nwe all die so.\"\n\n\"Poor, dear woman!\"\n\n\"In a few moments she will be in the supreme and ineffable glory of\nParadise. I want to see trees and flowers, to think happily of the\nwonderful mercy and goodness of God among the things He has made. I\nshould like to walk in the park for an hour, to hear the birds and see\nthe children play. Will you come with me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I will come.\"\n\nHe took her hand and bowed low over it.\n\n\"I have a great thing to ask of you,\" he said.\n\nThey walked soberly together until they came to the railed-in open\nspace. To each the air seemed thick with unspoken thoughts.\n\nThe park was a poor place enough. But flowers grew there, the grass was\ngreen, it was not quite Hornham. They sat upon a bench and for a minute\nor two both were silent. Lucy knew a serenity at this moment such as she\nhad hardly ever known. She was as some mariner who, at the close of a\nlong and tempestuous voyage, comes at even-tide towards harbour over a\nstill sea. The coastwise lights begin to glimmer, the haven is near.\n\nIn her mind and heart, at that moment, she was reconciled to and in tune\nwith all that is beautiful in human and Divine.\n\nShe sat there, this well-known society girl, who, all her life, had\nlived with the great and wealthy of the world, in great content. In the\n\"park\" of Hornham, with the poor clergyman, she knew supreme content.\n\nIn a low voice that shook with the intensity of his feeling and yet was\nresolute and informed with strength, Carr asked Lucy to be his wife.\n\nShe gave him her hand very simply and happily. A river that had long\nbeen weary had at last wound safe to sea. That she should be the wife of\nthis man was, she knew, one of the gladdest and most merciful ordinances\nof God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nTHE ARCHBISHOP AND THE HAMLYNS\n\n\n\"Gussie Davies says that she's sure that Miss Pritchett hasn't added a\ncodicil,\" said Mr. Sam Hamlyn, coming into the inner room at the offices\nof the Luther League.\n\nMr. Hamlyn, Senior, had been at work for some hours, but his son had\nonly just arrived in the Strand. It was the day after Miss Pritchett's\ndeath, and Sam had remained in North London to make a few inquiries.\n\n\"What a blessing of Providence,\" said the secretary. \"There's something\nto be said for a ritualistic way of dying, after all! If it 'adn't been\nfor her messing about with the oil and that, she'd have sent for her\nsolicitor and cut the League out of her will! The priests have been\n'oist with their own petard this time.\"\n\n\"I wonder how much it'll be,\" Sam said reflectively.\n\n\"I don't anticipate a penny less than two thousand pound,\" said Mr.\nHamlyn, triumphantly. \"P'raps a good bit over. You see, we got 'er just\nat the last moment. It was me taking the consecrated wafer did it. She\nwoke up as pleased as Punch, it gave her strength for the afternoon, and\nhad the lawyer round at once. I never thought she'd go off so sudden,\nthough.\"\n\n\"Nor did I, Pa. Well, it's a blessing that she was able to contribute\nher mite towards Protestant Truth before she went.\"\n\n\"What?\" said Mr. Hamlyn sharply; \"mite?--has Gussie Davies any idea of\n'ow much the legacy is, then?\"\n\n\"I only spoke figuratively like, Father.\"\n\n\"How you startled me, Sam!\" said the secretary, his face resuming its\nwonted expression of impudent good humour.\n\n\"How's the cash list to-day?\" Sam asked.\n\n\"Pretty fair,\" answered his father, \"matter of five pound odd. It's me\ngetting hold of that wafer, it's sent the subscriptions up wonderful. I\nwouldn't part----\"\n\nSam, who was sitting with his back to the door of the room, saw his\nfather's jaw drop suddenly. His voice died away with a murmur, his face\nwent pale, his eyes protruded.\n\nThe younger man wheeled round his chair. Then he started up, with an\nexclamation of surprise and fear.\n\nBoth the Protestant champions, indeed, behaved as if they had been\ndiscovered in some fraud by an agent of the law.\n\nTwo people had come suddenly into the room, without knocking or being\nannounced. The secretaries saw the blanched face of a clerk behind them.\n\nDuring its existence, the Luther League had welcomed some fairly\nwell-known folk within its doors.\n\nThis afternoon, however, a most unexpected honour had been paid to\nit--probably the reason of Hamlyn's extreme uneasiness.\n\nA broad, square man of considerable height, with a stern, furrowed face,\nwearing an apron and gaiters, stood there, with a thunder-cloud of anger\non his face.\n\nIt was His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury.\n\nLord Huddersfield was with him.\n\nThe Archbishop looked steadfastly at Hamlyn for a few seconds. His face\nwas terrible.\n\nIn the presence of the great spiritual lord who is next to the royal\nfamily in the precedence of the realm, the famous scholar, the caustic\nwit, the utter force and _power_ of intellect, the two champions were\ndumb. Hamlyn had never known anything like it before. The fellow's\nbounce and impudence utterly deserted him.\n\nThe Archbishop spoke. His naturally rather harsh and strident voice was\nrendered tenfold more penetrating and terrifying by his wrath.\n\n\"Sir,\" he said, in a torrent of menacing sound, \"you have profaned the\nEucharist, you have mocked the holy things of God, you have made the\nmost sacred ordinance of our Lord a mountebank show. You boast that you\nhave purloined the Consecrated Bread from church, you have exhibited it.\nRestore it to me, wretched man that you are. By the authority of God, I\ndemand you to restore it; by my authority as head of the English Church,\nI order you.\"\n\nHamlyn shrank from the terrible old man clothed in the power of his\ngreat office and the majesty of his holy anger, shrank as a man shrinks\nfrom a flame.\n\nWith shaking hands he took a bunch of keys from his pocket. He dropped\nthem upon the floor, unable to open the lock of the safe.\n\nYoung Hamlyn picked them up. He turned the key in the wards with a loud\nclick and pulled at the massive door until it slowly swung open.\n\nLord Huddersfield knelt down.\n\nHamlyn took from a shelf a little box that had held elastic bands.\n\nThe Archbishop started and flushed a deep crimson.\n\nHe took a pyx from his pocket and reverently took out the desecrated\nHost from the box, placing it in the pyx.\n\nThen, with a face that was suffused to a deep purple, he touched the\nkneeling peer upon the shoulder. Lord Huddersfield rose with a deep sob\nof relief.\n\nThe Archbishop looked _once_ at Hamlyn, a look the man never forgot.\n\nThen the two visitors turned and went away as swiftly and silently as\nthey had come.\n\nIt was a long time before either father or son spoke a word.\n\nAt last Hamlyn cleared his throat and mouthed a sentence. It would not\ncome. All that Sam could catch were the words\n\n     \"PROTESTANT TRUTH!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_A Selection from the Catalogue of_\n\nG. P. PUTNAM'S SONS\n\nComplete Catalogues sent on application\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen It Was Dark\n\nThe Story of a Great Conspiracy\n\nBy GUY THORNE\n\nAuthor of \"A Lost Cause\"\n\n\"The most enthralling and interest-compelling work of fiction this\nreviewer has ever encountered.\"--_The American, Nashville._\n\n\"It is in its wonderful tonic effect upon Christianity in England that\nthe book is showing its most remarkable effects. It has become the theme\nof hundreds of sermons, and long extracts are being printed in the\nsecular press as well as in the religious publications. It is known to\nhave been the cause of a number of revivals throughout England, and its\nstrange effect is increasing daily.\"--_N. Y. American._\n\nTHE BISHOP OF LONDON preaching at Westminster Abbey said: \"I wonder if\nany of my hearers have read that remarkable work of fiction 'When It Was\nDark.' The author paints in wonderful colors what would be the condition\nof the world if (as in the story is supposed to be the case) a\nconviction had come upon the people that the resurrection had never\noccurred.\"\n\n\"A critical handling of current journalism, ecclesiasticalism, and\nliberalism. A novel written from the inside as well as from observation;\nand from the heart as well as from the head.\"--_Congregationalist._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Scarlet Pimpernel\n\nBy Baroness Orczy\n\n_Author of \"The Emperor's Candlesticks,\" etc._\n\nA dramatic romance of the French Revolution and the \u00c9migr\u00e9 Nobles. The\n\"Scarlet Pimpernel\" was the chief of a daring band of young Englishmen\nleagued together to rescue members of the French nobility from the\nTerrorists of France. The identity of the brilliant and resourceful\nleader is sacredly guarded by his followers and eagerly sought by the\nagents of the French Revolutionary Government. Scenes of intrigue,\ndanger, and devotion, follow close one upon another. The heroine is a\ncharming, fearless woman who in the end shares the honors with the\n\"Scarlet Pimpernel.\" In a stage version prepared by the author _The\nScarlet Pimpernel_ was one of the dramatic successes of the last London\nseason, Mr. Fred Terry and Miss Julia Neilson acting the leading r\u00f4les.\n\n\"Something distinctly out of the common, well conceived, vividly told,\nand stirring from start to finish.\"--_London Telegraph._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the Sign of The Jack o' Lantern\n\n_By_ MYRTLE REED\n\nAuthor of \"Lavender and Old Lace,\" \"The Master's Violin,\" etc.\n\nA genial story of the adventures of a New York newspaper man and his\nyoung wife, who, at the end of their honeymoon, go to an unexplored\nheirloom in the shape of a peculiar old house, where many strange and\namusing things happen. There is a mystery in the house, as well as a\nsignificant portrait of an uncanny cat. A vein of delicate humor, and a\nhomely philosophy runs through the story.\n\n\"Miss Reed is delightfully witty, delightfully humorous, delightfully\ncynical, delightfully sane, and above all, delightfully\nspontaneous.\"--_Philadelphia Telegraph._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLove Alone is Lord\n\n_By_ F. Frankfort Moore\n\n_Author of \"The Jessamy Bride,\" etc._\n\nThis latest story by the author of _The Jessamy Bride_ has for its theme\nthe only really ideal love affair in the romantic life of Lord Byron.\nThe story opens during the poet's boyhood and tells of his early\ndevotion to his cousin, Mary Chaworth. Mr. Moore has followed history\nvery closely, and his descriptions of London society when Byron was the\nrage are as accurate as they are dramatic. Lady Caroline Lamb figures\nprominently in the story, but the heroine continues to be Byron's early\nlove, Mary Chaworth. His attachment for his cousin was the strongest and\nmost enduring of his life, and it failed of realization only by the\nnarrowest of chances.\n\n_A Fascinating Romance_","title":"A Lost Cause","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":62056}