{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_73474/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_73474","id":"gutenberg_73474","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73474","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Clergy -- Fiction","Romans \u00e0 clef","Satire"],"text":"TRIMBLERIGG\n\n  A Book of Revelation\n\n           *\n\n  \u2018O, let him pass! he hates him,\n  That would upon the rack of this tough world\n  Stretch him out longer.\u2019\n\n\n\n\n_By the Same Author_\n\n  ANGELS AND MINISTERS\n  DETHRONEMENTS\n  ECHO DE PARIS\n  MOONSHINE AND CLOVER\n  A DOORWAY IN FAIRYLAND\n  ALL FELLOWS\n  AND THE CLOAK OF FRIENDSHIP\n\n\n[Illustration: JONATHAN TRIMBLERIGG\n\n_From a drawing by_\n\nEdmond X. Kapp]\n\n\n\n\n  TRIMBLERIGG\n\n  A Book of Revelation\n  by\n  Laurence Housman\n\n         *\n\n  With a\n  frontispiece from a recent portrait\n  by Kapp\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n  Jonathan Cape Ltd\n  Eleven Gower Street London\n\n\n\n\n  FIRST PUBLISHED IN MCMXXIV\n  SECOND IMPRESSION IN MCMXXIV\n  MADE & PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN\n  BY BUTLER & TANNER LTD\n  FROME AND\n  LONDON\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n_Contents_\n\n\n  \u00b6 EDITORIAL. The Editor excuses himself from\n      allegiance to the god of Mr. Trimblerigg                 9\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 1. Mr. Trimblerigg becomes acquainted\n      with his deity and finds him useful:\n      contends with his sister for virtue, and\n      acquires grace: converts his uncle as by a\n      miracle, and receives the call                          17\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 2. Seeking guidance of Scripture,\n      zeal for the Lord\u2019s house consumes him:\n      the Lord\u2019s house is consumed also, and the\n      cause of religion is well served                        30\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 3. The eye of Davidina: he puts\n      on himself a price, which she takes off again.\n      In search of a career he turns to True Belief           39\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 4. He wrestles mightily with his\n      Uncle Phineas over the interpretation of\n      Scripture, and by subtlety prevails. His\n      uncle sends him to college                              49\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 5. Calculating his future chances he\n      stands in a minority for truth: advocates the\n      ministry of women: preaches his first sermon            64\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 6. Having tried, and failed, to save\n      Davidina from drowning, he tells a modest\n      story of himself, which is allowed to stand             72\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 7. He tries to save himself from\n      Davidina, and fails. The wicked incredulity\n      of Davidina, and its effect upon his after-life         82\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 8. Meaning to choose a wife, he has\n      a wife chosen for him. His Uncle Phineas\n      dies: he finds his future is provided for               88\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 9. He enters the ministry of True\n      Belief, and prepares for himself a way out:\n      is saved by Davidina from an early indiscretion:\n      marries, and has a family                               97\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 10. The ministry of women a burning\n      question: embarrasses his oratory. On\n      the question of verbal inspiration True\n      Belief turns him out                                   105\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 11. He becomes a Free Evangelical: from\n      the militancy of women takes refuge\n      in the organization of foreign missions                118\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 12. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s deity exercises\n      his divine prerogative, and watches him\n      take a bath: his honesty under trying circumstances:\n      his success as an organizer                            124\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 13. His liking for adventure and\n      experiment exposes him to danger: escaping\n      without loss of character, he finds cause to\n      complain of his wife\u2019s                                 129\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 14. Invents his famous doctrine of\n      \u2018Relative Truth\u2019: his success in the mission\n      field. He begins to invest: looks for a\n      popular cause, and finds one                           137\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 15. His popular cause being\n      threatened by his investments, he makes a\n      sacrifice, and wins: becomes a power in the\n      financial world, and achieves fame                     144\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 16. By a very slight departure from\n      the truth (relative), he gets the better of\n      Davidina, whereby his conscience is greatly\n      comforted                                              156\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 17. He tastes the sweets of popular\n      success: forgives an enemy: sees his star in\n      the ascendant, reads poetry, and sleeps the\n      sleep of the just                                      161\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 18. A strange awakening: finds\n      himself the recipient of an embarrassing\n      honour: his difficulty in finding a place for\n      it under present conditions                            168\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 19. The effect of heavenly signs\n      on the young and innocent. His wife discovers\n      for the first time that he is a holy\n      man: her remorse                                       181\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 20. To escape from the beauty of\n      holiness Mr. Trimblerigg contemplates a life\n      of sin, but finds himself stuck fast in virtue.\n      Effects of his wife\u2019s confession: his fear of\n      Davidina: he narrowly escapes death                    189\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 21. Refusing to make an exhibition\n      of himself, he becomes unpopular: escapes\n      the fury of the mob, meets Davidina, and is\n      saved from further embarrassment. The\n      story of an onlooker                                   200\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 22. Mr. Trimblerigg comes out\n      top: Relative Truth in war-time the only\n      solution: attends funeral of a celebrity, and\n      makes arrangements for his own                         209\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 23. He becomes the voice of the\n      nation: secures the ministry of women:\n      makes peace-mottoes for the million: hears\n      a voice from the Beyond forbidding him to\n      hew Agag                                               215\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 24. Relative Truth in black and\n      white becomes a problem. For the rescue of\n      his own reputation adopts the policy of\n      reprisals: the Free Churches are divided               225\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 25. Puto-Congo: friendly comparison\n      of Mr. Trimblerigg to a crocodile:\n      why, in the Puto-Congo, a crocodile policy\n      had become indispensable                               232\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 26. The peaceful penetration of\n      Davidina: her wonderful ways: their effect\n      on savages. She returns to civilization, and\n     encounters Mr. Trimblerigg                              241\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 27. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s prayer\n      misses fire: he finds Davidina a comfortable\n      person to talk to: they go their separate ways         250\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 28. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s genius for\n      inconsistency: its brilliant results: risks his\n      life, and becomes founder of the Puto-Congo\n      Free State Limited                                     257\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 29. Inspired by a new idea, he\n      combines Spiritualism with Second Adventism,\n      and opens campaign to make Heaven\n      safe for Democracy                                     263\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 30. Mr. Trimblerigg, opening a\n      box of prophecy, finds that his own coming\n      has been foretold: his ambition is satisfied           274\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 31. He reverts to True Belief as\n      the best means to Relative Truth when\n      prophecies are about. Light returns to him:\n      he uses it to slay an enemy                            291\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 32. How he conquers America for\n      the new faith, competes with the Movies,\n      and starts building the New Jerusalem                  295\n\n  \u00b6 CHAPTER 33. The New Jerusalem encounters\n      unexpected opposition. The effect of\n      sticky gas on Second Adventism. Davidina\n      puts out Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s light, and in the\n      darkness that ensues his deity loses sight of\n      him                                                    308\n\n\n\n\n_Editorial_\n\n\nThe tribal deity to whom Mr. Trimblerigg owed his origin would, I\nthink, have shown a better sense of the eternal fitness of things had\nhe chosen for his amanuensis one whose theological antecedents were\nmore within his keeping and jurisdiction than my own. But when he\nvisited me with the attack of verbal inspiration which I was powerless\nto throw off in any other form than that which here follows, he seems\nrather to have assumed an intellectual agreement which certainly does\nnot exist, and to have ignored as unimportant a divergence of view\nwhich I now wish to place on record. For, to put it plainly, I do not\nworship the god of Mr. Trimblerigg; and had these pages been a complete\nexpression of my own feelings, they would have borne hostile witness\nnot so much against Mr. Trimblerigg, as against his deity.\n\nWhen nations declare war, or when gods deliver judgment against\ncriminals who are so largely of their own making,--fastening in\nself-justification on some flagrant instance of wrong-doing which,\nfor those who do not wish to reflect, puts the culprit wholly out of\ncourt,--they would do well to select their official historians from\nminds too abject and submissive to form views of their own; and of\ncourse verbal inspiration, as in the case of Balaam, is one way of\ngetting the thing done. But whereas, in that historical instance, it\nwas the ass and not the prophet who kicked last, in this instance,\nhaving delivered my message, I claim the right to exonerate myself in a\nforeword which is entirely my own. And so here, in this place--before\nhe makes revelation or utters prophecy--Balaam speaks his own mind.\n\nI do not think that Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s deity has dealt fairly by\nhim. To me he seems chargeable with the same exploitive elasticity\nas that which he exposes in Mr. Trimblerigg, whom he first cockered\nup in his own conceit by a course of tribal theology, and then\ncallously abandoned to its logical consequences when tribal theology\nwent suddenly out of fashion. For Mr. Trimblerigg was emphatically a\nproduct of that self-worship of the tribe or clan, on which divine\nIndividualism has so long fattened itself. He was brought up to\nbelieve himself one of a chosen sect of a chosen people, and to judge\nfrom a theocratic standpoint the ways, doings, and morals of other\nsects, communities, principalities, and powers. He could not remotely\nconceive, without being false to his deity, that his own was not\nimmeasurably the best religion in the world, his god a god of perfect\nbalance and proportion, and himself a chosen vessel of the Lord. In\nthat character he was always anointing himself with fresh oil, which,\nlosing its balance, ran far further than it ought to have done. But if,\nin consequence, he became an oleaginous character, whose mainly was the\nblame?\n\nI cannot acquit the deity in whose tenets he had been trained. Having\nbeen brought up to read history as a pre-eminent dispensation of\nmercies and favours to his own race, with a slight push of miracle\nat the back of it--is it any wonder that, when he applied his gospel\nto propaganda for the interests of that same race, or went out a\nmissionary to the heathen, it was with a conscientious conviction that\na little compulsion was necessary for the saving of souls?\n\nAnd so, in that shadiest episode of all his career, presented to us\nby his deity in such an unfavourable light, when the poor benighted\nheathen began painting Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s fellow-missionaries black and\ntan, and other horrible colours to indicate their hearty dislike for\na blended gospel of free salvation in Christ and duty and allegiance\nto the Puto-Congo Rubber shareholders; when they did that, he--quite\nnaturally--invoked the law of the Mosaic dispensation, and did the same\nto them: and defended himself for these gospel-reprisals by saying\nthat it would have been very unreasonable not to protect Christian\nmissionaries by the only method which savages could understand as a\nstepping-stone to the methods of Christianity.\n\nThe picture as presented is true: that was Mr. Trimblerigg all over.\nHe had a lively notion that Christianity could be induced by pagan\nmethods. But has his deity the right to cast either the first or the\nlast stone at him? If he seemed to be always carrying the New Testament\nin his coat-tail pocket and making it his foundation for occasions of\nsitting down and doing nothing, while, up and doing, it was the law of\nMoses with which he stuffed his breast: and if, when he wanted to thump\nthe big drum (as he so often did), he thumped the Old Testament, he\nwas only doing with more momentary conviction and verve and personal\nmagnetism what the larger tribalism of his day had been doing all\nalong; and his tribal deity never seems to have had the slightest\nqualms in allowing Mr. Trimblerigg to regard himself as a Christian.\n\nYet all the time the deity himself knew better, as this record\nabundantly shows; for having made Mr. Trimblerigg partly but not\nentirely in his own image, he then used him as a plaything, an object\nof curiosity; and committing him to that creed of racial aggrandisement\nof which he himself was beginning to tire, thereby reduced him\nto ridicule, made a fool of him, exalted him to the likeness and\nsimilitude of a god, and then--let him go. And though, in the ensuing\npages, he has helped himself freely to my opinions, as though\nthey were his own, I do not feel that they were honestly adopted.\nFor a god who tires of his handiwork is still responsible for it,\nhowever disillusioned; and when, employing me as his mouthpiece, Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s maker mocks at the tribal religions which have brought\nthe world so near to ruin, he remains nevertheless a deity tribal in\ncharacter, albeit a disgruntled one. And if he has man\u0153uvred this\nrecord in order to wash his hands of responsibility, it comes, I fear,\ntoo late; the source is too suspect to be regarded as impartial, and he\nhimself very much more of a Mr. Trimblerigg than he seems to be aware.\n\nAnd so my business here is to express an utter disbelief (which I hope\nreaders will bear in mind) that Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s deity was one about\nwhom it is possible to entertain the larger hope, even in the faint\ndegree suggested by Tennyson,--or that he was anything except a tribal\nsurvival to whom Mr. Trimblerigg and others gave names which did not\nproperly belong to him.\n\nWhat finally laid Mr. Trimblerigg by the heels was the fact that having\npicked up this god as he went along (finding him favourable to the main\nchance) it was the main chance--idealized as \u2018the larger hope\u2019--which\nhe really worshipped without knowing it. Upon the strength of that\ninspiration environment intoxicated him, and he drew his spiritual life\nfrom the atmosphere around him. Then he was like a bottle of seltzer,\nwhich at the first touch of the outer air begins almost explosively to\nexpand; whereas, for the bulk of us, we unbottle to it like still wine\nwithout sound or foam, accepting it as the natural element for which we\nwere born. To Mr. Trimblerigg, on the other hand, it came as a thing\ndirect from God: at the first touch of the herd-instinct he bubbled,\nand felt himself divine. And in the rush of pentecostal tongues amid\nwhich he lost his head, he forgot that atmosphere and environment\nare but small local conditions, and that, outside these, vacuum and\ninterstellar space hold the true balances of Heaven more surely and\ncorrectively than do the brief and shifting lives of men.\n\nThis spiritual adventurer, with his alert vision so curiously reduced\nin scale to seize the opportunities of day and hour, missed the march\nof time from listening too acutely to the ticks of the clock. And if he\noffers us an example for our better learning, it is mainly as showing\nwhat belittling results the herd-instinct and tribal-deism may produce\nin a mercurial and magnetic temperament,--making him imagine himself\nsomething quite other from what he really is, and his god a person far\nremoved from that category in which he has been placed.\n\nMy own interpretation of this \u2018Revelation,\u2019 which has made me its\ninvoluntary mouthpiece, is that it shows the beginning--but the\nbeginning only--of mental change in a god who has become tired of\ndeceiving himself about the work of his creation; and that it has\nbegun to dawn upon his mind--though he denies it in words--that, in\nmaking Mr. Trimblerigg, he has made another little mistake, and that\nhis creation was really stuffed as full of them as a plum-pudding is\nstuffed with plums. And I have a hope that when tribal deity becomes\nproperly apologetic for its many misshapings of a divided world,\nhumanity will begin to come by its own, and acquire a theology which is\nnot an organized hypocrisy for the bolstering up of nationalities and\npeoples.\n\nFor here we have a world full of mistakes, which is governed,\naccording to the theologians, by a God who makes none. And what\nbetween predestination and free-will, and grace abounding mixed up\nwith original sin, and orthodoxy and heterodoxy at such universal dash\nthroughout the world that not one honest soul in a million has an even\nchance of being really right,--when that is the spectacle presented to\nus in the life of the human race, it becomes something of a mockery\nto minds of intelligence to be told that their gods have never made\nmistakes.\n\nThose who have been blessed with good parents, do not like them less\nbecause of certain failings and limitations which go to the shaping of\ntheir characters; and when, arrived at the age of discretion, they have\nto withstand their failings and recognize their limitations, they do\nso with a certain amount of deference and with undiminished affection;\nbut they do not, if they are wise, or if they have the well-being of\ntheir parents really at heart,--they do not let it be thought that they\nregard them either as immaculate or infallible.\n\nI have come to the conclusion that a like duty towards its tribal\ndeities belongs to the human race; and that man has made many mistakes\nsimply by regarding these tribal emanations as immune from error,\nall-seeing, all-wise, all-loving--which they certainly are not. And I\nbelieve that Mr. Trimblerigg would have been a very much better and\nmore useful man if he could have conceived his tribal deity as one\nliable to error like himself. The terrible Nemesis which seized the\nsoul of Mr. Trimblerigg and hurled it to destruction was a very limited\nand one-sided conception of what was good and right, embodied in the\nform of a personal deity who could do no wrong.\n\nSo here, as I read it, we have the revelation of the detriment done to\na human soul by an embodied belief in itself under cover of a religious\ncreed. And the record of that process has been handed over to me, I\nsuppose, because the tribal deity responsible for the results has got\na little tired of the abject flattery of his worshippers, and a little\ndoubtful whether that relation between the human and the divine is\nreally the right one. He is suffering in fact, as I read him, from a\nslight attack of creative indigestion, and is anxious to get rid of\ncertain by-products which his system cannot properly assimilate: he is\nanxious, amongst other things, to get rid of responsibility for Mr.\nTrimblerigg. But the responsibility is there; and I allow myself this\nforeword in order to declare it in spite of the things which hereafter\nI am made to say.\n\n\u2018You cannot unscramble eggs,\u2019 is a dictum as applicable to gods as to\nmortals. And if people would remember that in their prayers, prayers\nwould be less foolish and fatuous than they often are.\n\nYou cannot unscramble eggs. And so, having scrambled Mr. Trimblerigg in\nthe making, his god was attempting a vain thing in trying to unscramble\nhim; and when Mr. Trimblerigg went on his knees and prayed, as he\noccasionally did, to be unscrambled, he was only scrambling himself yet\nmore in the fry-pan of his tribal theology.\n\nAnd indeed, when I look at him, I have to admire what a scramble of\na man he was!--how the yolk and the white of it, the good and the\nevil, the thick and the thin of his character did mix, \u2018yea, meet\nand mingle,\u2019 as he would have said himself when his platform sense\nof poetry got the better of him. And so, in the exercise of those\ncontradictory agilities of soul and brain which made him so mixed\nyet so divided a character, he skipped through life like a flea to\nAbraham\u2019s bosom, and there--after so many an _alias_ hastily assumed\nand as hastily discarded--lies waiting to answer to his true name when\ntrue names are called.\n\nWhat kind of a name, one wonders, did he finally make for himself\nin the Book of Life? In that desperate saving of his own face which\nconstitutes his career, he put out of countenance many that were\nhis betters; but it was himself that, in the process, he put out of\ncountenance most of all. Yet in the end revelation came to him; and\nwhen, in that ghastly moment of self-discovery, he stood fully charged\nwith the truth, who shall say what miraculous, what fundamental change\nit may not have wrought in him? When he followed the upward rope\nwhich led him so expeditiously Elsewhere, it may have been with the\nequipment of a new self capable of much better and more honest things\nthat he finally entered Heaven. I cannot believe that such a genius for\nself-adaptation has incontinently missed its mark. But, in that forward\naim, it may well be that he and his tribal deity have parted company;\nfor it is to be noted that, at the last gasp, the god loses sight--does\nnot know what has become of him: thinks, perhaps, that he has gone\nirretrievably and abysmally--Down. I, on the contrary, have a suspicion\nand a hope that his tendency may have been--UP.\n\n                                                                   L. H.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\n_Deus Loquitur_\n\n\nOf course when I made Mr. Trimblerigg, though I had shaped him--I\nwill not say to my liking, but at least to my satisfaction--I did not\nforesee how he would turn out. It is not my custom to look ahead. I\ncan, to be sure, do so when I please: but that makes the _d\u00e9nouement_\nso dull. I prefer, therefore--and have now made it a rule--that my\ncreations shall, in what they do, come upon me as a surprise--pleasant\nor the reverse. For since I have given them free-will, let me also\nhave the benefit of it: let them make their own plans, their own\ncareers,--attributing to me, if they must, those features of both for\nwhich they do not feel themselves responsible; and let me (in the\nmoment when they think to have fulfilled themselves) experience that\nsmall stimulus of novelty which the infinite variety and individuality\nof my creatures is always capable of providing.\n\nFor it is this spice of novelty alone which keeps me from being\nunutterably disinterested in the workings of what theologians are\npleased to call \u2018the moral purpose of the universe.\u2019\n\nSo it was that, having shaped Mr. Trimblerigg to my satisfaction, I let\nhim go. And as, with his future in his own very confident hands, he\nwent, I did not for the moment trouble to look after him.\n\nWhen I say that I shaped him to my satisfaction, I am speaking merely\nas a craftsman. I knew that I had made a very clever man. As to liking\nhim, that had nothing to do with craftsmanship, but would depend\nentirely on what he did with himself--how he appealed to me as a\nstudent of life, when--laying aside my r\u00f4le of maker, I became merely\nthe observer.\n\nIt is always an interesting experiment whether I shall be drawn to\nmy creations before they become drawn to me. Sometimes I find that\nthey interest me enormously, even while denying me with their last\nbreath. But the unrequited affections of a god have always an element\nof comedy; for though, in the spiritual direction, one\u2019s creations may\ntake a way of their own, they are never as quit of us as they suppose;\nand when they know it least they come back to us for inspection and\nrenovation. Even the soul that thinks itself lost is not so lost as to\nleave one unaware of its condition; though it may have ceased to call,\nits address is still known.\n\nIn Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s case it was all the other way--from the moment\nthat he discovered me he never let me alone; though I had cast him\nforth like bread upon the waters, not expecting to see him again for\nmany days, he came back to me early, and from that time on gave me the\nadvantage of his intimate and varying acquaintance to the very end.\n\nI wonder to myself sometimes whether I tried him as much as he tried\nme, and whether he managed to like me up to the last. This at least\nI found--that by the time he was five years old, whether I liked him\nor not, Mr. Trimblerigg liked me; and the reason for his liking was\nsimple--he found me useful.\n\nFor one day, having done something which deserved, or was supposed\nto deserve punishment, he lied about it, and was discovered. The\ndiscovery came to his ears before he was actually taxed with it. The\nsmall world on which he stood became suddenly an abyss; lifting up his\nfeet he fled for refuge to his own chamber, and was about to hide in\nthe cupboard, when he heard the awful tread of judgment ascending the\nstairs. Being clever (for which I admit I was responsible) he realized\nhow temporary a refuge the cupboard must necessarily be; what he needed\nwas the eternal; and so, throwing himself on his knees he began praying\nto me--aloud. And in his prayer he told the truth, volubly, abundantly,\nand without making any excuse for himself. \u2018I have told a lie,\u2019 he\ncried, \u2018O God, I have told a lie!\u2019\n\nThe agony of his prayer was heard, not so much by me as by the elder\nfor whose entry he had so accurately timed it. And who, looking upon\nthat youthful and ingenuous countenance, could doubt the sincerity of\nhis grief? His lips quivered, his eyes streamed tears, his nails dug\ninto his tender flesh, leaving marks. At that sight, at those sounds,\nthe paternal heart was deeply moved; the birch was laid aside; elder\nand younger knelt together and prayed for quite a long time, with\ngreat fervour, fixity, and unanimity of purpose, that henceforth young\nMr. Trimblerigg should be a good boy, and never never again be caught\ntelling a lie.\n\nThat prayer unfortunately was not entirely answered--though between us\nwe did our best. In the years that followed Mr. Trimblerigg lied often\nand well, but was very seldom caught, and still more seldom punished.\n\nThe only really important outcome of that incident was that Mr.\nTrimblerigg found he liked me; I had been useful to him. And yet I had\ndone, I protest, absolutely nothing--except making him clever. It was\nnot through my providential intervention that he liked me, but through\nhis own. The prayer of faith had saved him from a whipping; it was a\nlesson he never forgot.\n\nAnd so, from that day on, he made me his general help and stay; and\non every occasion of doubt, difficulty, or distress, was able, by\ncoming to me, to convince himself that he meant well. Never in my whole\nworld\u2019s existence have I come upon anybody who was able to answer\nhis own prayers about himself, and about other people, with such\nconviction, avidity, and enthusiasm as Mr. Trimblerigg. And why should\nI complain? It made him a great power in the world, without my having\nto lift a finger, or turn a hair, or do anything, in fact, except wink\nan eye, or seem to.\n\nThe virtuous incentives of family life, though only provided on a\nsmall scale, were not lacking for the development of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ncharacter. He had three uncles, two aunts, a great-uncle and a\ngrandfather--all fairly contiguous, the family being of the indigenous\nnot of the migratory kind--besides a father, a mother and a sister,\nwith whom contact was continuous and unescapable. Even in their naming\nthe children had been linked for lovely and pleasant relationship in\nafter-life; for when the Trimblerigg first-born, whom its parents\nconfidently expected to be a son, turned into a daughter--adapting the\nforechosen name to suit her sex, they called her Davidina; and when,\nnearly two years later, our own Mr. Trimblerigg struggled out into the\nworld, nearly killing his mother in the process, the destined name\nJonathan was there waiting for him.\n\nAnd so, very early in his career, Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s sister Davidina\nbecame the whetstone of his virtues--its operation summed up in the\nword \u2018emulation.\u2019 Nature would perhaps have brought it about in any\ncase, even if the parental plan had not inculcated and forced it home;\nbut when it became clear to Mr. and Mrs. Trimblerigg senior that no\nmore children were to be theirs, they conceived the idea of blending\nthe business with the moral instincts, and in the training of their two\noffspring making virtue competitive.\n\nNo wonder then, that, as their moral sense dawned, the germ of mutual\nsuspicion and hatred grew lodged in their souls. This, however, did not\nprevent them, when self-interest prompted, from being also allies, as\nthe following may show.\n\nThe parental idea of making virtue competitive had taken one of\nits earlier forms--for economic reasons, I fancy--in the matter of\npocket-money; and the weekly penny was tendered not as a right nor even\nas a reward for good average behaviour, but as a prize to be wrestled\nfor, gain by the one involving loss by the other--a device that had the\nincidental advantage of halving the tax on the pocket which provided it.\n\nThe fact that Davidina won it far more frequently and easily than\nhe did, set Mr. Trimblerigg his first problem in goodness run as a\nmeans to profit. He accordingly invited his sister to an arrangement\nwhereby, irrespective of conduct, they should go shares; and when\nthis accommodating olive-branch was scornfully rejected, he became so\noffensively good for three weeks on end that Davidina, left penniless,\ncapitulated on terms, and, in order to get a remnant of her money\u2019s\nworth, bargained that they should be good--or at least each better than\nthe other--in alternate weeks, this being a more tolerable arrangement\nto her careful soul than that brother Jonathan, with no effort at all,\never secondary in virtue, should share equally the pennies which she\nhad earned.\n\nFor a while the plan worked well; Mr. Trimblerigg by calculated effort\nbettered his sister in the alternate weeks, got the penny and shared it\ngrudgingly but honourably--while Davidina, remaining merely herself,\nreceived it in the natural course when Jonathan reverted to his more\nnormal standard.\n\nBut there came a day when Mr. Trimblerigg had privily done certain\nthings about which his elders knew less than did Davidina, and so got\nwrongfully the penny he had not earned. Davidina demanded it; on the\ndenial of her claim they fought, and between them the penny got lost.\nThe next week, though Davidina earned it, Mr. Trimblerigg claimed it,\narguing that as last week\u2019s penny had been lost to him through her,\nthis week\u2019s should be his. Davidina thought differently; and putting\nthe penny for safety in her mouth, in the resulting struggle by\naccident swallowed it.\n\nAfter that the alliance was over. Thenceforth Jonathan had a permanent\nand lively incentive for becoming good; and in the competition that\nensued Davidina was decisively worsted. Goodness became for Mr.\nTrimblerigg a matter of calculation, habit, resolute will, and in\nthe long series of defeats which followed, Davidina might, had she\nchosen, have found satisfaction in the large part she played toward the\nreshaping of her brother\u2019s character.\n\nSo decisive was the change that it became apparent to the world, and\nwas reckoned as proof of that conversion to grace which was necessary\nfor full church-membership in the sect where he belonged. And so, at\nan unusually early age, Jonathan was baptized into the congregation\nof the Free United Evangelicals. That incident decided his career; he\nbecame destined for the ministry.\n\nThus out of evil comes good.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the matter was first decided Mr. Trimblerigg himself knew nothing\nabout it. It was the elders of the family, the parents, grandparents,\nuncles and aunts--sitting together in conclave for the adjustment of\nways to narrow means, who foresaw the convenience of the call which in\ndue time came to him.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg himself was then making other plans of his own. A\nsense of his abilities had begun to stir his mind to the prospects\nof life. He had become conscious that a career was awaiting him--or,\nto put it more accurately, several careers--of which he had only to\nchoose. One day, in a weak moment of expansiveness, when Davidina by\na histrionic show of sisterly sympathy had led him on, he confided\nto her the sparkling alternatives which he had in mind. And she,\nwhen her first admiration had become tempered with criticism, passed\nword of them carefully on to the ears of his Uncle Jonah. Jonah, who\nwas anti-romantic by temperament, made it his duty to strip these\npretensions bare before the eyes of the assembled family--doing it no\ndoubt for his nephew\u2019s good. \u2018Jonathan is thinking,\u2019 said he, \u2018that\nhe would like to be Prime Minister; and well he might be if he had\nthe ability to be consistent in his principles. Seems also he\u2019d like\nto be President to the Free Church Conference; but for that he needs\nto be spiritual and one that speaks nothing but the truth. Failing\nthat he\u2019s for being Lord Chief Justice and Master of the Rolls; but\nJonathan hasn\u2019t the judicial mind. And to be Field-Marshal rising\nfrom the ranks (which is another flea he has in his bonnet) God\nin His great mercy hasn\u2019t given him sufficient inches to meet the\nmilitary requirements. You\u2019ll do well, Jonathan; for you\u2019re quick in\nthe turnover, and your convictions don\u2019t trouble you; and you\u2019ve a\nwonderful courage for thinking yourself right when all the evidence\nis against you. But what you\u2019ll do if you\u2019re wise is find a master\nwho\u2019ll let you hide behind his back and be clever for him in the ways\nthat don\u2019t show; one who\u2019ll take over all the responsibility for your\nmistakes, for the sake of all the times when you\u2019ve guessed right.\nGiven he\u2019s got the patience to put up with you, you\u2019ll be worth it to\nhim, and a credit to your family. But there\u2019s a deal of practice you\u2019ve\nto get before you can do the thing well. Don\u2019t spread yourself.\u2019\n\nBut Uncle Jonah, being an undertaker by trade, had narrow and confining\nviews; and the shadow of his daily occupation, entailing a too-frequent\nwearing of black, caused him to set foot on life sombrely, especially\non life that was young. This also was said before the time when nephew\nJonathan had become conspicuously good.\n\nWith his higher aspirations thus blown upon, Mr. Trimblerigg, after\nwatering Davidina\u2019s pet fern with strong tea which it did not like,\ndiverted his invention to more practical ends, and for a time wished\nto be a conjurer, having read accounts of the wonders performed at the\nEgyptian Hall, London, by Messrs. Maskelyne & Cooke. But as ill-luck\nwould have it, his first sight of conjuring came to him at a village\nfair; and there, while others stared and were amazed, he with his sharp\neyes saw how everything was done, and found the entertainment dull. Now\nhad he only been interested and stirred to emulation thus early, I am\nquite convinced that Mr. Trimblerigg could have become a conjurer\nsuch as the world has never seen. If his parents could only have\nafforded to take him to London, and to the Egyptian Hall, the world\u2019s\nhistory might have been different. It was not to be.\n\n[Illustration: JONATHAN TRIMBLERIGG (aged 7) with his Mother & Sister\nDavidina]\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s attention was first attracted to the career his\nelders designed for him, not so much by the habitual goodness with\nwhich the rivalry of Davidina had imbued his character, as by his\nobservation of the sensation caused in his native village by the\nmissionizing efforts of a certain boy-preacher, then known to fame as\n\u2018The Infant Samuel Samuel,\u2019 whose call, beginning at his baptism in\nthat strange invocative reduplication of the family name imposed by his\ngodparents, went on till it suddenly passed in silence to an obscurity\nfrom which the veil has never been lifted. What happened then nobody\nknows, or nobody chooses to tell. But between the ages of seven and\nfifteen, while sustained by the call, Samuel Samuel never saw a vacant\nseat, or an uncrowded aisle, or had sitting under him a congregation\nunrent by sobs in the hundreds of chapels to which the spirit bore him.\n\nWhen Mr. Trimblerigg heard him, Samuel Samuel at the age of ten was\nstill in the zenith of his powers; and it has been credibly reported\nthat, in the mining villages which he passed through, publicans went\nbankrupt and committed suicide because of him, and pit-ponies, their\nears robbed of the familiar expletives to which they had been trained,\nno longer obeyed orders; and that alongside of these manifestations of\ngrace, the illegitimate birth-rates went up and struck a record; till,\nsix months later, things settled back and became the same; birth-rates\nwent down, pit-ponies obeyed a restored vocabulary, and ruined\npublicans were vindicated in the prosperity of their successors.\n\nBut these things only happened after; and when Mr. Trimblerigg heard\nthe cry of the Infant Samuel Samuel, he discerned a kindred spirit,\nand saw a way opening before his feet, under a light which thereafter\ncontinued to shine. And so at the age of twelve the designs which\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s elders had on him, and the designs which he had on\nhimself, coalesced and became one; and even Davidina, borne down by the\nsense of the majority, had to accept the fact that her brother Jonathan\nhad received a call.\n\nThus early did the conversion of souls enter into the life and\ncalculations of Mr. Trimblerigg. A striking justification of his chosen\ncalling followed immediately, when, without in the least intending\nit, he converted an almost lost soul in a single day--the soul of an\nUncle, James Hubback by name, the only uncle upon his mother\u2019s side\nleft over from a large family--who while still clinging to the outward\nrespectability of a Free Church minister, had taken secretly to drink.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had been born and brought up in a household where the\nidea that spirits were anything to drink had never been allowed to\nenter his head. He only knew of spirit as of something that would catch\nfire and boil a kettle, or embrace death in a bottle and preserve it\nfrom decay. These aspects of its beneficence he had gathered first in\nthe back kitchen of his own home, and secondly in the natural history\ndepartment of the County Museum, to which as a Sunday-school treat he\nhad been taken. Returning therefrom, he had been bitten for a short\nwhile with a desire to catch, kill, and preserve frogs, bats, beetles,\nsnakes, and other low forms of existence, and make a museum of his\nown--his originality at that time being mainly imitative. To this end\nhe clamoured to his mother to release his saved pennies which she\nheld in safe-keeping for him, in order that he might buy spirit for\ncollecting purposes; and so pestered her that at last she promised that\nif for a beginning he could find an adder, he should have a bottle of\nspirit to keep it in.\n\nClose upon that his Uncle James arrived for a stay made sadly\nindefinite by the low water in which he found himself. He still wore\nhis clerical garb but was without cure of souls: Bethel and he had\nbecome separated, and his family in consequence was not pleased with\nhim. Nevertheless as a foretaste of reformation he wore a blue ribbon,\nand was prevented thereby from letting himself be seen on licensed\npremises; while a totally abstaining household, and a village with only\none inn which had been warned not to serve him, and no shop that sold\nliquor, seemed to provide a safe environment for convalescence.\n\nIt is at this point that Mr. Trimblerigg steps in. One day, taking\ndown a book from the shelf in the little study, he discovered behind\nit a small square bottle of spirits: he did not have to taste or smell\nit--the label \u2018old brandy\u2019 was enough; and supposing in his innocence\nthe word \u2018old\u2019 to indicate that it had passed its best use, at once\nhis volatile mind was seized with the notion that here was a mother\u2019s\nsurprise waiting for him, and that he had only to provide the adder for\nthe bottle and its contents to become his. And so with that calculating\nlarkishness which made him do audacious things that when done had to be\nswallowed, he determined to give his mother a surprise in return.\n\nGoing off in search of his adder and failing to get it himself, he gave\nanother boy a penny for finding him a dead one. An hour later the adder\nwas inside the brandy bottle behind the books; and an hour after that\nhis Uncle James had achieved complete and lifelong conversion to total\nabstinence.\n\nThe _d\u00e9nouement_ presented itself to Mr. Trimblerigg at first with a\nshock of disappointment in the form of smashed glass, and his dead\nadder lying in a spent pool of brandy on the study floor; and only\ngradually did it dawn upon him after a cautious survey of the domestic\nsituation that this was not as he had at first feared his mother\u2019s\nangry rejection of the surprise he had prepared for her: on the\ncontrary she was pleased with him. His uncle, he learned, was upstairs\nlying down, without appetite either for tea or supper. Mr. Trimblerigg\nheard him moaning in the night, and he came down to breakfast the next\nday a changed character. Within a year he had secured reinstatement\nin the ministry, and was become a shining light on the temperance\nplatform, telling with great fervour anecdotes which give hope. There\nwas, however, one story of a drunkard\u2019s reformation which he never\ntold: perhaps because, on after-reflection, though he had accepted\ntheir testimony against him, he could not really believe his eyes,\nperhaps because there are certain experiences which remain too deep and\nsacred and mysterious ever to be told.\n\nBut to Mr. Trimblerigg the glory of what he had done was in a while\nmade plain. More than ever it showed him destined for the ministry: it\nalso gave colour to his future ministrations, opening his mind in the\ndirection of a certain school of thought in which presently he became\nan adept. \u2018The Kingdom of Heaven is taken by tricks,\u2019 became the\nsubconscious foundation of his belief; and when he entered the pulpit\nat the age of twenty-one, he was by calculative instinct that curious\ncombination of the tipster, the thimblerigger, and the prophet, the\nman of vision and the man of lies, which drew to itself the adoration\nof one half and the detestation of the other half of the Free United\nEvangelical Connection, eventually dividing that great body into two\nunequal portions, and driving its soul into a limbo of spiritual\nfrustration and ineffectiveness till it found itself again under new\nnames.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\n_The Early Worm_\n\n\nThough Mr. Trimblerigg had not at the time taken the advice of his\nUncle Jonah in very good part, he did eventually accept a large part of\nit--good or otherwise--in the shaping of his career. His wish to become\na great functionary of State gradually faded away, giving place to\nothers. But his intention to be President of the Free Church Conference\nremained and grew strong. And to that end--spirituality being\nrequired--he accepted faithfully Uncle Jonah\u2019s last bit of advice, and\nseeking a master behind whose back he could hide and be clever in ways\nthat didn\u2019t show--have responsibility taken for his mistakes, and get\nadequate recognition for the many things which he did right--seeking\nfor such a master, he found him to his own satisfaction in the oldest\nof old ways; and never from that day on did the suspicion enter his\nhead, that the master whom he chose under so devout an _alias_ was\nhimself.\n\nIf, in the process, he received a call, so did I; and it was at this\nstage of his career that I began to watch him with real interest. His\ncalls became frequent; and though there was not always an apparent\nanswer there was always an attentive ear.\n\nIt may well be that when human nature appears, to those whose business\nis to understand it, most unexpected and incalculable, is the very time\nwhen it is or ought to be most instructive to eyes which are open.\nAnd certainly at this preliminary period--before I got accustomed to\nhim--Mr. Trimblerigg did make me open my eyes wider and wider, till he\ngot me to the point when nothing that he did surprised me. But that\nwas not because I became able to anticipate his reactions to any\ngiven circumstance or tight hole in which he might find himself: but\nmerely that experience of him caused me to give up all rules based on\nthe law of averages: he was a law by himself. What at first baffled me\nwas the passionate sincerity with which he was always able to deceive\nhimself--doing it mainly, I admit, by invoking my assistance: that is\nto say, by prayer.\n\nTo see him fall upon his knees and start busily lighting his own little\nlamp for guidance through the perils immediately surrounding him--while\nfirmly convinced all the time that the lamp was not his lighting but\nmine--gave me what I can only describe as an extraordinary sense of\nhelplessness. The passionate fervour of his prayer to whatever end\nhe desired, put him more utterly beyond reach of instruction than\na conscious plunge into sin. Against that there might have been a\nnatural reaction; but against the spiritual avidity with which he set\nto work saving his own skin day by day, no reaction was possible. The\nday-spring from on high visited him with a light-heeled nimbleness\nwhich cleared not only all obstacles of a material kind but all qualms\nof conscience as well. In the holy of holies of his inmost being\nself-interest sat rapturously enshrined; there lay its ark of the\ncovenant, and over it the twin cherubim of faith and hope stretched\ntheir protecting wings. Mr. Trimblerigg might bow himself in single\nspirit when first his prayer began; but always, before it ended, his\nspirits had got the better of him, and he would rise from his knees as\nbeautifully unrepentant as a puppy that has dodged a whipping, his face\nradiant with happiness, having found an answer to his prayer awaiting\nhim in the direction to which from the first it had been set, much as\nyour Arctic explorer finds the North Pole by a faithful following of\nhis nose after having first pointed it to the north.\n\nI date my completed understanding of Mr. Trimblerigg, and of the use\nhe had made of me, to the day when--faced with an exposure which would\nhave gone far to reduce his ministerial career to a nullity--he put\nup a prayer which (had I been a mere mortal) would have made me jump\nout of my skin. I will not skin him retributively by quoting him in\nfull, but the gist of it all was that, much to his perplexity he found\nhimself suffering from a strange temptation, out of keeping with his\nwhole character, and threatening destruction to that life of energetic\nusefulness in the service of others which he was striving to lead.\nAnd so he prayed to be kept (\u2018kept\u2019 was the very word)--\u2018humble, and\nhonest, and honourable.\u2019 It was no change that he desired; but only\na continuance in that narrow and straight path of acquired virtue\ndown which (since the truth must be told) he had hitherto danced his\nway more like a cat on hot bricks, than the happily-banded pilgrim\nhe believed himself to be. \u2018Kept\u2019 was the word; and as I heard him I\nthought of it in all its meanings--and wondered which. I thought of\nhow dead game \u2018keeps\u2019 up to a point, and is better in flavour for the\nkeeping; but how, after that point is reached, the keeping defeats\nitself, and the game is game no longer, but mere offal. Was it in that\nsense that he wished to be \u2018kept\u2019? For certainly I had found him good\ngame, quick in the uptake, and brisk on the wing.\n\nIt is difficult in this record to remain consecutive. Those who would\nfollow with accuracy the career of Mr. Trimblerigg, must jump to and\nfro with the original--one of whom it has to be said that though he\ndenied himself many times (even in the face of the clearest evidence)\nhe denied himself nothing that held out any prospect of keeping his\nfortunes on the move; and the stitch in time with which he so often\nand so nimbly saved himself ran in no straight line of machine-made\nregularity, but rather in a series of diversions this way and that,\nstepping sideways and back preparatory to the next forward leap; and\nin this feather-stitching along life\u2019s road he covered more ground,\nand far more ornamentally, than do those who go merely upon their\nconvictions, holding to one opinion and doing only one thing at a time.\n\nYet it would be wrong to say that he was ever false to his convictions,\nfor these he seldom knew. Enough that so long as they lasted his\nintuitions were sacred to him; and as it is the very essence of\nintuitions that at any moment they may change, his changeableness had\nabout it a sort of truth, of consistency, to which slower minds cannot\nattain.\n\nBut why call it \u2018intuition\u2019; why not \u2018vision\u2019? Well, if a camera of\npowerful lens and stocked with highly sensitive films may be said to\nhave vision, vision he had in abundance. Adjusting his focus to the\nchosen point of view, he clicked the switch of his receptivity, snapt\na picture, wound it off upon its wheel, and was ready for another. In\nthe space of a few minutes he had as many pictures stored as he had a\nmind for. \u2018Vision\u2019? You may grant it him, if you will, so long as you\nremember that that was the process. I would rather be inclined to call\nit \u2018optics\u2019; and I see his career now rather as a series of optical\ndelusions, through every one of which he remained quite convinced that\nhe was right, and that the truth had come to him by way of revelation.\nAn early example will serve.\n\nThe small hill-side village in which Mr. Trimblerigg first learned\nto escape the limitations of ordinary life was a place where things\nseldom happened; and there were times in his early upbringing when\nhe found himself at a loose end, a rose wasting its sweetness to the\ndesert air; there was nothing doing in the neighbourhood on which he\ncould decisively set his mark. This was to live in vain; and often he\nsearched through his small world of ideas to find inspiration. Should\nhe run away from home, and be found wandering with his memory a blank?\nShould he be kidnapped by gipsies and escape in nothing but his shirt?\nShould a sheep fall into the stone quarry so that he might rescue it,\nor a lamb get lost in the snow during the lambing-season, that he might\ngo out, and find, and return bearing it in his bosom? Or should he go\nforth and become famous as a boy-missionary, preaching to the heathen\nin an unknown tongue? These were all possibilities, only the last\nsuggested any difficulty.\n\nWhenever in doubt, adopting the method of old Uncle Trimblerigg, he\nturned to the Scriptures: he did not search them, for that would have\nbeen self-willed and presumptuous; he merely opened them, putting a\nblind finger to the spot where divine guidance awaited him. It was in\nthis way that Uncle Trimblerigg had become rich; forty years ago he had\ninvested his savings in house property all through having set thumb to\nthe text, \u2018I have builded an house to Thy name.\u2019 And without searching\nthe Scriptures further he had built twenty of them. At a later date,\nslate-quarrying having started in the district, their value was doubled.\n\nSo one day, in a like faith, our own Mr. Trimblerigg committed himself\nto the same experiment. His first point on opening drew a startling\nreply, \u2018Get thee behind me, Satan, for thou savourest not the things\nwhich be of God, but the things which be of men.\u2019 Very right and\nproper, of course: Satan thus safely disposed of, he tried again.\n\u2018Remember Lot\u2019s wife,\u2019 failed for the moment to convey any meaning;\nhe knew that it could not refer to him: it seemed rather to indicate\nthat his Bible had not yet given him its thorough attention. To warm\nit to its task he lifted it as a heave-offering, administered to it\nthe oath, as he had seen done in a police court, kissed it, and set\nit down again. This time it answered sharply, but still not to the\npoint: \u2018Ye generation of vipers, who hath warned you to flee from the\nwrath to come?\u2019 Evidently the Lord was trying him. He turned from the\nNew Testament to the old: perhaps it was only the old he should have\nconsulted, for he had an idea that this was an Old Testament method.\nThat would account for the delay.\n\nThe Old Testament made a better response to his appeal. \u2018The zeal of\nThy House hath eaten me up,\u2019 suggested something at any rate, but did\nnot make the way quite clear; \u2018Down with it, down with it, even unto\nthe ground!\u2019 was practical in its bearing upon the Lord\u2019s House, but\npuzzling; \u2018Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth\u2019 gave him\nthe light he sought.\n\nFor at that time Bethesda, the chapel of the Free Evangelicals, had\nfallen lamentably into disrepair, and since Uncle Trimblerigg, the\nonly man of substance in the district, had retired from the innovation\nof hymn-singing to a stricter Bethel of his own, there seemed little\nchance of raising the necessary funds for demolition and restoration.\nAnd so decay went on, while still, from old habit, the chapel continued\nto be insured.\n\nNow whether we call it \u2018vision\u2019 or \u2018optical illusion,\u2019 there can be no\ndoubt that, thus aided by Scripture, Mr. Trimblerigg visualized rapidly\nand clearly the means to an end which so many desired. And so it came\nabout one Saturday night, while frost held the village water-supply\nfirmly in its grip, and the road running up from the valley slipped\nwith ice, that Bethesda, through a supposed leakage in her heating\napparatus, caught fire; and only the fact that Mr. Trimblerigg fetched\nthe fire-engine from the town four miles away, saved it from utter\ndestruction. He had been sent into the town by his mother to do\nerrands, when at the foot of the hill he suddenly remembered Lot\u2019s\nwife, and looking back saw the chapel windows gustily ablaze, and\ninterpreting the peradventure aright had sped on with the news. The\nmiraculous arrival of the fire-engine with him on it, only half an hour\nafter the villagers\u2019 discovery of an already well-established insurance\nclaim in swift operation, had caused an immense sensation and some\ninquiry.\n\nBut Mr. Trimblerigg had a case on which no suspicion could rest; that\nthe fire was fought expeditiously, though under difficulties, was\nlargely owing to him, and the subsequent inquiries of the insurance\noffice agent who came to inspect the damage were only of a formal kind.\nEvery effort had been made, and a half-saved chapel was the result; but\nits previous dilapidation made it easier to rebuild than to restore,\nand when a new Bethesda rose from the ruins of the old, the insurance\ncompany paid for it.\n\nIt was two days after the happy catastrophe, that Davidina remarked\n(when, to be sure, he was taking them to light the lamp in another\nroom), \u2018I wish you wouldn\u2019t always go taking away the matches!\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019m bringing them back,\u2019 said Jonathan correctively.\n\n\u2018You didn\u2019t the last time,\u2019 Davidina retorted. And at the word and the\ntone of her voice, Jonathan trepidated and fled.\n\nWas it \u2018vision\u2019 that made him do so, or only optical illusion on the\nmental plane? For as far as I have been able to probe into Davidina\u2019s\nmind, which is not always clear to me, she knew nothing. It was merely\nher way: the hunting instinct was strong in her, and he her spiritual\nquarry: never in all their born days together was she to let him go.\n\nOf course Mr. Trimblerigg did not go on doing things like that. It was\nan act of crude callow youth, done at a time when the romantic instinct\ntakes unbalanced forms; yet in a way it was representative of him, and\nhelped me to a larger insight into his character and motives. For here\nwas Mr. Trimblerigg, thus early, genuinely anxious to have guidance\nfrom above for the exploitation of his superabundant energies; and\nwhen, at first showing, the guidance seemed rather to head him off from\nbeing energetic at all, he persisted till his faith in himself found\nratification, and thereafter went his way with the assurance that what\nhe decided to do must almost necessarily be right.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg did not in after days actually set fire to anything\nin order that he might come running to the rescue when rescue was\ntoo late; but he did inflame many a situation seven times more than\nit was wont to be inflamed, setting people by the ears, and causing\nmany an uprooting in places where no replanting could avail. And when\nhe had got matters thus thoroughly involved, he would apply thereto\nhis marvellous powers of accommodation and persuasion, and, if some\nsort of peace and order did thereafter emerge, regard himself quite\ngenuinely as the deliverer.\n\nAt a later date his zeal for the Lord\u2019s House broke up the Free United\nEvangelicals into separate groups of an unimportant size, which when\nthey seemed about to disappear wholly from view, he reunited again;\nand having for the moment redoubled what was left, regarded his work\nas good, though in the religious world the Free Evangelicals had\nforfeited thenceforth their old priority of place, a circumstance\nfrom which (when convinced of its permanence) he made his personal\nescape by embracing second Adventism. And though doubtless he carried\nhis Free Evangelism with him into the field of modern prophecy, the\nFree Evangelicals within their own four walls knew him no more. Very\neffectively he had burnt them out, and in their case no insurance\npolicy provided for the rebuilding: in that seat of the mighty, probed\nby the beams of a new day, only the elderly grey ashes remained of men\nwhose word once gave light.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\n_Trial and Error_\n\n\nAt a very early stage in his career, before his theological training\nhad overtly begun, the moral consciousness of Mr. Trimblerigg was far\nmore accurately summed up in the words, \u2018Thou, Davidina, seest me,\u2019\nthan in the more generally accepted text which shone with symbolic rays\nfrom an illuminated scroll hung over his bed. That text with its angel\nfaces and gold edgings did not pierce the joints of his harness, to the\ndiscovery of vulnerable spots, with the same sharp efficiency as did\nthe dark watchful eye of Davidina.\n\nAs he entered into his \u2019teens with the instinct for spiritual adventure\ngrowing strong, he had an uncomfortable sense of transparency where\nDavidina was concerned--or rather where she was not concerned but chose\nto intrude--which made him cease to feel a self-contained person. If\nthere was anyone in the world who knew him--not as he wished to be\nknown, but as in his more disconcerted moments he sometimes suspected\nhimself to be--it was Davidina. Under the fixture of her eye he lost\nconfidence; its calm quizzical gaze tripped his thoughts, and checked\nthe flow of his words: initiative and invention went out of him.\n\nThe result was truly grievous, for though he could do without\nself-respect for quite long intervals, self-complacency was the\nnecessary basis for every action. Davidina deprived him of that.\n\nHer power was horrible; she could do it in a momentary look, in\na single word; it seemed to be her mission in life, whenever he\nwhitewashed the window of his soul for better privacy, to scratch a\nhole and look through.\n\nWhen, for instance, he first experimented in kissing outside the\nroutine of family life, Davidina seemed by instinct to know of it.\nSecretively, in the presence of their elders, she held him with her\neye, pursed her lips, and made the kissing sound; then, before he\ncould compose a countenance suitable to meet the charge, her glance\nshot off and left him. For Davidina was a sleek adept in giving that\nflick of the eye which does not wait for the repartee; though on other\noccasions, when her eye definitely challenged him, there was no bearing\nit down; it stabbed, it stuck, it went in, and came at his back.\n\nIt was in these wordless encounters that she beat him worst; till\nMr. Trimblerigg, conscious of his inferiority, went and practised at\nthe glass a gesture which he hoped thereby to make more effective--a\nlifting of the nose, a slight closing of the eyelids, a polished\nputting-off of the hands, deprecatory but bland; and a smile to show\nthat he was not hurt. But the first time he used it upon her was also\nthe last.\n\n\u2018Did you practise that in the glass?\u2019 said Davidina; and the gesture\ndied the death.\n\nTruly at that time of her life he wanted her to die, and slightly\ndamped her shoes on the inside after they had been cleaned, that they\nmight help her to do so. But it was no good; without saying anything,\nshe damped his also, rather more emphatically, so that there could be\nno mistake; whereas his damping was so delicately done that she ought\nnot to have found it out.\n\nThe most afflictive thing about these encounters was his constant\nfailure to score a victory; only once, in the affair of the\npocket-money already narrated, had he succeeded in holding his own.\nPerhaps it was all for the good of his soul; for in matters of finance\nhis sense of probity remained in after years somewhat defective;\nvictory over Davidina in that respect had apparently done him no good.\nBut in other directions she continued to do her best to save his soul;\nand though he was now committed to the ministry, and was himself to\nbecome a soul-saving apparatus, he did not like her way of doing it;\ntemperamentally (and was there ever a character more largely composed\nof temperament?) he would much rather have gone his own way and been\ndamned, than saved by Davidina on the lines she chose. She stung him\nlike a gad-fly in his weakest spots, till the unerring accuracy of\nher aim filled him with a superstitious dread; and though never once\nuttered in words, \u2018Thou, Davidina, seest me,\u2019 was the motive force\nwhich thus early drove him so deeply and deviously into subterfuge\nthat it became an infection of his blood. And though against her it\navailed little, in other directions, pricked to it by her incessant\nskill, he had a quite phenomenal success, and was--up to a point--the\nnimblest being that ever skipped from cover to open and from open to\ncover, till, in the development of speed, he ceased to distinguish\nwhich was which; and what he told would tell with the most complete\nconviction that, if it told to his advantage, it must be truth; and\nthen, on occasion, would avail himself of the truth to such dazzling\neffect that, lost in the blaze of his rectitude, he forgot those other\noccasions when he had been truer to himself.\n\nOf Davidina\u2019s inspired pin-pricks here is an example, notable for the\nearly date of its delivery, when they were at the respective ages of\ntwelve and eleven. Brother and sister had fallen out in guessing at an\nevent as to which with probability all the other way, Davidina proved\nto be right. Not believing this to be a guess, \u2018You _knew_!\u2019 he cried\nindignantly.\n\n\u2018I didn\u2019t,\u2019 she replied smoothly, \u2018I only knew better.\u2019\n\nThis was superfluous: it enabled Mr. Trimblerigg to get in with a\nretort. \u2018Even very conceited people,\u2019 he said, \u2018do sometimes manage to\nguess right.\u2019\n\nDavidina recovered her ground. \u2018I\u2019m not as conceited as you,\u2019 she\nreplied, \u2018I never think myself good.\u2019 It was the sticking-out of her\ntongue, and adding \u2018so there\u2019! which gave the barb to those words.\n\nAt the earliest opportunity Mr. Trimblerigg retired to consider them.\nIt was evident that Davidina had penetrated another of his secrets; she\nhad discovered that he thought himself good. Many years after, when\nasked by an American reporter what it felt like to be the greatest man\nin the world, he replied that it made him feel shy, and then was ready\nto bite his tongue out for having so aimed at modesty and missed. He\nsaw twenty reporters writing down the words, \u2018It makes me feel shy\u2019;\nand within twelve hours it was all over the world--a mistake which he\ncouldn\u2019t explain away. That was to be one of the worst moments of his\nlife; and this was another, that Davidina should have unearthed so\nhidden and central a truth. He was deeply annoyed, partly with her for\nhaving discovered it, much more with himself for having let it appear.\n\nYet his cogitations brought him in the end to a conclusion which had in\nit a measure of comfort. \u2018After all,\u2019 he said to himself, \u2018I _am_ good\nsometimes.\u2019\n\nIt was that \u2018sometimes,\u2019 and the consciousness of it, that in the\nfuture was to work havoc with his soul. He did know desperately well\nthat he was good sometimes; and the fervour of it used to spread\nso far beyond the appointed limit that he ceased to know where his\ngoodness began, and where it left off. As from an oasis in the\nwilderness exhales fragrance from the blossom of the rose, regaling\nthe dusty nostrils of sand-bound travellers, as into its airy horizon\nascends mirage from waters, and palm-trees, and temples, that are\nreal _somewhere_--but not in the place where they so phenomenally\ndisplay themselves--so from parts of him excellent, into other parts\nless excellent, went the sense that he was \u2018somehow good\u2019; and he\nnever perceived, in spite of the very genuine interest he took in\nhimself that what made him more interesting than anyone else was the\nextraordinary division of his character into two parts, a good and\na bad, so dexterously allied that they functioned together as one,\nendowing him with that curious gift of sincerity to each mood while\nit lasted, which kept him ever true to himself and the main chance,\neven as the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope always shape to patterns,\nhowever varied, having the same fixed centre--a haphazard orderliness\nwhich no amount of shaking can destroy.\n\nAs has been hinted already, a time unavoidable for youth came in Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s life when kisses began to have an attraction for him: in\nhis case it came rather early, and the attraction grew strong. But so\nalso grew his fear of them--or perhaps it would be more true to say his\nfear lest Davidina should get wind of them. Davidina had an unlovable\nscorn for kisses, which she paraded to the world; she kissed nobody\nexcept her parents, and them only from a sense of duty, and became\nknown, in a country-side where kisses were easily come by, as the girl\nfrom whom nobody could get a kiss.\n\nFew tried; the first who did so had been made a warning for others.\n\nIt is likely enough--since moral emblems have their contrary\neffect--that the impregnable barrier set up by Davidina was responsible\nfor the thing becoming so much a vogue in other quarters; and Lizzie\nSeebohm, the prettiest small wench of the village, in pure derision of\nDavidina\u2019s aloofness, and under her very eyes, made open sale of her\nkisses at a price which, starting from chocolates, rose to a penny and\nthence to twopence.\n\nFor this amiable weakness she got from Davidina the nickname of\n\u2018Tuppenny,\u2019 and in view of the feud which thence arose, Mr. Trimblerigg\nwas instinctively advised of danger to his peace of mind if he put\nhimself on Tuppenny\u2019s list. And so it came about that, whatever his\nnatural inclinations in the matter, he saved his pocket-money and did\nnot apply for her favours.\n\nIn this Lizzie Seebohm saw the influence of Davidina; for which reason\nand sheer spitefulness, Mr. Trimblerigg became her quarry.\n\nSo one day a communication reached him, artfully told by the small\nmaiden commissioned thereto as a breach of confidence. She had heard\nLizzie say that Jonathan might have a kiss of her not merely for\nnothing; she would give twopence to get it. A sense that he was really\nattractive made him fail to see deep enough, and when the offer rose to\nsixpence he succumbed.\n\nWithin an hour--Lizzie Seebohm had seen to it--Davidina got the news.\nHer wrath and sense of humiliation were deep; in the great battle\nof life which lay ahead for the possession of her brother\u2019s soul,\nshe had lost a point, and that to an opponent whom she regarded as\ninsignificant. It was not a case for silence. Davidina descended upon\nhim before the sixpence in his pocket had had time to get warm. \u2018You\u2019ve\nbeen kissing Tuppenny!\u2019 she cried.\n\n\u2018Who says?\u2019 he demanded, scared at discovery so swift. Then, bettering\nhis defence: \u2018Tuppenny, indeed! she\u2019s not worth it. I haven\u2019t given her\ntuppence; I haven\u2019t given her a penny. I haven\u2019t given her anything, so\nthere! If she says I have, she\u2019s a liar.\u2019\n\nThis seemed almost conclusive; Davidina\u2019s faith in the report wavered.\nBut whenever Jonathan was voluble she distrusted him; so now.\n\n\u2018It isn\u2019t her word I\u2019m going by,\u2019 she said. \u2018Somebody saw you.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s mind made an alert movement--very characteristic. He\nwas not ashamed of what he had done; he only didn\u2019t like being caught.\n\n\u2018You said Tuppenny,\u2019 he retorted. \u2018And I say--I didn\u2019t give her\ntuppence.\u2019\n\nDavidina pressed him along the track, as he meant her to. \u2018Then what\ndid you give her?\u2019\n\n\u2018I didn\u2019t give her anything; I\u2019ve told you so already. She gave me\nsixpence.\u2019\n\nHis tone was triumphant, for now, in his own time and in his own way,\nhe had made a clean breast of it. Davidina\u2019s face was a study.\n\n\u2018Sold again!\u2019 he said, watching the effect; and curiously he did not\nmean himself, or his virtue, or anything else belonging to him; he\nmeant Davidina. Having got ahead of her with the facts, he considered\nhimself top-dog for that once at least.\n\nBut within a few hours of that avowal an amazing thing happened. It\nhappened during the night; for when he went to bed the sixpence was in\nhis trouser pocket, and when he got up in the morning it was gone; nor\ndid he dare to tax Davidina with the theft.\n\nIn chapel, the next Sunday, when the plate came round for foreign\nmissions, Davidina with ostentation put sixpence into it. Is it to be\nwondered that, before the week was over, he had got sixpence back from\nsomewhere, and took care that Davidina should see him spending it.\nDavidina meant well, I am sure; but it is to be questioned whether her\nmethod of clipping his wings was the right one. He became tangential to\nthe orbit of her spells; they touched, but they did not contain him.\n\nMeanwhile, without Davidina\u2019s aid, even without her approval, Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s call to the ministry was becoming more assured. And the\nquestion mainly was whether, in that family of cramped means, money\ncould be found in the years lying immediately ahead to provide the\nnecessary training. It meant two years spent mainly away from home\nat the Free Evangelical Training College; two years of escape from\nDavidina for whole months at a time; it meant leaving home a boy and\ncoming back very nearly a man. Even had the ministry not appealed to\nhim, it would have been worth it for the peculiar attraction of those\ncircumstances.\n\nWhether this could become practically possible depended mainly upon\nold Uncle Trimblerigg--Uncle Trimblerigg whose investments in house\nproperty had been inspired by holy scripture, but whose theological\ntenets were of a kind for which up-to-date Free Evangelicalism no\nlonger provided the college or the training. Nor did he believe\nthat either college or training were necessary for the preaching of\nthe Word. He had done it himself for fifty years, merely by opening\nthe book where it wished to be opened and pondering what was thus\npresented. The verbal inspiration of Scripture, not merely in its\nwriting but in its presentation to the sense of the true believer, was\nthe very foundation of his faith. The sect of \u2018the True Believers\u2019 had\nof late years sadly diminished; for as all True Believers believed that\nwhile they believed truly they could never make a mistake in their\ninterpretations of Scripture, it became as time went on dangerous for\nthem to meet often or to exchange pulpits, since, where one was found\ndiffering from another, mutual excommunication of necessity followed\nand they walked no more in each other\u2019s ways. Only at their great\nannual congress did they meet to reaffirm the foundation of their faith\nand thunder with a united voice the Word which did not change.\n\nThus it came about that dotted over the country were many chapels of\nTrue Believers cut off from friendly intercourse with any other by\nmutual interdict; and the hill-side chapel of Uncle Trimblerigg--built\nby himself for a congregation of some twenty families all told, his\ntenants, or his dependents in the building trade--was one of them.\n\nSo among the True Believers there was small prospect of a career for\nthe budding Mr. Trimblerigg; and yet it was upon the financial aid and\nfavour of one of them that he depended for theological training in a\ndirection which they disapproved.\n\nIt speaks well for the sanguine temperament and courage of our own\nMr. Trimblerigg that the prospect did not dismay him, or even, in the\nevent, present much difficulty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\n_The Beard of the Prophet_\n\n\nUncle Phineas, the uncle of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s father, lived at an\nelevation, both physical and spiritual, among the stone quarries a-top\nof the village. His house and the chapel where he ministered stood\nadjoining, both of his own building; and in the days when Jonathan\nknew him he was seldom seen leaving the one except to go to the other.\nFor he was now very old, and having made his money and retired from\nbusiness, he had only one interest left in life, the preaching of\nthe strict tenets of True Belief to the small congregation which had\ntrickled under him for the last fifty years.\n\nThe True Believers had a worship which was all their own; they flocked\nby themselves, never going elsewhere, though others sometimes came to\nthem. No instrument of music was allowed within their dwelling, nor did\nthey sing--anything that could be called a tune. When their voices were\nlifted in praise they bleated upon a single note, which now and again\nthey changed, going higher and higher, and when they could go no higher\nthey stopped.\n\nTo our own Mr. Trimblerigg this form of worship was terrible; he liked\nmusic and he liked tunes; diversity attracted him; and here, by every\npossible device, diversity was ruled out. But the importance of Uncle\nPhineas, both present and prospective, obliged certain members of\nthe Trimblerigg family to ascend once at least every Sunday, to hear\nhim preach and pray, and though none of them professed an exclusive\nconversion to the teaching of the True Believers, they kept an open\nmind about it, and listened respectfully to all that Uncle Phineas had\nto say.\n\nLay-preaching and the ministry of the Word ran strong in the\nTrimblerigg family, also in that of the Hubbacks, to which on his\nmother\u2019s side Jonathan belonged; and had he cared to divide himself\nspiritually among his relations there were five sects from which to\nchoose--a division of creeds which did not amount to much, except\nin the case of the True Believers. Grandfather Hubback, between\nwhom and Uncle Phineas there was theological war, ministered to\nthe Free Evangelicals at the Bethesda which Jonathan had helped to\nrenovate; Uncle James was a Primitive Brother; Uncle Jonah a First\nResurrectionist; his Sunday exercise--the practising of the Last\nTrump--a welcome relief perhaps, from his weekday occupation of\nundertaker. Mr. Trimblerigg, during his childhood, had sat under all\nof them; the difference being that under his Uncle Phineas he had been\nmade to sit. Then came the question of his own call to the ministry,\nand the further question as to ways and means. It was from then on that\nMr. Trimblerigg went more constantly and willingly to hear the doctrine\nof the True Believers, and began to display towards it something wider\nthan an open mind. At the age of fifteen he had got into the habit of\ngoing to see and hear his uncle on weekdays as well, and very quietly\nhe would endure for hours together while the old man expounded his\nunchangeable theology.\n\nEverything about Uncle Phineas was long, including his discourses. He\nhad a long head, a long nose, a long upper lip and a long chin. To\nthese his beard served as a corrective; long also, it stuck out at\nright angles from his face, till with the weight of its projection it\nbegan to droop; at that point he trimmed it hard and square, making no\ncompromise, and if none admired it except its owner, it was at least\nin character. With such a beard you could not kiss people, and Phineas\nTrimblerigg was not of a mind to kiss anybody. In spite of old age, it\nretained a hue which suggested a too hasty breakfast of under-boiled\negg; while trying to become grey it remained reminiscently golden.\n\nAnd the beard symbolized the man; square, blunt and upright,\npatriarchal in mind and character, he lived in a golden age of the\npast--the age of romantic theology before science had come to disturb\nit. His only Tree of Knowledge was the Bible, and this not only in\nmatters of doctrine; it was his tree of genealogy and history as\nwell. From its topmost branch he surveyed a world six thousand years\nold, of six days making, and all the wonders that followed,--the\nFlood, the Tower whose height had threatened Heaven, and the plagues,\npestilences and famines, loosed by an outraged Deity on a stubborn but\nchosen people, and the sun and the moon which stood still to assist\nin tribal slaughter, and the special vehicles provided for prophets,\nat one time a chariot of fire, at another a great fish, at another a\ntalking ass,--all these things gave him no mental trouble whatever;\nbut joy rather, and confidence, and an abiding faith. He believed them\nliterally, and had required that his family should believe them too.\nAnd truly he could say that, in one way or another, he had to begin\nwith made them all God-fearing. If in the process five had died young,\nand one run away to sea and got drowned, and another fallen into evil\ncourses from which he had not returned alive, so that Phineas in his\nold age was left childless--all this had but made him more patriarchal\nin outlook than ever, turning his attention upon nephews and nieces\nof the second generation, especially upon one; which, indeed, is the\nreason why here he becomes an important character.\n\nFortified by fifty years of prudent investment based upon revelation,\nand with a comfortable balance at his bank, he cast his other cares\nupon the Lord; lived frugally, gave a just tithe of all he possessed to\nthe foreign and home missions of the True Believers, drank no wine or\nstrong drink--except tea, denounced the smoking of tobacco, but took\nit as snuff, believed firmly in Hell, war, and corporal punishment\nfor men, women and children alike, was still an elected, though a\nnon-attending, member of all local bodies, but in the parliamentary\nelection (regarding it as the evil thing) would take no part. To him\nlife, in the main, meant theology.\n\nAt the now sharply dividing ways he stood with old Pastor Hubback (or\nrather against him) a leading and a rival light among the local Free\nChurches; and because he had money to give and to leave he was still a\npower in the district as well as in his own family. This was the oracle\nto which Mr. Trimblerigg, in his fifteenth year, began to give up his\nhalf-holidays.\n\nUncle Phineas was always at home; he had legs which never allowed him\nto get farther than his own gate, except once a week to the Tabernacle\nof True Belief, of which he was minister and owner. The larger chapel\nin the village lower down had not known him for thirty years when the\nyouthful Jonathan first became aware of his importance, and began under\nparental direction to pay a weekly call at \u2018Pisgah,\u2019 and there learn\nfrom the old patriarch things about himself and others, including God,\nto which he listened with an air of great respect and interest.\n\nJonathan\u2019s way with him was wily but simple: he would ask a great\nnumber of intelligent questions, and receiving unintelligent answers\nwould appear satisfied. Now and then, upon his birthday, or when\nrevivalism was in the air, the old man would give him sixpence,\nsometimes even a shilling, advising him to bestow it upon the foreign\nmissions of the stricter Evangelicals, especially those to the native\nraces of Central Africa and America, where the undiluted truth of the\nWord had still necessarily to be taught. For those primitive minds the\ntaint of modernism had no effect; Heaven had so shaped them to the\ndivine purpose that nothing short of literal True Belief could touch\ntheir hearts and soften their understandings. And the old man would\ntalk wondrously to Jonathan of how, in the evil days to come, these\nblack races were destined to become the repository of the true faith\nand reconvert the world to the purer doctrine.\n\nUncle Phineas was on the look-out for punishment on a world-wide scale,\nand had he lived to see it, the War of Versailles would have gladdened\nhis heart. For he wanted all the Nations to be punished, including his\nown,--a point on which Mr. Trimblerigg ventured privately to differ\nfrom him; being in that matter a Free Evangelical, and preferring\nHeaven to Hell. Uncle Phineas preferred Hell; punishment was owing, and\nthe imaginary infliction of it was what in the main attracted him to\nreligion.\n\nPunishment: first and foremost for man\u2019s breaking of the Sabbath;\nthen followed in order drink, horse-racing, gambling, the increase of\ndivorces, modernism, and the higher criticism, with all its resultant\nforms of infidelity, the agitation for Women\u2019s Suffrage, and finally\nthe impious attempt of Labour to depose Capital.\n\nAll these things were of the Devil and must be fought; and in the\ndiscussion of them Jonathan began--not to be in a difficulty because\nsome of them made an appeal to his dawning intelligence, but to become\nagile. Luckily for him Uncle Phineas\u2019s information was very nearly\nas narrow as his intelligence, and Mr. Trimblerigg was able to jump\nto and fro across his sedentary and parochial mind with small fear\nof discovery. But the repeated interviews made him brisk, supple,\nand conversationally adaptable; and once when the old man remarked\nhalf-approvingly, \u2018Aye, Jonathan, you\u2019ve got eyes in your head, but\ndon\u2019t let \u2019em out by the back door,\u2019 he had a momentary qualm lest\nbehind that observation dangerous knowledge might lurk.\n\nBut it was only his uncle\u2019s constitutional disapproval of a mind that\ncould move; and of Jonathan\u2019s outside doings and opinions he had at\nthat time heard nothing to rouse suspicion. But clearly when Mr.\nTrimblerigg was called to the ministry and began to preach there would\nbe a difficulty; for what would go down at Bethesda among the Free\nEvangelicals, where his obvious career was awaiting him, would not do\nup at Horeb, the chapel on the hill; and it was well within the bounds\nof possibility that owing to his family connections Mr. Trimblerigg\nmight find it advantageous to preach at both.\n\nThat, however, was a problem still lying some few years away; meanwhile\nUncle Phineas might very reasonably die; and it was just about this\ntime that I heard Mr. Trimblerigg beginning to pray for peace to the\nold man in his declining years, that he might not be kept unduly on the\nrack of this tough world after so good a life.\n\nAnd indeed it was a life in which he had accomplished much; for a\nman of his small beginnings he had become of notable substance, and\nhis income derived from quarries and the houses he had built for his\nworkers was reckoned to amount to anything from six to eight hundred a\nyear, of which, in spite of generous gifts to foreign missions, he did\nnot spend one-half.\n\nHis expectant relatives did not talk among themselves about the matter\nwhere, of necessity, interests were divided; but they thought much, and\noccasionally they had their fears.\n\n\u2018I shouldn\u2019t wonder,\u2019 said Jonathan\u2019s father one day, \u2018if when Uncle\ndies it isn\u2019t found that he had an unsound mind.\u2019\n\nIt was to obviate such a calamity that Jonathan was sent to pay his\nweekly visit, and that one or another of the family, at least once\nevery Sunday, went up to Horeb to pray.\n\nQuite early in his examination of the tenets of True Belief, anxious\nthat she should keep him in countenance, Mr. Trimblerigg asked Davidina\nwhat she thought of them.\n\n\u2018My belief is,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018that we can all believe what we want\nto believe; and if you only believe it enough, it comes true--for you,\nat any rate. You can believe every word of the Bible is true, or that\nevery word of it is false; and either way, you can live up to it. The\nTrue Believers are right there, anyway. And if,\u2019 she added, \u2018you\u2019ve got\nnothing else to believe, you can believe in yourself: and you can smile\nat yourself in the glass, and look at your teeth, and think they are\nmilestones on the road to Heaven, till they all drop out. Believing\u2019s\neasy; it\u2019s choosing what you mean to believe that matters. I believe\nthe kettle\u2019s boiling over.\u2019\n\nShe went, leaving Mr. Trimblerigg to his meditations, also to a doubt\nwhether she had taken him quite seriously.\n\nWith his Uncle Phineas it was all the other way; they were nothing if\nnot serious together; but it often puzzled his ingenuous mind how his\nuncle managed to believe all the things he did.\n\nOne day: \u2018Uncle Phineas,\u2019 he said, \u2018how did you come to be a True\nBeliever?\u2019\n\n\u2018When I felt the need of conversion as a young man,\u2019 replied Uncle\nPhineas, \u2018I started reading the Scriptures. Every day, before I opened\nthe book, I said, \u201cLord, help me to believe!\u201d And by the time I\u2019d read\n\u2019em three times through, I believed every word.\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019ve only read them twice yet,\u2019 said Jonathan in meek admission, but\nglad to get hold of the excuse.\n\n\u2018Read \u2019em again,\u2019 said his uncle.\n\n\u2018And all the genealogies, too, Uncle?\u2019 he inquired, for all the world\nas though he felt genuinely committed to the task if the other should\nsay \u2018yes.\u2019\n\n\u2018Why would you leave them out?\u2019 queried his uncle. \u2018It\u2019s the sowing of\nthe seed. When you sow a field, you\u2019ve not to care about this grain or\nthat, picking and choosing: it\u2019s the sowing that matters. Sow your mind\nwith the seed of the Word, and don\u2019t leave gaps. You never know how you\nmay come to need it hereafter. \u201cAbram begat Isaac; and Isaac married\nRebecca, and begat Jacob:\u201d--that was the text the Lord showed me when\nHe would have me choose a wife, whose name was Rebecca.\u2019 He fetched a\nsigh. \u2018And I did,\u2019 he said. \u2018She was a poor weak wife to me, and the\nchildren took after her; so now not one of them is left. It was the\nLord\u2019s will.\u2019\n\n\u2018But if you had married some one else, wouldn\u2019t it have been the Lord\u2019s\nwill too?\u2019 inquired Jonathan.\n\n\u2018That we won\u2019t discuss,\u2019 said his uncle. \u2018I shouldn\u2019t have chosen\nwithout first looking to Scripture. There was only one Rebecca in the\nvillage, and I hadn\u2019t thought of her till then. \u2019Twas a marvellous\nshowing, and she on a bed of sickness at the time.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was properly impressed; but he doubted whether he would\nchoose his own wife that way, even should he become a True Believer.\nSo, not to linger on doubtful ground, he changed the subject and\nbegan to ask about missionaries; having a wish to see the world, they\nattracted him.\n\n\u2018If I become a True Believer,\u2019 he said, \u2018I shan\u2019t stay and preach in\none place; I shall go out and preach everywhere.\u2019\n\n\u2018You\u2019ll do as the Lord tells you,\u2019 said his uncle. \u2018It\u2019s no good one\nthat\u2019s not a True Believer talking of what he\u2019ll do when he becomes\none.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, Uncle,\u2019 said Jonathan meekly, still out to do business; \u2018but\nliving at home makes it very hard for me. I\u2019m much nearer to being a\nTrue Believer than Mother is, or Father, or Davidina. Davidina says you\ncan believe anything if you\u2019ll only make yourself. She says she could\nmake herself believe that the Bible was all false, if she were to try.\u2019\n\n\u2018Has she tried, does she mean?\u2019 inquired Uncle Phineas grimly.\n\n\u2018I don\u2019t know,\u2019 replied Jonathan ingenuously. \u2018It would be very wicked\nif anyone did try, wouldn\u2019t it?\u2019\n\n\u2018It would,\u2019 said his uncle. \u2018I\u2019ve known men struck down dead for less.\nI knew a man once who tore a leaf out of his Bible to light his pipe\nwith, and he was struck by lightning for it the same day. Yet his sin\nwas only against one leaf, one chapter. How much greater the sin if you\nsin against the whole of it. She thought that, did she? When you go\nhome, send Davidina up to me: I\u2019ll talk to her.\u2019\n\nThen Mr. Trimblerigg had a divided mind; for his fear of Davidina was\nnot less but rather more than his fear of Uncle Phineas. Indeed he only\nfeared Uncle Phineas for what he might fail to do for him in the near\nfuture, but Davidina he feared for what she was, here and now.\n\n\u2018I think, perhaps, Davidina only meant--anybody who was wicked enough.\nBut please don\u2019t tell Davidina that I said anything!\u2019\n\n\u2018Heh?\u2019 cried Uncle Phineas, his eye suspicious: \u2018That so? We\u2019ll see.\u2019\n\nHe got up, went slowly to his Bible and opened it and without looking\nput down his thumb.\n\n\u2018Listen to this, Jonathan,\u2019 he said; and in solemn tone and with long\npauses, he read:\n\n\u201cShe put her hand to the nail ... and her right hand to the workman\u2019s\nhammer ... and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head\n... when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.\u201d... You hear\nthat, Jonathan?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes, Uncle,\u2019 he replied, not yet understanding the application of the\ntext.\n\n\u2018You see, Jonathan,\u2019 said his uncle, \u2018Davidina was getting at you.\u2019\n\nBeing a True Believer\u2019s interpretation, it was not open to discussion,\nnot for Jonathan at any rate. Uncle Phineas was a mighty hunter of the\nScriptures before the Lord: the true interpretation never escaped him.\n\nIt was a curious and unexplained fact that Davidina was a great\nfavourite of Uncle Phineas, so far as one so entirely without affection\ncould be said to have favourites. Davidina was far from being a True\nBeliever, yet he trusted her; and he did not yet quite trust Jonathan.\nBut he saw well enough that Jonathan had in him the makings of a\nprophet and of a preacher; if only he could trust him, he would help\nhim to go far. But the testing process took time.\n\nSo, day by day, Mr. Trimblerigg laboured to win his trust, and\noften, after long hours of boredom in his uncle\u2019s company, success\nseemed near; for intellectually he was now growing fast, and to the\ncultivation of an agile brain added the cultivation of a wily tongue,\nand even where his future career did not depend upon it he loved to\nsustain an argument.\n\nBut he never got the better of Uncle Phineas; for when Phineas could\nnot answer him, the Book did. He began to loathe the Book--that\nparticular copy of it, I mean--and to make faces at it behind his\nuncle\u2019s back. But a day came when he loved it like a brother.\n\nAt the right time for the forwarding of his plans, Mr. Trimblerigg\nprofessed a desire for larger book-learning; he wanted to study\ntheology, and that not from one point of view alone. Ready to satisfy\nhim, up to a point, Uncle Phineas plied him with books containing the\ntrue doctrine, some he would make him sit down and read aloud upon the\nspot while he expounded them; others he let him take away to study and\nreturn, questioning him closely thereafter to discover how well he had\nread them. They were all good books--good in the moral sense, that\nis to say--books written to inculcate the principles of True Belief;\nbut all, from the contemporary point of view utterly useless, and all\ndeadly dull.\n\nOne day Mr. Trimblerigg asked his uncle, \u2018Where all the other books\nwere--the bad ones, which taught false doctrine.\u2019\n\nWhy did he want to know? inquired Uncle Phineas.\n\n\u2018I want to read them,\u2019 said Jonathan greatly daring. \u2018If one doesn\u2019t\nread them, how is one to know how to answer them? I want to read them\nbecause they deceive people.\u2019\n\n\u2018Not True Believers,\u2019 said his uncle.\n\n\u2018No,\u2019 replied Jonathan, \u2018but people who might become True Believers.\u2019\n\n\u2018They should read their Bibles. There you find the answer to\neverything.\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes. So I did; I did it last night as I was going to bed: I opened\nit, just as you do, Uncle, and there it was--written: the thing I was\nwanting to know.\u2019\n\n\u2018What was it?\u2019\n\n\u2018It was this, Uncle: \u201cOh, that mine adversary had written a book.\nSurely I would take it upon my shoulder and bind it as a crown unto\nme.\u201d\u2019\n\n\u2018That doesn\u2019t say read it,\u2019 objected his uncle.\n\n\u2018No, but it means it. It means that if wicked books are written we\u2019ve\ngot to do with them, we\u2019ve not just got to let them alone.\u2019\n\n\u2018We\u2019ll see,\u2019 replied the other; \u2018we\u2019ll ask the Lord to show us.\u2019 He got\nthe Book and opened it. \u2018There, Jonathan, listen to this:\n\n\u2018\u201cWhat profiteth the graven image that the maker thereof hath graven\nit; the molten image, the teacher of lies, that the maker of his work\ntrusteth therein to make dumb idols\u201d ... God\u2019s answered you, Jonathan.\u2019\n\n\u2018But that\u2019s about the man who wrote it,\u2019 objected Jonathan. \u2018He trusts\nin his work, but I don\u2019t; he\u2019s not going to make a dumb idol of me.\u2019\n\n\u2018You\u2019re running your head into danger, Jonathan. If you are not a True\nBeliever, the Book may be only a trap set for you by the Devil. He can\nquote Scripture when it suits him, as well as any.\u2019\n\n\u2018But I prayed first,\u2019 said Jonathan. \u2018And I\u2019m trying to become a True\nBeliever.\u2019\n\n\u2018When you\u2019ve become a True Believer, we\u2019ll talk about it,\u2019 said his\nuncle.\n\nAfter that for a whole week his uncle saw no more of him. Then one day,\nwaking up from his afternoon nap, the old man found Jonathan sitting\nand looking at him.\n\nIt was quite five minutes since Jonathan had crept in, and during\nthat time he had not been idle. He had gone to the Book, and arranged\na marker, and three and four times he had opened and without looking\nhad put his finger to the exact place; just a finger\u2019s length from the\nbottom on the right-hand side, it was easy to find. Then, sitting far\naway from the Book, he had waited for his uncle to wake.\n\nHe did not allow the haze of sleep to disperse before he made his\nannouncement.\n\n\u2018Uncle,\u2019 he said, \u2018I\u2019ve become a True Believer. I\u2019ve had a call: God\nhas shown me the way.\u2019\n\n\u2018How do you know you\u2019re a True Believer?\u2019 questioned the old man\ncautiously.\n\n\u2018I\u2019ve His Word for it. Every time I open the Book it speaks to me--so\nplain, that at first it frightened me. Then I felt a great joy and a\nlight filling me. And everything in the world is different to what it\nwas.\u2019\n\n\u2018Aye,\u2019 replied his uncle, \u2018that sounds the real thing. What has He\ncalled you to do?\u2019\n\n\u2018To go out and preach, Uncle. And He\u2019s told me I\u2019m to go to college.\u2019\n\n\u2018How has He told you that?\u2019 inquired Phineas, sceptical again.\n\n\u2018I asked Him to show me what I was to do, where I was to go; I opened\nthe Book and put my finger on the page; and there--college was the very\nword!\u2019\n\n\u2018You tell me that you found the word \u201ccollege\u201d in the Bible?\u2019 inquired\nhis uncle incredulously.\n\n\u2018It was found for me,\u2019 said Jonathan: \u2018Hilkiah the priest, and Achbor,\nand Shaphan, went unto Huldah the prophetess, the wife of Shallum; and\nshe dwelt in Jerusalem in the college; and they communed with her.\u2019\n\nSo, by the mouth of his nephew, Phineas stood corrected in his\nknowledge of the Scriptures. But he did not quite yield yet. \u2018Fetch me\nthe Book, Jonathan,\u2019 he said.\n\n\u2018No, Uncle,\u2019 replied his nephew, \u2018the Lord is calling to me now, not to\nyou. This is my affair.\u2019\n\nAnd so saying he opened the Book, drew out the marker, and set his\nfinger upon the page. Then he brought it across to his uncle. \u2018You read\nit, Uncle,\u2019 he said; and his uncle read: \u2018Arise, go unto Nineveh, that\ngreat city, and preach unto it the preaching that I bid thee.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg did not wait for his uncle to speak, he grasped his\nnettle tight. \u2018Will you take the responsibility now, Uncle, of telling\nme that the Lord has not called me; and that I have not plainly heard\nHis Word?\u2019\n\nUncle Phineas could not quite do that. All he said was: \u2018Nineveh?\nNineveh might mean anything.\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg, \u2018it might; but it doesn\u2019t. If the Lord is\ncalling me--and you can\u2019t say that He isn\u2019t--will He not also make me\nsure what the call means?\u2019\n\n\u2018We will ask Him again, Jonathan.\u2019\n\n\u2018We will not,\u2019 said Jonathan. \u2018That would be sin, for it would be\ntempting Him, trying to make Him think that we have not heard Him\nalready--in our hearts.\u2019\n\n\u2018Spoken like a True Believer,\u2019 said Uncle Phineas, convinced at last.\n\u2018Jonathan, you shall go.\u2019\n\nVery earnestly that night did Mr. Trimblerigg return thanks that I had\nopened the eyes of his Uncle Phineas and made him see light. And all\nthe while that he prayed, how helpless he made me feel! Lost in the\ndelight of the end, he forgot the means: and never once did it occur to\nhim that he was really giving thanks to himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\n_The Moving Spirit_\n\n\nSo Mr. Trimblerigg went to college to learn tribal divinity as falsely\ntaught by the Free Evangelicals; and his Uncle Phineas paid for it.\n\nHe went there as a True Believer; and his fellow-students viewed with\nwonder so coming-on a disposition confined to so strait and narrow an\ninterpretation of things spiritual. For at that time a great wave of\nLiberalism had entered the larger bodies of the Free Church Movement,\nand the Free Evangelicals led the way. They had even gone so far as\nto admit women students to their University and to its theological\nstudies, though not of course to the ministry; and because of this and\nsimilar tendencies, the wider and easier interpretation of Scripture\nconcerned them greatly.\n\nIn this large and tolerant atmosphere, where modernism was beginning\nto lift its head, Mr. Trimblerigg stood all alone. It was a challenge\nthat delighted him. He had no illusions as to the lack of a future\noutlook afforded by adherence to the strict tenets of True Belief: but\nhe had the sense to realize that what a student believes, or thinks he\nbelieves, in his teens under the unavoidable influence of the parental\nupbringing, matters nothing to his future career. Only when he comes\nto man\u2019s estate, and the full and free possession of his faculties do\nhis opinions and pronouncements begin to measure his qualification\nfor advancement. In the meantime he could sharpen his wits, acquire\nknowledge, and develop his resources for dialectic and for oratory\njust as well by maintaining the improbable side of the argument as\nthe probable; what better test indeed for his powers? Convictions\ncould come later, what he wanted now was training; and though as yet\nunconvinced himself, he might on the way convince others, if only a\nfew, even of the truth of tenets which he meant presently to discard.\n\nThere were three hundred students at the college, fifty of them women,\nand he himself the only \u2018True Believer,\u2019 with the additional drawback\nthat in most of the points distinguishing his branch of the Free Church\nbody from others he did not truly believe. Yet he never doubted that in\nfree debate he could profess a belief that would sound plausible, and\nput up at least an attractive fight even though eventual defeat awaited\nhim.\n\nBut though his calculating mind gave a silver lining to the cloud which\nhung over him, it was, I maintain, an act of courage when he stepped\nso buoyantly into the arena to face a three-years\u2019 process of defeat,\nand by defeat to learn the ways of victory. And though presently the\nbuffetings which he had to endure were tremendous, he was able in\nletters, and in conversation when he went home, to convey to his uncle\nthe impression that True Belief was not only holding its own, but\nwinning its way in the strongholds of infidelity. Had he not already\nmade converts, for proof? Three of the students, two male, one female,\nhad become True Believers.\n\nOne day he brought them over and exhibited them to his uncle, and\nwhen his uncle had examined them thoroughly in their new-found faith\nhis trust in Mr. Trimblerigg became almost complete. But still not\nquite. Uncle Phineas was a cautious character, and not for nothing had\ncaution, assisted by revelation, been his companion for eighty-four\nyears.\n\nIt was at this time that he re-made his will, re-made it in a curious\nway and let the family know of it. He executed two wills on the same\nday with the same witnesses; and laying both by, waited for time to\ndecide which of the two should survive him.\n\n\u2018I have great hopes of you, Jonathan,\u2019 he said. \u2018I\u2019m watching you,\noften when you don\u2019t think; and when I\u2019m not quite clear in my own mind\nthe Book tells me.\u2019\n\nThat was Uncle Phineas\u2019s strong point in his reading of character:\nthe Book could not lead him astray. It was upon that point that Mr.\nTrimblerigg felt himself most vulnerable. He might trace and traverse\nto stand in his uncle\u2019s good graces, he might abundantly deserve his\nconfidence and all that should go with it or follow from it after his\ndeath; but nothing that he could do would prevent the Book opening in\nthe wrong place at the last critical moment, or prevent Phineas from\nbelieving that whatever it then told him was true.\n\nAnd so though Mr. Trimblerigg did in those three years by all his\ncontemporary acts if not by his calculations, deserve that his uncle\nshould think well of him, he could never be quite sure.\n\nDuring his second year he heard from Davidina that she had fallen\nout of her uncle\u2019s favour,--an event which, having the two wills in\nmind he did not disapprove; but when he heard later that a hitherto\nunconsidered great-niece had appeared upon the scene and was keeping\nhouse for his uncle, his mind grew troubled. This was a cousin whom he\nhad never seen, named Caroline; the circumstance that she had lately\nbecome an orphan made her available as a house-companion for one who,\nneeding an arm to lean on, did not yet require a nurse. She was older\nthan Jonathan by three years, and had managed from her mother\u2019s side to\nbe of fair complexion.\n\nDavidina nicknamed her \u2018the dream-cow\u2019; and when Mr. Trimblerigg saw\nher for the first time on his return home during vacation he had to\nadmit that the name suited. She was a large creamy creature, slightly\nmottled with edges of pink; vague, equable, good-tempered, taking\nthings as they came; rather stupid to talk to, but not uncomely to look\nupon.\n\nAs he gazed on her at their first meeting, Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ncalculating mind got ahead of him before he could prevent; and \u2018Shall\nI have to marry her?\u2019 was the thought which suddenly presented itself.\nWith equal suddenness came another, \u2018If I do, what will Isabel Sparling\nsay? There\u2019ll be trouble.\u2019\n\nIsabel Sparling was the woman student whom he had converted to True\nBelief; and the conversion had been of an emotional character.\n\nShe was an ardent believer in the ministry of women, and having the\nprophetess of Scripture upon her side--Huldah the prophetess who dwelt\nin the college at Jerusalem for one, as Mr. Trimblerigg was quick to\nremember--had no difficulty in persuading him that the ministry of\nwomen was compatible with \u2018True Belief.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had seized on it, indeed, with avidity as a forward\npoint for him to score in discussions which forced him generally to\ntake the reactionary line. There was also among True Believers a\nmore obvious opening for women than elsewhere. The ministry of the\nconnection was diminishing together with its funds; and there does\ncome a point, in spiritual work as well as industry, when what cannot\nsupport a man will support a woman. In exchange, therefore, for the\nallegiance of a new convert for theological debates which left him\nso often in a minority of one, Mr. Trimblerigg blithely gave in his\nadherence to the ministry of women; and in the College debate on the\nsubject, which took place in his second year, they won an unexpected\nvictory, all but three of the women students, and more than a third of\nthe men students voting in the affirmative.\n\nIt is symptomatic, however, that of this particular victory over the\npowers of evil Mr. Trimblerigg said not a word to his Uncle Phineas.\nIt was a point over which he apprehended that True Believers of the\nolder school might differ from the new. Uncle Phineas, sedentary in\na small hill-side village and a chapel of which he himself was the\nproprietor, was scarcely in a position to appreciate the claim of\nwomen to spiritual equality; in the field of politics Mr. Trimblerigg\nknew that he was decisively against them; nor was Cousin Caroline, his\nhouse-companion, the sort of person to suggest a quiver of revolt.\n\nAnd so, while pledged to Isabel Sparling and her fellow-aspirants to\nbecome their champion when membership of the Synod should give him a\nvoice, Mr. Trimblerigg for the present allowed the question to sleep.\nIn his own time and in his own way he would make it his policy, but not\nprobably so long as his Uncle Phineas was alive, and his own financial\nfuture unassured. He must first himself become a minister.\n\nIt was during his third vacation that Uncle Phineas showed faith, by an\novert sign, in his future qualification for the calling. Jonathan was\ninvited, at the next Wednesday meeting, to put up a prayer, and give\nan address. The invitation was made on the Sunday, giving him half a\nweek\u2019s notice; and announcement was made to the congregation.\n\nLocal interest in the preaching ability of Mr. Trimblerigg had already\nbeen roused. Word had come down from College that in the debates\nhe had become a shining light, and there was regret among the Free\nEvangelicals that the burning oratory of which he gave promise should\nbecome the exclusive possession of the narrowest and most disunited\nconnection in the union of the Free Churches. In the course of the next\ntwo days many told him that they were coming to hear him.\n\nThis helped to make the occasion important; for if he could fill the\nchapel and continue filling it on future occasions, Uncle Phineas\u2019s\nrecognition of his vocation would become more assured. Mr. Trimblerigg\nwas now eighteen, his uncle was eighty-six; and he could not regard\nas unpropitious this timing by Providence of their respective lives.\nTwo or three more years in the propaganda of True Belief would not\nunduly hold up a career for which wider spheres were waiting. Suppose\nhe could, for a couple of years or so, kindle True Believers into new\nlife, make himself indispensable: and then--!\n\nHe began to see why possibly he had been called to devote himself\ntemporarily to so narrow a field of service. If he could come bringing\nhis sheaves with him, he would count in the Evangelical world more than\nif he had merely started as one among many, with no spiritual adventure\nto single him from the crowd.\n\nThus his sanguine mind addressed itself to Wednesday\u2019s meeting and the\npossibilities which lay beyond.\n\nIt would be doing him an injustice to say that, in regarding the\noccasion as propitious, he did not also regard it as a solemn one. He\nmade preparation for it--I might indeed say that we made preparation\nfor it together--with frequency and assiduity; and what I was supposed\nto hear for the first time on Wednesday evening, I heard in various\nstages of development more times than a few, during the two days\npreceding. Davidina, it appeared, heard it also: not, I think, by\na wilful listening at keyholes, but with a general awareness that\nrehearsals were taking place. She paid him the compliment of coming to\nhear \u2018how he got on\u2019, which was her matter-of-fact way of putting it.\nAll the rest of the family did the same: the meeting was well attended.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, in spite, or perhaps because, of previous rehearsal,\nmanaged to deliver himself with a great air of spontaneity. He got to\nthe point when he knew that he was making a success of it, and was then\nsufficiently moved and uplifted to launch out into parentheses which\nwere not only unpremeditated but quite happily expressed.\n\nPeople pray in different ways; some moan, some become tremulous, some\nvoluble, some halting and inarticulate, some repeat themselves many\ntimes as though they suspected one of inattention to their requests.\nThere are very few who say what they want to say in the fewest possible\nwords. I wish they did.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was not one of the few; but his prayer had undeniable\nmerit; it was quick, spirited, cheerful, a little shrill and high-flown\nin a few of its passages, and in its peroration there was a touch of\npoetry. He said yea, several times instead of yes; a trick which later\ngrew into a habit whenever poetry was his aim; but in spite of small\ndrawbacks it was a highly creditable performance well-pleasing to both\nof us; and that it was so Mr. Trimblerigg knew as well as I or anyone\nelse.\n\nAt the porch-gathering afterwards many praised him; Uncle Phineas had\nsaid little, not praising him at all, but Jonathan had been told that\nhe might take Wednesday meeting till further notice. Cousin Caroline\nhad looked at him with her mild dewy eyes, saying nothing but meaning\nmuch, as much, at least, as so indeterminate a character could mean.\nOnly Davidina, impenetrable of look, gave him no inkling of what was in\nher mind.\n\nOn the way home, in order to show a proper attitude of detachment from\npraise for a gift that was spiritual, and perhaps also indifference\nto her blighting silence, Mr. Trimblerigg inquired airily what they\nwere going to have for supper; whereupon Davidina replied in a dry\nindifferent tone: \u2018Same as we\u2019ve just had in chapel, bubble-and-squeak\nwarmed up again.\u2019\n\nIt was the sort of thing to which there was no answer; it was true,\nyet it was so unjust; no doubt she intended it for his soul\u2019s health,\nbut can anything so cruel be also sanitary? \u2018Bubble-and-squeak,\u2019 he\ncould not fail to see, in caricature, the likeness to his ebullient\nenthusiasm which had so moved and uplifted the hearts of his hearers,\nhis own also; and as he let the wound go home he felt (without\ncounting) how many times he could have killed her!\n\nAnd yet, if I can see truly into Davidina\u2019s mind, all that she meant\nwas that Jonathan\u2019s prayers would be made much better by his not\npreparing them.\n\nI am not sure that she was right; I have heard both; and I do not think\nthat there was much to choose. Prepared and unprepared alike they\nalways moved his audiences more than they moved me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\n_A Closed Incident_\n\n\nA week later he very nearly did kill her. The good which men imagine,\nand the diminished version of it which, when it actually takes place,\nhas so little recognizable likeness to the thing desired, found\nexemplification in this event. For though Mr. Trimblerigg had often\nwished Davidina out of life, it was a serious shock to him when by\nsheer accident he one day pushed her into the water, and was forced for\na considerable while to believe that she was drowned.\n\nIt happened late one evening, on the edge of night, as brother and\nsister were returning from a shopping expedition, upon which, rather\nagainst his will, he had been forced to accompany her to help carry\nparcels. Taking the short way back, they came by a wood to the home\nfields at a point where a deep flowing stream was crossed by a narrow\nfoot-bridge. There had been rain; the plank was slippery, the stream\nin flood; it was getting dark. Mr. Trimblerigg thought that he was\ncarrying more than his share of the parcels, and the unappreciative\ncompanionship of Davidina had made him cross. Embarked upon the plank\nDavidina suddenly stopped to change over her parcels so as to get help\nof the hand-rail; and Mr. Trimblerigg coming close behind gave her an\nimpatient nudge harder than he knew.\n\nWith an exasperated scream Davidina missing the hand-rail toppled and\nswung sideways. With quaint heroism she threw him her parcels as she\ndescended streamwards. Two of them Mr. Trimblerigg managed to field;\nthe third made the lethal plunge after her, and being of lighter\nsubstance jaunted gaily along the swift current into which she had\nwholly disappeared.\n\nFor a few ghastly seconds that seemed like the threshold of eternity,\nMr. Trimblerigg, encumbered with his parcels, stood fixed. The thought\nflashed that here and now he had done something that he could not\nhelp, for he remembered that he did not swim; and though it was a pure\naccident, he had a swift apprehension that this would be a difficult\nand also a humiliating matter to explain truthfully. It was a very\nserious drawback for any young man at the beginning of his ministerial\ncareer to push his sister into the water and then have her drown;\nstated in the mildest terms it showed incompetence; and Mr. Trimblerigg\nhad already begun to pride himself more than most on his efficiency in\nan emergency.\n\nLuckily, however, nobody had actually seen him give the push; so, if\nthe worst came to the worst, the story would be his own to tell. In the\nmeantime he could but do his best to put matters right. \u2018I\u2019m really\nawfully sorry!\u2019 he said to himself.\n\nWhile these or similar thoughts were dividing his swift mind in the\ncouple of seconds that had ensued, there was no reappearance of\nDavidina. Although the fact that he could not swim made direct action\ndifficult, to attempt her rescue was a debt of honour which did not\nbrook delay. Fleet-footed he crossed the plank, deposited his parcels,\nand began to race down-stream. If he could not actually rescue her, he\nmust at least keep her in sight and give her all the encouragement in\nhis power. Sight of the floating parcel bobbing against a willow bough\nseemed to suggest her present whereabouts.\n\nCasting off his coat as he stumbled along the bank to outpace the\ncurrent, he clutched at an overhanging bough and plunged boldly in. His\nfeet touched bottom: he came up again and crying, \u2018Davidina, where are\nyou?\u2019 felt about him in all directions with his disengaged hand for the\nlife which had so unexpectedly become dear to him. He encountered the\nparcel, captured it as a small proof of his efficiency and threw it to\nland. The stream seemed otherwise quite unoccupied. He called again but\ngot no answer.\n\nIn order to be thorough, he took another plunge higher up and two\nothers lower down where boughs offered suitable assistance. Each time\nhis feet touched bottom and his hand found emptiness. Had it then\nstruck him to venture further and try walking across the stream, it\nmight have puzzled him how so capable a person as Davidina should have\nmanaged to get drowned. But this he did not do; he continued to call\nupon her in loud appealing tones, and to repeat his dip, approximating\nto total immersion, at various points up and down stream.\n\nHe could not but feel that these scattered attempts were of a somewhat\ndesultory and speculative character, and that the drowning Davidina,\ncould she have known of them, would not have been satisfied. But\nDavidina\u2019s standard was always an exacting one, and as he had failed\nto live up to it in the past, so he must needs fail now. Nevertheless\nthese repeated immersions in water that was so astonishingly cold did\nat least give his conscience the absolution it required. He could say\nat the inquest, and afterwards, that he had done his best; what a poor\nbest that happened to be was nobody\u2019s concern but his own.\n\nAnd so, here and there, up and down, he probed for the dear departed;\nand only when quite convinced that his universe was empty of Davidina\ndid he quit the scene of the disaster and run off to fetch help.\n\nPoles, ropes, lanterns, and presently a drag-net gave to subsequent\nefforts a surface appearance of efficiency which his own had lacked;\nbut below the surface, where lay all that mattered, they were attended\nwith no more success. No body was found.\n\nGoing home to his bereaved family the gasping youth told a tale which\nwas readily believed. His exhaustion, his lively distress, his drenched\ncondition, and his chattering teeth gave evidence of the ordeal he had\npassed through, and verification to a story which nobody had any reason\nto doubt. He told how Davidina had lost her footing and tumbled in, and\nhe, plunging after, had twice caught hold of her clothing; and how one\ngarment had come off in his hand, and another had given way. Only when\nshe sank from view, after diving for her repeatedly in vain, did he\nrelinquish his saving efforts.\n\nThis was the story in its second telling; others down by the stream, in\nthe intervals of their search work, had heard it all before; and there\nwas so little to alter from the facts, so little to leave out, that at\nsecond hearing he had already become convinced of its truth; and only\nthe sight of Davidina standing at the door, carrying the parcels he\nhad forgotten, reminded him, with \u2018that sinking feeling\u2019 out of which\npatent medicines make their fortune, that another version of the story\nexisted and would probably be told.\n\nIn the next few minutes he got the surprise of his life: Davidina did\nnot tell it. She had, it is true, something of her own to tell which\nwas a departure from fact; for she said the stream had carried her down\na mile and over the weir, at which point she had got upon her feet\nand waded out; whereas having fallen from the bridge on the upstream\nside she had become entangled in its central timbers, and after keeping\nlow for a while and watching her brother safely out of sight along the\nfurther bank, had climbed out again and gone back into the wood. And\nthere, I regret to say, she had wilfully stayed--warming herself with\nsharp exercise the while--listening to Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s intermittent\ncries of distress, watching the flit of lanterns, hearing the harsh\nshouts of the search-party, and calculating coolly how long they would\ntake to give up quest for the body that was not there.\n\nAnd her motive for all this? Her motive was to give Mr. Trimblerigg his\nchance: his chance to tell the truth, or to do otherwise, just as he\nchose.\n\nNow was this charitable of her? I do not know. I only know that she\ngenuinely thought it would do him good: to give him the chance, just\nonce, of his own accord, to tell something against himself, bad for\nhis moral credit, bad for his future prospects, and bad for his\nself-esteem. And yet, though that may have been her motive, I doubt\nwhether it was not practically overborne by her sharp appreciative\nforesight of the actual shaping of the event.\n\nAfter waiting for well over an hour to give her brother all the rope he\nneeded to tie himself up in glory, she crossed the bridge, collected\nthe parcels, his as well as hers, and went home. And so well had she\ntimed herself that it was just as the second telling finished that she\nentered.\n\nIt took the family some moments to get over their surprise; but Mrs.\nTrimblerigg, an eminently practical woman, did not let them wait for\nquestions now. She ran them up to their rooms, got them out of their\nwet clothes, then brought them down again, bundled in hot blankets to\nsit opposite each other by the fire; and now to be heard once more,\ntelling their tale more fully each in their own way.\n\nAnd since Mr. Trimblerigg pleaded exhaustion, his proud mother told\nit herself; and Davidina listened gratefully, fixing upon her brother\nJonathan a kind and considerate regard. Her mother told it all\naccurately, just as she had heard it from Jonathan; and when it had all\nbeen rehearsed in her ears--our own Mr. Trimblerigg sitting opposite\nthe while and furtively regarding her, rather like a Skye terrier that\nhas just been washed and whipped--she said not a word to question the\naccuracy of the story. She accepted it; and when her mother said that\nshe ought to feel most grateful to brother Jonathan for all he had done\nin trying to save her at the risk of his own life, she said that she\nwas. She said also that the last thing she remembered was his voice\ncalling, \u2018Davidina, where are you?\u2019 And as, weary and weak of tone, she\nthus corroborated his story, she gave him a friendly look and a faint\nsmile; and then shut her eyes at him, as if to say, \u2018The incident is\nnow closed.\u2019\n\nAnd so upon Davidina\u2019s side, as far as words went, it was. But with\nthe mere shutting of her eyes she gave Mr. Trimblerigg a sleepless\nnight; and for many nights and days after, she held him in a grip\nfrom which there was no escape. And then some of her answers to\nthe maternal inquiries would flash into his memory with a horribly\ndisturbing effect. \u2018But Davidina, however did you come to bring the\nparcels along?\u2019 \u2018I went back for them: I thought Jonathan might have\nforgotten them; and so he had.\u2019 And when Mr. Trimblerigg defended such\nforgetfulness as being only natural under the circumstances, Davidina\nreplied, \u2018He didn\u2019t forget the other parcel, he saved that.\u2019\n\n\u2018Which parcel?\u2019\n\n\u2018The one that fell in. He saw that, and thought it was me, and swam\nafter it; and it must have been a sort of satisfaction saving that, as\nhe couldn\u2019t get me.\u2019\n\nSuch clairvoyance was horrible; it was as if her eye had flown with him\nlike a firefly in the night watching every movement not of his body\nonly but of his mind as well? And what made it so much more terrible\nwas that he could not understand her motive, or how it was to end.\n\nBut day followed day, and no revelation was made; his story stood\nuncorrected; neighbours came to call and congratulate and at each\noccasion the story was told again. Sometimes Mr. Trimblerigg himself\nwas made to tell it, in spite of a modest reluctance which grew and\ngrew; and there always sat Davidina listening with kind eyes and a\nfriendly smile. Then the eyes would shut suddenly, and the smile would\nremain.\n\nWhen she had done this to him two or three times, Mr. Trimblerigg was\nready to scream; and when she also did it to him the first time they\nwere alone together, he wanted either to die or to murder her. Then,\nfinding he could do neither, he gathered up his courage and was about\nto speak. But it was no good. Davidina opened her eyes again.\n\n\u2018I\u2019ve god a horrid gold,\u2019 she said, flattening her consonants in comic\nimitation of a stage Jew. \u2018Dat cubs of falling indo de warder.\u2019\n\nShe blew her nose meticulously (as certain modern writers would\nsay), creating an atmosphere which made confession impossible. Mr.\nTrimblerigg had not a word left that he could utter.\n\nNow, that Mr. Trimblerigg should have been puzzled by Davidina\u2019s\nacquiescence in the story he had told--that he should have been\npuzzled, that is to say, after perceiving what use she put it\nto--reveals the irreflective streak which was always dividing him from\nself-knowledge, and was presently to do him so much more mischief.\n\nHolding her tongue had given Davidina a power over him which no\nexposure of his face-saving art of tale-telling could have equalled.\nThe ignominy of that would have blown over; or he could stoutly have\ndenied the push altogether, declaring it a figment of her imagination;\nand had she forced him to denial often enough he would have come to\nbelieve it true. But by saying nothing Davidina stewed him in his own\njuice without a bubble to show for it; and the tender mercy of her eyes\nmade him sensitive where the accusation of her tongue would only have\nhardened him.\n\nWhat Davidina loved was power; and power economically exercised is a\nfar subtler luxury than power which requires repeated effort to sustain\nit. Davidina by doing nothing had acquired power not material but\nspiritual; and \u2018Thou, Davidina, seest me,\u2019 became more truly the motto\nof his life day by day.\n\nBut the reason why Mr. Trimblerigg failed to read her motive while\nwincing under the results, was partly because power of so static a kind\nhad no attraction for him whatever, and partly because it contradicted\nthe fundamental notion of his whole scheme of life--that he was a\nman, namely, of virtuous character, one with a destiny of resplendent\ngoodness lying ahead of him. Across that conception of himself\nDavidina\u2019s contrary conception struck like cataract of the eye. The two\nviews could not co-exist. Without his quite realizing it, Davidina\u2019s\nreading of his character threatened to drive his own out.\n\nIn the privacy of his own chamber he had more than once sat down to\nwrite his own epitaph--the epitaph which he liked to think would appear\non his entablature in that day when Free Churchmen had got the run of\nWestminster Abbey to burrow in. With the art of simplicity after much\ntrouble he had boiled it down to three words, \u2018Little--but good.\u2019 And\nif that were to represent finally and truthfully his work on earth,\nwhat place was there for Davidina\u2019s rival epitaph to stand, if, as\nhe half-suspected, it found its expression in the words, \u2018Good--for\nnothing.\u2019\n\nIf I had made him good (and surely I had done that, he thought) was it\nto be \u2018for nothing\u2019 after all? Before he could believe that, he must\ngive up his faith. And when he said \u2018faith,\u2019 he never understood that\nit meant, and meant only, faith in himself.\n\nSo silently, invisible, with imperceptible pace, mind against mind,\nDavidina tightened her grip.\n\nOne struggle to escape from the blast of her continued silence he made;\nbut it was no good. New callers had come with their congratulations,\nand the story was to be repeated once more. Summoned to a fresh drench\nof ignominy under his sister\u2019s calm gaze, Mr. Trimblerigg had a flash\nof inspiration. He laughed jovially. \u2018Oh, I just pushed her into the\nwater,\u2019 he said; \u2018so of course I had to go after her. I tried to save\nher; but Davidina preferred to save herself. And that\u2019s all there was\nto it!\u2019\n\nThe visitors laughed, thinking what a very charming and modest young\nman he was. And Davidina laughed too.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\n_He Tries to be Honest_\n\n\nDavidina got over her cold without difficulty. But Mr. Trimblerigg,\nwho from repeated immersion, had been in the water much longer and\nwith opportunities for severe chills to take him between whiles, fell\nseriously ill.\n\nIt was with a sort of satisfaction that he took to his bed; for this at\nany rate was a genuine result of his life-saving efforts, and seemed in\na way to affect their character, giving them the testimonial he craved.\n\nDavidina accepted the duty which fate had laid on her, and nursed him\nwith devoted detachment.\n\n\u2018It\u2019s wonderful how those two do love each other!\u2019 remarked Mrs.\nTrimblerigg, after viewing a sick-bed scene where Jonathan was as one\nhanging between life and death in Davidina\u2019s arms: \u2018And yet to look at\nthem sometimes you wouldn\u2019t think it.\u2019\n\nThat was on the first day of desperate symptoms, preliminary to the\narrival of the doctor, when Davidina, for lack of higher guidance was\nnursing him with prescriptions of her own choosing. He had horrible\npains; she pursued them with the old-fashioned remedies which, in\nremote country districts, still effect cures, and for which the\nundeserving doctor comes presently to receive the fee. Fore and\naft, wherever a pain came catching his breath, she skinned him with\nuntempered applications of hot raw mustard; and after five hours of it\nhe still survived.\n\nWhen the doctor came he could not but admire her handiwork. \u2018Well,\nyou have punished him!\u2019 he said. He examined the patient and gave the\nillness its name--double pneumonia. Its importance was a satisfaction\nto Mr. Trimblerigg and Davidina alike; they took it as a worthy\noccupation;--he to be ill of it, she to have the nursing of it. For the\nnext fortnight brother and sister enjoyed each other thoroughly, more\nthan they had ever done in their lives before. They even became fond of\neach other. But character remained; the fondness was critical.\n\nThe day that the doctor pronounced him out of danger, Mr. Trimblerigg\nhad already felt so much better, that he wanted to get up. Life having\nbecome attractive again, he was impatient to go out and meet it once\nmore on his own terms. And when he had seen from the medical eye that\nall was to be well with him, he was as anxious to have word of it as\nthough it were a compliment on his good looks. \u2018What does he say of\nme?\u2019 he asked when his sister returned from seeing the doctor to the\ndoor.\n\nDavidina, having measured him judicially with her eye, settled that he\nwas well enough for an indulgence that would be mutual.\n\n\u2018He says you are out of danger,\u2019 she answered; \u2018so now you are in it\nagain.\u2019\n\n\u2018In what?\u2019\n\n\u2018In your own way,\u2019 she replied, elliptically. \u2018It\u2019s done you no harm\nbeing ill. To be safe from yourself for a fortnight never happened to\nyou before. Mother calls it a God\u2019s mercy you\u2019re still alive. Perhaps\nit is: I don\u2019t know.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg lay trying to read her face and the meanings behind it.\n\u2018Have I been a great trouble?\u2019 he asked at last.\n\n\u2018People can\u2019t be as ill as you\u2019ve been, without giving some trouble,\u2019\nshe answered.\n\nYet he had a consciousness that he had been good, as goodness goes on\na bed of sickness; and he hankered to have it said.\n\n\u2018Wasn\u2019t I a good patient?\u2019 he inquired in a tone of meek repentance.\n\u2018I\u2019m so sorry.\u2019\n\n\u2018You were as good as you knew how,\u2019 replied Davidina, \u2018and that\u2019s not\nsaying a little; for you _know_ more than most; if you\u2019d only do it.\u2019\nShe paused, then added, \u2018You were very good when you were out of your\nsenses.\u2019\n\n\u2018What did I say?\u2019 inquired Mr. Trimblerigg anxiously; for the\npossibilities of unconscious goodness alarmed him.\n\n\u2018Your prayers.\u2019 (His anxiety increased.) \u2018You didn\u2019t say much. \u2019Twas\neither \u201cGod, I am not as other men are,\u201d or \u201cGod, be merciful to me a\nsinner,\u201d just those two things, one or other; and they both sounded\nreal, as if you meant \u2019em.\u2019\n\nThere was a long pause, while Mr. Trimblerigg calculated; he had got\nthe right atmosphere for it at last; so gathering his strength he said:\n\n\u2018Davidina, it was I pushed you into the river.\u2019\n\nThe avowal struck Davidina a cold blow: she had not reckoned that\nfeebleness, or illness, or affection, or gratitude, or anything indeed\nbut fear would ever have made Mr. Trimblerigg own truth against himself\nso long after the date. Then she looked deeper, and realized that it\nwas fear: he was trying to get out of her clutches by telling the truth.\n\nShe countered him by telling a lie herself.\n\n\u2018I didn\u2019t know it,\u2019 she said; \u2018I never felt you touch me.\u2019\n\n\u2018But I did!\u2019 he insisted.\n\n\u2018Well, if you did, you didn\u2019t do it on purpose.\u2019\n\nInto this trap he fell.\n\n\u2018Yes, I did!\u2019 he declared. \u2018I hated you: I pushed you in because I\nwanted you to drown.\u2019\n\nReassured, she saw that once more he was telling lies. It comforted her\nto find that he had not got out of her depth; her old Jonathan, the\nJonathan she knew, was safely hers again.\n\n\u2018Then why did you try to save me?\u2019 she inquired.\n\n\u2018I didn\u2019t try; not really. I only pretended to.\u2019\n\n\u2018Who was that for?\u2019\n\n\u2018Myself, I suppose. It would have been easier to think of afterwards,\nyou see: that I--tried.\u2019\n\nHere she saw that he had given her a bit of the real Jonathan wrongly\napplied.\n\n\u2018Ah, yes,\u2019 she commented, \u2018you manage to pretend to yourself a good\ndeal, don\u2019t you? I wish I could!\u2019\n\nHer voice was gentle, regretful, full of compassion and understanding.\n\u2018What would you like to pretend?\u2019 it encouraged him to ask.\n\nThen she smote him.\n\n\u2018That I believed you,\u2019 she said.\n\nSo the victory was won.\n\nHe lay back, exhausted of his attempt. He had not escaped her after\nall; and his final word was uttered without any hope of reversing the\nissue now decided.\n\n\u2018Well, I\u2019ve told you,\u2019 he said, trying to appear indifferent; \u2018and it\u2019s\ntrue,--every word.\u2019\n\n\u2018Then we won\u2019t talk about it,\u2019 she replied; \u2018you can think it\u2019s true,\nif it amuses you. It would amuse me too, if I\u2019d got the gift for it.\u2019\n\nShe looked at him kindly, humorously; and then, speaking as one who\ntries to chaff foolish fancies out of a child, said:\n\n\u2018Some day, Jonathan, you\u2019ll look in the glass and be thinking you\u2019ve\ngot a halo; and it\u2019ll only be the moon behind you, or a haystack on\nfire, or something of that kind. If I\u2019d got an imagination like yours,\nI should be afraid to believe anything!\u2019\n\nSo she shut him down with his poor weak wish to be privately and\nconfidentially honest. And as he lay back in the cage of her\ncontemptuous affections, he realized how very nearly he had escaped.\nIf he had only been content to tell merely the truth, Davidina might\nhave believed him: but at the last moment his Devil--his decorative\nDevil--had tempted him to play the murderer; and to the lurid beauty of\nit he had succumbed.\n\nHe turned his head away on the pillow, for there were tears in his eyes.\n\nDavidina said: \u2018It\u2019s time you took your medicine.\u2019 She poured it out as\nshe spoke, and set it beside him, with the two lumps of sugar that were\nto follow.\n\n\u2018I don\u2019t want it,\u2019 he cried peevishly. \u2018Anyway, I don\u2019t want it just\nyet: you can leave it.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, I can\u2019t; I\u2019m going downstairs.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, you can leave it, I say.\u2019\n\n\u2018And you\u2019d empty it away and eat the sugar as soon as my back was\nturned. I know. You\u2019ve done that before.\u2019\n\nIt was true he had: but all humans of my acquaintance do similar things\nwhen left to themselves. It is their nature. But it was Davidina\u2019s\ndevouring instinct for not leaving him to himself which made him\ndesperate.\n\n\u2018Davidina,\u2019 he cried, \u2018why can\u2019t you be friends?\u2019\n\n\u2018Friends?\u2019 she retorted, \u2018you are too anxious to be friends with\nyourself, to be a safe friend for anyone else, I\u2019m thinking. The best\nfriend for you is some one who knows how to make you honest to \u2019em\nfrom a distance.\u2019\n\nShe gave him his medicine as she spoke, and saw him drink it.\n\n\u2018Well, there\u2019s one thing you\u2019re honest about at any rate,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u2018What\u2019s that?\u2019 he inquired, hopefully.\n\n\u2018You bite your nails, and you don\u2019t try to hide it.\u2019\n\n\u2018What does that matter to anybody?\u2019 he demanded irritably.\n\n\u2018Nothing, except to yourself. I never knew anybody yet that bit his\nnails who was able to tell the truth. Not that that matters to you, I\nsuppose you\u2019ll say.\u2019\n\n\u2018I do tell the truth sometimes,\u2019 he declared in a tone of appealing\n_na\u00efvet\u00e9_. \u2018And when I do, you don\u2019t believe me.\u2019\n\n\u2018When you do,\u2019 she said, \u2018you show a red light. That frightens me. It\u2019s\nlike a train whistling and screaming to say there\u2019s going to be an\naccident.\u2019\n\nWhereat Mr. Trimblerigg put himself resolutely under the bed-clothes:\nand so she left him.\n\nYet, in the end, she did him good. It is a pathetic fact that from that\nday Mr. Trimblerigg left off biting his nails, hoping, perhaps, that\nas they grew an instinct for truth would be born in him. Eventually he\neven developed a habit of letting them grow quite long: securing, to\nthat extent, a sense of escape from the supervision of Davidina.\n\nI wish I could add that that little addition of grey growth made him\nbecome more truthful. But when in later years all his hair turned grey\nand he wore it long, almost like a woman\u2019s, even that did not alter the\nfundamentals of his character.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\n_Where there\u2019s a Will, there\u2019s a Way_\n\n\nOn his return from college for the summer vacation, his course almost\ncompleted, Mr. Trimblerigg found Uncle Phineas with his feet gathered\nup for death, though not immediately. He was confined to the house and\ndid not go out; presently did not even come downstairs. Caroline, of\ncourse, was still with him, somewhat colourless as a companion, but\nefficient as a housekeeper.\n\nIt would be difficult to say whether she was also a True Believer, in\nthe doctrinal sense, because to her doctrine meant nothing. She was one\nof those comfortable characters who, in matters of faith, can believe\nanything, and never actively disbelieve anything they are told by those\nwhom they respect and look up to. Otherwise, in worldly affairs, she\nwas quite sensible.\n\nWhen she opened the door to Mr. Trimblerigg she showed pleasure in his\narrival. He called her \u2018cousin,\u2019 and kissed her, thereby committing\nhimself to nothing but a more open acceptance of the kinship which\nhad existed before intimacy began. Still it prepared the ground\nprovisionally, and the blush with which she accepted the salutation\nmade her look almost pretty: in her large cream-coloured way, with\nunder-edges of pink, she was personable though she lacked personality;\nand she was very pleasant to touch, a point which with Mr. Trimblerigg\nmattered on the whole more than good looks, and very much more than\nintellect.\n\nIn the balm of her smile she said, \u2018Uncle has been expecting you.\u2019\n\n\u2018So have you,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg; \u2018and I\u2019ve been expecting myself.\u2019\nThus, footing it easily, he came into the house of his expectations,\nand went up to his uncle\u2019s room.\n\nIt was a momentous interview. The old man\u2019s beard had whitened and was\nbeginning to slope from the horizontal to the perpendicular: voice and\nhand were tremulous; but his eyes, whether he saw well or ill with\nthem, retained their keen look: and Jonathan still felt, in a lesser\ndegree, as he did with Davidina, that he was being examined as to his\ncharacter. For in spite of submissive hours in the past, he suspected\nthat as yet Uncle Phineas had never quite trusted him; that there was\nsomething missing which all his art and solicitude could not supply.\n\nIndeed it was so; temperamentally Mr. Trimblerigg was not cut to the\npattern of True Belief; whereas, for Uncle Phineas to be outside True\nBelief, was to be spiritually in chaos; and the small ugly chapel which\nhe had built for his own ministry of the Word was to him a veritable\ncity of light. And now he knew that he was leaving it.\n\n\u2018I\u2019m glad you\u2019ve come, Jonathan,\u2019 he said. \u2018We haven\u2019t got a preacher,\nonly one that comes once a month; it\u2019s only praying and reading most\nSabbath days now; and there\u2019s some that aren\u2019t faithful. Are you\nwilling to take the work now you\u2019re home again?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg said that he would.\n\n\u2018I wonder,\u2019 said the old man, fixing him with his gaze, \u2018whether you\u2019ll\nbe contented to stay here after I\u2019m gone?\u2019\n\n\u2018I shall do what the Lord tells me,\u2019 said Jonathan.\n\n\u2018Let\u2019s ask Him now,\u2019 said Uncle Phineas. \u2018Bring me the Book.\u2019\n\nThere was no reason why Mr. Trimblerigg should refuse; but it was a\ncurious experience to see that the Book opened where a marker had\nbeen placed in it; to see the old man pass his hand over to the left,\nmeasure his finger up the page and lay it on an exact spot. Nor did he\nwonder then, when the text was read, that his future had been fixed for\nhim in terms that he could not dispute.\n\n\u2018And Laban said unto him, I pray thee if I have found favour in thine\neyes, _tarry_; for I have learned by experience that the Lord hath\nblessed me for thy sake. And he said, \u201cAppoint me thy wages, and I will\ngive it\u201d.\u2019\n\nAfter Heaven had thus spoken there was a pause; then Phineas said, \u2018The\nword \u201cTarry\u201d is in italics, Jonathan. That seems to point, doesn\u2019t it?\nHave you any doubt left in you now, about what God means you to do?\u2019\n\n\u2018No, Uncle,\u2019 replied Mr. Trimblerigg, \u2018I have none.\u2019 The text, in fact,\nhad not altered by a hair\u2019s breadth his views of the career he was to\nrun.\n\n\u2018\u201cAppoint me thy wages and I will give it,\u201d\u2019 went on the old man. \u2018That\ncomes in too. But it isn\u2019t wages exactly, is it, Jonathan? Though you\nmay call it so for want of a better word. You know that I\u2019ve made two\nwills, don\u2019t you, Jonathan?\u2019\n\nYes: Jonathan had heard it.\n\n\u2018I haven\u2019t forgotten you, Jonathan. I\u2019ve remembered you in both; but I\nhaven\u2019t left you so much in the one as in the other. You see, I\u2019d got\nDavidina in my mind, then: and there was Caroline, too.... I should\nbe leaving you more, Jonathan, if it wasn\u2019t for Caroline. But now,\nshe\u2019s lived with me all these last years, I\u2019ve got to provide for\nher--differently to what I meant.\u2019\n\nHe spoke slowly, picking his words a little. Mr. Trimblerigg listened\nto them without disappointment or dismay. He had no objection to\nCaroline being provided for on a generous scale; and as his own share\nwas apparently to be increased, Davidina was now evidently the one who\nwould have to give way.\n\n\u2018And then,\u2019 said his uncle, \u2018there was the chapel to think about. Now\nthat you\u2019ve accepted the Lord\u2019s word I know what to do.\u2019\n\nWith quavering hand he drew out a key, and directed his nephew to a\ndrawer with certain contents.\n\nUnder instruction Mr. Trimblerigg brought him the two documents.\nHe looked them through, and separating the one from the other had\nit returned to the drawer and locked back into safety. He then did\nsomething which convinced Mr. Trimblerigg that at last he trusted him.\nHe put into his hands the remaining document.\n\n\u2018When you go downstairs, Jonathan, put that into the fire,\u2019 he\nsaid, \u2018and see that it burns. It\u2019s not wanted now.\u2019 And as he heard\nthose words Mr. Trimblerigg felt that his future was assured (and\nincidentally Caroline\u2019s also). His anxieties were all over, but\ncuriosity remained.\n\nWhen Uncle Phineas dismissed him he went downstairs with spirits\nquietly elated; and seeing that his future wife was then busily\noccupying the kitchen, he went into the parlour to consider matters.\nFirst he opened and read the discarded will; its contents were not\nsensational, but they would, had they outlived the testator, have\ndisappointed him. His uncle had left him an income of a hundred pounds,\nand his books. The chapel went to Trustees with a small stipend for\nthe ministry of the Word according to the tenets of True Belief. The\nresidue of his property, real and personal, was divided in equal\nportions between Caroline and Davidina; Caroline\u2019s share including the\nhouse he lived in. This meant that Caroline and Davidina would have\neach got an income of over two hundred a year, of rising value.\n\nWhen Caroline went up aloft at the ringing of Uncle Phineas\u2019s handbell,\nMr. Trimblerigg went into the kitchen and without reluctance put the\ndocument into the fire according to his instructions. And when Caroline\ncame down again to go on with the cooking, he proposed to her and was\naccepted.\n\nThis was the beginning of quite the happiest three weeks in his life,\nfor as soon as Mr. Trimblerigg made up his mind to marry Caroline,\nhe also made up his mind to be in love with her. He did not find\nany more difficulty in this swift embrace of new affections than in\nthe equally swift embrace of new convictions as soon as they suited\nhim. Circumstances had provided him with sufficient reasons for\nmaking Caroline his wife; and as love made the proposal so much more\npalatable, he bestowed upon her that extra gift with the demonstrative\nardour that was his nature; and in the extended opportunities afforded\nby courtship he continued to find her very pleasant to the touch:\na little unemotional perhaps, but good-tempered, contented, and an\nexcellent cook; and it was clear that in her quiet, half-motherly way\nshe very much admired him.\n\nUncle Phineas received the news without comment; and three weeks\nlater, with a final gathering-up of his patriarchal feet, died in the\nbeginning of his eighty-seventh year just about tea-time.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg ran for the woman who was to lay him out (since in that\nmatter old age requires extra haste when the legs have died bent), then\nwalked on to give instructions to the undertaker. Returning presently\nto a house where the womenfolk were busy at their obsequious duties,\nhe sought and found a key which he knew by sight, and got out the will.\nUnder it lay a sealed letter addressed to Davidina. This puzzled and\nslightly startled him; but for the present he laid it by as an item of\ncomparative unimportance. What startled him much more, however, were\nthe provisions which he found in the surviving will. His own share of\nit was indeed larger. He found himself owner not only of the house, the\nbooks and the furniture, but of the chapel also, with an accompanying\nincome of a hundred and fifty pounds, to be his so long as he remained\nthe local minister of the True Believers. This stipend was in the hands\nof Trustees. All the rest of the estate, amounting to an annual value\nof five hundred pounds went to Davidina.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg lost his temper; for a moment it almost seemed that\nhis uncle had made him destroy the wrong will. But there, for himself,\nthough tied by conditions, was the larger bequest; he could not but\nadmit that here a modest livelihood was provided for him: enough in\nthat retired district where all lived simply to enable him to marry and\nhave a family. On the other hand, it bound him to the place, and bound\nhim still more stiffly to the tenets of True Belief. There was the\nfurther bewilderment that Davidina got all the rest, the bulk of the\nestate; and that Caroline got nothing.\n\nAnd now, of course, the letter to Davidina became important. He went\nupstairs, got it from the drawer, and brought it down. The seal was a\npurely conventional precaution, easy to get through and to replace;\nwhile as for the adhesive flap there are ways also of dealing with that\nwhich every one knows. Adopting one of them he became cognizant of the\ncontents. It appeared then that, after all, his Uncle Phineas had not\ntrusted him; and that, in spite of their apparent estrangement of late\nyears, he did trust Davidina absolutely. The letter informed Davidina\nthat while her benefit under the will was without legal condition,\nit was the testator\u2019s wish and request that if fifteen years after\nhis death her brother Jonathan was still an active minister of the\nTrue Believers she should surrender to him one-half of the estate now\nbequeathed to her; and that, as a necessary precaution, she should make\na will securing him the same advantage under the same conditions. And\nfollowing on this came a statement more startling than all: \u2018I have\nmade no special provision for Caroline, as I intend that she shall\nmarry Jonathan.\u2019 And with that the communication ended.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg looked up from it into a changed world. Just as he\nthought to be starting on his forward career, he had become a cypher\nin the hands of others. The word \u2018Tarry\u2019 stared him in the face; in\nitalics, as his uncle had remarked. Here and now he had been left to\nCaroline, in order to provide her with a home; and in the future to the\ntender mercies of Davidina--who was not even legally bound, when the\ntime came, to act on her instructions.\n\nFifteen years! The time was fatal to his prospects; it mattered nothing\nto his career that now, in his twenty-first year, he happened to be\na member of the antiquated sect of True Believers; it would matter\neverything if he were bound to it for another fifteen years. He would\nthen be nearing forty; how could he become the leader of the Free\nEvangelicals, foremost figure of the Free Church Union in its march\ntoward liberal Theology, if in fifteen years\u2019 time he was still\nsaddled with the tenets of True Belief to the extent of having to\npreach them? He saw the meaning of it. His uncle had not trusted him;\nand was as far from trusting him as ever, at the moment when he had\nplaced in his hands the other will to have it destroyed. It stung him\nto the quick that a simple and rather stupid old man should thus have\ngot the better of him--to the extent at least of controlling the offer\nor withdrawal of a prospective income of four hundred a year. A hundred\nand fifty of it depended on his remaining in the local ministry; that\ndid not so much matter; but the rest depended on his remaining in the\nconnection at the very height of his powers; and that he did not for\na moment intend. No; even in the shock of disappointment and all the\ncallowness of untried youth, he knew that he was worth more. And in a\nmoment he had decided: henceforth his career was to be a tussle between\nhim and old Uncle Trimblerigg; they would see which would come out\nfirst.\n\nWhile thus he straightened out his problem below, Uncle Phineas was\nbeing straightened out upstairs. It was the easier job of the two and\nwould soon be over; Jonathan had no time to lose. And so collectedly,\nwith presence of mind, he restored the letter to its envelope, licked\nand sealed it, and returned letter and will to the drawer from which he\nhad taken them, leaving them to be found by others.\n\nThree days later he prayed and preached at the funeral with great\nsuccess. People flocked to hear him, for it was already known in the\nsurrounding district, which had sampled his early efforts, that he was\ngoing to become a great orator. Within a year he was due to enter the\nministry: and the True Believers swelled with a sense of triumph that\nonce more they were going to have among them a shining light.\n\nIn the domestic privacy of the Trimblerigg family, when the funeral was\nover, the will was ceremonially opened and read; and Jonathan received\nwith Christian resignation the announcement that Davidina was her\nuncle\u2019s chief beneficiary.\n\nA few days later he gave Davidina a chance to speak of the thing he\nknew, by inquiring:\n\n\u2018Uncle Phineas left a letter for you, didn\u2019t he?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Davidina, and was for saying no more. But Mr. Trimblerigg\ncould not quite let it stop at that.\n\n\u2018Anything that concerns others besides yourself?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Davidina again. \u2018He told me that you were going to marry\nCaroline, and sent you his love.\u2019\n\nSo apparently Davidina meant that he was not to know. For once he had\nbeaten her; and even if it were to bring him nothing in the end there\nwas satisfaction in that thought.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\n_Some Women and a Moral_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s call to be minister to the true Believers of Horeb\nwas independent of the theological test of his College which qualified\nhim for election to a pastorate among the Free Evangelicals. But\npractically it gave him a two-years\u2019 start; the Free Evangelicals did\nnot as a rule adopt pastors unless they were either twenty-three, or\nmarried. Mr. Trimblerigg was only twenty-one, but there among the True\nBelievers the vacancy was waiting for him, and he reckoned that two\npreliminary years devoted to establishing his fame as a preacher and\nemancipating himself from the narrower doctrines of True Belief would\nnot be spent amiss.\n\nIn the short while which must elapse before his marriage with Caroline,\nshe and Davidina changed places domestically; and brother and\nsister lived queerly together at the house adjoining the chapel; an\narrangement which, more than anything else could have done, decided Mr.\nTrimblerigg that his engagement should be short.\n\nOf course it was impossible from the first that Horeb should absorb\nall his energies. He started at once as a mid-week missioner, first\namong the neighbouring chapels of the connection, then going further\nafield; and so as to avoid for the present the problem of an exchange\nof pulpits with easier denominations contrary to the traditions of\nTrue Belief, speaking in hired halls where connection did not count;\nthus, without taking up the revolutionary standpoint, he began to sit\nloose to the exclusiveness into which the True Believers had reduced\nthemselves, and to make himself known among the Free Churches.\n\nHe had passed his theological degree brilliantly; a brilliancy slightly\nreduced in his own estimation by the fact that Miss Isabel Sparling had\ntied with him for first place. Thus, except for the sex-barrier, her\nqualification for the ministry was mathematically the same as his own.\n\nNow among Free Believers the idea of women in the ministry had been\nso unthought of that in their constitution there was no word against\nit; and Mr. Trimblerigg was, by his outspoken advocacy of their claim\nduring his college career, a predestined champion of the cause.\n\nHe had not occupied his pulpit a month before Miss Isabel Sparling\nreminded him. She asked for three things: that he would circulate a\nWomen\u2019s Ministry petition to the Annual Conference for the signatures\nof his congregation, that he would himself present the petition and\nmake an accompanying motion in his ministerial capacity, and that\nmeanwhile he would invite her as a lay-preacher to his own chapel.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was of a divided mind: had the proposition at that\ntime been welcome among the Free Evangelicals, he could not have\nwished for a better means of effecting a breach between himself and\nthe True Believers, when occasion was ripe for it. But among the Free\nEvangelicals vacancies in the pastorate were not going begging as they\nwere among the True Believers; and for that and other reasons the rank\nand file of Free Evangelicalism were either opposed or indifferent.\nThe question had indeed already been debated in that great body of\nFree Churchmen, and they had decisively turned it down as inopportune.\nThe opposition ranged from support of the Pauline doctrine of womanly\nsilence in the assembly, to the argument that as they could not go\nout as missionaries to be eaten by savages they had not a complete\nqualification for ministerial office; and when some protested that\nthey were quite willing to take their chance of being eaten like the\nrest, it was pointed out that savages did other things to women besides\neating them; at which point it was considered that the discussion had\nbecome unsuitable for open debate; and the previous question was moved\nand carried.\n\nAfter considering the matter for awhile, therefore, Mr. Trimblerigg\ndecided to plead his youth and inexperience. It was the only time\nthat he ever did so; as a rule he revelled in the sense of freedom\nattaching to both, finding inexperience quite as valuable as youth in\nthe formation of those momentary opinions on which he ran his career.\nTentatively, however, as a sop to self-approbation he put the matter to\nhis own chapel-members,--did they wish to have a woman come and preach\nto them? The shade of Uncle Phineas presided over the gathering: they\nwere startled--emphatically they did not.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, fortified by this verdict, told Miss Sparling\nthat being nothing if not democratic, and his own local democracy\nhaving decided against it, he could go no further at present in that\nparticular direction; but that in his own time and in his own way he\nwould work for the enlargement of popular opinion, and as soon as he\nsaw an opening resume advocacy of the cause.\n\nThereupon ensued a long dispute between Mr. Trimblerigg and Miss\nSparling as to what \u2018democracy\u2019 really meant. Was democracy, in matters\nspiritual, the will of a single congregation or community, or of the\nwhole Church Militant? Mr. Trimblerigg said that democracy was merely\nwhat you could make it, a thing not of theory but of practice; and the\nwhole Church Militant being highly divided on party lines, democracy\nwas divided also.\n\nMiss Sparling then created an argumentative diversion by asking,\n\u2018Why did you kiss me when you converted me to True Belief?\u2019 And\nthereafter the duel which went on between them was mainly upon those\ntwo questions--what democracy meant, and what the kiss had meant.\nMr. Trimblerigg gave to both alike a spiritual and a brotherly\ninterpretation. Whereupon Miss Sparling adumbrated a letter in which\nhe had signed his name with five crosses after it: what did the five\ncrosses mean? Mr. Trimblerigg said that they stood for an unfinished\ncommunication--unfinished for lack of time; and that educated people\ncalled them \u2018asterisks.\u2019 Miss Sparling refused to be so educated, and\nthenceforward was his enemy.\n\nIn the holiday season she took lodgings in the neighbourhood, and\nbecame a member of his congregation. Mr. Trimblerigg found that he\ncould no longer preach and pray freely, while Isabel Sparling sat with\nher eye upon him, saying \u2018Amen\u2019 in a loud voice whenever he came to\na full stop, pretending to think then that his prayer had finished.\nThus by attacking his nerves she destroyed his spiritual efficiency.\nConstantly he received letters which he did not answer.\n\nShe followed him up on weekdays also, attended his mission services in\nthe neighbouring villages and towns; and though he had ceased to speak\nto her, was to be seen following him at a few paces distance, as though\nsomehow he belonged to her.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg walked fast, and sometimes, on turning a corner, ran to\nget quit of her. One day, in front of his gate, she was seen to make\nfive crosses in the mud, indicative of an unfinished communication. She\nleft it at that.\n\nIn desperation he was driven at last to consult Davidina, who had\nremained silently aware of what was going on, amused but saying nothing.\n\nDavidina asked how many crossed letters she had had from him. Only one,\nhe assured her. \u2018One may be enough,\u2019 was her comment, which he did not\ndeny.\n\nDavidina thought awhile, then said:\n\n\u2018Have you forbidden her the house?\u2019\n\n\u2018She has never come.\u2019\n\n\u2018If you forbade it, she would.\u2019\n\n\u2018Then I won\u2019t.\u2019\n\n\u2018You had much better. Tell her that you are in to-morrow between four\nand five, and that you will not see her.\u2019\n\n\u2018And what if she comes?\u2019\n\n\u2018You have only got to be out; I\u2019ll see to her myself. It\u2019s a\npathological case, and the sooner you get married the better.\u2019\n\nFor once he trusted her; and as Davidina arranged it, so the thing\nhappened. Miss Sparling called; Davidina opened the door, and said,\nin reply to inquiry, that Mr. Trimblerigg was out. Miss Sparling, not\nbelieving her, walked in. Davidina requested her curtly but civilly to\nwalk out again; and when she refused, closed the door and fell upon her.\n\nIn the struggle that ensued Miss Sparling was no match for Davidina.\nWithin two minutes her bosom was rifled of its guilty contents, and so\nfar as written documents were concerned Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s reputation\nwas safe again; that is to say Davidina had it in her keeping.\n\nShe explained her course of action quite coolly to the flabbergasted\nIsabel: \u2018You forced my door; I forced your buttons. Now we are equals;\nyou\u2019d better go.\u2019\n\nShe opened the door again as she spoke. Eye to eye they looked at each\nother; then Miss Sparling walked out. And as Davidina watched her\ndepart, she said to herself, \u2018I wonder whether she\u2019s going to be the\nmaking of him?\u2019\n\nDavidina had got it firmly into her head that it was better to provide\nJonathan with enemies than with friends. She saw that popularity might\nbe the ruin of him; it was sisterly partiality which made her think\nthat unpopularity would be a corrective.\n\nIn the event Isabel had the making of him in a direction that Davidina\ncould never have dreamed.\n\nWhen Mr. Trimblerigg came home, creeping in by the back way after dark,\nDavidina presented him with the letter ending in five crosses, saying\nthat Miss Sparling had left it for him.\n\n\u2018Have you read it,\u2019 he inquired uncomfortably.\n\n\u2018No; did you want me to?\u2019 said Davidina in a calculated tone of\nsurprise.\n\nHe could not quite credit her with not having read it; but it was a\ngreat comfort to pretend she had not read it, and to have the pretence\nshared.\n\nAnd if a human can understand that state of mind he will understand a\ngood deal of the mind of Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg as soon as he was alone, read the letter carefully\nthrough. He remembered the occasion of it, but had forgotten the actual\nphrasing; he was astonished at its moderation.\n\n\u2018I don\u2019t believe she could ever have used it!\u2019 he exclaimed to\nhimself. Then he put it into the fire and watched it burn; and as he\ndid so, he remembered Davidina\u2019s advice: \u2018The sooner you get married\u2019\n(meaning to Caroline) \u2018the better.\u2019\n\nIt may be--I am not quite sure--that this was what really decided him\nto marry Caroline. His feelings toward Caroline had undergone, since\nhis uncle\u2019s death, not a revulsion, but a diminution. He had begun to\nhave his doubts whether he was the right husband for her; if she could\nfind another and a better, he did not wish to be selfish. There were\nepisodes in their courtship which had disappointed him; she was still\npleasant to touch; but her mind was the sort which seemed only capable\nof responding with a \u2018just so\u2019 to whatever was said to it: equable,\ncomfortable, and contented, but not stimulating.\n\nLike a soft cushion, leaning on which you leave an impression, and\nthe mark stays for awhile then slowly effaces itself, so she. Looking\nahead he could see the sort of wife and mother that she would be; and\nif ever it should chance that one of her children were taken from her,\nor if he himself were to die young--she would be more like a mother cow\nseparated from its milk than from its calf. Caroline was uneventful.\n\nIt was not an exciting prospect to look forward to. Nevertheless--and\nperhaps Miss Sparling had something to do with it--within a year of his\nuncle\u2019s death, Jonathan Trimblerigg married Caroline.\n\nAnd Davidina, out of her newly inherited wealth, gave them \u00a3100 to\nstart their housekeeping; returning herself to the parental roof, where\nshe stayed till a couple of years later Mr. and Mrs. Trimblerigg senior\nshared an influenza and died in the same week, and in the same bed.\n\nAfter that, for some while Mr. Trimblerigg was comfortably rid of her.\nShe developed a craze for travelling. But regularly every year, when a\nnew child was born to them, Davidina sent them a present of \u00a320.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\n_He Rides for a Fall_\n\n\nIt would not have been well for Mr. Trimblerigg--for his training as an\nadept in the art of getting on--had his early ministerial career been\nentirely without obstacles. Had circumstances not kept him on the jump,\nhis native agility might possibly have diminished; but from the very\nbeginning obstacles presented themselves, and they were not all of one\nkind.\n\nThe first which confronted him was intellectual and temperamental. It\nhad been all very well in his early novitiate to act as occasional\nlay-preacher to that sect of rigid Believers with bottle-necked minds;\na callow and undogmatic theology was then permissible. But now, being\ncalled to the ministry, he must get to the heart of things, and let his\nlight shine there. True Believers expected it; and elders from afar,\nmen placed in authority, came to listen to this young and rising hope\nof a diminished community, in order to discover whether his oratory had\nweight and substance, or was merely words.\n\nIt was Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s fixed intention to get himself driven out of\nthat narrow communion so soon as he could afford it; but meantime he\nhad to maintain the verbal verities of the faith, a difficult matter\nwhen his ministry extended to three discourses a week, two on the\nSabbath and one every Wednesday.\n\nFor awhile he kept himself going on the Song of Songs, the literal\ninterpretation of which provided him with poetic flights and passages\nof local colour congenial to his youthful temperament. Poetry in the\npulpit was a new thing. His spiritual interpretations of love attracted\nthe courting couples of the neighbourhood; youth flocked to hear him,\nwith occasional results which made the watchful elders uneasy. It is\ntrue that on Sunday evenings the chapel was always crowded, but his\ncongregation of youths and maidens, coming from a distance, showed more\npunctuality in arriving than in returning home; and now and then, as a\nconsequence, marriages had to be hasty.\n\nBefore long Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s Watch Committee called upon him to talk\nless of love, with its bundles of myrrh, its vineyards and gardens\nof spice, and to concentrate a little more on those starker and\nmore characteristic verities of the faith--sin, death, judgment and\ndamnation.\n\nUnder this doctrinal pressure Mr. Trimblerigg became futurist. He\nstarted a course on the literal interpretation of prophecy. It was\na branch of theology which the modern school of Free Evangelicalism\nhad neglectfully allowed to go out of fashion, fearing perhaps what\ndefinite repudiation might involve. Here Mr. Trimblerigg saw his way.\nUnfulfilled prophecy had this advantage: it could always be apprehended\nand never disproved. Also the sleeping atavisms of human nature\nfavoured it; just as they favour palmistry and table-turning, and the\navoidance of going under ladders or looking at the new moon through\nglass. When these currents of instinctive credulity are wisely drawn\ninto the service of religion they may do great things. And so it was\nthat Mr. Trimblerigg made a slight mistake when without meaning to do\ngreat things in his present connection, he let himself go.\n\nBefore he had realized the danger, his chapel became full to\noverflowing; crowds far larger than it would hold waited at the door;\nand through that, and through windows set wide, his word went forth\ninto the world and stirred it more than he wished it to be stirred.\n\nReporters came to listen to him; Free Evangelicals of the older school\nwobbled and came over; and while his own congregations increased,\ndown at the larger chapel below Grandfather Hubback\u2019s diminished, and\nrelations became strained.\n\nThis was not what Mr. Trimblerigg had intended; meaning only to\ntemporize he had exalted himself to a height from which it would\nbe difficult, when the time came for it, to make an unconspicuous\ndescent. He did not wish his ministry among the True Believers to\nremain memorable; but when upon the platform the word came to him with\npower, it was very difficult to refrain. It was also very difficult\nto remember afterwards what he had actually said: Mr. Trimblerigg had\ntoo much verbal inspiration of a momentary kind. If this sort of thing\nwent on long, he might establish a record against himself fatal to his\nfuture career.\n\nThe Free Evangelicals were beginning to feel sore; the door which he\nwished kept open for him in a friendly spirit, might narrow, might even\nclose against him in the day of his need.\n\nAnd then two things happened which he turned briskly to account.\n\nThe first was an invitation from the Synod of True Believers to deliver\nthe set discourse at the Annual Congress.\n\nIt was a great, an unexpected, and an embarrassing honour; for the\nset discourse, by unwritten tradition, was always given in defiance\nof modern theology and in defence of the literal interpretation of\nScripture.\n\nIf he did this to the satisfaction of the True Believers, his secession\nto the Ministry of Free Evangelicalism in the immediate future would\nbecome almost impossible.\n\nBut Mr. Trimblerigg, though his other virtues might be fleeting or\nfluctuating, had a nimble courage which stayed fixed. After humbly and\nfervently informing me of his intention, under the guise of a request\nfor guidance, he accepted the invitation and sat down to write the\nthesis which precipitated his career two years ahead of the course he\nhad planned for it.\n\nThe second circumstance, embarrassing but helpful to the same end, was\nthe reappearance of Isabel Sparling, heading a deputation of women who,\nfeeling called to the ministry, now saw an opportunity which they were\nnot going to let slip. As select preacher before the Assembly it was,\nthey told him, his bounden duty to crown his allegiance to their cause\nin public advocacy of the ministration of women; and when he pleaded\nthat the literal interpretation of Scripture must be his theme, they\nreplied by requiring him to concentrate on the literal interpretation\nof certain texts--mainly in the Old Testament--conclusive of their\nclaim.\n\nIn the discussion that followed, the deputation saw their opportunity\nslipping away from them. Mr. Trimblerigg was willing to support their\ncause, but only, as he said, \u2018in his own time and in his own way.\u2019 And\nthat time was not now, and his way was not theirs. Tempers grew hot,\nwords flew, the deputation went forth in dudgeon; Isabel Sparling gave\nhim a parting look; it meant business, it also meant mischief. She was,\nhe knew, a woman of high ability, and a determined character: and now,\non public and on private ground, she was become his enemy.\n\nIn the six months which intervened before the day of Congress, the\nwomen\u2019s spiritual movement broke into flame and heat, and they began\nthat phenomenal campaign of Church Militancy which has since made\nhistory. They began by entering a motion for Congress in support of\ntheir claim; but as women, though congregational electors, could not\nsit in the Assembly, and as they could get no member to give his name\nto their motion, it was ruled out of order and returned to them.\n\nThen in the chapels of the True Believers the word of the Lord was\nheard by the mouths of women; what Congress sought to silence, at\nmeeting they made known; they went forth in bands of three or four, or\nsometimes they went solitary, and entering into the congregations like\nlambs became as wolves.\n\nWhen it seemed good to them that the preacher should end his prayer,\nthey cried \u2018Amen\u2019, and in the midst of his discourse they spoke as the\nspirit gave them utterance. It was a demonstration that the gift of\nprophecy, like murder, must out, and that if a place in order be not\nfound for it, it must come by disorder. So they presented their case,\nby example and not by argument, and the congregations of True Belief\ndealt with them, or tried to deal with them, in various ways painful or\npersuasive, but none prevailed. For this phenomenon, they claimed, was\nspiritual, and could only be cured spiritually in the granting of their\ndemand; while the coercion practised on them, being merely material,\nmust necessarily fail.\n\nAnd so spiritually chaining themselves to their chairs, they were\nmaterially carried out, and spiritually interrupting the eloquence\nof others were materially suppressed under extinguishers which\ndeprived them of breath; and for what they truly believed to be their\nunconquerable right True Belief could find no remedy.\n\nFrom the moment when it had first sparkled into life, this sacred flame\nhad, of course, found at Mount Horeb an altar for its fires, and in\nMr. Trimblerigg a victim suited to its need. There Isabel Sparling\ncame in person, for the first time openly, but afterwards in disguise,\nand there they wrestled together for an eloquence which tried to be\nsimultaneous but failed. And though, with preparation and practice,\nhe did better against interruption than she, yet even there she beat\nhim; for if her remarks were disjointed and ejaculatory it did not much\nmatter, whereas for him sound alone was not sufficient, but he must\nkeep up the thread of his discourse, rise superior in eloquence as well\nas in sense to the reiterated \u2018Alleluias\u2019 of Miss Sparling\u2019s inspired\nutterance, and all the while put a Christian face upon the matter,\nwhich was the most difficult thing of all.\n\nThree times was Miss Sparling cast forth from the midst of the\ncongregation, before the doorkeepers became efficient in penetrating\nher disguise. The third time Mr. Trimblerigg, losing his temper, had\nused what sounded like incitement to violence, and Miss Sparling\ngetting her leg broken, brought an action and obtained damages, fifty\npounds.\n\nThis was regarded by the movement as a great spiritual victory, and\na victory it was. The law of the land, finding that True Believers\nhad no fixed ritual of public worship, and that male members of its\ncongregations might preach or pray without comment when the spirit\nmoved them, acquitted Miss Sparling either of brawling or of conduct\nconducive to a breach of the peace, and held responsible for the\ndamage those who had so ruthlessly ejected her. It admitted, however,\nthat they would be within their rights in keeping her out. This\nfor the future they did, and when, as her next spiritual exercise,\nMiss Sparling returned and broke all the chapel windows as a way of\njoining in worship, they got her sent to prison for it. There, still\nled by the spirit, she hunger-struck and got out again; just too late\nunfortunately to hear Mr. Trimblerigg deliver his sensational discourse\nto the Annual Congress, a discourse to the force of which she had,\nwithout knowing it, contributed: for six months of the women\u2019s Church\nMilitancy had been enough to convince Mr. Trimblerigg that a connection\nin which they had become active was one from which he himself must\nsever.\n\nAnd so, on the opening day of Congress, setting the note for all that\nwas to follow, Mr. Trimblerigg delivered his mercurial and magnetic\naddress on \u2018The Weight of Testimony.\u2019 Therein he upheld without a\nquiver of doubt the verbal inspiration of Scripture; it was, he argued,\nthe true and literal setting forth of things actually said and done\nby a chosen people finding their spiritual way and losing it; but in\nthat to-and-fro history of loss and gain many things were recorded for\nour learning upon the sole testimony of men whose minds still stumbled\nin darkness, and who, therefore, had not the whole truth in them;\nbut where their fallible testimony infallibly recorded by Scripture\nactually began, or where it ended, was not a matter of inspiration at\nall but of textual criticism, because in ancient Hebrew manuscripts\nquotation marks were left out. Thus Holy Scripture, once written, had\nbecome subject to vicissitudes at the hands of expurgators, emendators,\nand copyists, even as the sacred ark of the Covenant which, having at\none time fallen into the hands of the Philistines, and at another been\ndesecrated by the polluting touch of Uzzah, was finally carried away\nin triumph to pagan Rome, and there lost.\n\nHaving thus shown how the most sacred receptacles of the Divine purpose\nwere not immune from the accidents of time, he drew and extended his\nparallel, and from this, his main thesis, proceeded to give instances,\nand to restore quotation marks as an indication of where textual\ncriticism might be said to begin and inspiration to end.\n\nBefore long holy fear like a fluttered dove fleeing from a hawk had\nentered that assembly, and beards had begun to shake with apprehension\nas to what might come next.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg warmed to his work; his sensations were those of a\nfireman who, in order to display his courage and efficiency in the\nfighting of flames, has set a light to his own fire-station; and while\nit crackles under his feet, he strikes an attitude, directs his hose\nand pours out a flood of salvation.\n\nWhen he started to give his instances, their devastating effect was all\nthat he could desire. He tackled Joshua\u2019s command to the sun to stand\nstill, restored the quotation marks, pointed out how in that instance\nHoly Scripture had expressly referred it back to its only authority,\nthe Book of Jassher: and how the Book of Jassher being outside the\ncanon of Scripture was of no standing to impose its poetic legends on\nthe mind of a True Believer. Why then, it might be asked, had reference\nbeen made to it at all? He adumbrated a prophetic significance, a\nspiritual value, to which by that parable the human race was afterwards\nto attain.\n\nJoshua\u2019s command to the sun now found its true address in the human\nheart, and the reason why Scripture had recorded it at so early a date\nwas in order that it might find fulfilment and illustration in that\ngreater Scripture uttered upwards of a thousand years later by St. Paul\nin his Epistle to the Ephesians, \u2018Let not the sun go down upon your\nwrath.\u2019 That was the true meaning of Joshua\u2019s command for those who\nread Scripture, not by picking at it in parts, but by reading it as it\nought to be read as one great harmonious, consistent, homogeneous, and\nindivisible whole.\n\nOn that uplifting string of adjectives Mr. Trimblerigg stopped to\nbreathe, and his hearers breathed with him loud and deep.\n\nThat answering sound, whatever it might mean, gave Mr. Trimblerigg\nthe poetic push which the gasp of a listening audience always\nsupplied, \u2018Yea, I say unto you, yea!\u2019 he cried, and paused. He was\nin deep waters, he knew; so, breaking into an eloquent passage about\nships--ships at sea, ships that pass in the night, ships that have\nJonahs on board, ships that cling to the anchor, and ships that have no\nanchor wherewith to cling, ships of the desert seeking for water and\nfinding none, ships that making for the North Pole stick fast in ice,\nyet continue moving toward their destined goal, ships that go out like\nravens and return no more, ships that come home like doves to roost\ncarrying their sheaves with them--so experimenting on wings of poesy in\nthat seaward direction to which, though he had never been there, his\npulpit oratory so often carried him, he almost succeeded, or almost\nseemed to succeed, in carrying his audience with him; for indeed it is\nvery difficult, when beautiful spiritual similes are being uttered, for\nan audience to remain cold and critical, and remind itself that figures\nof speech have nothing to do with sound doctrine.\n\nIt is also difficult when a speaker speaks with so much beauty\nand fervour and imaginative mimicry, as on this occasion did Mr.\nTrimblerigg, not to see him as he sees himself; for the self-hypnotism\nof the orator is a catching thing--and nations have often been caught\nby it to their destruction, and churches to heresy almost before they\nknew.\n\nBut the True Believers, though momentarily moved, were not carried\naway; and when Mr. Trimblerigg returned to his instances his audience\nwas still against him.\n\nHe took the characters of the Hebrew prophets and examined them; he\nshowed that the sins and shortcomings of Eli\u2019s judgeship, for which\nEli had been condemned, were reproduced under the judgeship of Samuel\nwhen he, in his turn, grew old, and that it was really only as Samuel\u2019s\nown word for it that the people stood condemned in asking for a King.\nHoly Scripture had truly recorded that incident; but was Samuel, the\nineffective ruler whose sons took bribes and perverted judgment, was he\na witness altogether above suspicion when his own deposition from power\nwas the question to be decided on? And so round the testimony of Samuel\nhe put quotation marks, and relieved Scripture of the burden of that\nunjust judgment the approval of which was Samuel\u2019s, and Samuel\u2019s alone.\n\nAnd then he took Elisha and the cursing of the children, and the\nshe-bears tearing of them, and there, too, he restored the quotation\nmarks. He threw no doubt upon the incident, but its reading as a moral\nemblem was the reading of Elisha, and the tearing of the forty-two\nchildren had found its interpretation in the wish of the prophet\nmisreading it as the will of God. Other instances followed: there with\nthe testimony of Scripture before him, stood Mr. Trimblerigg inserting\nquotation marks for the restoration of its morals, dividing the sheep\nfrom the goats, trying to show where inspiration ended and where\ntextual criticism began.\n\nJudged by outside standards it was not a learned discourse, even Mr.\nTrimblerigg would not have claimed that for it; but it was vivacious\nand eloquent, and not lacking in common sense; and as common sense was\npreeminently the quality for which in relation to the interpretation\nof Scripture the True Believers had no use, the result was a foregone\nconclusion.\n\nWhen he had finished Mr. Trimblerigg sat down to a dead silence,\nand the presiding minister rose. Deeply, bitterly, unsparingly Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s thesis was there and then condemned as utterly subversive\nof the revealed Word. More than that, Congress by a unanimous vote\nexpunged it from the record of its proceedings; not by the most\ndiligent search in the archives of True Belief will any reference to\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s address on \u2018the Weight of Testimony\u2019 be found.\n\nBut the discourse had done its work, and Mr. Trimblerigg knew that he\nleft the Congress theologically free for the new-shaping of his career.\n\nIt was true that the Chapel of Mount Horeb, with house attached, was\nstill his own; but within a week the stipend pertaining thereto had\nbeen withdrawn, and the Trustees, believing themselves to be deprived\nof the chapel, had already begun the hire of temporary premises.\n\nBut Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s instinct did not play him false; and when\nacknowledging his dismissal at the hands of the Trustees he informed\nthem that the chapel was still open to them, free of charge and without\ncondition. He was sure, he said, that this was what his uncle would\nhave wished.\n\nAnd having done all this, he felt that he had committed a great act of\nfaith; he felt also that he had done at last something which could not\nfail to win the admiration of Davidina.\n\nDavidina was not herself a True Believer; but she had done him the\ncompliment to come from a distance to hear his discourse; and much he\nwanted to know what she thought of it. There was the added circumstance\nthat she had a direct interest--not theological but financial--in\nthe severance which had now taken place, and it was with elated\ncuriosity that he looked her in the eyes--with a look more straight and\nunembarrassed than he could usually muster--to see how she had taken it.\n\nHe found her waiting for him outside.\n\n\u2018Well, what d\u2019you think of that?\u2019 he inquired.\n\n\u2018I think you\u2019d have made a wonderful jockey,\u2019 she replied. \u2018You\u2019d have\nmade your fortune.\u2019\n\n\u2018Jockey?\u2019 he said, puzzled. \u2018I didn\u2019t exactly pull it off this time, at\nany rate.\u2019\n\n\u2018No,\u2019 she replied. \u2018Did you mean to?\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes; I did my best.\u2019\n\n\u2018That I\u2019m sure.\u2019\n\n\u2018How d\u2019you define a jockey?\u2019 he asked uneasily, irritated by her fixed\nabstention from further comment.\n\n\u2018There\u2019s your own definition,\u2019 she said, \u2018you wrote it in a school\nessay. I kept it because I thought it was good. I won\u2019t spoil it; I\u2019ll\nsend it you.\u2019\n\nAnd the next day the essay, which he had entirely forgotten, written in\na round boyish hand, reached him by post.\n\n\u2018A jockey,\u2019 he read, \u2018is one who had trained himself from early years\nin the dangerous and delicate art of falling from a horse.\u2019\n\nAccompanying it was a cheque for a hundred pounds. \u2018No wonder!\u2019 said\nMr. Trimblerigg, \u2018she feels that she owes me something now.\u2019 For by what\nhe had just done he was giving her the right, twelve years hence, to\ncontinue as main beneficiary under the will of Uncle Phineas.\n\nNevertheless he was pleased that he had pleased her. It was almost the\nfirst time he had known it happen. Davidina\u2019s opinion of him counted\nmuch more than he liked. All his growing years he had tried to escape\nfrom her, and still he had failed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\n_Scene-shifting_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s fall from the grace of true Belief--or from the good\ngraces of the True Believers--had a famous reverberation in the Free\nChurch Press; and at the age of twenty-four he became for the time\nbeing--next to the great Dr. Giffard himself--the most controversially\ntalked-of person among the high lights of Nonconformity.\n\nFor just at that time the Free Churches had nothing on which to grit\ntheir teeth, and badly wanted a new bone. The New Theology of Dr.\nRamble had come almost to nothing: its author had deserted it upon\nthe door-step of the more ancient faith into which he had retired;\nand the fight about it had died down. But here was a fight, not more\nsuddenly sprung than ended; and in a single round this young Jonathan\nof a David had been knocked out by the older Goliath. The common\nsympathies were with him, for the True Believers were not a popular\nsect; a time had come when it was generally felt that they were doing\nharm rather than good by an insistence on the literal truth of things\nwhich no one really believed. Nevertheless many old school Free\nEvangelicals considered that Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s method of attack had\nbeen inconsiderate and rash; for if one started to put quotation marks\nround everything one did not wish to accept, where would the process\nend? The world still believed in punishment for the wicked; Samuel and\nElisha stood high among the prophets; and if harvests were not liable\nto be cursed for a nation\u2019s sins, how then consistently could they--or\nalterations in the weather--be prayed for? As for the tearing of the\nshe-bears, in primitive times primitive punishments were not regarded\nas they are now. Besides, as somebody pointed out in the correspondence\nwhich followed in _The Rock of Ages_, the she-bears may only have torn\nthem slightly though sufficiently, killing none; merely teaching them\nto behave better in the future.\n\nBut though then, as always, Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s plunges in exegesis\nprovoked criticism, they had at least abundantly released him from the\nrestricting inhibitions of True Belief, and the way to wider pulpits\nnow lay open.\n\nAnd then in the very nick of time, on a Saturday night of all days\nand hours in the week, Grandfather Hubback was taken ill, and Mr.\nTrimblerigg, who had been much in doubt where to go for his next\nSunday\u2019s worship, came down at short notice and preached at Bethesda so\nbeautifully, so movingly, and in so charitable and resigned a spirit,\nthat there was no question of asking anyone else to come the following\nSunday and take his place.\n\nAnd so, informally, with the goodwill of a congregation where he\nwas native and known, Mr. Trimblerigg became temporary preacher to\nthe Free Evangelicals; and when, after a six weeks\u2019 illness, Pastor\nHubback died, Mr. Trimblerigg was congregationally recommended to take\nhis place; and after a certain amount of prayer, deliberation, and\ninquisition before a Committee, in answering which Mr. Trimblerigg\nfound no difficulty at all, his ministerial status was confirmed and\nthe appointment made.\n\nIn the month following, to make it as easy as might be for the faithful\nat Horeb to find and accommodate a new pastor, Mr. Trimblerigg\nmoved his wife, family, and furniture to the larger abode of his\nlate grandfather. But though the chapel was then left to them free\nof charge, and the house at a fair rental, the True Believers of\nthe locality thenceforth dwindled to a small remnant; while the\ncongregation at Bethesda increased and multiplied.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, however, had made his exit so handsomely that though\nhenceforth a suspended and disconnected minister (for the fiat of the\nSynod had gone forth against him to that effect) there was nevertheless\nbetween him and his old congregation a certain measure of goodwill;\nthose who parted from him parted with regret; a few, younger members\nmostly, came out and followed him.\n\nIn that matter, indeed, more followed him than he could have wished;\nfor no sooner had he been cut off from the communion of True Belief,\nthan it became evident that in that narrow and reactionary following\nthe woman\u2019s ministry propaganda had not a dog\u2019s chance of success.\nPossibly also, with him out of it, the sect ceased to attract the\nforward spirits of feminism. Whatever the cause, within a few weeks\nthe agitation, so far as True Belief was concerned, died the death;\nbut unfortunately came to life elsewhere, more vigorously and more\nabundantly than ever.\n\nThe long struggle of women, in the broad fold of Free Evangelicalism,\nto obtain sex-equality is not to be told here. Its main importance,\nso far as we are concerned, is the effect it had on the career of Mr.\nTrimblerigg. The recrudescence of Isabel Sparling and her followers in\ncongregations drawn together by his growing reputation as a preacher\nbecame a sad impediment to the flow of his oratory. The manifestations\nwere epidemic through all the loosely-knit communions of the Free\nChurches; but against himself they were directed with a personal\nanimus of which only he and Isabel Sparling knew the full inwardness.\nFor public purposes it was sufficient that, after first disclaiming\nall further obligation to their cause--since only in the bonds of True\nBelief had he stood fully committed thereto--he now sought to postpone\nthe question of their admission until the corporate union of the Free\nChurches, and a few other reforms (Disestablishment amongst others),\non which he had set his heart, had been accomplished. A piecemeal\nextension of the ministerial function to women would, he maintained,\nhave a disturbing and a disuniting effect on communions which he sought\nto draw together in closer bonds of brotherhood. \u2018I am in favour of\nit,\u2019 he said (to the deputations which continued to wait on him), \u2018but\nI am not so much in favour of it, as of other and more fundamental\nthings which must come first.\u2019\n\nFundamental: the word kindled in the hearts of women who had felt that\nfundamental call of the spirit, a flame of resentment that crackled and\nspread. Who was he, who was anybody to dictate times and seasons, when\nthe signs of that spiritual outpouring were here and now?\n\nAnd so there was War in all the Free Churches which strove to fulfil\nthemselves under the ministry of one sex alone; and Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\nprayers and preachings were in consequence broken into shorter\nparagraphs than was good for them.\n\nBut the violence with which those spiritual interruptions were carried\nout could not go on for ever; it was not in human, it was not in\nheavenly nature to utter messages born of the spirit with the drilled\nregularity and mechanism of a firing-squad. The things they said lacked\nconviction, did not come from their hearts or their heads, but only\nfrom their tongues and their tempers; and when in certain selected\ncases, Mr. Trimblerigg was inspired to pause so that they might speak\nas the spirit gave them utterance, the spirit left them badly in the\nlurch, they faltered and became dumb. For Isabel Sparling had enlisted\nin her cause many who were the poorest of poor speakers and had no wish\nwhatever to become ministers; and when these heard themselves speak\nto a congregation which was artfully prevailed upon to listen they\ntrembled and were afraid, and felt themselves fools.\n\nAnd so, for a while, in his own particular congregation, it almost\nseemed that Mr. Trimblerigg was on the way to restore order and recover\nthe undivided attention of his audiences.\n\nBut once again the pin-prick policy of Isabel Sparling got the better\nof him; and in the third year of her Church Militancy, forces of a new,\na more placid, and a more undefeatable type were let loose against him.\n\nThey came, they behaved themselves, they said not a word, cloven\ntongues of inspiration no longer descended upon them; but in the most\nmoving passage of prayer or sermon, they would feel imperatively moved\nto get up and go. And with much deprecatory fuss and whispered apology,\nalways from the centre of a well-occupied row--they would go forth and\npresently return again, finding that they had left book, or handbag, or\nhandkerchief behind them, or that they had taken away their neighbour\u2019s\nin mistake for their own. And it was all so politely and apologetically\ndone that everybody, except the preacher, had to forgive them.\n\nAnd so it came about that after Mr. Trimblerigg had been at Bethesda\nfor a little more than two years, he accepted with alacrity a post at\nthe Free Evangelical centre for the organization of foreign missions.\nAnd when he went out to preach it was at short notice here, there and\neverywhere, where the sedulous attentions of Miss Isabel Sparling and\nher followers had not time to overtake him.\n\nThat great work of organization, and the addressing of meetings for men\nonly, gave his energies the outlet, the flourish, and the flamboyance\nwhich they imperatively demanded; and while he discovered in himself\na head for business and a leaning toward speculative finance, in\nthe great Free Evangelical connection his spiritual and oratorical\nreputation continued to grow.\n\nAnd meanwhile, in his domestic circumstances, Mr. Trimblerigg was\nliving an enlarged life and doing well. His wife had presented him with\nthree children; and he in return, by moving them from a remote country\ndistrict of primitive ways to one of the big centres of civilization,\nhad presented her with a house containing a basement and a bathroom.\n\nThe basement enabled them to keep a servant; while the bathroom--a\nmatter of more importance--enabled me to obtain a clearer view (which\nis not quite the same as a complete explanation), of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ncharacter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\n_Theory and Practice_\n\n\nIt is as a rule (though not always) when men are not under the\nobservation of others, that they most surely reveal themselves. Word\nand face and gesture are not then the concealment which at other times\nthey may become; and though when a man talks or gesticulates to himself\nhe is often very far from telling the truth, he is generally near to\nrevealing it.\n\nAnd that, I suppose, is why writers of fiction have so generally taken\nthe impossible liberty of following their characters into places of\nsolitude and the privacy of their own thoughts; and from this godlike\nvantage-ground have pulled the strings of their puppets, imposing upon\nthe reader a shoddy romanticism which pretends to be science.\n\nBut the gods can very seldom gaze into the secrecy of the things they\nhave made, with so omniscient and cocksure a spirit. Between mortal\nman and his maker there is a remove which sometimes baffles each\nalike. Free-will, inside a fixed radius of determined environment,\ncreates an obscurity. The outer integument, the limited viewpoint, the\ncompeting interests and motives, which go to make up one of those small\nself-centred individualities called man, are often obstructive to the\nlarger and more serene intelligence which accompanies the spiritual\nstandpoint; and I confess that in his privacy Mr. Trimblerigg used\noften to puzzle me.\n\nIt was seeing the puzzle at work--putting itself elaborately together,\nthen pulling itself to pieces again--which gave me the clearer view;\nthough it remained a puzzle still. But it was something to discover,\nsuddenly and unexpectedly, that Mr. Trimblerigg had a passion for\nsincerity--towards himself at any rate--which took him to strange\nlengths; and though I recount what came under my observation, I do not\npretend that I am able to explain it.\n\nIt was my privilege, more frequently at this particular point of his\ncareer than ever before, to see Mr. Trimblerigg take his bath; a\nfunction which, so far as his wife and the outside world knew, took\nplace every morning of his life. It is more accurate to say that he\nwent to the bathroom every morning, and that every morning, to anyone\nwho cared to listen, the sounds of a bath being taken came through the\ndoor.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had committed himself to the bath-habit with\ncharacteristic enthusiasm from the day when, with enlarged means, he\nfound himself in a house containing a bathroom. But the house did\nnot--in the first instance at any rate--contain a hot-water system;\nexcept on occasions of special preparation the baths remained cold.\n\nBut Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s tenancy began in the summer quarter, when cold\nbaths are almost as much a pleasure as a virtue. He was young, robust,\nvigorous, a preacher of the strenuous life; and facilities for the\ndaily cold bath having come his way, he first boldly proclaimed his\nfaith, and then got into it.\n\nHis faith carried him on, even when colder weather made it a trial;\nand often it was beautiful to see, after a timid bird-like hovering on\nthe brink, how boldly he would plunge in, and with pantings and rapid\nspongings cross the rubicon of agony which leads to the healthy glow of\na stimulated circulation.\n\nOn these occasions he would be very proud of himself, and standing\nbefore the glass gaze with approval on the ruddy blush which suffused\nhis body and limbs under the hard rubbings of the towel. But a day came\nwhen he quailed and could not bring himself to get in at all; for the\nbath-habit was not in his blood as it is in the blood of those who have\nhad a public-school training. The hill-side-chapel clan from which he\nsprang bathed only on the day of its baptism, or medicinally at the\norder of a doctor; and early habit, or the lack of it, counts with\npeople as they grow older. So now there was controversy between Mr.\nTrimblerigg and his bath.\n\nHe tried it first with his hand, then with his foot: then he drew a\nbreath and said \u2018Brrrr!\u2019 loudly and resolutely, and continued saying it\nas he drove the water up and down the bath with his sponge. He splashed\nit artfully across the wooden splash-board, and down on to the floor;\nhe dipped his feet and made wet marks on the bath-mat, and all the\nwhile he spluttered and panted, and at intervals stirred the bath-water\nto and fro, and round and round with his sponge. Then he stood in front\nof the glass and rubbed himself hard with his towel until he felt quite\nwarm, until his body glowed with a similar glow to that which followed\nan actual bathing. And, as he did so, he looked at himself roguishly in\nthe glass; and shaking his head at himself--\u2018Naughty boy!\u2019 he said.\n\nHe was quite frank about it--to himself; and when he had done the same\ntrick several times, as the mornings remained cold, he gave himself\nwhat he called \u2018a good talking to.\u2019\n\n\u2018You are getting fat!\u2019 he said, \u2018you are getting self-indulgent; you\nwant whipping!\u2019 And so saying he let out at himself two or three quite\nhard flicks with the towel--flicks that hurt.\n\nIt was a new invention for the establishment of pleasant relations\nbetween his comic and his moral sense; and when occasion required he\nrepeated it. That little bit of self-discipline always restored his\nself-esteem, leaving his conscience without a wound; and he would come\nout of the bathroom feeling as good as gold, and sometimes would even\nremark to his wife how fresh a really cold bath on a frosty morning\nmade one feel. And she would assent quite pleasantly, only begging him\nnot to overdo it; whereupon he would explain how constant habit hardens\na man even to the extremities of water from an iced cistern. And who,\nto look at her, would have any suspicion that she did not entirely\nbelieve him?\n\nBut on more than one occasion on very cold mornings, when Mr.\nTrimblerigg was safely downstairs, I have seen her go into the bathroom\nand inspect, with a woman\u2019s eye for details: appraise the amount of\nmoisture left in the towel, and various other minute points for the\nconfirmation of her hope that he was not overdoing it. And when she\nhas quite satisfied herself, I have seen her smile and go on down to\nbreakfast, a good contented soul, full of the comfortable assurances\nwives often have, that though husbands may be clever in their way, to\nsee through them domestically is not difficult.\n\nLater on, when Mr. Trimblerigg moved to a house efficiently supplied\nwith a hot-water system, his baths were taken daily, but they were not\nalways cold ones; and though he still pretended that they were, the\nmodifications were so various and so habitual, that he left off saying\n\u2018naughty boy!\u2019 when he looked at himself in the glass. Also, when he\nreally did begin to become chubby he left off telling himself that he\nwas getting fat. Sometimes he would look at himself a little sadly,\nand in order to avoid the moral conclusion that you cannot have the fat\nthings of life without the adipose tissue, preferred to reflect that\nhe was \u2018getting middle-aged,\u2019 which was still ten years away from the\ntruth.\n\nBut the sadness was only momentary; he had so good an opinion of\nhimself that he was almost always cheerful, and easy to get on with.\nAnd if after he had turned thirty he did begin to become a little ball\nof a man, he kept the ball rolling with energy. The amount of work he\ncould do, and do happily, was phenomenal; and under his stimulus the\nforeign mission work of the Free Evangelicals grew and flourished.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\n_A Virtuous Adventure_\n\n\nNobody who has followed this narrative with any intelligence\ncan suppose that Mr. Trimblerigg was a man who did not have his\ntemptations. What happened when he immersed Davidina in the stream\nwithout intending it, what happened when he did not immerse himself in\nthe bath on a cold morning, has been faithfully told. But what he did\nto Davidina had hurt him far more than what he did to himself. It had\nhurt him because Davidina had found him out, and then had not allowed\nhim to explain.\n\nHe liked explaining. Explaining always made him feel right again with\nhis own conscience. Even the look of understanding which he exchanged\nwith himself in the glass, after some involuntary reversion to type,\nwas sufficient as a rule to restore him to his own good opinion. To\nexplain things, therefore, which generally meant to explain them away,\nwas spiritual meat and drink to him.\n\nBut there were two people in the world to whom he very seldom explained\nanything: his wife, the quiet Caroline, who understood so little that\nit was not worth while; and his sister Davidina who understood so much\nthat it was dangerous.\n\nAnd between these two Guardian angels--who should have been his\nconfidantes, but were not--he led a life of temptations. Not gross, or\nserious in kind, or extreme in degree, but temptations none the less,\nand all having their root in a very laudable trait of his character,\nhis abounding love of adventure.\n\nAll his life Mr. Trimblerigg had been respectable: when he married he\nhad no bachelor episodes to conceal from his wife, except perhaps that\nsixpenny sale of a kiss to Lizzie Seebohm, of which he had ceased to\nbe proud, and his temporary infatuation for Isabel Sparling which had\nafterwards so embarrassed him. And this rectitude of conduct was not\nfor lack of opportunity or inclination; for women attracted him and\nhe attracted them. Puritan training and Puritan ancestry had no doubt\nsomething to do with it: the bath-habit which he had failed in his\nyouth to acquire materially, he had acquired spiritually.\n\nAnd so also with other things. He had never drunk wine or spirits; only\nonce or twice a glass of beer, and that not for its potency or taste,\nbut because it had froth on the top, and he liked dipping his lips into\nit. Surreptitiously, for the mere pleasure of concealment and doing it\nwith boys older than himself, he had smoked a pipe a few times before\nbecoming an adherent of True Belief, and he had not, upon escaping from\nthe confinement of its doctrine, relinquished the abstention which had\nbecome a habit. Nor had he ever betted; though now, with a little money\nto turn round in, he had begun to speculate; but that was different.\nFinally he had never travelled.\n\nIn all these ways he, to whom change and adventure instinctively\nappealed, had been cut off from adventure; and adventure--even when it\ncould not be called wrong--tempted him more than most people. To see\nhimself in a tight place, and get out of it, meant self-realization; to\nfind his way into unaccustomed circumstances, and fit them perfectly,\nwas intellectual and moral training of a stimulating kind. During his\ndays at College in the annual students\u2019 rag on the Fifth of November,\na plot had been formed by the anti-feminists to make a Guy Fawkes of\nhim dressed as a woman preacher. And he had escaped by stealing a\npoliceman\u2019s helmet, truncheon, and overcoat, which were all much too\nlarge for him, and had then helped to batter the heads of the turbulent\ncrowd which was out seeking for him and breaking the windows of the\nlodging-house where he was supposed to be.\n\nThat was a memory which he very much enjoyed: he had then drawn blood\nfor the first time and heard a skull crack under his inexpert handling\nof the truncheon which a trained policeman only employs in the way of\nkindness. His man had gone to hospital. And that was at a time, too,\nwhen Mr. Trimblerigg considered himself a pacifist.\n\nIf the truth must be known he had more thoroughly enjoyed that brief\nhour of a violent laying-on of hands than the subsequent day of his\nordination for which all the rest was a preparation. It had been more\nof an adventure.\n\nAnd there you have the key to the temptations of Mr. Trimblerigg.\nNeither then, nor subsequently did he ever wish to do any man wrong;\nbut he did wish to experiment. And whether it was the thickness of\na fellow-student\u2019s skull, or the rise and fall of a market, or the\ngullibility of the common herd, or the pious employment of superstition\nfor high and noble ends, or his own susceptibility to a woman\u2019s charm,\nor hers the other way about--he never had any other aim or object,\nor desire, except to experiment so that he might get to know and\nmanipulate human nature better, including his own. Life itself was for\nhim the great experiment.\n\nAnd it so happened that at the very centre of his life was Caroline;\nand Caroline was dull.\n\nTherefore their marital relations were imperfect.\n\nIt struck him one day that Caroline would be more interesting if he\ncould make her jealous. Without giving her serious cause, he tried,\nand failed. But, in the process of his experiment, he engaged the\naffections of the instrument he employed much more than he intended.\n\nIt was a great nuisance. He had done everything to make such a\n_d\u00e9nouement_ unlikely; had chosen her indeed rather with a view to the\nstupidity of Caroline than to the attraction he found in her. She was\nrich, married, considerably older than himself, had in fact a grown-up\ndaughter and a husband who was then in the process of earning a title\nfor her and himself, together with a handsome retiring pension, in the\nIndian Civil Service. She also had a motor-car which she could drive\nindependently of chauffeurs.\n\nWhen he found that the affair had become serious he began avoiding her;\nand being, as a pedestrian, the more agile of the two he might have\ndone it; but he could not avoid the motor-car. And so one day, having\ngone to a distant town to preach and to stay the night, he found the\nlady and the motor-car awaiting him at the chapel door, with an offer\nto motor him back to town all in the day.\n\nIn that there seemed a hazardous sort of safety; tender passages while\non a high road and going at high speed, were compatible with virtue;\nthere was also a spice of adventure in it; a half-engagement that they\nshould meet abroad under platonic but unencumbered conditions, must now\nprobably either be renewed or broken; to renew it would, he thought, be\nthe safest way of temporizing with a situation which must end. Caroline\nhad no capacity for jealousy, and the affair was becoming ridiculous.\n\nAnd so getting into the car, with four hours of daylight left, and a\nhundred and fifty miles to go, Mr. Trimblerigg accommodated himself\nto the situation that was soon to end, and renewed with a warm\nasseveration of feelings that could not change.\n\nThey were still over fifty miles from their destination, and the\ndarkness of night had settled, when the spice of adventure increased\nfor Mr. Trimblerigg in a sudden shock. The car had irremediably and\nunaccountably broken down in a way which its owner announced would\ntake hours to repair. They found themselves upon the outskirts of\na village to which the requirements of motorists had added a small\nhotel; and before Mr. Trimblerigg could make up his own mind what to\ndo, his companion had taken command of the situation and made retreat\nimpossible, by entering in the visitors\u2019 book a Mr. and Mrs. Somebody:\nnames not their own.\n\nShe had done this, while leaving him in charge of the car. They were\nbooked, he found, to stay for the night; and the accommodation was as\ntheir names indicated.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was not prepared to have a scene; but neither was he to\nbe coerced from the ways of virtue. If he ever left them it would be in\nhis own time and in his own way. And so presently, when they had dined\ntogether very pleasantly, and when Mr. Trimblerigg, in order to restore\nhis sense of adventure, had experimented by taking wine, he simply\nstepped out casually into the darkness of the night and did not return.\n\nHis suit-case he left as a prey to his lady of the situation now ended;\nand walking to the nearest station, five miles away, waited there\nrather miserably for a midnight train which brought him back in the\nsmall hours to the virtuous side of his astonished Caroline.\n\nHe had a good deal to explain, including the absence of his suit-case;\nwhich forced him to say things which were not all of them true. And\nwhen next day the suit-case arrived \u2018forwarded by request,\u2019 addressed\non an hotel label to the name left in the visitors\u2019 book, there\nwas a good deal more to explain; and for the first time Caroline\nbecame jealous. But it did not make her more interesting; it took\nthe depressing form of a tearful resignation to the inevitable. She\nsupposed that he had become tired of her, which was true; she added,\nless truthfully, that it was what she had always foreseen would happen,\nwhen as a matter of fact her mind had never been sufficiently awake to\nforesee anything so undomestic as suspicious circumstances pointing\ntoward divorce.\n\nBeing simple, she spent the rest of the day trimming herself a new\nhat; at 6 p.m. she fortified herself in maternity by giving the three\nchildren a hot bath before bed-time; and then, as it was the servant\u2019s\nevening out, she descended to the kitchen and made pancakes for Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s supper; and sat to watch him eat them with her hair\nunbecomingly tied up in a large pink bow.\n\nThese mild symptoms of jealousy expending itself in domestic steam,\nought to have interested him but did not. He merely recognized and\naccepted the fact that Caroline\u2019s jealousy was as unimportant as had\nbeen her previous lack of it. Perhaps his mind was too preoccupied to\ngive it all the attention it deserved.\n\nHe was amazed by the return of the suit-case under a name not of his\nown choosing; and yet somehow it raised the lady in his respect. For he\nhad in him a touch of the sportsman; and on being struck so shrewd a\nblow, was quick to recognize that in going out into the night without\nwarning he had left behind him a situation difficult for the lady\nto explain. He wondered how she had explained it, and was a little\nfretted because he could not quite make things fit. All he saw clearly\nwas that the open forwarding of the suit-case by rail to name and\naddress, gave to it an air of _bona fide_ which might have served to\nallay suspicion. But unless it was to avenge herself why had she given\nthe right address? Was it, he wondered, an unusual combination of\nvindictiveness with plain horse common sense; a straight one in the eye\nfor him, and a bit of smart dodging for herself? If so, she was more\ninteresting than he had thought: that was just the sort of thing that\nIsabel Sparling would have done. In that direction he was beginning to\nhave definite regrets.\n\nSo, after the pancakes, he sat and thought, while his wife, a mellow\npicture of domesticity, bent under the lamplight darning his socks.\n\nAnd then the evening post came and a letter, in a handwriting which he\nknew and had hoped never to see again. It was very brief.\n\n\u2018Whatever happened?\u2019 it ran. \u2018Did you get your suit-case?\u2019\n\nThat beat him altogether; it interested, it bewildered him. His spirit\nof adventure was suddenly revived; because it would be difficult, he\nfelt that he must go and explain--explain that he had suddenly seen\nsomebody at the hotel whom he recognized, and who would recognize\nhim, and that the only way of safety for both was instant flight. And\nso, not because he loved her any more, or wished for a renewal of the\nentanglement, but because he loved explaining himself out of difficult\nsituations, he felt that on the morrow or the day after, he would go\nand see her again.\n\nAnd though this particular episode here finds no further chronicle,\nsince thereafter it became in kind only one of many--suffice it to say\nthat, on the morrow, he did.\n\nJust before bed-time, folding up her work, his wife, who had been\nthinking her own thoughts quite quietly, looked across at him and said:\n\n\u2018If you died before me, Jonathan, should you like me to wear widow\u2019s\nweeds until I married again?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was startled almost out of his skin. Had it come from\na woman of different character he would have found it a tremendous\nutterance. But in another moment he saw that this was only Caroline,\nCaroline composedly thinking aloud where other people did not.\n\n\u2018Now that,\u2019 replied Mr. Trimblerigg, \u2018is a very interesting question.\nBut it is one which your second husband not I had better decide for\nyou.\u2019\n\nCaroline saw that she was being laughed at. But she had already\nforgiven him. She kissed him, and went up to bed.\n\nAs the door closed behind her, Mr. Trimblerigg uttered a half-conscious\nejaculation. \u2018O, God!\u2019 he cried, \u2018how dull, how dull you are!\u2019\n\nThis personal remark, though it might seem otherwise, was really\naddressed to his wife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\n_Spade Work_\n\n\nThe free evangelicals had long been honourably known for the extent and\nzeal of their labours in the mission field. In Africa, in the larger\nislands of the Pacific, and elsewhere, there were whole tracts from\nwhich their spiritual competitors were cut out--districts of which they\nhad a practical monopoly. But in others, of recent years, the monopoly\nhad broken down.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, with his shrewd eye for business, investigated the\ncause, and found it. He discovered that a gospel-teaching which\nwould not go down in the modern world of civilization was the most\nsuccessful, being the most convincing, among the primitive races. And\nthough the missions of True Belief had everywhere dwindled for lack\nof funds, they had nevertheless left their doctrines so firmly rooted\namong certain tribes that those coming after had found it advisable\nto take them over without much change or enlargement of view. For the\ncoloured races a form of faith divorced from reason was for practical\npurposes the best. And so it became Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s work to persuade\ninto the mission field such minds among the Free Evangelicals as\ntended most nearly to the doctrines of True Belief, and to head off as\nunsuitable those of a more modernist tendency who were better suited\nat home. And when, as sometimes happened, there was doctrinal war\namong the missionaries themselves, Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s influence was\nalways subtly on the side of those who preached, as the true word of\nrevelation, those things which the natives accepted most easily and\nliked best.\n\nIt was a point of view for which there is much to be said; for the\nknowledge which comes to man mainly through his five senses, and\nwhich has similarly to be passed on to others, cannot in the nature of\nthings be absolute knowledge; and directly that is granted and given\ndue weight, knowledge, even of things spiritual, has to adapt itself to\nforms which bear a sort of proportion to the minds waiting to receive\nit. And so under the stimulus of reports brought back from the mission\nfield, Mr. Trimblerigg developed his doctrinal thesis that truth is but\nrelative, thus anticipating in the spiritual world the discovery of\nEinstein in the material.\n\nIt was a thesis which when first put forward provoked a great deal of\ncontroversy; and many of the older school, for whose larger influence\nin the mission field it had been practically designed, denounced it in\nunmeasured terms as incompatible with Revelation and dangerous to the\nintegrity of the human conscience.\n\nBut it was such a convenient doctrine--especially for the establishment\nof a _modus vivendi_ among missionaries--that it made its way; and\nwithin ten years of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s first lubricating touch to the\nmachinery put in his charge, the Free Evangelicals had redoubled\ntheir efficiency in the old world and the new, by setting forth the\nevidences of religion on two entirely different and incompatible lines,\nand producing as a result forms of faith as diverse in complexion as\nwere the black and white faces of the respective communities to which\nessential truth was thus made relative.\n\nAs a further result Mr. Trimblerigg brought about, more by accident\nthan by design, an informal alliance in missionary effort between True\nBelievers and Free Evangelicals. For out there in the mission fields\nTrue Belief was now having won for it the battle which at home it\nhad lost; and by a strange irony the man most responsible for that\nturn in its fortunes was he who, once its rising hope, had been so\nuncompromisingly cast forth for a too-relative adherence to revealed\nTruth.\n\nOne day word was brought to Mr. Trimblerigg that certain elders of True\nBelief had been of a mind to search the Scriptures concerning him: and\nthe word had come, not inappositely--though open to different shades of\ninterpretation: \u2018Cast thy bread upon the waters, and after many days\nit shall return to thee.\u2019 And it was reported that the said elders had\nbeen impressed and had made a note of it.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was pleased by the news, for it meant that a door still\nstood open; and though he had no intention of passing through it again,\nhe liked it to be open. For he was now busy opening a door to them; and\ntheirs being open in return, they might eventually pass through it to\nhim. The idea of relegating the mission field definitely to True Belief\nunder an agreed coalition of the Churches began to attract him, for it\nwas becoming clear to him that among the mentally deficient True Belief\nwas the quickest and most effective way to conversion, if only it\ncould be made non-sectarian--a means rather than an end. He saw, with\nspeculative instinct that looked like faith, how a place might be found\nfor all on a plan of his own making. Thus the great fusion of the Free\nChurches toward which he was working came a step nearer to practical\npolitics.\n\nHis work being the organization of missions, it was often his duty to\nentertain missionaries. And as the best time of all, for establishing\nconfidential relations, was to meet them in friendly intimacy\nimmediately upon their arrival, it was beginning to be his practice to\ninvite as guest to his house any prominent missionary who had come\nhome on leave. Thus in the course of a few years the very cream of the\nFree Evangelical mission world, and a few others from connections that\nwere friendly, passed through his hands.\n\nIt was from one of these latter that Mr. Trimblerigg received news of\nthe swift civilization that was taking place in parts scarcely heard\nof as yet, owing to the beneficent efforts of certain missionary\ncentres not only to sow the seed of the faith but to develop the wealth\nand resources of the fields in which they laboured. This particular\nmissioner was an optimist about his own districts. \u2018In fifty years\u2019\ntime,\u2019 he said, \u2018it will be for its size, the richest country outside\nEurope and the States.\u2019 And as its size was nearly half that of France\nsuch a forecast suggested big possibilities.\n\nHe went on to tell with what prudent and fatherly care those in control\nof the missions had headed off the rapacious traders and concession\nhunters, who follow in the missionary\u2019s track, by obtaining from the\nnative chiefs exclusive rights strategically based upon the routes\nof trade, such for instance as the building of landing-stages at the\njunction of rivers, and the setting up of white settlements on the high\ntable-lands of the interior.\n\nAs a consequence the economic future of the country was controlled,\nnot indeed by the missionary society itself, but by a humane-minded\norganization of business interests working with and through it. And\nunder this happy co-operation the Native Industries Company in the Ray\nRiver territory to the north of Puto-Congo (not then the familiar name\nit has become since) had opened up commercial relations at the cost of\nonly a few score thousand pounds, which in the near future might be\nworth millions. They were already paying an interest on shares which\ncompared favourably with larger ventures of longer date; and as the\ntotal number of shares was comparatively small, they offered to early\ninvestors a great future.\n\nAnd so Mr. Trimblerigg, who had a taste for speculative transfer, sold\nout and reinvested a few hundred pounds in Native Industries Limited;\nand receiving his dividends thereafter on the scale promised, thought\nvery little further about it, except as something sound which carried\nwith it the larger hope of value that might increase.\n\nThe sense in which he thought very little about it, was as to the\nactual source of its profits--oil, rubber, copra, or ivory--the\nmethods of its working, and the men who worked it, or what it really\ndid for the native beyond making him more accessible to the influence\nof missions and of trade. As to that last, a very slight preliminary\ninquiry had satisfied him that it was so; and there he left it. It\nnever occurred to Mr. Trimblerigg, who was eloquently opposed to\ncorporal punishment in his own country for crimes of violence and\nsuch like, to inquire whether corporal punishment played any part in\nmaking his dividends from Native Industries Limited nearer ten than\nfive per cent per annum. And why indeed should it occur to him? The\nshareholder system, on which modern trade is run, does not prompt\nsuch mental occurrence; and where so many millions are satisfied that\ntheir responsibilities end in the acceptance of the reports of their\ndirectors, can any particular blame attach to one, however eminent in\nthe organization of the mission field, if he also was satisfied, and\nbecome in consequence forgetful?\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had then--as always--a perfectly clear conscience. He\nwas very busy, he was doing good work; his doctrine of relative truth\nwas giving theology a more modern and a much more sensible mind about\nall the things it could not really prove but loved to fight about; the\ncoalition of the Free Churches was advancing under his manipulation\nby leaps and bounds; behind that loomed Disestablishment. Given a\ngreater corporate union of Nonconformity, the argument for it would be\nirresistible; and when it came he would be the up-to-date Luther before\nwhose assault that final stronghold of religious privilege toppled to\nruin. For Mr. Trimblerigg had been busy not only in the organization\nof missions but upon the political side also; and would no doubt by\nthis time have gone into Parliament had not somebody already been there\nbefore him who was doing what he would have done in exactly the same\nway--with the same brilliance, the same elasticity, the same eloquence,\nthe same hand-to-mouth conviction, and the same enthusiastic and\ncatchword-loving following. Parliament did not need two wizards to cast\nupon it the same spell. That was the reason why Mr. Trimblerigg kept\nhis wizardry for the Churches.\n\nAnd so, through strenuous years Mr. Trimblerigg laboured to make Free\nEvangelicalism greater, and more powerful, and more feared than it had\never yet been; and before he had touched middle age he began to be\nspoken of as candidate for the high office of President at the Annual\nConference--a post for which previously no head without grey hair on it\nhad ever qualified.\n\nIt only wanted some great cause, some big agitation led by himself, to\ncarry him through and make him, before he reached the age of forty,\nthe most prominent figure in the Nonconformist world. And then, while\nhe was looking for it, came, just in the nick of time, the story, the\nhorrible story of the Puto-Congo atrocities.\n\nHe was no missionary and no trader, but a mere outsider who brought it\nto Europe; and when, for reasons, Government threw a belittling doubt\nupon it, questioning the motives and veracity of its reporter, then Mr.\nTrimblerigg saw his chance, and blew a blast to the Free Evangelical\nmission world. He took up the cause, made it his own, and gave it all\nthe publicity it required.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\n_The Sound of a Trumpet_\n\n\nWhen the campaign started the Puto-Congo Consolidation Company was\npaying its shareholders from 20 to 30 per cent, independent of bonuses\nwhich dropped to them like manna every alternate year; and its shares\nstood in the market at 200 per cent above par. It had held its own\nagainst a six months\u2019 exposure of its methods, not only without a drop\nin the quotations, but with a slight rise when official cold water had\nbeen thrown on the report of the egregious Mr. Morment, whose unfair\nand superficial investigation had caused all the trouble.\n\nBut when Mr. Trimblerigg took the matter in hand, hiring halls in all\nthe big towns for monster meetings, and thumping the Free Evangelical\nwar-drum, within a month the shares came tumbling, and the Government\nhad begun to hedge by promising a commission of inquiry--not, as had\nalmost been previously suggested, into the character of Mr. Morment,\nbut into the conduct of the Company.\n\nEven though the world is said to be wicked, it often pays and pays\nwell to be on the side of the angels. For trade and commerce, and\npolitics are largely run on a sort of agreed pretence that man, though\nnow a little lower than the angels, is not much lower, or only in his\nbad moments, or only because he doesn\u2019t always have time to look into\nthings. The side on which the angels are, may for a time be violently\ndisputed by guilty interests: but give it a clear view-halloo and a\nsight of its quarry on the run, and you have the great-hearted public\nup and after it, quite oblivious to its own record in matters closely\nsimilar.\n\nSo now: the strewings of the feathers of angels\u2019 wings across the\nlandscape made Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s lightning campaign look like a\npaper-chase from the heavenly or bird\u2019s-eye view; and tens and hundreds\nof thousands of virtuous shareholders, in companies of whose ways and\ndoings they did not in the least know or very much care, attended his\nmeetings to denounce the shareholders of a Chartered Company which was\npaying 20 and 30 per cent upon methods that were now being exposed.\n\nI have said before, and I say again, that Mr. Trimblerigg was a man\nof absolute sincerity to the convictions of the moment; so also were\nhis audiences, all people of sincerity; but it was a sincerity which,\nrising to the surface like cream, when it has been skimmed off leaves a\npoor thin material behind it. But it was national material after all;\nand how, as somebody once asked, can one indict a great nation? Its\ngreatness is the refuting answer.\n\nAnd so it was, when those cheering crowds hung upon Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\neloquence, and when, being so much carried away by it, he hung upon it\nhimself--there was not one, speaker or listener, who, while sincerely\ndenouncing the cruelties which had wrung 20 and 30 per cent profits\nfrom the blood and bones of indentured black labour, ever thought of\ndenouncing the system which enabled any who had capital to invest, to\nmake money out of ventures and industries as to the workings of which\nthey knew nothing. It was not the system which was being denounced, but\nindividuals who had been oiling the wheels of the system by methods of\ncivilization pushed to logical extremes. And so, when you strike an\naverage, Mr. Trimblerigg was just as innocent and just as sincere as\nthe bulk of his fellow-countrymen.\n\nThe only difference was that nobody else enjoyed his innocence and\nsincerity as much as he did, or thought so highly of it. For now, being\nso gloriously upon the side of the angels, it was with the voice of an\nangel--and a powerful one--that Mr. Trimblerigg spoke. And the angels\nand the herd-instinct having got hold of him together, he did wonders:\nnot only did he surprise me, he surprised himself.\n\nOne day he had before him and behind him, around him and above him,\nan audience of ten thousand breathless listeners--breathless not for\nany difficulty, his fine voice being easily heard, but for the mere\njoy of him. He was making visible to all, the forests and swamps and\nmalarious rivers to which he had never penetrated save with the eye of\nvision and pity and compassion; and also the things that were being\ndone there for shareholders in a country calling itself Christian. He\ngave chapter and verse: before him had come a speaker, fresh from the\ndistrict itself, with terrible lantern-slides, some showing life, many\nmore showing death. As a prelude to his peroration he demanded the last\nof the slides, one that had been specially reserved for the occasion.\nIt appeared and a great gasp went through the audience; they sat so\nsilent for his concluding words, so motionless that actually not a pin\ndropped. And after he had ended, for some seconds the silence lasted,\nso deep was the emotion of his hearers. When he sat down he felt that\nhe had made the speech of his life.\n\nHis auditors apparently thought so too, having recovered they stood up\nfor five minutes to applaud, while Mr. Trimblerigg, feeling a little\nfaint but very happy, sat and drank water.\n\nWhen silence was restored for the announcement of the next speaker--a\nrather reluctant Archbishop had been captured for the occasion--a cold\nstaccato voice came from the back of the hall:\n\n\u2018Is not the gentleman who has just spoken himself a shareholder in the\nPuto-Congo Consolidation Company?\u2019\n\nA buzz of horrified consternation went sibilating from stalls to\ngallery: the whole movement tottered to its base. Mr. Trimblerigg was\non his feet.\n\n\u2018It\u2019s a lie,\u2019 he said; and to show that was the end of it, sat down\nagain.\n\nThe audience took a free breath and applauded.\n\nOnce more came the voice:\n\n\u2018Does the speaker deny that he draws any profit from investment in the\nforced labour of these unhappy natives?\u2019 And again Mr. Trimblerigg was\non his feet.\n\n\u2018Not one pound, not one penny, not one farthing. I would die rather.\u2019\n\nThe applause at this was terrific. All heads turned towards the\ninterruption: lost in the dense crowd gathered at the back of the hall\nit remained merely a voice.\n\nThere was a pause, the voice said: \u2018I am quite satisfied. I was\nmisinformed.\u2019\n\nA sharp burst of laughter rang through the hall; and everybody was\nhappy again. Mr. Trimblerigg received another ovation; and when he rose\nto reply to the vote of thanks the noise was deafening.\n\nBut though he replied beautifully and in moving terms, he was not at\nease. During the speech of the Archbishop he had sat thinking:\n\n\u2018What shares remotely resembling the Puto-Congo Consolidated do I\npossess? Whatever can the man have got hold of?\u2019\n\nSuddenly the words, \u2018Native Industries Ltd.\u2019 flashed into his mind.\nThose shares paid him about fifty pounds a year, on an investment of\ntwo hundred; and every year the directors sent him a reassuring report\nof the well-being and prosperity of the natives in whose interests it\nwas run. But what had these to do with the Puto-Congo Consolidation\nCompany? He was not good at geography; beyond the fact that they both\nhailed from the same continent he was aware of no possible connection.\n\nAll the same, as soon as the meeting was over he sped home in\ntrepidation, and after a short search through a fat bundle of small but\nvaried investments he found the share certificate he was in search of.\nThe sight of it froze him, as it had been the eye of Davidina fixed in\njudgment: terror and desolation opened under him as a gulf into which\nhe descended alive. For though in the original certificate the name\nof the Puto-Congo Consolidation Company was nowhere mentioned, the\ncertificate bore endorsement of a later date (he remembered faintly\nsending it, at request, for that purpose) from which it appeared that\nNative Industries had become affiliated--consolidated was perhaps the\nawful and correct word--with certain other companies operating in the\nsame district, the Ray River Rubber Company being one of them: and\n\u2018Ray River Rubber\u2019 with its beautiful rolling sound had now acquired a\nhorrible familiarity to his ears; only that very night he had himself\nrolled it upon his oratorical tongue, enjoying the rich flavour of it.\nAnd though the name of the Puto-Congo Consolidated did not even now\nappear, his certificate bore nevertheless that notorious official\nstamp which he and the Free Churches had so fiercely held up to\nscorn--a large adhesive label of embossed paper, blood red, bearing as\nits emblem a white man and a black holding hands, and over them the\npunning motto \u2018Nihil alienum puto\u2019--I hold nothing foreign.\n\nHow devoutly he wished that for him the motto could have been true. But\nthat he did hold this damnable and damning share in that commercial\natrocity which he had been denouncing, there was no longer room for\ndoubt. And how, in Heaven\u2019s name, or the name of anything equally\nincredible, how was he to explain it away?\n\nThat was the question which, for the next hour or two, he continued\nputting to me with great fervour and insistency. I listened, but I\nsaid nothing; for though I was much interested, I did not intend to\nintervene. That is not my method. And so, while I paid due attention\nto what he actually said, I let the nimbler speed of his brain for one\nmoment escape me; and was taken suddenly by surprise when I saw him\njump up from his knees and start into definite action.\n\nDuring the next forty-eight hours the meteoric speed of his career, his\nswift adjustment of means to ends, his varied and almost instantaneous\ndecisions, and above all the driving force of the moral arguments which\nhe addressed to those larger shareholders of Native Industries Limited\nwhom in so brief a time he succeeded in running to earth, all this gave\nme a conception of his abilities to which, I confess, that till then I\nhad hardly done justice. Nor do I think the average reader could follow\nthrough all its ramifications that inspired _sauve qui peut_, which, in\nsuch short space of time, carried moral devastation to so many Free\nEvangelical back-parlours--fortresses for all the virtues.\n\nSuffice it that Mr. Trimblerigg, having obtained a complete list of\nthe shareholders in Native Industries Limited, discovered for truth\nwhat his sanguine mind had envisaged as a blessed possibility--that\nnearly half of the Company\u2019s shares were actually in the hands of Free\nChurch ministers and of other prominent and privileged members of their\ncongregations, and that all unknown to itself the Free Evangelical\nBody--that great instrument for the establishment of God\u2019s Kingdom on\nearth--had got one of its feet well planted in that very stronghold of\nthe Devil against which it was directing its assault--an awkward, or an\nadvantageous position according to the use made of it.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, whose apprehension and anguish had been so great that\nin the first ten hours after his discovery he could eat no breakfast,\nhad during the next ten, with travel, telegram, and telephone, done\nsuch an enormous amount of work and to such good purpose, that before\nthe day was out he had begun almost to enjoy himself.\n\nIn that brief space of time he had captured not only the council of\nthe Free Church Congress, and three of its ex-Presidents, but the\nPresident-elect and five of its most shining lights in the financial\nworld as well--men who had always maintained publicly that they held\ntheir wealth as a sacred trust from the Powers above for the service of\nhumanity.\n\nNow he showed them their chance. While the shares of the affiliated\ncompanies in Puto-Congo Consolidated lay battered on the market,\nopportunity for good Samaritans presented itself on a large scale.\nFor the preaching missionary, who also travelled for Native Industries\nLimited, had done his agency thoroughly and well, and Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\nsaving hopes were abundantly realized. Here they all were, almost\nwithout knowing it--some not knowing it at all; others knowing it but\nlying low, trusting that affiliation carried with it no responsibility\nfor the administrative acts of Puto-Congo Consolidated, and finding\nmuch virtue in the difference of a name--here they all were in the\nsame box, and the lid of it suddenly opened like graves for the day of\njudgment.\n\nYes, they were all in it; but, so Mr. Trimblerigg assured them, with\nthis important difference. They were there of set purpose and intent\nlike himself: had gone into it, for strategical reasons, with the sword\nof the spirit, to prepare the way of the Lord and bring deliverance to\nthe oppressed. They heard from Mr. Trimblerigg how he had invested his\nlittle all for that purpose alone, watching and waiting, with never\na penny of profit, biding his time for the great day of deliverance.\n(He had, in fact, that very day, sold out all his other investments in\norder to secure a yet larger holding for the confirmation of his case.)\n\nThey also, he had not a doubt, had invested for a like purpose--or if\nnot, were eager and willing to do so now that the time had come for\nthat purpose to be declared.\n\nFor here was the case; the Free Evangelical Church could now at a push\nin a falling market obtain a shareholders\u2019 majority in one of the most\nimportant and prosperous companies which had come together under the\n\u00e6gis of the Puto-Congo Consolidated: had, therefore, power to call and\ncontrol a special meeting of the shareholders for the reform--root,\nbranch, lock, stock and barrel--of the whole abominable system to which\nit had become linked.\n\nFree Church Presidents, Evangelical financiers, shining lights in the\nTemperance movement, and others with reputations above suspicion,\nlistened, sat up, and were amazed; only too thankful in that dark\nhour to have good motives so generously imputed to them and their way\nof salvation made plain. Very few attempted to remain irresponsible,\nincredulous, or indifferent; when they did, Mr. Trimblerigg launched\nhis attack, and their opposition wilted and crumbled. Nor did he mince\nthe inspired word which came to him: his brisk little figure sparkled\nwith flashes of divine fire, even as the wireless apparatus sparkles\nwith the message which descends to it from the outer air; and there to\nhand was the circular appeal which within twenty-four hours would have\nreceived the signatures of over a hundred Free Church ministers and\nelders calling for an emergency meeting of the shareholders. At that\nmeeting the Puto-Congo atrocities would be denounced, and the present\nDirectors of the Company called on to resign and make room for others.\nNative Industries Limited, by reason of its secured monopolies, held\nthe key to the position. Though small, it could impose its terms;\nclose its depots and landing-stages to proved abuse of contract by the\naffiliated companies, and if it became a question of law, dare the\nrest to come on; for now it would have the entire country behind it,\neven, if need be, the power of Parliament. Let them blow their blast\nloud and long enough, and the whole huge financial fabric of Puto-Congo\nConsolidated which had sought to absorb them into identity with its\nown guilty prosperity, would have to cleanse itself or go.\n\nAnd as these reverend elders listened, and bent their heads for the\nwhitewash provided by Mr. Trimblerigg, there was the offered vision\nbefore them of the great Free Church body, too long couchant in moneyed\nease, rising upon its hind legs at last, and uttering no meek lowing of\nkine, but the combined roar and scream of the Lion and the Eagle--and\nover them in feathers of silver and gold, the covering wings of the\nDove; and there was the Visionary himself wanting to know, here and\nnow, whether their voice would swell the chorus or only be raised in\nfutile opposition. That question received but one answer.\n\nSo, like fire through stubble, did Mr. Trimblerigg burn his way into\nthe consciences and fears of the Native Industries shareholders; and\nby the time the sun had set upon the second day of his labours he knew\nthat he had won.\n\nThe next day a letter from the \u2018Voice\u2019--or from its informant--appeared\nin the press challenging once more Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s publicly uttered\ndenial of having lot or share in the nefarious activities of Puto-Congo\nConsolidated. The letter made no assertion, but presented a series of\nneat interrogations--yes or no; and ended with the smooth reposeful\nsneer of one certain of his facts.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s reply gave that dirty platter the clean lick it\nrequired inside and out. In the Puto-Congo Consolidated he held no\nshares at all: in the affiliated \u2018Native Industries Limited\u2019 he did\nhold some, and since the meeting in question had succeeded in getting\nhold of a few more.\n\nHis purpose, which together with others, he had been obliged hitherto\nto conceal, lest the Puto-Congo Executive should get wind of it and\ntake steps to prevent, he could now declare. He did so resoundingly.\n\nThe same paper which contained his letter, contained notice of the\nspecial meeting convened by its Free Church shareholders to purge the\nNative Industries Limited of complicity in the Puto-Congo atrocities,\nand to terminate all contracts forthwith. For himself Mr. Trimblerigg\nhad only to add that never, in the years of waiting for the power which\nhad now come to him, had he applied to his own use one penny of the\ndividends he had received from Native Industries; all had been saved up\nfor a further investment when the moment should appear opportune. And\nwith that--facts speaking louder than words--his defence was complete.\n\nA month later he held the special meeting of the Native Industries\nshareholders in the hollow of his hand, and in a speech which the press\nreported verbatim lashed the administration of the Chartered Company\nof Puto-Congo Consolidated with a tongue like the whip of an inspired\nslave-driver. Powerless in the face of numbers the opposition fell away\nin panic; the conscience of the Free Churches asserted itself, all the\nDirectors resigned, and Mr. Trimblerigg and nine others, with clean\nrecords like his own, were elected to their place. Two members of the\nnew Board proposed Mr. Trimblerigg to be chairman; and he was elected\nwithout a dissentient voice.\n\nNative Industries Limited was to be run henceforth on Christian lines,\nand set an example to the world by earning for itself on those lines\nlarger profits than ever before. Mr. Trimblerigg was a consistently\nsanguine soul; believing the shareholding system to be a device\nwell-pleasing to God, he believed it could be done. And so that night\nhe went home to his house justified, in beams of glory all of his own\nmaking, very tired, but more satisfied with himself than he could ever\nremember to have been before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\n_Reward of Virtue_\n\n\nWhile Mr. Trimblerigg still went in clouds of glory, high and uplifted\non popular applause, Davidina, back from one of her adventurous\nexpeditions and already preparing for the next, came to see him. She\nviewed him up and down admiringly.\n\n\u2018You don\u2019t look much the worse for it,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u2018I don\u2019t know that I am,\u2019 he replied genially, even while his dodging\nmind was at guess as to what exactly she meant by worse. \u2018But it\u2019s\ntaken me off my work a good deal; and I was wanting holiday.\u2019\n\n\u2018Take it,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018I\u2019ll pay.\u2019\n\n\u2018Oh, it isn\u2019t a question of paying,\u2019 he returned. \u2018Besides, if it were,\nI\u2019m the better off of the two of us, now.\u2019 His eyes twinkled. \u2018You see,\nI made lucky investments.\u2019\n\nDavidina almost loved him; that hit at himself was so good-humoured and\nplayful and apposite.\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 she agreed, \u2018but it was a narrow squeeze.\u2019\n\n\u2018It was,\u2019 he replied, \u2018but I like being squeezed. It suits me. Then I\nalways do my best.\u2019\n\n\u2018Jonathan,\u2019 said his sister, \u2018I\u2019m beginning to admire you. If I didn\u2019t\nknow you so well, you\u2019d take me in too--almost.\u2019\n\n\u2018My dear Davidina, that is the last thing I have ever wished to do,\u2019 he\nsaid. \u2018Hopeless adventures do not appeal to me.\u2019\n\nShe laughed, and let the argument drop to say: \u2018By the way, what are\nyou now? What do you call yourself?\u2019\n\n\u2018I still call myself Jonathan Trimblerigg,\u2019 was his reply. \u2018I don\u2019t\npropose taking a title, even if it were offered me.\u2019\n\n\u2018It\u2019s fifteen years since Uncle Phineas died,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018and I\u2019ve\na reason for asking.\u2019\n\nSo? Here was Davidina proposing to broach the subject on which till now\nno word had ever been uttered between them. It did not exactly surprise\nhim; he had always believed that Davidina had a conscience; but often\nhe had wondered if, convinced in her own mind upon the point at issue,\nshe would trouble to tell him of it--unless spitefully to enjoy his\ndisappointment.\n\nBut there was no longer any question of disappointment now. In the\nfold of True Belief, Mr. Trimblerigg knew that he could not have done\nanything like what he had now accomplished, or have attained to such a\nstanding or such prospects. Nevertheless--had the bait been larger--for\nthere the door stood open waiting for him--who knows? The great fusion\nof the Free Churches, in a form to include True Belief, might have come\nearlier, and he might have remained Free Evangelical in practice and\nyet qualified in the letter and in the spirit for that deferred benefit\nwhich he was now denying himself.\n\n\u2018I asked,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018because I see that next Sunday you are going\ndown to preach to your old congregation at Mount Horeb.\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Jonathan, \u2018they\u2019ve asked me. It\u2019s the first time such\na thing has happened, and my text is not going to be the repentant\nProdigal, either. I haven\u2019t changed. We shall just go on where we left\noff.\u2019\n\n\u2018That\u2019s why I\u2019m asking--what you call yourself. Do you still reckon\nyourself a True Believer?\u2019\n\n\u2018I reckon that what I believe is true; but I do not regard myself as\na True Believer in the technical sense. I don\u2019t think I ever was. A\nRelative Believer, Davidina, is what I am.\u2019\n\n\u2018It\u2019s a pity,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018in a way. Uncle Phineas left me a letter\nof instruction--not legal; but still I take it as binding. If you had\nremained a True Believer till now, I was to go shares with you.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had long since, in his own mind, got the better of\nUncle Phineas and his \u00a3200 a year. But now he saw his chance of getting\nthe better of Davidina. So he said quietly: \u2018I know that, he told me.\u2019\n\nDavidina stared. \u2018What did he tell you?\u2019\n\n\u2018He showed me the letter,\u2019 said Jonathan.\n\n\u2018And you never said anything!\u2019 cried Davidina, astonished.\n\n\u2018Well, I did say something in a way. I mentioned the letter to you\nonce; but as you chose to say nothing about it, I left it at that.\u2019\n\n\u2018And you trusted me?\u2019 inquired Davidina.\n\n\u2018Absolutely. But very soon after that, you see, it didn\u2019t matter. I got\nturned out.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was now feeling very happy, for he saw that Davidina\nwas right out of her bearings. But without appearing to notice this\nunusual phenomenon he went quietly on:\n\n\u2018After all it\u2019s a good thing as it happens. If you had to divide with\nme now you wouldn\u2019t have enough for your expeditions.\u2019\n\n\u2018Plenty,\u2019 she assured him. \u2018Ah, to be sure, I haven\u2019t told you. And yet\nthat\u2019s why it was important that I should know; for I didn\u2019t suppose\nhis old two hundred would matter to you much now. But the other day I\ngot news: opening a new quarry they struck a seam of something else\nquite unexpected; it isn\u2019t exactly plumbago, or Cumberland lead as they\ncall it; but it\u2019s rather like it; and as a consequence the property is\nup to something like twenty times its value.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg took it very quietly; he made no sign; even now he was\nnot sure that he wished things differently. He had a great desire, for\nhis own spiritual comfort, to get the better of Davidina, just once.\n\n\u2018Well, I congratulate you,\u2019 he said; \u2018where will the next expedition\nbe? The Sahara, Persia, Arabia? It looks as if you were going to be a\nfamous woman traveller; you\u2019ve always had the pluck and the brain; and\nnow you\u2019ve got the means for it.\u2019\n\n\u2018Do you mind, Jonathan?\u2019 she asked him.\n\n\u2018Mind? I\u2019m delighted.\u2019\n\n\u2018This is the first time,\u2019 she confessed, \u2018that you\u2019ve ever taken me by\nsurprise. You knew, and you didn\u2019t say anything. You knew, and you let\nthem turn you out. You knew, and you trusted me.\u2019\n\n\u2018I\u2019ve always trusted you.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well, I haven\u2019t always trusted you. In fact, I\u2019ve always suspected\nyou.\u2019\n\n\u2018I know it, my dear Davidina, but as it amuses you and had left off\nhurting me--why not?\u2019\n\n\u2018And now,\u2019 she went on, as if he had not interrupted her, \u2018I don\u2019t know\nwhether to suspect you or not.\u2019\n\n\u2018You\u2019d much better,\u2019 he said.\n\n\u2018The truth is I\u2019m puzzled!\u2019\n\n\u2018The truth often is very puzzling,\u2019 assented Jonathan, \u2018it\u2019s so\nrelative.\u2019 Then he got up and stretched himself like a cat enjoying the\nsun.\n\n\u2018And I still think,\u2019 said Davidina decidedly, \u2018that you are capable of\nbeing a villain, and a blood-thirsty villain too, if it suited you.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg continued to stretch and to smile at her.\n\n\u2018Oh, Davidina,\u2019 he said, \u2018you are a comfortable person to talk to!\u2019\n\nAnd at that he let her go. For once, just for once in his life he had\ngot the better of her. Davidina was puzzled at him. It was a great\nevent.\n\nAnd a week later he received from Davidina a voluntary transfer duly\nexecuted of one-half of the property, which at its prospectively\nenhanced value would make him comfortably off for life. It meant, it\nmust mean, that at last he had won her approval. \u2018Thou Davidina seest\nme!\u2019 had no longer its old discomfort for him. In her eye too, as in\neverybody\u2019s, there was a blind spot, and he had managed to hit it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\n_Too Good to be True_\n\n\nThe dulling of Davidina\u2019s eye had a fatal effect upon the career of\nMr. Trimblerigg. It removed the last obstacle from his way to thinking\nhimself good. His own conscience had been malleable; but hers, serving\nin its place, had kept an integrity of its own which always left\nhim with a doubt. Now the doubt vanished, and on that mercurial and\nmagnetic temperament it had a surprising effect.\n\nI wonder whether readers have realized the extraordinary spiritual\ncomfort which Mr. Trimblerigg had derived from the friendly disarmament\nof Davidina\u2019s suspicions. He had just come through a phase of\nsuccess and public applause, with its accompanying sense of power,\nunprecedented in his career. But behind it all was the uneasy sense\nthat he had been remiss in the protection of his own interests--that it\nhad been a tight squeeze, and that only by the kind favour of Heaven\nhad he got through not merely creditably, but with so much to spare.\n\nThe Native Industries shares might soon be--as he had joked to\nDavidina--a good investment; but he had blundered in holding them, or,\nat least, in not getting rid of them before starting on his campaign;\nand it always hurt Mr. Trimblerigg very much to feel that--even in\nhis own eyes alone--he had made a fool of himself. It was obvious\ntherefore that to make a fool of the redoubtable Davidina, who had for\nso many years given him an uneasy conscience whenever she wished, had\nredressed the balance. And so, according to his own practical standard,\nMr. Trimblerigg stood purged and purified of self-reproof, with his\nconscience beautifully easy once more. He had fought upon the side\nof the angels, and the battle was won hands down; in the process, by\nembarking all his savings in a venture which temporarily had crashed,\nhe had seriously reduced his income; but even that, thanks to the\nprospect presented to him by Davidina did not now concern him, it even\npleased him, for it was a proof of his disinterested devotion to the\ncause he had championed. And so, looking at himself from all sides, the\nspiritual, the public, and the domestic, he was abundantly satisfied\nwith what he saw. Having made good, he felt good; and elated by that\nfeeling, he decided that the family--that part of it which was not away\nat school--should have a holiday.\n\nIn order to begin the holiday as soon as possible--for himself as well\nas the others--he sent off Caroline and the little ones, remaining\nhimself for a few days to clear up a few ends of work still in arrears\nat his central office, and in spite of those arrears, when he had seen\nCaroline into the train, his sense of holiday had already begun. For\nin spite of all the goodness that was in him, he continued to find her\ndull, with a dullness that did not diminish. And yet, he told himself,\nhe was fond of her, and had never denied her anything that was her due.\nSo, in that matter also, his conscience had left him nothing with which\nto reproach himself.\n\nThat day, when his office work was over, he took recreation in a\ncharacteristic way. Having bought some quite good cigars, he mounted\nto the top of a bus, and started to explore the metropolis, or, more\naccurately, to let destiny explore it for him. His method was to\naccompany the bus to its terminus, and there change into another,\nleaving chance to decide in what fresh direction it should carry him,\neast or west, north or south. In this way, through a variegation of\nlighted streets--from some wearing the shadiest subterfuge of life to\nothers of a flamboyant brilliance, and back again, for a couple of\nhours and more he thoroughly enjoyed himself--seeing unconsciously\nin the kaleidoscopic life seething around him a reflex image of his\nown, and in it felt justified. It was all so quick, unexpected, and\nyet congruous, so criss-cross and various, and vitally abounding, and\nyet, in its main current uniform, flowing on with one general purpose\ncommon to all--meaning business, whatever the business might be. And\nhere, sitting enthroned above it on the front seat of a swift-going\nmotor-bus, he, a man who on the right side of middle age, had become\nalmost famous, went happy and unrecognized, his hat drawn low over his\neyes, his coat collar turned up to meet it, absorbing that large life\nof the crowd with which so deeply and instinctively he felt himself to\nbe one.\n\nAnd meanwhile destiny did its work. To the seat beside him, vacated\nat the last stopping-place, came a fresh occupant--a woman quick and\nalert of movement, well-dressed, not elderly. Before he had been able\nunobtrusively to get a look at her face, the conductor was collecting\nher fare. He heard a familiar voice naming a suburban destination; a\nmoment later, quick and decided, annoyed rather than dismayed, the\nvoice said, \u2018I\u2019ve lost my purse!\u2019 \u2018Allow me!\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\u2018Good evening.\u2019 He tendered the money as he spoke.\n\nOne look at him, and Miss Isabel Sparling rose to go. \u2018You shall do\nnothing of the sort,\u2019 she said, \u2018I\u2019ll get down.\u2019\n\nAnd then--destiny. In the road below a coster\u2019s barrow, cutting across\nthe track of the swift-moving traffic, collided, shed a wheel, and sat\njammed under the head of the oncoming motor-bus. The impact which\nlifted all the seated occupants from their seats, caused Miss Isabel\nSparling to disappear from view. Breaking her fall by a well-sustained\nclutch upon the rail, she struck the hood, and slid sideways into the\nupset apple-cart.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, with admirable agility, heels first, scrambled after\nher. The first to get to her, he found her conveniently unconscious,\nand taking possession of his implacable foe in her now defenceless\ncondition, he hailed a taxi and carried her away to hospital.\n\nThere, having learned that she was not dangerously hurt, and would\nprobably have recovered sufficiently to give account of herself in an\nhour\u2019s time, he left money to pay for conveyances or telegrams, and\ntook himself off, a nameless benefactor, whose identity Miss Isabel\nSparling might either nose out or ignore according to taste, but could\nnot do otherwise than suspect.\n\nAnd so, if there was one spot in his kaleidoscopic world where Mr.\nTrimblerigg, in retrospect, had not hitherto felt quite happy, he was\nable to feel happy now. His embrace of Isabel Sparling\u2019s inanimate\nform, the first time for more than fifteen years--had given him the\nsudden inspiration that now, in his own time and in his own way, he\nshould take up and fulfil the rash promise of his early youth, and be\nvoice and champion of the ministerial call to women.\n\nFor now at last he had the standing and a following whereof he was the\naccepted leader, which would make the achievement no longer theirs but\nhis, and give credit where the credit was due. Through him, almost\nthrough him alone, the chains of the Puto-Congo natives were already\nbeing struck off; following upon that, through him, the chains of\nsex-disability should go likewise. There was no time like the present.\nHe would take a brief holiday, and then he would begin.\n\nHe dined at an old-fashioned restaurant in the city, which had its\ntraditions; the head waiter, with recognition in his eye, but not\na word said, installed him in the seat of honour, the seat once\nhabitually occupied by one of the great eighteenth-century emancipators\nof the human brain. The attention pleased him, still more the\nrespectful silence with which it was done--the acceptance of his right\nto be there incognito without remark.\n\nHe ate well of a wonderful pie containing oysters, and he drank white\nwine, followed by Stilton cheese, port, and a cigar. To all these good\nthings life had gently led him away from the early training of his\nchildhood. He accepted them now without scruple and felt the better for\nthem.\n\nWhen he got home, the elderly domestic, now in sole charge of the house\nsince the family\u2019s departure, had gone up to bed. About half an hour\nlater, Mr. Trimblerigg, comfortably sleepy, went up to his own.\n\nFrom habit, because he usually needed it, he took a bed-side book and\nbegan briefly to read; five minutes generally sufficed; it did so now.\n\nThe book he had chosen was of poems by an author whom he felt that he\nought to admire more than he did; there was a splendour of beauty in\nthem which yet managed somehow to escape him. This slight intellectual\nseparation of mind from mind was good as a sedative: it helped his own\nto wander. His first selection from the poems was a very famous one,\nbut too spiritual and elusive for his present mood: a transcendental\ngame of hide-and-seek, he could not quite follow. He passed on to the\nnext; large drops of sleep were already entering his brain, and he\nknew that presently it would be making nonsense; but the opening lines\nattracted him, gave him a picture of which he himself became a part. In\nthe middle of every line there was a star--why, he did not know; but it\ngave an effect. He liked it, and making an effort to keep awake for a\nfew moments longer, he read on:\n\n\u2018Athwart the sod which is treading for God* the poet paced with his\nsplendid eyes;\n\n\u2018Isabel Starling he stately passes--\u2019\n\nNo, that wasn\u2019t right; Sparling, not Starling. No, no, what was he\nthinking about? Not Sparling, or Starling, or anything resembling it.\n\u2018Paradise verdure he stately passes.\u2019 That was better. The following\nline had long words in it which he didn\u2019t understand. The next verse\nstarted pleasantly--\n\n\u2018The angels at play on its fields of Summer* (their wild wings rustled\nhis guide\u2019s cigars).\u2019 No, not cigars, something else, word he didn\u2019t\nknow: cigars would do.\n\n\u2018Looked up from dessert at the passing comer* as they pelted each other\nwith handfuls of stars.\u2019\n\nAh! That was why the stars were there, they\u2019d got loose on to the\nprinted page: stars did, if you happened to get a knock or a fall.\n\n\u2018And Isabel Sparling with startled feet rose,* hand on sword, by their\ntethered cars.\u2019\n\nWrong, wrong! not \u2018Isabel Sparling\u2019--\u2018warden spirits\u2019: whatever made\nhim say Isabel Sparling? she wasn\u2019t a warden spirit or anything like\none. But \u2018tethered cars\u2019 was right: \u2018motor-bus\u2019 would have been better.\n\nAfter that his reading ceased to be consecutive or to convey any\nsense--only colour and a sort of atmosphere. \u2018Plumes night-tinctured,\nenglobed and cinctured,\u2019 then a star, followed by \u2018saints\u2019:\n\u2018crystalline pale,\u2019 and another star: \u2018Heaven\u2019--ah, yes, Heaven, the\nplace the stars came from: then \u2018the immutable crocean dawn\u2019--crocean\nmeant yellow--\u2018enthusing\u2019--no, not enthusing \u2018effusing.\u2019 \u2018Crocean dawn\neffusing\u2019 meant \u2018yellow dawn coming.\u2019 If that was what he meant, why\ncouldn\u2019t the fellow say so? Why did poets always choose the difficult\nwords? Ahead lay more light and colour, mixed with other things he\ndidn\u2019t fully understand--or want to; he was getting too sleepy for it.\n\u2018Bickering Conference\u2019: no, not conference: \u2018gonfalons\u2019: better go\nback and read again, he was only making nonsense; but \u2018Crocean dawn\neffusing\u2019 was nonsense too. \u2018Ribbed fire,\u2019 \u2018flame-plumed fan\u2019--\u2018globing\nclusters,\u2019 and stars everywhere with no sense to them. But the poet had\nsplendid eyes--must have had, to see all that!\n\nHis lids closed, then opened again: he had almost gone to sleep with\nthe light still on. \u2018Crocean dawn\u2019: half consciously he switched it\noff--not the dawn, the light; and with the crocean dawn still in his\nhead slept till morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\n_Nouveau Riche_\n\n\nA Crocean dawn was outside and around him when he awoke--yellow, of the\nmetropolitan variety; it was, that is to say, a fog. But in spite of\nthe dullness of the outer world, Mr. Trimblerigg awoke happy, with the\nhappiness of a man whose prayer has been answered.\n\nFor many days he had been praying fervently that his character might be\nplaced above suspicion: and now that Davidina\u2019s suspicion of him had\ngone, and his own with it, he had just everything for the present that\nhe could pray for. And on the top of it, he had forgiven an enemy--in\nsuch a way that, if he did not miscalculate, his enemy would presently\nhave to forgive him.\n\nThere, in that purified spiritual atmosphere, another great work was\nawaiting him. All omens were auspicious; he knew now for certain that\nhe was going to achieve fame, and that very soon, among the Free\nChurches, he would be able to have almost whatever position he liked,\nand do almost anything he chose. And so, as he got up in that crocean\ndawn, he felt all about him, but especially in his brain, an effusing\nsense of well-being and happiness. And as he looked at himself in the\nglass before shaving, he smiled: and it seemed to him then that his\ncountenance was wonderfully bright.\n\nPresently, as he shaved, he began to have a suspicion that the\nillumination was different and strange: that there was a curious\nabsence of shadow about his chubby cheeks and under his chin, which\nmade shaving easy; and this, too, on a dark morning.\n\nThis fact only dawned on him gradually; for close above his head\nhung the electric pendant, with its bulb of powerful light directed\ndownwards by the white porcelain shade. But when, thoughtful of the\nhigh price of electricity, he turned it out and once more faced his\nglass to give a final polish to his hair, there could no longer be\nany doubt that he was in the presence of something which waited to be\nexplained--something too mysterious, too incredible to be described as\na phenomenon.\n\n\u2018Crocean dawn\u2019: the embodied phrase looked him in the face. But how\nhad it located itself? Was it physical, or spiritual, or was it only\nmental? \u2018Miracle\u2019 he did not think of calling it; his Free Church\nupbringing had given him an instinctive repugnance to such Romish\nthings as modern miracles; though he admitted the possibility (but\nthat was different) of miraculous answer to prayer. But miracles\nof a personal and a phenomenal kind he regarded with a certain\nsuspicion--had indeed published in _The Rock of Ages_ an article\nagainst them, wherein, with unrelenting logic, he had traced them to\nspiritual agencies--if spiritual they might be called--not of good but\nof evil. And now--this!\n\nBut if it was not a miracle in the accepted sense, if it was only\nsomething seen with the eye of the spirit, nevertheless there it was,\ncarrying implications, and imposing if not exactly a burden--a problem,\na weight of responsibility, which he did not quite know how he was to\nsolve.\n\nHe could not help feeling that, for the present at least, he would\nlike to keep it to himself, until he was a little more sure. But then\na sudden sense of elation carried him away; for of what he had hoped\nmight be true, this surely was proof; he really was--good! Even if it\nwas only a recognition--an encouragement sent confidentially, for\nhis eye alone, it meant--it must mean--that Heaven approved of him.\nThe beauty of holiness was upon him in visible form--a certificate\nof character unimpeachable in its completeness; and yet, for an\nuncomfortable instant, the thought had flashed--how was he going to\nlive up to it? Could he be as holy in practice as this advertised him\nto be? No, for the present at least, he would rather that it should\nnot be seen. This was early dawn: he was hardly up to it. He must\nacclimatize himself.\n\nSo here, in the privacy of his own chamber, he examined the portent at\nleisure, and from all points of view. Trying to see himself, as others\nmight presently be seeing him, he continued his study of the glass.\nAround a face broader than it was long, a wide forehead, puckered\neyes, short nose, a neat bunch of a mouth, and hair worn rather long,\nturning up at the ends like the hair of the knave of hearts, a faint\nlemon-coloured radiance emerged, effused, flowed for a few inches, and\nthen suddenly stopped short.\n\nIt was that abrupt ending which gave it so uncanny a character. Earthly\nradiance diminishes as it travels from its source; but this behaved\ndifferently--was indeed, if anything, brighter where it ended than\nwhere it started. Thus, from a front view, it had that plate-like\nappearance with which stained-glass windows and pictures of medi\u00e6val\nsaints had made him familiar.\n\nGoing to his wife\u2019s dressing-table he took up the hand-mirror, so as to\nget a better side-view. The plate-like appearance persisted: quarter,\nthree-quarter, and back view were always the same. The emanation was\nnot flat, then, but round; a glory of three dimensions encircled him,\nand he moved in a globe of light which, like a head of dandelion seed,\nwas brightest toward the edge, yet so faint and unsubstantial, it\nseemed as though a breath might blow it away.\n\nOnce more he brushed his hair for experiment. The lemon-coloured flame\ndid not deflect or waver from its outward symmetry; nor did his head\nexperience any electric thrills, as though virtue were passing either\ninto him or out of him. With a slight sense of disappointment he laid\nhis brushes down, and put on his coat. This, he found on consulting\nthe glass, had made no change, except that upon the black cloth fell a\nslight radiance; but when for further experiment he once more switched\non the light, it almost disappeared; and against the window, looking\nback at himself in the hand-mirror, for a moment he persuaded himself\nthat it had gone. But if an involuntary wish had fathered that thought,\nhe had only to move away from the light for its form and colour to\nreappear as strongly as ever; and as it responded with unvarying\nconsistency to all the experiments he played on it, so did his sense of\nits reality become a conviction. It was not merely an idea, it was a\nfact.\n\nAnd then the feeble tinkle of a bell below told him of breakfast. He\nwent out on to the landing and peeped over the banisters.\n\nHearing dilatory sounds among the breakfast things, \u2018Mrs. James,\u2019 he\ncalled, \u2018you needn\u2019t wait.\u2019 And a minute later, on hearing her descend\nto the basement, he came downstairs at a run.\n\nAt table, in case Mrs. James should find excuse to return, he took his\nwife\u2019s place instead of his own, sitting with his back to the window;\nand found, in that position, though the morning was still dark, that he\ncould see into his egg quite easily. Thus, even while away from his\nmirror, the sense of something real, not imaginary, remained with him.\n\nBut it gave him no joy; for though in himself he felt at unity with\nthis day-spring from on high that had visited him, he was doubtful how\nit would appear to the outside world--whether the world was ripe for\nit--whether, indeed, it was intended for the outside world at all. It\nwas already in his mind that if he entered his Mission Centre office\nby the ordinary way, he would have to run the gauntlet of a roomful of\nclerks; and that his unexplained accompaniment might provoke comment,\npossibly even mirth. And Mr. Trimblerigg, even with reason on his side,\nwas not one who liked to be laughed at.\n\nUnable to make up his mind what he felt about it himself, now, as he\nconsidered the matter from the worldly point of view, he began to\nregard it with less and less favour. He could not but feel that for\nsuch a manifestation as this the world needed preparation; a publicity\ncampaign should have gone first and some more obvious occasion should\nhave been found for its first appearance--this, in all humility--than\none so merely personal to himself, a testimonial to the integrity of\nhis character.\n\nAnd then--to give the first test to his doubts--came the interrogative\nMrs. James, merely wishing to know what meals he would be in for, and\nwhether, if callers came to inquire for him, he would name any time\nwhen he should be at home.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, keeping his head in the light of the window, gave\nher the required instructions, and saw at once from the uneventful\nexpression of her face that she had noticed nothing.\n\nThis threw him suddenly back upon doubt; and no sooner had she\nreturned to her kitchen than he ran upstairs again, and looked once\nmore in the glass.\n\nThe visitation was still upon him; but now that there was more daylight\nhe saw it much less; nor had it so definite an edge where the radiance\nleft off. Had he been a woman a broad-brimmed hat with plenty of veil\nabout it would have made what was there quite unnoticeable; or had he\nbeen a missionary in India wearing a turban in all the glare of the\nEastern sun. But fate had decreed otherwise; the environment he had to\nface was not of so obscuring a kind.\n\nThen all at once the thought occurred to him--what would it be like at\nnight? He drew down blinds, closed curtains, and went back to the glass.\n\nThe vivid result made him realize, with a shock, the actual state at\nwhich his mind had now arrived with regard to facing his fellow-men.\n\n\u2018I shan\u2019t be able to go out at night,\u2019 he said to himself. \u2018I should\nfrighten people.\u2019\n\nBut as a matter of fact he was getting frightened himself. He knew\ndefinitely now that he wished it had not happened: and so, being\nof that mind, more and more did he entreat to be told how it could\nhave happened. Was it from his brain, or his body, or his soul, that\nthese rays emanated; and were they a symptom--physical, mental, or\nspiritual--of sickness or health; and if of sickness, were they to be\ntemporary or permanent?\n\nSo he debated; yet when it came to addressing himself directly to the\npossible source of all this trouble, he was hesitant what to do. He\ndid not wish to seem ungrateful, or to confess to moral cowardice, or\neven to plead the most plausible excuse--that he was unworthy; and so\nafter hesitating for awhile he kept his thoughts unobtrusively to\nhimself on the earthly plane. What never struck him for a moment was\nthat he had done this himself--that, just as when you put water in a\nkettle upon the fire, it boils till presently it boils over, so if you\nput self-belief and self-worship into an ebullient and imaginative\nbrain, the belief will out, like murder, in one form or another; and\nas pictorial imagery was Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s strong point--to the point,\none may say, of intoxication--this halo was but the bouquet or visible\nfragrance of the life within. And just as his own and his wife\u2019s mirror\nbetween them reflected it with accuracy and completeness, with equal\naccuracy and completeness it reflected him.\n\nIt ought, therefore, to have done him good; but the experience was\ntoo wild and sudden and strange; for this was the very first time\nin all his life when he had wished to keep himself to himself,\nunder circumstances which apparently made it impossible. Nor did he\nyet realize that this was but the preliminary stage--the eruption\nstage--the stage of concentrated effort outwardly expressed, in\nwhich it sought to establish itself in his mind and consciousness as\na fixed part of a pervasive and expansive personality, destined to\ngo much further in the world than he had ever yet dreamed. Being a\ntemperamental halo--pale at first, rather uncertain of itself and of\nits relations to the society into which it was born, it was not yet\nall that it would wish to be; it had not yet made itself at home. But\neven in the first few hours of its existence it fluctuated, waxing\nand waning in response to the spirit within; and when the time came\nfor him to go out into the street and face the world, when for a few\nuncomfortable moments he stood hesitating by the hat-stand, it almost\ndied out.\n\nBut this would have been to deny himself entirely; and this he could\nnot do. He put on his overcoat; then with a wavering mind asked himself\nwhat hat he should wear with it--with IT, that is to say. It seemed\nalmost to savour of irreverence that he should wear a hat at all. But\nunwilling to make himself more noticeable than necessary, he finally\nselected one. Then, before putting the hat on, he went upstairs, to\nhave a last look at himself. It was then--he saw, or hoped--almost\nundetectable; but when he put on his hat--a black one--it once more\nleapt into local prominence, disappointing his hope that what covered\nhis head might have covered that also. On the contrary, his hat failing\nto contain it, it seemed rather to contain his hat.\n\nAs he went forth, the undemonstrative Mrs. James looked out at him from\nher window. She had not detected, she did not detect now, the thing he\nhad striven to conceal: but his fluttered manner and his talking to her\nwith his back to the light had made her suspicious: \u2018It\u2019s my belief\nhe\u2019s been having a night out,\u2019 she remarked to herself as she watched\nhim go. And though she owned it was no concern of hers, she allowed the\nsuspicion to entertain her all the rest of the day; and when in the\nafternoon a rather agitated lady called, with a bruised face, wishing\nurgently to see him or to know where he was to be found, but refusing\nto disclose her name, she did her best for his morals by giving the\naddress which in another twenty-four hours would be his; where, she\nexplained pointedly, he had gone with his wife and family to have a\nlittle rest and be away from people.\n\nAnd while Mrs. James was thus providing adventure for him, according to\nthe light that was in her, he by reason of the light that was not in\nhim but on him, was having adventures of his own.\n\nUpon opening the street door he was pleased to find that it was\nbeginning to rain. He went back, fetched his umbrella, opened it, and\nemerged holding the umbrella rather low in order to protect--his hat.\nThen he stepped out briskly, trying to think and to move naturally;\nbut the terrible literalness of the streets troubled him. In such\nsurroundings he felt more than ever the incongruity which under modern\nconditions, separates matter from spirit. To walk in the light of the\ngospel had hitherto seemed to him easy; but now to walk in his own\nlight was difficult.\n\nHe was getting along, however, and so far had not attracted attention.\n\nOn the other side of the street went a whistling boy, casting down\nnewspapers through area railings. As he passed he felt that the boy had\nbecome aware of him, for the whistling had stopped.\n\nA moment later from behind, from across the street, came the cry,\n\u2018Hullo, old lamp-shade!\u2019\n\nWas that from the boy? Was it intended for him? And was it as a lighted\nscarecrow that the world was going to regard him? He did not turn to\nfind out; he made no sign that he had heard; but passing a shop front\nhe sidled, and tilting his umbrella took a look at himself. Yes, under\nthe shade of the umbrella, it was painfully distinct. He lifted the\numbrella away; it almost disappeared.\n\nThat decided him. It was only humility, he told himself; he did not\nwish to be seen of men; he furled his umbrella, and stood with his best\nhat exposed to the rain.\n\nCabs and taxis passed him; he could, of course, have taken one; but\nthose dark interiors would make more show of him than an umbrella; a\nbus with its glass sides, or better still its top open to the sky, was\nwhat he now waited for. And then down came more rain, making a bus-top\nridiculous. He screwed his courage up to the sticking point; after all,\nit must be done; he must test his public and find out if life--life on\nearth, life inside as well as outside a bus, life in a modern city--was\npossible.\n\nRound the corner came the right numbered motor-bus. As it drew up he\nhad a cowardly sense of relief; there was no one on the top, and the\ninside seemed full. The conductor dispelled his hope. \u2018Room for one,\u2019\nhe said; and Mr. Trimblerigg got in. It was unfortunate; he had to go\nto the far end, where there was less light.\n\nAn old lady, as he settled beside her, said to her companion, \u2018I do\nbelieve the sun\u2019s coming out!\u2019 \u2018It can\u2019t: it\u2019s raining too hard,\u2019 was\nthe reply.\n\nBefore long he was aware that those opposite were studying him with\ncurious gaze. Elderly gentlemen lowered their papers, wiped and refixed\ntheir glasses, but did not resume reading. Their eyes bulged a little\nas they tried to believe them. Mr. Trimblerigg grew irritated; he\nwished they would make up their minds and have done with it. Presently\na woman, sitting opposite, with a bandaged infant in her arms, leaned\nforward and remarked confidentially:\n\n\u2018So you\u2019ve been \u2019aving it too, have yer?\u2019\n\n\u2018I beg your pardon?\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg. \u2018Having what?\u2019\n\n\u2018Haven\u2019t they been X-raying you?\u2019 she explained inquiringly. \u2018They done\nit to this one \u2019ere six times; but it don\u2019t show like that on \u2019im. Does\nit \u2019urt much?\u2019\n\n\u2018Not at all,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg, smiling: and then, taking a plunge\nat his public, for others were listening. \u2018This is merely a first\nexperiment, I didn\u2019t think anyone would notice it.\u2019\n\nHe was aware that, as he spoke, the eyes of all his fellow-passengers\nhad gravitated towards him; that he was exciting more undivided\ninterest now than when he first got in.\n\nJust then the conductor came along to collect his fare, and Mr.\nTrimblerigg, who knew the amount of it, tendered a three-penny bit,\nwithout comment.\n\n\u2018Angel, sir?\u2019 inquired the man encouragingly, naming a destination,\nintent on his job. Somebody at the far end tittered, and a smile went\ndown the row of faces opposite.\n\nThat remark, and its reception, revealed to Mr. Trimblerigg more than\nanything which had yet happened, the unfortunate position in which\nany approach to the truth placed him. The spirit of the age was not\nattuned to receive it seriously, far less with reverence. Dispensations\nof Providence such as this no longer entered into the calculations of\nmen\u2019s minds; nor was seeing believing, except on lines purely material.\nSurrounded by that atmosphere of scepticism which he felt in his bones,\nMr. Trimblerigg had himself succumbed, and spoken, not as a man of\nfaith having things of mystery to declare, but as an experimentalist,\npeddling in science--so adapting himself to a public which had no use\nfor things spiritual: truly an inglorious demonstration of his famous\nthesis that truth is only relative.\n\nThe old lady and her companion got out, looking back at him as they\nwent with slightly scared eyes and puzzled smiles. One of the newspaper\nreaders moved up and sat next to him. The bus had halted under the\ngloom of a broad railway arch, and he became aware that a gentle\nlight, emanating from himself, fell upon the faces on either side of\nhim. The newspaper reader, making acknowledgment with a pleased smile,\ntilted his newspaper so as to obtain the benefit. \u2018Very convenient,\u2019 he\nmurmured; \u2018quite a new idea. Where can one get it?\u2019\n\nAnd so challenged Mr. Trimblerigg still had not the courage to explain.\n\u2018I haven\u2019t the maker\u2019s name,\u2019 he said. \u2018It isn\u2019t mine. I\u2019m only trying\nit.\u2019\n\nAnd hearing himself so speak, he sat aghast; it was horrible thus to be\ndenying the light that was in him. Yet what else could he say, so as to\nbe believed?\n\n\u2018How do you put it on?\u2019 pursued his interrogator. \u2018What is it, luminous\npaint?\u2019\n\n\u2018No, nothing of that sort,\u2019 he replied. \u2018It\u2019s a secret. I mustn\u2019t\nexplain.\u2019\n\nAnd then, though he had not reached his destination, unable to bear it\nany more, he called for a stop and got out.\n\nHaving alighted on the pavement, feeling painfully the concentration\nof at least twenty-four pairs of eyes upon his back, he put up his\numbrella to cut off the view, though it had really ceased to rain, and\nmade haste away.\n\nSomebody had got out after him. He heard steps insistently close\nfollowing him; then a voice speaking the American accent.\n\n\u2018Say! pardon me, sir. Do you mind telling whether you are advertising\nthat as a patent? Can be got anywhere?\u2019\n\n\u2018No, it can\u2019t exactly be got,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg, whose own more\ninsistent question was whether it could be got rid of. \u2018It isn\u2019t mine.\nI\u2019m just trying it.\u2019\n\n\u2018It\u2019s very remarkable, very striking,\u2019 said his interlocutor. \u2018There\u2019s\na future in that contraption, sure; or I\u2019m much mistaken. You\u2019ve\npatented it, I suppose, before bringing it out? If you\u2019re needing\ncapital to develop it, I\u2019m your man.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, no,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg hastily. \u2018I don\u2019t want to develop it.\nIt\u2019s developing itself; and--and,\u2019 he hesitated--\u2018it isn\u2019t for sale!\u2019\n\nThen, trying for once to have courage, and stand a faithful witness for\ntruth: \u2018It\u2019s not what you think it is,\u2019 he said. \u2018It\u2019s not material;\nit\u2019s spiritual--a visitation; but the revelation of its meaning has not\nyet come to me.\u2019\n\nAnd so saying he took a perilous run into the traffic, and dodging\ndeath on nimble feet, got safely away to the other side.\n\nHe left behind him a stunned patriot.\n\n\u2018America, you\u2019re beaten!\u2019 said the voice with the accent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\n_The Conversion of Caroline_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg joined his family in a small retired bungalow, standing\nbetween estuary and sea, on the outskirts of a large health-resort\nlooking south. It was the very place for him to be--if not exactly\nalone--unobserved. The shore was shadeless; across an arm of the\nestuary a rickety foot-bridge led to copse and field, and across the\nrailroad to a wide expanse of heath. After that came the littered\nmargin of the town, with its cheap and scrubby architecture run up as a\ntrap for holiday-makers.\n\nHe had arrived by daylight, and occupying a window-seat on the sunny\nside of the carriage had managed to get through without further\nadventures. At the office also he had done fairly well, entering by the\ndoor marked \u2018private,\u2019 and working with the electric light well over\nhim.\n\nHis children, who always loved him when they saw him, but forgot him\neasily again in absence, ran boisterously to greet him, and each in\nturn entered the charmed circle without making remark. So did Caroline.\nThey kissed him, noticing nothing.\n\nThis cheered him, but he knew it could only be for a time, and as soon\nas they got to \u2018The Mollusc,\u2019 which was the bungalow\u2019s name, he said to\nhis wife, \u2018I want to speak to you,\u2019 and drawing her into a room apart,\nwaited--to see.\n\nShe was slow to realize that anything was amiss; and this ought to have\ncheered him still more. But now that it was his wife alone--a public of\nwhich he was not afraid--he was irritated. It was an instance of the\nextreme slowness of her mental uptake.\n\n\u2018Well?\u2019 he said at last, challengingly, \u2018don\u2019t you notice anything?\u2019 He\nmoved from the window as he spoke. Then she did.\n\n\u2018Good gracious!\u2019 she exclaimed. \u2018Jonathan, what have you been doing to\nyourself? Have you been going about in town looking like that?\u2019\n\nThis tone, from Caroline of all people, he could not stand; she at\nleast should be taught to look at the thing properly--with respect.\n\n\u2018I have been doing nothing to myself--nothing!\u2019 he replied. \u2018As it is\nthe will of Heaven, you might try to speak respectfully about it--or\nelse hold your tongue!\u2019\n\nShe looked at him in pained bewilderment. \u2018Do you mean you can\u2019t help\nit?\u2019 she said at last.\n\n\u2018That is exactly what I _do_ mean,\u2019 he said. His pent-up bitterness\nbroke out. \u2018I\u2019ve had two days of it--about as much as I can stand.\nYes! you round your eyes, but you don\u2019t realize what it has made me\ngo through. It\u2019s been spiritual desolation. I was like an owl in the\nwilderness, with all the other silly owls hooting at me, taking it\nfor a show, a trick-turn, a patent night-light that burns all through\nthe day to amuse itself; and now _you_! No; it\u2019s not X-ray; it\u2019s not\nTatcho for the hair; it\u2019s not luminous paint; nor is it a mechanical\nadjustment to prevent people tumbling against one in the dark or help\nthem to read newspapers in omnibuses. All those things have been said\nto me in the last twenty-four hours; and if only one of them were true,\nI believe to God I should be a happier man than I am! The plagues of\nEgypt may have seemed all right to Moses, but Pharaoh didn\u2019t like them!\nWhy Heaven has seen fit--I don\u2019t know.\u2019 He paused. \u2018But there it is, so\nI must learn to bear it.\u2019\n\nCaroline said: \u2018When you\u2019ve had your supper, you\u2019ll feel better.\u2019\n\n\u2018I shall not feel better; I shall never feel better until I\nknow--either what sense to make of it, or how to get rid of it. It\u2019s\njust as if--as if Heaven didn\u2019t know that the world\u2019s mind has changed\nabout things. I shall become a laughing-stock. What good will that do?\u2019\n\nAnd then Caroline, who had been brought up on biblical knowledge,\nwas very annoying. \u2018Didn\u2019t Jeremiah shave one side of his head?\u2019 she\ninquired, \u2018or roll in the dirt and eat books, and things of that sort?\nOr was it Isaiah!\u2019\n\n\u2018I don\u2019t know,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg shortly. \u2018It wasn\u2019t me, anyway.\nIf one did that sort of thing to-day, one\u2019s use in the world would be\nover.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s view was the social: Caroline\u2019s was only the\npractical: trying to be resourceful, she said. \u2018You might try brushing\nit.\u2019\n\n\u2018I might try cutting my head off,\u2019 he retorted. \u2018I wish you\u2019d stop\ntalking foolishly.\u2019\n\nThen Caroline, being a dutiful wife, and seeing how much he was put\nout, did her best to soothe him. \u2018I don\u2019t think people will notice it,\u2019\nshe said; \u2018not much if you don\u2019t want them to.\u2019\n\n\u2018Then you\u2019d better leave off thinking!\u2019 he said. \u2018Though I haven\u2019t\nwanted them to, they _have_ noticed: they\u2019ve done nothing but notice!\nIf you like, I\u2019ll go and put my head into the kitchen now, and you\u2019ll\nhear that charwoman of yours faint at the mere sight of me.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, she won\u2019t,\u2019 said Mrs. Trimblerigg, \u2018she\u2019s gone. She lays the table\nfor supper and then goes home, and doesn\u2019t wash up till she comes again\nin the morning. And it\u2019s Jane\u2019s evening out; so there\u2019ll be nobody.\u2019\n\nThese domestic details infuriated him; Caroline was so stupid. And she\ncontinued to be.\n\n\u2018Don\u2019t you think you ought to see a Doctor?\u2019 she inquired.\n\n\u2018I\u2019ll see the Doctor damned first,\u2019 replied Mr. Trimblerigg. Her\nsuggestion of ice was no better received; it seemed as if she could\nonly annoy him. And then one of the children outside shouted, \u2018Mummy,\nwhen are we going to have supper?\u2019\n\n\u2018Go and give them their supper!\u2019 he said; and his tone was very bitter;\nbitter against her, and against the children, and against the whole\nworld wanting its supper, while on his head fate had laid this burden\nof a blessing, too grievous for the flesh to bear. Yes, the flesh;\nthat was the trouble. He saw the spiritual side of it--the symbolic\nsplendour beckoning clear from heights which he could realize but which\nthe world could not. He saw that, but he saw the other side also! There\nwas no public for it; and if no public, where was the good--what could\nhe do with it? Live it down?--or so arrange matters that it should\nnever show? That meant cutting his life in half, and concealing the\nbest of it.\n\nThere he was, a furtive fugitive in the bosom of his own family; the\nchildren wanting their supper, and he avoiding it; yet surely--if this\nthing was from Heaven--children, his own children at least, ought to be\ntrained to grow accustomed to it, and take a right view of it. Then why\nnot begin?\n\nCaroline had gone into the kitchen to get the supper ready. He called\nher back. \u2018I\u2019ll come,\u2019 he said, \u2018they\u2019ll have to see it sometime. Tell\nthem--for to-night at any rate--not to make remarks.\u2019\n\nSo Mrs. Trimblerigg went off to impose discipline on the family. To the\nmaid she said, \u2018you can go out now.\u2019 To the children when the maid had\ngone: \u2018your father has got something the matter with his head. You are\nnot to make remarks.\u2019\n\nPresently she went and told him that supper was ready. A lamp was upon\nthe table; but it wore a shade; Mr. Trimblerigg did not, it would have\nbeen no use. He entered the room aware, in that half-light, that he had\nbecome conspicuous; nor could he be unconscious of the three pairs of\neyes turning upon him an expectant gaze which became riveted.\n\nBenjie, the youngest, gave an instinctive squeak of excitement; then,\nhushed by his mother but forgetting to close his mouth, he dribbled.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, according to custom, stood to ask a blessing. \u2018For\nthese, and all Thy other mercies,\u2019 he said, and stopped short: \u2018a\nmercy\u2019 was what he could not feel it to be. Conversation was slow to\nbegin. All the children reached out with healthy appetites for the\nbread and butter. Amy, conscientious child, still all eyes, seeking an\nunforbidden topic of conversation, surmounted the impediment by saying,\n\u2018Ma, why didn\u2019t we have pancakes to-day?\u2019\n\n\u2018Hush, my dear!\u2019 said Caroline, who had a feeling that the remark was\ntoo apposite; and indeed the barbed point had already gone home. So\nthat--thought Mr. Trimblerigg--was how it appeared to a child\u2019s eyes!\n\nHe helped them all quickly from the dish before him; after that\nthey looked at him less continuously, but not less admiringly. This\neased the situation till Martin, the elder of the two boys, inquired\nconcerning the food upon his plate. \u2018Mummy, why don\u2019t poached eggs\nhave their yellow outside? Why don\u2019t they, Mummy?\u2019\n\nCaroline told him not to talk, but to go on eating.\n\nAmy remedied matters in her own way, saying wisely, \u2018They do come\noutside when they\u2019re hatched; they turn into chickens then, don\u2019t they,\nMummy?\u2019\n\nMartin said, \u2018No, they don\u2019t!\u2019 and looked corroboratively at his\nfather. Benjie said: \u2018Yes, they do: eggs do.\u2019\n\nCaroline said: \u2018I told you not to talk.\u2019\n\nBut children must talk, especially if there are three of them; and\nMartin being now silent, Benjie took up the running.\n\nLaying his head on one side, and stroking it with his spoon, \u2018Mummy,\u2019\nhe said, \u2018if I was to catch fire, wouldn\u2019t I get burned up? Wouldn\u2019t I,\nMummy?\u2019\n\nThen Mr. Trimblerigg could stand it no longer; he took up his plate,\nand left the room. As soon as he had closed the door he heard Benjie\ngive a howl, and knew that Caroline, applying useless remedies, had\nslapped him.\n\nPresently, having sent the children to bed, she came in to comfort him.\n\u2018They\u2019ll get used to it presently,\u2019 she assured him, \u2018if it doesn\u2019t go\noff. But I wish you\u2019d see somebody.\u2019 This time she avoided the word\n\u2018doctor,\u2019 because it irritated him.\n\n\u2018I suppose they talked of me as soon as I\u2019d gone?\u2019 he said, ignoring\nthe suggestion.\n\n\u2018A little, naturally,\u2019 she replied.\n\n\u2018What did they say?\u2019\n\n\u2018D\u2019you think I\u2019d better tell you,\u2019 queried Caroline, wishful to spare\nhim.\n\n\u2018Yes, I may as well hear the worst.\u2019\n\n\u2018Well,\u2019 Martin said, \u2018Is Father a holy man, Mother?\u2019 Caroline had\nmade her selection apparently: she uttered it without conviction;\nand to hear it so repeated gave Mr. Trimblerigg no joy. Truth from\nthe mouths of babes and sucklings--even revealed truth sceptically\nreported--failed to comfort him.\n\n\u2018I think I\u2019ll go out for a turn by myself,\u2019 he said. Then stopped; for\noutside it was dark. He went into the bedroom instead; and Caroline\ntook advantage of his absence, though too late for it to get through\nthat night, to go and send off a telegram. It was addressed to\nDavidina, and it merely repeated what she had said to the children:\n\u2018Jonathan has something the matter with his head. Come at once.\u2019\n\nBut though that was her view of it, Caroline had no notion how much\nreally was the matter with his head--having only seen the malady in its\nfainter and less convincing manifestations; she had not encountered it\nin the dark.\n\nWhen she went up to bed she found him already in it, with a lamp on\nthe table beside him, reading; and at first, as she looked at him,\nshe thought he was already cured; the globe of light had become quite\nunapparent.\n\nWise in her way, instead of exclaiming on the fact, she said nothing.\n\u2018Better wait,\u2019 she thought, \u2018and give it time,\u2019--hoping that by the\nmorning he would have quite got over it. And so with composed leisure,\nshe went first to bed, and then presently to sleep, leaving him still\nat his reading. And only when Mr. Trimblerigg was quite sure she was\nsafely asleep, did he put out the light and resign himself to the rest\nhe so much needed.\n\nThe reason was that Caroline\u2019s composed materialism had got upon his\nnerves; her detached reception of Martin\u2019s godly suggestion had dealt\nhim the shrewdest blow of all. So little apparently was her mind open\nto conviction of a spiritual kind, that she had passed it over as not\nworth a thought.\n\nBut in this Mr. Trimblerigg did Caroline an injustice; she was\nmerely dense to nuances; half-tones had not impressed her, and a\nthing which she could only half-see she could only half-believe in.\nIt was far otherwise when, waking up in the small hours, she beheld\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s head, unconscious but luminous, lying in a charger\nof golden light--light so strong that she might have read by it. So\noverwhelming was the effect of it then, that she got out of bed, fell\nupon her knees beside him, and in meek simplicity, though a little late\nin the day, gave him the worship which was his due; for now truly he\nlooked beautiful.\n\nHer mind experienced a revulsion; he had been concealing himself from\nher. All these years she had been married to a holy man and had not\nknown it; had even had her doubts of him. Now they were gone; that\nhe should be able to look like that while unconscious and asleep,\nconvinced her utterly. Contrite, she wept. How could she guess that in\nhis sleep he was only carrying on with so much more success that to\nwhich conscious life presented difficulties? Mr. Trimblerigg was having\na pleasant dream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\n\u201c_The Desire of the Moth for the Star_\u201d\n\n\nHe woke from his dream to conditions favourable to peace of mind; a\nrippling sea, a sunny shore, and a day that promised to be cloudless.\nThey breakfasted in a verandah looking seawards, the children seemed\nto miss something but said nothing; and Caroline\u2019s manner showed an\nimproved change. Reserve and deference mingled with tenderness when she\nspoke to him. When she suggested plans for the day she was shy and a\nlittle nervous: for now her conscience was troubled: she had Davidina\non her mind, and was expecting the reply-telegram. She had sent off\nthe message without consulting him, under what she now felt to be a\nmisapprehension. If Davidina wired that she was coming she would have\nto break it to him; and fearing that the news would not please him, she\nput off the evil moment as long as possible. Her immediate anxiety was\nto get him out of the house before the arrival of the telegram.\n\nThis she managed to do: and all day nursed her guilty secret that\nDavidina would arrive by a late train to know what was the matter. And\nas a consequence, as much as possible she avoided him.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Trimblerigg was thinking. Immediate conditions were\nconducive to a quiet examination of the problem; but though temporarily\nat ease, he was not getting more reconciled to the prospect. He had\nbeen long accustomed to hear and speak of people being overtaken in\nsin; but it had never entered his mind that, by a similar involuntary\ncapitulation to a stronger power, they could also be overtaken in\ngoodness--still less in goodness of so conspicuous a character,\nattaching itself like a disease, independent of the will.\n\n\u2018The white flower of a blameless life\u2019 was a poetic phrase which, like\nthat other about sin, had passed into the currency of the language:\nand mentally he had always been able to wear it, and feel the better\nfor the consciousness that it was there. But it was a different matter\nwhen becoming visible and almost concrete, it turned into an evening\nprimrose, catching him by the hair of his head, and refusing to let go.\n\nMartin\u2019s question, \u2018Is Father a holy man?\u2019 was a child\u2019s way of putting\nit; but substantially it was so much his own point of view about the\nvisitation now afflicting him, that he began to wonder whether he\nmight not get rid of it by ceasing to be holy. If he went into the\nkitchen and kissed the charwoman, if he made himself drunk, if he went\ndown to the marine parade and extracted cigarettes from the automatic\nslot-machine by inserting metal discs instead of pennies, or if--to\nmake the matter worse--he were to add sacrilege to dishonesty, go into\nthe church and rob the poor box--if he did those or other similar\nthings, would this outward expression of his sanctity take itself\noff--go away and leave him?\n\nBut while entertaining the fancy that it might do so, he more than\ndoubted it; for he felt that in his own heart he would not be doing any\nof those things; that it would not really be him; internally his good\nqualities and motives would remain unaffected. On such lines it would\nbe useless, therefore, to experiment.\n\nBut mentally was there nothing which, if sedulously entertained, might\nbring him back to a more mundane and normal condition? Here, as he sat\non the shore, with his children building sand-castles near by, and his\nwife making domestic sounds in the bungalow behind him, could he not\ndefinitely will away the manifestation by a slight deflection from his\nhigh ideals towards what is called temptation?\n\nHe began to think of Isabel Sparling; and to think of her pleasurably;\nshe was still attractive to him; and that he had once again held\nher in his arms counted for something, gave to youthful memories a\nlivelier flavour--a bouquet which hitherto they had lacked. He and\nIsabel Sparling had become enemies--or rather she had become his, and\nhad all the more remained so because he had successfully evaded and\ngot the better of her. But he had always liked her, her pluck, her\nperseverance, her capacity, and the spark of zealous fire for a cause\nwhich had burned in her for years, and which nothing could quench.\nProvocative, annoying, unscrupulous and vindictive though she might\nbe, she was never dull. He knew that with her he would have had a more\nuneasy time than with Caroline--yet now he wished--or told himself he\nwished--that he had taken the risk, adopted her crusade as his own, and\nmarried her. It would have been harder, more uphill work--but looking\nback complacently on his successful career, due entirely to his own\npowers and intuitions--he believed he could have done it. And had he\nadopted that course, life, otherwise so interesting, would not have had\nat its centre that dull, that very dull spot which was Caroline.\n\nSo Mr. Trimblerigg sat and thought, indulging himself with the imagined\nsweetness of forbidden fruit. But as he was not in the very least\nashamed or put out of countenance by the entertainment of these wayward\nfancies they had of course no effect upon him. His internal unity of\npurpose not consciously weakened, he continued to feel complacent and\ngood, in the sense that he had always been--good to himself. It was not\nas if anybody had found him out; then it would have been different. The\nonly person who ever found him out was Davidina; and as to her, since\ntheir last encounter, his mind was at peace.\n\nThe evening post brought letters forwarded from town; and Caroline,\nhaving to confess what she had done, made them the occasion for\nbreaking into the solitude in which all day she had left him. An added\nreason was that one of the bunch was in the handwriting of Davidina. It\nwas futile any longer to postpone the news that Davidina was on her way\nto see him.\n\nCaroline handed him the letters, and as after sorting them through he\nseemed in no hurry to open them--Davidina\u2019s she noticed, he put aside\nfrom the rest--she opened, on her own account, the matter wherewith she\nwas charged.\n\nThe Presence had begun to manifest itself again, though not as\npowerfully yet, as at the moment which had brought her to her knees and\nto conversion. She was moved, feeling very humble towards him; and her\neyes grew full of tears.\n\n\u2018I am sorry, Jonathan, I have misjudged you,\u2019 she said.\n\nThe announcement, though it surprised, rather pleased him; for he saw\nplainly by her look that misjudgment was over.\n\n\u2018How have you misjudged me, my dear?\u2019 he asked.\n\n\u2018I--I didn\u2019t think you were always quite straight,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u2018Straight\u2019: the word had a certain sting. It stirred faintly the\nslumbers of that small sleeping dog--his conscience, which he was so\naccustomed to let lie. Then his sure instinct for defence brought him\ngaily to the attack.\n\n\u2018Oh, yes, I know, my dear child, sometimes you\u2019ve been jealous.\u2019\n\n\u2018No, no, never really,\u2019 she said, \u2018only I know I\u2019m stupid--so, of\ncourse, sometimes--\u2019\n\nAt that she left it and returned to her point--the point she had been\nwondrously cogitating all day in her slow mind. \u2018No, I mean straight in\nquite little things. You see, Jonathan, I know now Martin was right. I\nhaven\u2019t understood you--not properly. And when I say \u2018not straight,\u2019 I\nmean in such little, little things, that never seemed to matter till\nnow.\u2019\n\nThis was a new experience altogether. Caroline was thoroughly\nsurprising him. \u2018How didn\u2019t you think I was straight?\u2019 he asked.\n\n\u2018Well, for one thing,\u2019 she replied, \u2018I know now that you _do_ take your\ncold bath. I thought you didn\u2019t.\u2019\n\nHad Heaven thundered and shaken off the roof, leaving nothing above but\nbare sky, Mr. Trimblerigg could not have been more startled than at\nthose words. To poor honest Caroline, the acceptance of the spiritual\ninterpretation of what had happened to him meant, meant necessarily\nthat he had always not merely been good in his own sense of the term,\nbut done the straight thing--taken his baths, and in all quite small\nthings told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.\n\nAnd then, on the top of that, while the shock of it still reverberated\nthrough his soul, Caroline let go the thing she had come to tell him.\n\n\u2018Davidina is coming,\u2019 she said. \u2018Forgive me, Jonathan, I didn\u2019t\nunderstand then. And when you refused to see a doctor I telegraphed for\nher.\u2019\n\n\u2018What did you tell her?\u2019\n\n\u2018Only that you\u2019d got something the matter with your head. She\u2019s coming\nby the late train. It\u2019s nearly due.\u2019\n\nHe sat so still that she grew frightened. She reached out a hand and\ntouched him.\n\n\u2018Go away,\u2019 he said, \u2018let me alone!\u2019\n\nAnd weeping she got up and left him.\n\nFor a long while he sat on, motionless, unable to move. Doubt leapt in\non him, engulfed him: blackness--such as he had never known before--was\nupon his soul. Not Davidina--no, not Davidina herself, whom he had now\nto expect by the late train--had ever dealt him so devastating a blow.\n\u2018Now I know you take your cold bath: I thought you didn\u2019t.\u2019\n\nO pellucid Eve: O rib of Adam, how naked hast thou made the man for\nwhom thou wast formed! And this without in the least intending it, or\nknowing what she had done.\n\nIt was true that, even now, she had not found him out; but she had\nrevealed to him with fatal clearness the fact that the shirking of a\ncold bath and the wearing of a yellow halo were incompatible. And this\nwas the worst thing she had against him, this trivial doubt; but it was\nenough. Down came his castle. A horrid blush went over him--down even\ninto his clothes; it went farther, had he only known.\n\n\u2018Thou, Lord, seest me!\u2019 he said to himself, got up, and went swiftly\nout into the starlit dusk carrying a red light.\n\nAnd then the thought of Davidina, coming on the top of this, struck him\ncold. He remembered that he had upon him a letter from her which he\nhad not yet read; opening it, he drew out the contents. There was no\nneed to go indoors to get a light; that which he had was sufficient.\nThe letter was very brief and to the point. \u2018Found you out! but no\nmatter: you did the honest thing with your eyes open--for once.\u2019\nEnclosed was an old envelope, cut open across the top, still bearing\nits seal, addressed to Davidina in Uncle Phineas\u2019s handwriting.\nMinutely examining the seal, he found--what Davidina also had\nfound--traces of his own handiwork, a scar showing where it had been\nremoved and put on again.\n\n\u2018Idiot!\u2019 he said to himself--why hadn\u2019t he covered up the breakage with\na larger seal? Or why, again, after all those years had he troubled to\ntell a lie about it? But the reason for that he knew; it was so that he\nmight stand well--better than he had ever stood before--in Davidina\u2019s\neyes. Just that once, so simply, so easily, by so slight a departure\nfrom the truth--he had got the better of her; and now her clutch was\nupon him again. She was coming through the dark night; he must meet her\nface to face, and hear her asking in hard matter-of-fact tone: \u2018Well,\nwhat\u2019s the matter now?\u2019\n\nThrough the house he heard a knock at the front door; the thought that\nit might possibly be Davidina, come earlier than she was expected,\ndrove him down the garden in flight and out by the back way. He was\nsuffering badly. The double buffet--Caroline\u2019s, followed by Davidina\u2019s,\nhad left him dazed; he had no spirit left. If there had ever been doubt\nof him in his wife\u2019s easy-going and utterly domesticated mind, how\ncould he meet the all-seeing eye of Davidina, in the expectation that\nhis shining certificate of virtue would, even for a moment, divert her\nfrom common sense? All the haloes in the world would not convince\nDavidina that he really took his bath of a cold morning: it would\nconvince her of nothing of which he would like her to be convinced, but\nonly of other things that he would rather she did not know.\n\nAnd yet the thought stuck to him, \u2018I am good, sometimes.\u2019 To that\nanchor he clung like a drowning man who happens also to be a little\ndrunk. If he could only have let the anchor go it would have given him\na better chance. But no--a sense of his sometimes exceeding goodness\nstill clung to him. Out into the night he went, and his blush went with\nhim--extending farther than he knew.\n\nAll the mercury of his composition had gone down into his boots; and\nthough he still believed in himself he was very, very miserable. The\nfact that he attracted moths, added to his depression. It was merely\none more indication of the futility of the moral emblem which had\nfastened in on him. Coming to a stile leading into fields, he made\nit his _prie-Dieu_, and kneeling on the foot-rest bowed his head and\nprayed: \u2018O Lord, take away my life; thou hast laid on me a burden too\nheavy for me to bear!\u2019 So, characteristically--I had often heard him do\nit before--still shifting the blame from himself to others.\n\nOne did for him what one could--stirred memories he had striven to make\ndormant, suggested to him interpretations of his action in the past\nwhich at other times he would have denied vehemently. All I could do I\ndid to make him shake off for good that halo of self-worship with which\nhe had surrounded himself. But, as always when he took to his knees, he\nleft me with a peculiar sense of helplessness. His tendency to defend\nhimself in prayer not only from the imputations the world made against\nhim, but from the imputations of his own conscience, was just as much\nin evidence as ever; and familiarity with the Scriptures continued to\nmake sincerity of speech difficult. Quotations from the Old Testament\nkept coming into his head to be hurled at mine, as though, from such a\nsource, they must needs be true statements of fact.\n\n\u2018I have been very zealous for the Lord God,\u2019 he cried; and then having\nchosen his prophet, started upon variations. \u2018The priests of Baal I\nhave slain; I have broken down their altars; and I, only I, am left,\ndesolate.\u2019 He was not arguing, he was telling me.\n\nWith his persistencies and his prevarications he made me really angry\nat last; for he would not leave off. As Jonah once had a great fish\nprepared for him, so I prepared and drove a cow up to the stile where\nhe was kneeling. It touched him with its nose. In the darkness he\nmistook it for a passer-by, waiting to get over. Apologizing he got up\nand stood aside; and when he discovered his mistake it made him feel\nvery foolish.\n\nHe ceased praying, and rambling quickly across the field, found himself\npresently at a level-crossing. Away on the other side he heard mixed\nmusic, shouting, laughter, and the crack of toy fire-arms, where the\nheath had temporarily become a fair-ground. From farther away in the\ndistance came the mumble of an approaching train.\n\nAs he trod the metals, he wondered--his sense of direction being\ndefective--which was the up and which the down line. He stood still\non the track. Suddenly into his quick divided mind the thought\nflashed--suppose there were an accident! He had heard of people\nstanding to watch trains becoming fascinated by them, hypnotized,\nunable to move. Hypnotism would, he supposed, provide a comparatively\nhappy death: it would also make the recipient irresponsible for his\nactions. Well, an express train might do it; but of local or luggage\ntrains he was doubtful; they had not sufficient thunder or speed.\n\nAnd so, between two rails, and still of two minds as usual, he halted\nand waited. The idea began to fascinate him, as always where so much\nhung upon chance. Was he standing on the right track? Would it be an\nexpress, or would it be a local. And then the thought--if it were an\nexpress, and with track coinciding, would he after death display to a\nremorseful world that sign of divine approbation which as a living man\nnow so encumbered him?\n\nIt was a wonderful and an inspiring thought; and as it came forthwith\nit blazed into a certainty; he became exalted and uplifted in spirit.\nYes, posterity would see him in his true light, as he had always felt\nhimself to be in those blessed moments when it was borne in on him\nthat his whole life was a mission, and he himself the great modern\nevangelist making goodness a thing simple to the understanding. What a\nbeautiful end! he thought. Even Davidina would be sorry then for her\npast misreadings of his character.\n\nThe train leapt into view. It did not leave him long in doubt; it\nwas an express and a fast one at that. He watched it, and became\nfascinated. Power of control left him: his mind soared in a vague\nhopeful ecstasy toward the stars. He saw Sirius winking at him--Sirius,\nwhich had always been his special star, his affinity. He winked back at\nit: tears rushed to his eyes, he became blind.\n\nAbsolutely irresponsible for his actions now, he stood unable to move,\nhis whole body possessed by the mighty rushing sound which filled his\nears; the world around, the heaven above, the earth beneath grew full\nof the thunder of it. Upon those monstrous vibrations his soul mounted\nto bliss; he had become superior to his own body at last, did not mind,\nwas not afraid. Heaven had been gracious to him after all.\n\nSuddenly the engine, opening its throttle, gave a ghastly scream.\nWith a blast of its nostrils, a rattling of chains, a grinding of\nbrakes, and a screeching of wheels, which sent shuddering discords\nto the night, it came to a precipitate standstill, less than a dozen\nyards from where Mr. Trimblerigg stood with sapling feet waiting to be\nuprooted for another and a better world.\n\nThose horrible noises, and the abrupt abatement of its speed snatched\nMr. Trimblerigg from his trance. With loosened knees and presence\nof mind mercifully restored, now only apprehensive of detection and\ncapture, he sped swiftly away; high-hedged night received him into its\nobliterating embrace; the track was clear.\n\nA stoker, descending hastily from the arrested train, searched the line\nahead. His voice swung back angrily out of the darkness:\n\n\u2018Red light? I don\u2019t see no red light. It\u2019s some damned fool\u2019s been\nhaving a blooming game with us--that was all.\u2019\n\nAnd so, with a rich accompaniment of expletives from stoker and driver,\nthe express proceeded upon its way.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, in a much more shaken state, did the same.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\n_A Run for Life_\n\n\nThe shock of his escape had left Mr. Trimblerigg dazed and tremulous.\nHe went feebly, not yet quite reawakened to the world which, in that\nmoment of exaltation, he had thought to be leaving behind him. But\ninstinct, and the loud jolly sounds of his fellow-creatures drew him\ntoward the glaring lights and bustle of the fair-ground. An illuminated\ncrowd was a refuge from his condition; amid the flare of those naphtha\nlamps his radiance would be unapparent.\n\nBut while he thus moved toward the light, he forgot that his back was\nto darkness, and as he skirted the outer circle of the booths, standing\nshoulder to shoulder with their farther sides dressed to the staring\ncrowd in gaudy habiliments of painted canvas, he was startled to hear a\nvoice exclaim, \u2018What\u2019s that bloody sunset doing there?\u2019 and to perceive\nthat it was directed at him.\n\nThe showman, jumping down from the back door of his van, ran hastily\ntowards him, thrust a bewildered face at him, and stopped amazed.\n\u2018Well, of all blinking wonders,\u2019 he cried, \u2018you take the cake!\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, trying by superior calmness to control the awkward\nsituation, wished him a good evening, and was for passing on.\n\nThe man caught him by the arm. \u2018Here! which of the blooming shows d\u2019you\nbelong to? I hadn\u2019t heard tell of you.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg replied that he did not belong to any show. The man was\ndumbfounded.\n\n\u2018You don\u2019t mean to say you\u2019re going about here giving yourself away\nfor nothing?\u2019 he managed to say at last. \u2018You ain\u2019t advertising\nanything, are you?\u2019\n\n\u2018No; I\u2019ve just been taking a turn,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg. \u2018Now I\u2019m\ngoing home.\u2019\n\n\u2018You aren\u2019t!\u2019 cried the showman, with an eagerness that was almost like\nagony. \u2018Here, come along into my show, and you shall have half the\ntakings. Honest, I mean it! And you shall have a money-box of your own\nto pass round too, if that ain\u2019t enough,\u2019 he added, seeing that his\nfirst offer had failed in attraction.\n\n\u2018You don\u2019t understand,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg, assuming a mild dignity\nwhich he did not feel: \u2018This is entirely my own affair. I\u2019m not a show.\u2019\n\nStupefied, bewildered, outraged, the man stood and looked at him for a\nmoment, to see whether he really meant it. Then, his admiration turning\nto hate: \u2018You aren\u2019t?\u2019 he shouted, \u2018Then what the blooming hell are\nyou? If you aren\u2019t a show, what did you come \u2019ere for? Got a game of\nyour own on, have you? We\u2019ll soon see to that. Hi!\u2019\n\nHe shouted with all the strength of his lungs, and continued to shout,\nwaving his arms to attract the attention of the crowd. \u2018Here\u2019s an\nescaped lunatic!\u2019 he cried.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg started to run. He heard the shouts of others gathering\nbehind him, dodged round a canvas obstruction, doubled back, made a\nbolt through a hedge, and thus securing a good start made off across\nthe open in the direction of home.\n\nBut in less than a minute he knew that the crowd was after him; jovial,\nbut excited,--for the mere fact that there is something to chase\nkindles the blood--it hurled after him heavy-footed, a little slow in\nthe uptake, but warming to its task at the sight of its quarry half a\nfield away, a blister of red bouncing through the starlit night, and\nunder it showing dimly a man\u2019s form.\n\nAs the crowd neared him, its uncouth epithets assailed his ears.\n\u2018Holy Moses!\u2019 was the cry of one; \u2018Go up, Elijah!\u2019 of another. Then\nas they got near him and marked how desperately he ran, \u2018Hullo, old\nfire-escape!\u2019 gave the more modern touch which the situation required.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg could not run nearly so fast as the crowd; but at the\nlevel-crossing fate was kind to him. An arriving luggage-train--not\nwithout some risk--allowed him to pass in front of it, and then with\nits slow length held up his pursuers. But the more active ones, running\ndown the line turned the tail-light of the guard\u2019s van, broke fence,\ncut a slant and were on him again.\n\nOnce more fate favoured him. At the home stile the cow which had\ninterrupted his prayer had couched itself for the night. Perceiving\nthe recumbent obstruction too late, he planted his foot on it; with\na spasmodic heave she hurled him across quicker than he could have\nvaulted, and plunging about broke momentarily the head of the oncoming\ncrowd.\n\nIt was amazing with what spirit Mr. Trimblerigg--not being in running\ncondition--had kept the pace; but he was a very spent man when he\nreached the narrow foot-bridge, and sped breathless to the crossing,\nhis pursuers only a few yards behind. The tide was low: black\nglimmerings of mud stretched to right and left of him: he trod warily\nclutching at the hand-rail as he ran to stay the dizzying of his brain.\nBefore he reached the end, a violent vibration told that his pursuers\nwere now almost upon him; the bridge resounded to the weight and tread\nof a larger number than it was built for. Under Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\nfeet a plank started; the weight pressing it behind jerked it upwards.\nSomewhere with a sharp report a stay snapped, then another and another;\nand with a sense of general collapse going on behind him, from which he\nhimself was immune, Mr. Trimblerigg felt himself precipitated through\nthe air in a long gliding curve, up, out, forward, and down. A shallow\nmud-bank received him into its merciful embrace. He stumbled out of it\nunhurt, but in so dark a disguise, that all the mothers in the world\nwould not have known him.\n\nLeaving his enemies behind in far worse plight, he staggered up to the\ndoor which had already opened to those sounds of break-neck disaster\nborne upon the quiet air.\n\nHe saw Davidina standing dark against the light, and even in the\ndesperation of his present condition he felt the shock of it, and\nshrank back from meeting her--not because of the mud which now encased\nhim, but because of that other adornment, which he could explain so far\nless easily. But the relief he had longed for had already been brought\nabout: the mere sight of her had made him a changed man; and though her\ngreeting word, as she ran down the path to meet him was, \u2018Jonathan,\nwhatever is the matter?\u2019 she made no further remark indicative of\nsurprise. All about him the night was beautifully dark; there was\nno reflected light upon her face as she bent forward to kiss him.\nThe shock of meeting her had done it. Mr. Trimblerigg had no longer\nanything to conceal.\n\nThey cleaned him of the mud which smothered him. \u2018You don\u2019t _smell_ of\ndrink,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018but you look like it. What\u2019s this Caroline has\nbeen telling me about your head? What\u2019s wrong with it?\u2019\n\nAnd, at the word, what he had already begun suspiciously to hope, he\nbecame sure of. Heaven was no longer making him conspicuous.\n\n\u2018What did she tell you?\u2019 he inquired defensively. \u2018There\u2019s nothing the\nmatter with my head that I know of.\u2019\n\n\u2018Said you\u2019d been striking sparks--having a vision that your head was a\nhayrick that had caught fire; and now she won\u2019t tell me anything: says\nyou\u2019ve sworn her to secrecy.\u2019\n\n\u2018She must have dreamed it!\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\nHe saw Caroline go white.\n\n\u2018Dreamed it?\u2019 exclaimed Davidina. \u2018If she dreams things like that she\nwants a doctor.\u2019\n\nShe did. On hearing that she must not believe the evidence of her\nsenses, Caroline fainted.\n\n                                   *\n\nFull many a rose, the poet tells us, is born to blush unseen, and waste\nits sweetness to the desert air. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s rose had experienced\na somewhat different fate; it may have wasted its sweetness, but it\nhad not blushed altogether unseen; and though it died blushing for\nitself, it had not lived in vain. The conversion of Caroline to its\nspiritual significance had proved unimportant; the realization by Mr.\nTrimblerigg of its extreme inconvenience had made a temporary but not\na permanent impression upon him, as further record will show. Davidina\nhad not seen it at all, it had snuffed itself out at the sight of\nher. But somebody else had seen it, and had realized not merely its\nspiritual significance, but its potential value, which Mr. Trimblerigg\nhad missed, or too hastily despaired of. And the person in question had\nseen it not once but twice, on two separate occasions.\n\nWhen Mrs. James told Isabel Sparling that Mr. Trimblerigg was not at\nhome and had already left town, Miss Sparling had either the sense or\nthe instinct not to believe her. And being a determined character, she\nhad hung about at a respectful distance, keeping her eye on the door,\nrather expecting him to come out of it than to go into it. Muffled in\nveil and cloak--the former to conceal her bandaged face--she had walked\nup and down the farther pavement, with her senses alert for the coming\nor going of that familiar figure, until in the early gathering dusk,\nthe apparition passed her, going with haste along the verge of the\npavement in the line of the lamp-lights.\n\nIsabel Sparling had this advantage over others who had seen, or doubted\nthat they could have seen, that same mystical appearance in the earlier\nhours of the day. She was herself a spiritualist and a visionary; she\nbelieved in things which the world in general did not, and was on the\nlook-out for them. She had recently, among her other beliefs, become a\nSecond Adventist, and was looking for the end of the world; this event\nwas to be preceded by a great war, by earthquake, by things happening\nto the sun and moon; by the opening of the seven seals upon a certain\nbox which had recently come into her custody, and by the reappearance\nof saints from their graves, preparatory to the reappearance of\nothers who were not saints. And for all these things she was already\nhungrily expectant, when she met a halo walking down the street. It\ncame upon her suddenly round a corner, and had passed before she fully\nrealized that it encircled the head of the man whose false friendship\nhad changed her feelings to enmity. Her intention, in seeking him out\nand lying in wait for him, had been to return in person the money he\nhad left for her; and though she had meant to thank him for his good\nservices, she had not meant entirely to forgive him, but rather to\nexplore his spiritual condition, and warn him, as she had begun warning\nthe world at large, of the wrath that was to come.\n\nBut seeing him there, with head clothed in light, her feelings toward\nhim changed. She was seized with an instant conviction that she had\nmisread his character, or that she had not made allowances for the\ndifficulties of one destined to fulfil a high mission in the spiritual\ncrisis which the world was now approaching. The sight of him thus\naugustly changed, speeding furtively along, avoiding human recognition,\nfilled her with awe and humility; she could not go and return money to\na head in a halo; she could not, with the emotion of that discovery\nfresh upon her, follow him, ring the bell and ask for him--perhaps\nonly to be denied. But twenty-four hours later, after much spiritual\nwrestling with herself and him (for her thoughts thereafter were never\nquit of him) she did find courage to go and knock at the door of the\nMollusc wherein he had secreted himself from the world--the knock which\nhe had heard and thought might be Davidina; and when the dull Caroline,\nwithout recognition or inquiry, had told her, in the double sense, that\nhe was not at home, she let herself be turned away without protest; and\nstanding forlorn, contemplative of that quiet scene of shore, river\nand star-brimmed sky, saw away in the mid-distance a globed cluster of\nmoving light crossing the small foot-bridge, and making for the fields\nbeyond. Then to her also came the sense of a mission, and prevailing in\nweakness she stole after him.\n\nFollowing at a devout, that is to say at more than a respectful\ndistance, she saw him dimly by his light rather than by his form, cross\nthe field and halt at the stile to pray.\n\nDrawing nearer, she durst not then intrude on him; and when he had\ngot upon his feet and passed on, she, following close after, found an\nimpediment of an insuperable kind awaiting her.\n\nIsabel Sparling was mortally afraid of cows; and there one stood in her\nway; and after standing for awhile and gazing at her with a munching\nmovement of the mouth which she felt sure meant mischief, it lay down\nupon the footpath to wait for its prey to come over.\n\nAnd thus it was that, without a full clue to its meaning, she became\nspectator to the unexplained scene of horror which followed after. She\nwatched his light resting at the level-crossing to await the passing\nof a train, then saw it dwindle and merge in the broad band of fire\namid which the junketing fair sat and bubbled; and wondered whether he\nhad gone there to preach repentance like Jonah to the inhabitants of\nNineveh. Her next sight of him was fleeing before a crowd that seemed\nthirsting for his blood, awhile holding his own, but presently losing\nground, then by the intervention of Providence gaining more than he\nhad lost. As he came headlong toward her, she nerved herself for his\ndeliverance, was prepared to stand between him and the hungry crowd,\ndeclare his sanctity, die if need be instead of him; and so she would\nhave done had not the cow got suddenly upon its feet--hind legs first\nin that horrible way which cows have when they intend to toss people.\n\nThat finished her, she saw the rest of the chase from a distance, heard\nthe crash of the broken bridge, cries, curses; and presently met a\ncrowd of maimed larrikins, muddy, drenched and miserable, carrying each\nother home. But even had she then dared to go further, and inquire for\nmore news that the angry comments of the crowd gave of his escape, the\nbroken bridge prevented her; and the next day, stealing by furtive ways\nto watch unobserved, she saw Mr. Trimblerigg clothed and in his right\nmind, tended by female relatives, accompanied by his children, and his\nglory all gone from him.\n\nAnd that, for the time being, was the conclusion of the matter; but not\nthe real conclusion, for then came war; and Isabel Sparling, girding\nup her spiritual loins, preached that the world was to end,--that her\npeople and her native country were to be punished for their sins, but\nother countries much more. Gradually, swayed by the patriotic crowds\nwhich gathered to hear her and cheer on others to do their fighting,\nshe became harder upon the other countries, and let her own and its\nallies off; and before the war had been on a twelvemonth they had all\nbecome angels of light, chosen vessels, ministering spirits and flames\nof fire. For that is what war does; while in a physical sense it paints\nmost things red, in a moral sense it paints them black or white; and\nthe black is the enemy, and the white is ourselves; and the neutral, if\nneutral there be, is a dirty tint which badly needs washing.\n\nAs for Mr. Trimblerigg, having found that there was no public for\nit, he relinquished goodness of the first water, and fell back upon\nrelative goodness and relative truth, in which, as a matter of fact, he\nhad a more instinctive belief.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\n_Intimations of Immortality_\n\n\nWhen nations which preach Christianity go to war, their truth has\nnecessarily to become relative; they cannot tell the truth about\nthemselves; they cannot tell the truth about their enemies; still less\ncan they tell the truth about Christianity. For doing that last, a Free\nChurch minister in a certain land of hope and glory lying West,--he had\nmerely issued the Sermon on the Mount as a circular--was tarred and\nfeathered as a demonstration of Christian-mindedness by his belligerent\nfellow-countrymen. And nearly everybody said that it served him right.\n\nSo when Relative Truth became a spiritual as well as a military\nnecessity, Mr. Trimblerigg, the inventor of the doctrine in its most\nmodern form, came gloriously into his own. In other words he became the\nfashion.\n\nThe War gave him the time and the opportunity of his life. He had\nbegun by adopting--first pacifism, then benevolent neutrality; but\nhe saw quickly that there was not a public for either. And as he\nlistened to the heart-beats of his countrymen roused for battle, a\nquick application of his doctrine of Relative Truth restored his mind\nto sanity. After that he never wavered; and though he often spoke with\ntwo voices, one day telling the workers, whom he was sent to preach\nto, that they were heroes, and another that they were slackers, and\nvictims of drink; one day demonstrating that the National Executive\u2019s\naction had always come just too late, another that it had always come\nmiraculously up to time; one day protesting the mildness and equity of\nhis country\u2019s intentions toward those who were unnecessarily prolonging\nthe war, another--when prospects began to look brighter--threatening\nthings of a much more drastic character, in terms drawn from the\nprize-ring; though thus from day to day and week to week, he spoke\nin varied tones, fitting himself to the occasion, always a forefront\nfigure, occasionally pushing others out of his way; nevertheless\nhis motive and aim remained constant (nor when nations go to war is\nanything more necessary for their salvation)--the ardent assertion,\nnamely, of the absolute righteousness of his country\u2019s cause, and of\nthe blameless antecedents leading up to it.\n\nAnd though Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s truth was often extremely relative, it was\nnearly always successful; and if any man by tireless energy, resilient\nspirits, continuous ubiquity in pulpit and on platform, alertness,\ninvention, suggestiveness, adaptability, rapid change of front in the\never-shifting tactics of propaganda,--now conciliatory and defensive,\nmeek but firm; now whole-heartedly aggressive and vision-clear of\ncoming victory--if by such qualities, richly and rapidly blended\noutside the direct line of fire, any man could ever be said to have won\na war, in a larger and wider sense than the little drummer boy who lays\ndown his life for his drum,--that compliment might have been paid, when\nall was done, to the unbloodstained Mr. Trimblerigg,--and was.\n\nIn the person of Mr. Trimblerigg the Free Evangelical Church had lifted\nup its head and neighed like a war-horse, saying among the trumpets,\nha! ha! to the thunder of the captains and the shouting: and in the\nperson of Mr. Trimblerigg thanks were publicly tendered to it, when\nall the fighting was over. And though Mr. Trimblerigg received neither\ntitle, nor outward adornment, nor emolument, he became, from that day\non, a figure of international significance,--the first perhaps since\ngreat old combative Martin Luther, to attain so high and controversial\na prominence in divided Christendom on his spiritual merits alone.\n\nIt may sound cynical to say that the greatness of nations has very\nlargely been built up on the lies they have told of each other. And yet\nit is a true statement; for you have only to compare their histories,\nand especially the histories of their wars (upon which young patriots\nare trained to become heroes), in order to realize that the day of\nnaked and unashamed truth has not yet arrived: that so long as nations\nstand to be worshipped, and flags to be fought for, truth can only be\nrelative. From which it follows that while nations are at war too much\ntruth is bad for them; and not only for them but for religion also.\nAnd that is where and why Mr. Trimblerigg found his place, and fitted\nit so exactly. I leave it at that. He became a national hero; and\ntruly it was not from lack of courage or conviction that he had seen\nno fighting. He was short, and fat, and over forty; and his oratorical\ngifts were more valuable where the sound of gunfire did not drown them;\notherwise he would have preached his gospel of the relative beatitudes\nas willingly from the cannon\u2019s mouth as from anywhere.\n\nA day came, gunfire having ended, when he, and an Archbishop, and\na Prime Minister all stood on a platform together, and spoke to an\nexalted gathering too glittering in its rank and distinction to be\ncalled an assembled multitude, though its mere numbers ran into\nthousands. The Archbishop sat in the middle; and the two ministers, the\npolitical and the spiritual, sat on either side of him; and if they\nwere not as like each other as two peas, and did not, by both speaking\nat once, rattle together like peas upon a drum, they were nevertheless\nbirds very much of a feather; and when it came to the speaking, they\nfitted each other wonderfully. The Archbishop came first and spoke\nwell; the Prime Minister followed and spoke better; Mr. Trimblerigg\ncame last and spoke best of all. The audience told him so; there was no\ndoubt of it. Field-Marshals and Rear-Admirals applauded him, Duchesses\nwaved their handkerchiefs at him; a Dowager-Countess, of Low Church\nantecedents, became next day a member of the Free Evangelicals; the\nmere strength of his personality had converted her.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg might well think after this that a visible halo, though\nnot necessary, had it reappeared just then, would not have come amiss.\nFrom his point of view the meeting could not have been more successful;\nhe went down from the platform more famous than when he went up on it.\nAnd it was not his speech alone that did it: it was in the air.\n\nThe great Napoleon was said to have a star: Mr. Trimblerigg had an\natmosphere; and though it was not really the larger of the two, to his\ncontemporaries on earth it seemed larger.\n\nIt was just about this time, when Mr. Trimblerigg was obviously\nbecoming a candidate for national honours after his death, that he\nattended the public funeral of a great Free Church statesman whose\nwar-winning activities had been closely associated with his own. And as\nof the two, Mr. Trimblerigg had played the larger part, the prophetic\ninference was obvious; and though in that high-vaulted aisle, amid\nuniforms and decorations and wands of office, his demure little figure\nlooked humble and unimportant, he was a marked man for the observation\nof all who had come to observe.\n\nIt was an occasion on which Free Churchmen had reason to feel proud.\nImpelled by the feeling of the nation--still in its early days of\ngratitude before victory had begun to taste bitter--the Episcopal\nChurch had opened her doors to receive, into that place of highest\nhonour, the dust of one who had lived outside her communion and\npolitically had fought against her. But it was dust only (ashes,\nthat is to say); and while to Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s perception the whole\nceremony, the music, the ritual, the vestments, the crape-scarved\nuniforms, and the dark crowd of celebrities which formed a background,\nwere deeply impressive in their beauty and symbolism, the little casket\nof cremated ashes at the centre of it all was not.\n\nIn that forced economizing of space, the sense of the individual\npersonality had been lost, or brought to insignificance. It gave him\nan uncomfortable feeling; he did not like it; he wondered why. So\nlong as his thoughts went linked with the indwelling genius of that\ntemple of famous memories he felt thrilled and edified; but whenever\nhis eye returned to the small casket, he experienced a repeated shock\nand felt discomfited. The condition here imposed, to make national\nobsequies possible, seemed to him not merely a humiliating one; it\nspelt annihilation; what remained had ceased to be personal. The\ntemple became a museum; in it with much ceremony an exhibit was being\ndeposited in its case.\n\nAnd so, pondering deeply on these things, he returned home; and added\nto his will (signing and dating it with a much earlier date) an\ninstruction for his executors, \u2018My body is not to be cremated.\u2019\n\nGenius is economy. It could not have been more modestly done.\n\nSomewhere or another, very near to where he had stood that afternoon,\na grave was waiting for him. Those few strokes of the pen had decided\nthat its dimensions should be not eighteen inches by ten; but five feet\nfour by two.\n\nBut the time was not yet: the instruction added to his will need not\nbegin to take effect for a good many years. Meanwhile his corner of\nimmortality waited for him, measured by himself to suit his own taste.\n\nIt came back to him then as a pleasant simile of fancy, that he had\nhad an uncle who was an undertaker. It ran in the family. Here was Mr.\nTrimblerigg--his own!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\n_Peace-Work_\n\n\nTo become the spiritual voice of a nation is a rare experience, and\nin the history of the race it has come to the individual but seldom.\nBut when it happens, he is a greater power than military leader, or\npolitician, or popular preacher, unless in one man all three functions\nfind themselves combined; then, without much justification in fact,\na people may mistake the combination for the more rare and genuine\narticle.\n\nIt could not exactly be said of Mr. Trimblerigg at this time that\nhe was a military leader; but the idea had been industriously\ndisseminated, by his admirers and by himself during the war, that\nhad he been he would have been a brilliant one. Nor was he exactly a\npolitician; but he had been very busy and energetic in putting the\npoliticians right, so that, as they went out of favour in public\nestimation, he came in. For the rest, a popular preacher he was, and a\nvery wonderful one; though it is a curious fact that his sermons and\nspeeches do not read well in print. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s orations were\ngymnastic exercises and histrionic performances combined; and these\nthings lose their effect when reduced to print. Nevertheless he had\nnow become a Voice, and the sound of him travelled wherever his native\ntongue was spoken, war-conditions having given it an atmosphere that it\ncould fill.\n\nHis military instinct he had mainly shown by running about in moments\nof crisis and pinning his faith to commanders who up till then had\nescaped defeat. When he found he had made a mistake, he dropped them so\nquickly that nobody remembered he had ever believed in them; and having\nthus discovered three or four and lost them again, he finally hit upon\nthe right one. Having done that, he did not allow it to be forgotten,\nso that the reputation which survived the final and triumphant\ncatastrophe remained partly his.\n\nHis political instinct produced more definite and more solid results;\nhe persuaded the politicians to do a lot of things which at other\ntimes they would not have dared. Some of these things were not very\nscrupulous, and others were not very successful; but they were all\nmilitary necessities, and as only the relative truth was told about\nthem, they took their place in the general scheme of things; and if\nthey did not exactly do good, they were good for the morale of the\nnation for the time being.\n\nAnd while he thus persuaded the politicians to do things hitherto\nimpossible for the benefit of the whole nation, he persuaded the Free\nEvangelicals also; and in his own time and his own way he secured for\nIsabel Sparling and others the desire of their souls which had been\nso long denied them. But in that matter, though the thing was done\nwell and quickly when it was done, he missed something of his intended\neffect from the fact that the whole world was then so busy about war\nthat nothing else seemed much to matter. The sudden admission of women\nto the ministry appeared then a mere side-issue, an emergency measure\ndevised to meet the shortage of men theologically qualified for the\nvacant pastorates of congregations abruptly depleted of their young\nmale element. Thus Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s very real achievement in the\npulpiteering of women was regarded, even among the Free Evangelicals,\nfar more as a war-product than as his own.\n\nAlso for Isabel Sparling herself, whom he wished to impress, it had\nceased much to matter. She had become a Second Adventist; and among\nthe Second Adventists it was admitted that women could prophesy as well\nas men. Miss Sparling had gone prophesying to America; and had caused\na great sensation in New York by prophesying that Brooklyn Bridge had\nbecome unsafe, and would fall if America did not enter the war. She\ngave a date: and America saved Brooklyn Bridge to posterity only just\nin time. After that the success of Miss Sparling\u2019s American mission was\nassured; and whenever the States seemed momentarily to slacken in their\npurpose or diminish in their zeal for the rescue of a civilization they\ndid not understand, Miss Sparling selected some cherished institution\nor monument, and began threatening its life; and when, after due\nwarning a bomb was discovered inside the statue of Liberty just\npreparing to go off, she got headlines for Second Adventism which had\nnever been equalled since Barnum\u2019s landing of Jumbo (representative of\na still older civilization than that which was now imperilled) some\nforty years before.\n\nAll this is told here merely to indicate what a match to himself Mr.\nTrimblerigg had missed by not marrying Isabel Sparling in the days of\nhis youth. Had they only put their heads together earlier, kingdoms\nmight have come of which the world has now missed its chance--not\nknowing what it has missed; for there can be no doubt that its\nspiritual adhesions are not now what they were ten years ago; the\npulpit has sagged a little on its foundations and congregations have\nbecome critical, sceptical even, though they still attend. The doctrine\nof Relative Truth has undone more than it intended; and though Mr.\nTrimblerigg was not a disappointed man at the moment when war declared\nitself over, disappointment was waiting him.\n\nNot at first, as I say. At first, no doubt, as he pulled the wires,\nhe thought he was plucking from harpstrings of gold, harmonies which\ncould be heard in Heaven. But his atmosphere affected him; and just\nwhen victory brought him spiritual opportunities such as had never\nbeen his before, he had a sharp attack of the Old Testament, and his\nself-righteousness became as the self-righteousness of Moses and the\nprophets all rolled into one.\n\nIt was then, perceiving that a huge and expectant public was waiting\nfor him to give the word, that he sent forth the fiery cross bearing\nupon it as the battle-cry of peace the double motto \u2018Skin the\nScapegoat,\u2019--\u2018Hew Agag.\u2019\n\nBoth sounded well, and both caught on, and for a brief while served\nthe occasion: but neither made a success of it. The skinning of the\nscapegoat lasted for years; but in the process, it became so denuded\nby mange that when the skin was finally obtained it proved worthless.\nAs for Agag he did not come to be hewn at all, walking delicately; on\nthe contrary he ran and hid himself in a safe place, where, though the\nhewers pretended that they meant to get at him, they knew they could\nnot. And as a consequence Agag remains unhewn to this day.\n\nAnd, as a matter of fact, almost from the first, Mr. Trimblerigg,\nhaving given his public what it wanted, knew that it would be so.\n\nHe also knew that in high places it was willed that it should not be\notherwise. And here may be recorded the bit of unwritten history which\nbrought that home to him.\n\nEverybody to whom mediumistic spiritualism makes any appeal has, in\nthese last days, heard of Sir Roland Skoyle, the great protagonist\nof that artful science, by which in equal proportion the sceptics\nare confounded, and the credulous are comforted. And that being,\nup-to-date, its chief apparent use in the world, it is no wonder\nthat a certain diplomatist turned to it when he launched his great\npeace-making offensive, after the War was over. For diplomacy having to\nmake its account equally with those who are sceptical of its benefits,\nand those who are credulous, it seemed to his alert and adaptable\nintelligence that a little spiritualism behind the scenes might give\nhim the aid and insight that he required.\n\nThe direct incentive came from Sir Roland Skoyle himself. He had\nsecured a wonderful new medium, whose magnetic finger had a specialized\nfaculty for resting upon certain people of importance--people who had\nbeen of importance, that is to say--in high circles of diplomacy; and\namongst them some who had been largely instrumental in bringing the\nworld into the condition in which it now found itself. Among these--the\nwar-makers and peace-makers of the immediate past--it was natural, war\nbeing over, that the latter should be in special request, where the\nproblem of diplomacy was to construct a peace satisfactory to that\nvast body of public opinion which had ceased to be blood-thirsty on a\nlarge scale, but whose instinct for retributive justice to be dealt out\nto the wicked by a court of their accusers had become correspondingly\nactive.\n\nSir Roland Skoyle, anxious to impress the Prime Minister with the value\nof his discovery, had the happy thought of employing Mr. Trimblerigg as\nhis go-between. And Mr. Trimblerigg having heard a certain name, august\nand revered, breathed into his ear, together with the gist of a recent\ncommunication that had come direct, was not averse from attending a\ns\u00e9ance in such select and exalted company. He had an open mind and\nplenty of curiosity, and the idea of sharing with the Prime Minister\na secret so compromising that no one else must know of it, strongly\nattracted him.\n\nAnd so the sitting was arranged. And there in a darkened room the four\nof them sat,--Sir Roland, the medium, Mr. Trimblerigg, and the Prime\nMinister.\n\nThe medium was small and dark, and middle-aged; she had bright eyes\nunder a straight fringe and she spoke with a twang. There was no doubt\nwhich side of the water she had come from. Until the previous year,\nexcept for a few days after her birth, her home had been the United\nStates. The actual place of her birth was important; it helped to\naccount for her powers; Sir Roland having recently discovered that\nthe best mediums were people of mixed origin, born on the high seas.\nThis particular medium, having been born in the mid-Atlantic, was\nIrish-American.\n\nThe theory of sea-born commerce with the world of spirits I leave to\nSir Roland Skoyle and his fellow experts. My own reason for referring\nback to birth and parentage is merely that when the medium had entered\ninto her trance she no longer spoke that rich broth of a language\nformed from two which was natural to her; but acquired an accent and a\nmode of delivery entirely different; the accent having in it a faint\ntouch of the Teutonic, the delivery formal, well-bred, and courtly;\neven when the speech was colloquial there was about it a touch of\ndignity. And while she so spoke, in a manly voice, the little woman sat\nwith an air like one enthroned.\n\nThe Prime Minister sat jauntily, thumbs in waistcoat, and listened as\none interested and amused, but not as yet convinced. To Mr. Trimblerigg\nhe said chirpily, \u2018If the other side got wind of this, and used it\nproperly, they could drive me out of office.\u2019\n\n\u2018That makes it all the more of an adventure,\u2019 replied Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\u2018I should be in trouble too. The Free Evangelical Church has pronounced\nagainst--well, this sort of thing altogether: \u201cComes of evil\u201d.\u2019\n\nSir Roland said, \u2018In a year\u2019s time we shall have the whole world\nconverted.\u2019 But Sir Roland was always saying that. Still, table-turning\nand its accompaniments had certainly received a great impetus since the\nWar; for which reason Mr. Trimblerigg took a friendly view of it.\n\nThe medium\u2019s first remark in her changed manner was sufficiently\nstartling and to the point:\n\n\u2018Where is my crown?... Put it on.\u2019\n\nSir Roland resourcefully picked up a small paper-weight, on which a\nbrass lion sat regardant, and deposited it precariously on the medium\u2019s\nhair.\n\n\u2018Who\u2019ve you got here? Not Eliza, I hope?\u2019 said the Voice.\n\nSir Roland, in a tone of marked deference, gave the names of the\ncompany. Two of them were graciously recognized. \u2018Mr. Trimblerigg? We\nhave not had the pleasure of meeting him before. How do you do, Mr.\nTrimblerigg?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, at a gesture from Sir Roland, bowed over the hand the\nmedium had graciously extended.\n\n\u2018Do I kiss it?\u2019 he inquired, doubtful of the etiquette.\n\nSir Roland discreetly shook his head. The ceremony was over.\n\nThere was a pause. Then: \u2018Faites vos jeux, Messieurs!\u2019 said the Voice.\n\nThis was unexpected to all; and to one cryptic.\n\n\u2018What does that mean?\u2019 inquired Mr. Trimblerigg, in whose Free Church\ntraining French had not been included.\n\nThe Prime Minister rose lightly to the occasion. \u2018It means, or it\npractically means, \u2018Make your Peace, Gentlemen.\u2019 Then, to the unseen\nPresence: \u2018The game is over sir,--well over. Now we have only to\ncollect the winnings.\u2019\n\nThis statement of the facts was apparently not accepted: the game was\nto go on. \u2018Couleur gagne!\u2019 went the Voice; and then again, \u2018Faites vos\njeux, Messieurs.\u2019\n\n\u2018Our present game,\u2019 respectfully insisted the Prime Minister, \u2018is to\nmake peace. To you, therefore, Sir, we come, as an authority--in this\nmatter of peace-making a very special authority. We as victors are\nresponsible; and we have to find a solution. The peace will not be\nnegotiated, it will be dictated. The question is on what terms; under\nwhat sanctions; with what penalties? Under a Democracy such as ours--\u2019\n\n\u2018Don\u2019t talk nonsense,\u2019 came the Voice, \u2018Democracy does not exist.\nInvite public opinion; say you agree; then ignore it, and do as you\nthink best. Sanctions? You will not get good work from a man while the\nrope is round his neck; he wastes time and brain thinking how soon he\nwill die. Penalties? Yes: if you think you can get hold of the really\nresponsible ones.\u2019\n\n\u2018We think we can,\u2019 purred the Prime Minister.\n\n\u2018Dig up the dead, eh? That was the medi\u00e6val notion. You tar and feather\ntheir corpses, and you hang them in chains: most indecent, and no good\nto anybody. One of them is here now,--\u201cThe Man in the Iron Mask\u201d as we\ncall him,--a much improved character, his world-politics a failure,\nthey no longer interest him; he plays on the French horn,--badly, but\nit amuses him; when he strikes a false note he calls it the Double\nEntente. He means that for a joke. He says they may dig him up and\nhang him in chains of iron, or brass, or glass-lustre, or daisies, or\nanything else if it amuses them. But you are not proposing to hang\nanybody, are you?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, voicing his notion in the scriptural phraseology which\nhad prompted it, explained that skinning for the one, and hewing, not\nhanging, for the other was the process proposed.\n\n\u2018Who is your man?\u2019 the Voice inquired sharply.\n\nAgag was indicated.\n\nCame a dead pause; then, very emphatically, \u2018I won\u2019t have him here!\u2019\nsaid the Voice.\n\n_Here?_ His auditors looked at each other in consternation.\n\nWhat on earth, or above earth, or under earth, did \u2018here\u2019 mean?\n\nThe Prime Minister and Mr. Trimblerigg had both by now become convinced\nthat they were in the actual Presence that had been promised them. But\nthey could not admit to the world, or even to themselves, that there\nwas a possibility of Agag going to the place where the Presence was\nsupposed to be; or of the Presence being in the place where Agag was\nsupposed to be going. They sat like cornered conspirators.\n\n\u2018I won\u2019t have it!\u2019 said the Voice, almost violently. \u2018We are not on\nspeaking terms. He and I do not get on together. Send him to Eliza:\nshe\u2019ll manage him!\u2019\n\nThis was more awful still. The Presence and \u2018Eliza\u2019, it seemed, were\nnot in that happy reunion which for Christian families is the expected\nthing. Yet as to where Eliza had gone no reasonable doubt was possible.\n\n\u2018On ne va plus!\u2019 cried the Voice, and the s\u00e9ance fell into sudden\nconfusion. \u2018I won\u2019t have it! I won\u2019t have it!\u2019 shrieked the medium\ncoming to, and casting off her crown at the feet of Mr. Trimblerigg.\nAnd the words, beginning in a deep German guttural, ended in\nIrish-American.\n\nAnd that, if the world really wants to know, is why no real attempt\nwas made to hew or hang Agag, or do anything to him except on paper\nin diplomatic notes which meant nothing, and at a General Election\nwhich meant very little more--only that the Prime Minister and Mr.\nTrimblerigg were saving their faces and winning temporary, quite\ntemporary, popularity, which eventually did them as little good as it\ndid harm to Agag.\n\nThe skinning of the scapegoat was not so expeditiously disposed of. In\nthat case the goat suffered considerably; but the skin was never really\nworth the pains it took to remove from his dried and broken bones.\n\nWhen will modern civilization really understand that its predilection\nfor the Old Testament, once a habit, has now become a disease; and that\nif it is not very careful the world will die of it.\n\n\u2018Faites vos jeux, Messieurs!\u2019 Play your game! Sometimes you may win,\nand sometimes you may lose; but a day comes when you win too big a\nstake for payment to be possible. Then the bank breaks, and where are\nyou?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\n_Circumstances alter Cases_\n\n\nHad the rescue of the native tribes of Puto-Congo from the squeezing\nembrace of modern industrialism and its absentee shareholders been a\nfairy-tale, they would have remained a happy people without a history,\nand here at least no more would have been heard of them. But this being\nthe real story, things went otherwise.\n\nIt is true that Native Industries Limited not only became itself a\nreformed character, but managed, by its control of the river routes\nand depots, to impose repentance on the great Puto-Congo Combine also.\nThere, too, a rout was made of the old Board of Directors, and the\nmissionary zeal of Free Evangelicalism, with an admixture of True\nBelief, held the balance of power. In the first year shares went down\nat a run from a thirty to a ten per cent dividend, and the mortality of\nindentured labour was reduced in about the same proportion.\n\nOf course the shareholders grumbled--not at the reduced death-rate\nin itself, but at the awkward parallel which its proportional\nfall suggested between toll of life and that other toll of a more\nmarketable kind which mainly concerned them. It was not pleasant to\nfeel that a reduced ten per cent profit was always going to be the\ncondition of a reduced ten per cent death-rate: that fifteen per cent\nof the one would cause fifteen per cent of the other, and that, by\nimplication, a life-saving of five per cent might be effected if the\nchastened shareholders would stay languidly content with a five per\ncent profit. Mr. Trimblerigg himself felt this to be a reflection\nupon the reformation he had effected. He had practically promised the\nshareholders that decent treatment of the natives would eventually\nbring larger profits. He was annoyed that it had not done so, and was\nalready taking steps to secure more co-ordination and efficiency in the\ncombined companies when the war supervened and gave to the relations of\nthe brother races, white and black, a different complexion.\n\nTo put it quite plainly, under war-conditions so far-reaching as to\naffect the whole world, humanitarian principles had to take second\nplace. For the white race, or tribe, or group of tribes in which Mr.\nTrimblerigg found himself embraced by birth and moral training was now\nsaving the world not only for private enterprise and democracy, but\nfor the black and the brown and the yellow races as well, all round\nthe globe and back again from San Francisco to Valparaiso. And so the\nenlistment of the black races in the cause of freedom--even with a\nlittle compulsion--became an absolute necessity, a spiritual as well as\na military one, and unfortunately the blacks--and more especially the\nblacks of Puto-Congo--did not see it in that light of an evangelizing\ncivilization as the whites did. They did not know what freedom really\nwas: how could they, having no politics? Their idea of freedom was to\nrun about naked, to live rent-free in huts of their own building on\nland that belonged to nobody, to put in two hours\u2019 work a week instead\nof ten hours a day, and when an enemy was so craven as to let himself\nbe captured alive to plant him head-downwards in the earth from which\nhe ought never to have come. That was their view of freedom, and I\ncould name sections of civilized communities holding very similar views\nthough with a difference.\n\nSlavery, on the other hand, was having to wear anything except beads,\nand nose-rings, and imitation silk-hats made of oilskin, having to\nwork regularly to order for a fixed wage, and to pay a hut-tax for\nthe upkeep of a machine-like system of government, for which they had\nno wish and in which they saw no sense. And that being so, it really\ndid not matter whether the power which imposed these regulations was\nbenevolent in its intentions or merely rapacious, whether it secured\nthem by blood, or blockade, or by bribing the tribal chiefs (which was\nthe Free Evangelical method) to get the thing done in native ways of\ntheir own. They did not like it.\n\nPuto-Congo, having sampled it for twenty years, had definitely decided\nthat civilization was bad for it; and when, under the evangelizing\nzeal of Mr. Trimblerigg and his co-religionists, civilization\nmodified its methods, they beat their drums for joy and believing\nthat civilization was at last letting them go, ran off into the woods\nto play. And though, here and there, their chiefs hauled them back\nagain and made them do brief spells of work at certain seasons of the\nyear, they regarded it rather as a cleaning-up process, preparatory\nto leave-taking, than as a carrying on of the old system under a new\nform; and so they continued to play in the woods and revert to happy\nsavagery, and especially to that complete nudity of both sexes which\nthe missionaries so strongly disapproved.\n\nIt was that holiday feeling, coming after the bad time they had been\nthrough under the old system--a holiday feeling which even the chiefs,\nstimulated by bribes, could not control--which did the mischief; for\nit came inopportunely just at the time when, five thousand miles away,\ncivilization had become imperilled by causes with which the Puto-Congo\nnatives had nothing whatever to do. If civilization was so imperilled\nall the better for them.\n\nIt was all very unfortunate: for while the fact that civilization\nwas at war did not make civilization more valuable to the natives of\nPuto-Congo, it did make the natives and their trade-produce very much\nmore valuable to civilization. Quite half-a-dozen things which they\nhad unwillingly produced under forced labour in the past--rubber was\none--had now become military necessities. It was no longer a mere\nquestion of profits for shareholders--civilization itself was at\nstake. Production had suddenly to be brought back to the thirty per\ncent standard; and that holiday feeling, so natural but so untimely in\nits incidence, was badly in the way. And so powers were given (which\nare not usually given to commercial concerns--though sometimes taken)\nand under government authority--a good deal at the instigation of Mr.\nTrimblerigg--the Puto-Congo Combine became exalted and enlarged into\nthe Imperial Chartered Ray River Territory Company, which was in fact\na provisional government with powers of enlistment civil and military,\nof life and death, and the making and administration of whatever laws\nmight be deemed necessary in an emergency.\n\nEndowed with these high powers, the Directors at home, with every\nintention to use them circumspectly and in moderation, instructed their\ncommissioners accordingly. But when the commissioners got to work\nthey found, in the face of \u2018that holiday feeling,\u2019 that moderation\ndid not deliver the goods. And since the goods had to be delivered,\nlest the world should be lost to democracy, they took advantage of the\ncensorship which had been established against the promulgation of news\nunfavourable to the moral character of their own side, and took the\nnecessary and effective means to deliver them. And when the profits\nonce more began to rise, these did not go to the shareholders but to\nthe Government as a form of war-tribute, and that, of course, made it\nmorally all right--for the ten per cent shareholders at any rate--since\nthey knew nothing about it.\n\nAnd thus, for three or four years, Puto-Congo natives did their bit,\nlosing their own lives at an ever-increasing death-rate, and saving\ndemocracy which they did not understand, for that other side of the\nworld which they did not know. They got no war-medals for it and no\npromotion; nor were any reports of those particular casualties printed\nin the papers. Enough that the holiday feeling went off, and the goods\nwere delivered. Over the rest, war-conditions and war-legislation drew\na veil, and nothing was said.\n\nAnd that is why, while war went on, Mr. Trimblerigg and the rest of\nthe world did not hear of it; or if they heard anything, did not\nbelieve what they heard; for that too is one of the conditions that war\nimposes. Truth, then, becomes more relative than ever; which is one\nof the reasons why Mr. Trimblerigg was then in his element. But when\nthe war was sufficiently over for intercommunication to re-establish\nitself, and when the skinning of the scapegoat had become a stale\ngame, and when the hewing of Agag had emphatically not come off, then\nMr. Trimblerigg, and others, began to hear of it. It was the others\nthat mattered. Mr. Trimblerigg--his war-mind still upon him, and still\nsuffering from his severe attack of Old Testament--did not believe it;\nbut the others did, and the others were mainly the most active and\nhumanitarian section of the Free Evangelicals. Having already expressed\ntheir disapproval of skinning the scapegoat and hewing Agag, even to\nthe extent of pronouncing against it at their first annual conference\nafter the war, they now fastened on the recrudescence of ugly rumours\nfrom Puto-Congo and the adjacent territories, and began to hold Mr.\nTrimblerigg responsible.\n\nThey had at least this much reason upon their side, that Mr.\nTrimblerigg was still chairman of the Directors of Native Industries\nLimited, and, by right of office, sat upon the administrative council\nof the Chartered Company. And when, as the leakage of news became\nlarger, it seemed that everything he had formerly denounced as an\norganized atrocity was being, or had but recently been done on a much\nlarger scale by his own commissioners, the cry became uncomfortably\nloud, and the war-mind, which can manipulate facts to suit its case\nwhile they are suppressed by law, began to find itself in difficulties.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, faced by certified facts which he continued to deny\nor question, began jumping from the New to the Old Testament and back\nagain with an agility which confused his traducers but did not convince\nthem; and the allegiance of the Free Evangelicals became sharply\ndivided. The reunion of the Free Churches for which Mr. Trimblerigg had\nso long been working, already adversely affected by the divergencies of\nthe war, was now strained to breaking.\n\nOn the top of this came the news that the natives of Puto-Congo had\nrisen in revolt and had begun massacring the missionaries, and Free\nEvangelical opinion became more sharply divided than ever--whether to\nwithdraw the missions and cease to have any further connection with\nthe Chartered Company, or to send out reinforcements, less spiritual\nand more military, adopt the policy of the firm hand, and restore not\nliberty but order.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg then announced that he would do both. To the\nAdministrative Council he adumbrated a scheme for the gradual\ndevelopment of the Chartered Company, with its dictatorial powers, into\nthe Puto-Congo Free State Limited, with a supervised self-government of\nits own, mainly native but owing allegiance to the Company on which its\ncommercial prosperity and development would still have to depend.\n\nMatters were at a crisis, and were rapidly getting worse. Mr.\nTrimblerigg had made too great a reputation over Puto-Congo affairs to\nrisk the loss of it on a mere policy of drift. Something clearly had to\nbe done, large, spectacular, idealistic in aim, to cover up from view\na record of failure which never ought to have seen the light. Not only\nmust it be done; it must be done at once, and he was the man to do it.\n\nThe Administrative Council was wise in its generation. Without quite\nbelieving in Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s proposals it gave him a free hand; for\nas one of them said: \u2018This is a matter over which he cannot afford to\nfail. If he does, he is done for. Give him rope enough, he may hang\nothers, but he won\u2019t hang himself; of that you may be quite sure.\u2019\n\nWithout being quite sure, they made the experiment, and Mr.\nTrimblerigg, with full powers, went out as High Commissioner of\nthe Chartered Company to sow the seed, plant the roots, or lay the\nfoundations of the Puto-Congo Free State Limited. His mission was\ntwofold--to save the Puto-Congo natives from themselves, and the shares\nof the Chartered Company from further depreciation. Incidentally he had\nalso to save himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\n_Kill and Cure_\n\n\nI can understand people liking Mr. Trimblerigg, I can understand\nthem disliking him; I can understand them finding him incalculable\nand many of his actions puzzling (I used to do so myself); but I do\nnot understand why they should ever have been puzzled as to his main\nmotive, since his main motive was always himself.\n\nLike everything else in life, character is a product, the inevitable\noutcome of its constituent parts. When I invented him, I gave Mr.\nTrimblerigg brains and a good head for business; I also gave him\nimagination and an emotional temperament. Why, then, should it be\nwondered at if he made a calculating use of his imaginative powers, or\nindulged his emotions with a good eye to business?\n\nCould you find me any occasion on which the fervours of his oratory got\nin the way of his worldly advancement, or did anything but add size to\nhis following, I would admit that his character puzzled me. But more\nand more I found this to be the rule--that the fervour of his prayers,\npublic or private, meant the same thing; and whenever the encounter was\na private one, and the fervour more than ordinary, then I knew that Mr.\nTrimblerigg was in a tight place, and that he had come to me not to\nadmit that it was the place in which he deserved to be and to stay, but\nto ask me to get him out of it.\n\nCrocodiles cry: it is their nature. But they do other things as well:\nthey eat--not only people, but practically everything else in the\nworld that lives and breathes and is at all eatable. I gave them a\ngood digestion for that purpose. They are scavengers; and when they\nscavenge, they do not always wait till the about-to-become-nuisances\ndie. They make, however, one exception: they do not eat their dentist.\nAnd so you may see a crocodile squatting patiently in the mud of the\nNile or the Ganges, with jaws wide; while in that place of death a\nsmall and tasty bird--whose name I forget--picks his teeth for him.\n\nSentimentalists look on and say, \u2018How beautiful! how wonderful!\u2019 So it\nis; but not in the way they see it. There is no sentiment about it:\nit is merely the economy of life intelligently applied. The crocodile\ndepends for his good digestion, and his ability to satisfy it, on the\nefficiency of his teeth; and as he cannot clean them himself he gets a\nsmall clean bird to do it for him.\n\nSimilarly when Mr. Trimblerigg opened his mouth to me, he was doing so\nfor a genuine reason, as do most people: and why should I complain?\n\nI get a meal--something that adds to my interest in life. Far more\nprayers mount up from the world below for selfish than for unselfish\nreasons (I have experience, and I know); and they are not the less\nsincere, or the less eloquent, or the less emotional, because they have\na mundane and a self-centred object.\n\nNow when I compare Mr. Trimblerigg to a crocodile, I hope nobody will\nsuppose that I am taking the ordinary sentimental view of crocodiles,\nas of creatures more cruel than other creatures. A crocodile when it\neats a human being is no more cruel than a thrush when it eats a worm;\nand if people could only get that well into their heads theology would\nhave a better basis than it has at present. A crocodile only appears\nmore cruel than nature\u2019s average because it is peculiarly efficient to\nits end, and makes a wider sweep. Being big, it requires a larger meal\nthan others of the predatory species; also it happens to carry on its\ncountenance an almost unchangeable expression of self-satisfaction, and\nso by appearing pleased it appears more callous. And the fact that it\ndoes not always wait for its offal to die is another point which the\nsentimentalists have against it.\n\nIn all these characteristic features--not to mention the tears, which\nare merely accidental--there was between Mr. Trimblerigg and the\ncrocodile a resemblance. He was in his own line--the line of getting\non at the expense of others--preternaturally efficient; and as his\nefficiency took a wider sweep, and required for the fulfilment of its\nplans a larger contribution of sacrifice from assistants and opponents\nalike, he appears in retrospect, even on the ministerial side of his\ncareer, more rapacious, more predatory, and more callous than others.\nThis arose partly from the size, the necessary size of his meal, and\npartly from the satisfaction it gave him; and if, when all was done,\nthat satisfaction did not break out in smiles, he would have been\na hypocrite. Being surface-honest, he smiled, quite aware that his\nsuccess was for ever being built up on the failure of others--failure\nwhich he sometimes forced on them, or more often into which he tricked\nthem, when they themselves were reluctant to stand aside.\n\nBut was that a reason why his smile should diminish? His smile only\ndiminished when his meal did not agree with him. There have been\noccasions when he did not devour soon enough, when the nuisance which\nwas obstructing his path had time to turn and give him one in return\nbefore the happy despatch could be effected. Then and only then did Mr.\nTrimblerigg ever appear sore. He much preferred to swallow a nuisance\nbefore it could retaliate.\n\nThe Puto-Congo nuisance, which had now come to so large a head, had\ndone so while his attention and energy had been turned elsewhere. The\nfight for Relative Truth in one direction is apt to give Relative\nUntruth its opportunity in another; for the good that man does, or\nintends to do, is never absolute and all-embracing; and if Relative\nTruth is only relatively successful,--the untruths incidental to its\npropagation come into undue prominence and take the shine out of it.\n\nSo it was now with Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s evangelical war record; the\nrecrudescence of the Puto-Congo trouble had begun to take the shine out\nof it; the nuisance had become monstrous and must be stopped.\n\nFor obviously what had happened was not fair to Mr. Trimblerigg. Years\nago he had planned beneficently a working compact for the development\nof native races between Free Evangelicalism and Capital. By a lightning\nstroke of genius he had brought a business organization of vast\nproportions virtually, if not actually, under the control of the most\nactive missionizing body in the whole world. It almost seemed as if\nthe stainless record of the Quakers, whose peaceful but profitable\ncontact with Red Indian scalp-hunters had extended over seventy-five\nyears of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, might now repeat\nitself on a larger scale; and if Mr. Trimblerigg on the flush of that\ngenerous prospect, saw in vision his name pass down to posterity as\nthe great Liberator,--saviour of an oppressed race, is he to be blamed\nfor anything but a too sanguine temperament? Hitherto it was that\nvery temperament which had brought to pass things almost impossible;\nbut now here, just once, because his attention had been diverted, the\nscheme had gone wrong, so wrong as to become unrecognizable; and since\nhe could not recognize its distorted features, he denied himself with\na clear conscience either the parentage or the responsibility of it.\nA thing so remote from his intentions was necessarily the doing of\nothers; and when crossing the sea for the first time he set out on the\nadventure, he had no other aim but to put it right and re-establish, on\na sound basis, the concordat between Christianity and Capitalism which\nhe had originally planned.\n\nBut when he got there he found things very much worse than even his\nenemies and traducers had either discovered or declared; for in the\nrestoration of order the missionaries of Free Evangelicalism had become\nimplicated; very much as in former time they had become implicated\non the commercial and profit-making side; and the natives, to whom\nsequences were the same as consequences, had begun to turn on the\nmissionaries.\n\nAnd they also were hardly to blame; for wherever the missionaries went\nbefore, order--or attempted order--had come after. Submission had been\npreached till the natives would no longer submit; civilization had\nbeen painted in all the colours of the rainbow, till civilization had\ncome and bruised them black and blue, and tanned their hides for them;\nor did so when it caught them. For to begin with the natives had only\nrebelled by ceasing to hew wood and draw water, or collect the rubber\nand other commodities which the Chartered Company was out to collect;\nand running away into the woods had hidden themselves; only defensively\nsetting traps and laying ambushes, when the emissaries of the Chartered\nCompany came to fetch them back again. And because, in many cases,\nthe missionaries were sent as fore-runners, they started to make\nexamples of the missionaries; and when the missionaries came and opened\ndeceiving mouths at them, they devised a sure method for keeping their\nmouths shut by burying them head-downwards in the ground. And when the\nmissionaries showed them those rainbows of promise, in which they no\nlonger believed, they painted the missionaries in the truer colours\nof black and tan. And so it had come about that, when Mr. Trimblerigg\ngot to the country, the mortality among the missionaries and their\nlay-followers was very nearly as high and very nearly as painful as the\nmortality had been among the natives of the Puto-Congo and Ray River\nTerritory, till they had taken to the woods to save themselves.\n\nI have little doubt that had Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s diverted attention--\ndiverted to the saving of democracy, the skinning of the scapegoat\nand the hewing of Agag,--had it been recalled a little earlier in the\ndirection where it would have done more good, and had he promulgated\nhis idea of a Free State Limited five years sooner, when the call\nfirst came for Puto-Congo to assist in the saving of civilization, I\nhave very little doubt that he could have done what he now failed to\ndo, by methods which would have left his reputation very much as they\nfound it. But when he arrived upon the scene the natives had got to a\nstate of mind in which they could see nothing with any appetite except\nblood, and hear nothing except the cries of their victims; and in\nspite of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s proclamations of peace and goodwill (under\ncertain governing conditions) the burying habit, with its painted\naccompaniments, went on: got worse, in fact, instead of better.\n\nNo doubt had Mr. Trimblerigg been able to announce to the natives, that\nthe white race with its civilizing mission, its religious principles,\nits rubber interests, and its shares, was prepared to clear out of\nthe country, lock, stock, and barrel, and restore them the crude\nindependence they had never willingly let go,--no doubt had he begun\nwithdrawing his missions to the coast, and made the interior prohibited\nterritory to his rubber-collectors, he would have found fewer of his\nmissionaries entered head-downwards into future life as he advanced\nhis armed guards, his rescue-work, and his reforms. But so long as\nthe white missions and the traders remained active the natives could\nnot be convinced. Nor was Mr. Trimblerigg entirely a free agent, he\nstill had the shareholders behind him--albeit shareholders professing\nChristianity; and these were people who believed in the civilizing\nmission not only of race but of organized capital. And because native\nways of shedding blood were a savagery which must be put down,\nwhile civilized ways of restoring order were a \u2018military necessity\u2019\nand a \u2018moral obligation\u2019 combined; and because if they did not get\nthe rubber somebody else would, and their civilizing trade would\nsuffer,--therefore they hung on, and would not let go. And though Mr.\nTrimblerigg had full power given him, it was power that must be used\nto a certain end; and the end, put briefly, was that Christianity and\nCapital must continue their civilizing mission in company, and win back\nPuto-Congo to the ways of the world.\n\nHaving stated the moral obligation I draw as much of a veil over it\nas I can, making history brief; for Mr. Trimblerigg, much against his\nwill, was obliged to fulfil it in terms of Relative Truth, such as the\nnatives could understand. In a crisis the Mosaic law is so much easier\nand quicker to explain to primitive races than the other law which came\nlater. For these races stand at a stage of the world\u2019s history; and\nwhat the higher races went through, by way of judicial experiment, they\nmust go through also. Even by Christians, when it comes to the point,\nChristianity has never been regarded as a short cut--not even among\nthemselves. For them and for all the rest of the civilized world, Moses\nis still the law-giver, and there is no transfiguration yet for the\nthunders of Mount Sinai; its lightnings continue to strike under the\nNew Dispensation as of old.\n\nSo it had to be now. The natives of Puto-Congo themselves indicated\nwhat form of instruction best suited them; and under Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ndispensation it was no longer only the missionaries who were buried\nhead-downwards and painted black-and-tan, to match the landscape with\nits foregrounds of burnt-out villages and long tracks of charred jungle\nwherein nothing lived or moved.\n\nFor this painful necessity Mr. Trimblerigg had good material provided\nhim. Civilization had trained for war far more men than it could now\nemploy in peace; and what, at the call to her children of a country in\ndanger, had been an act of heroic sacrifice had degenerated in course\nof time into a confirmed habit, wherein fierce craving and dull routine\nwere curiously mixed. And when peace supervened and became in the hands\nof diplomats a feverish and restless thing, almost as nerve-racking\nas war, then by many hundreds of warriors unwanted by the State and\nwithout employ, the dull routine was forgotten while the fierce craving\nremained. Thus, here and there, as luck would have it, in a still\nunsettled world, use was found for them, and governments to which\nthey owed no allegiance and for which they had no affection, and as\nto whose rights and wrongs they knew nothing and cared less, sent and\nhired them as experts for the shedding of blood in quarrels not their\nown. And because governments, good or bad, are organized things, and\nbecause men are accustomed to have a government over them justifying\nthem in what they do, therefore, without trouble of conscience, to\nthese foreign governments they gave themselves, and shedding blood to\norder, on a contract which promised them good pay, were not regarded as\nmurderers at all, but as men still honourably employed in the service\nof civilization.\n\nAnd some of these having returned home in the nick of time from\nbuilding castles in Spain, cheated of their pay, and very much\ndisgusted with the camps and the food and the sanitary arrangement\nwhich had been provided for them, hearing that there was more\nemployment of a similar kind to be had in Puto-Congo and Ray River\nTerritory, went and offered themselves to the Chartered Company and\nfound grateful acceptance. And when a thousand of them had been\ncollected, they were sent out to the help of Mr. Trimblerigg, well\nsupplied with arms and ammunition, also with spades and tar-brushes.\nAnd when they arrived Mr. Trimblerigg gave them their welcome\ninstructions, plenty of work at blacking and tanning, one pound a day,\nand their keep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\n_Civilized and Simple_\n\n\nIt was unfortunate that Mr. Trimblerigg, at this crucial stage of his\ncareer, not having Davidina to worry him, had no need to worry about\nDavidina. Some six months earlier she had started upon a career of her\nown on rather a big scale--a research expedition, which, though merely\nan extension of that taste for travel in strange places which she had\nalready indulged, was now organized upon such novel lines and to cover\nso far-stretched a route that it had attracted public notice, and had\nwon for her at the moment of departure many send-off paragraphs in\njournals of science and in the daily press. It was still something of\na novelty for a lone woman to head an expedition into tropical wilds\nsouth of the equator, for no other apparent object than to collect\nbotanical specimens, and incidentally study the habits of the native\ntribes encountered on the way. In addition, Davidina admitted that\nshe had a theory which she wished to put to the test; for though not\na Christian Scientist, she was one of those curious people who are\nwithout fear; and being without fear she believed herself safe; and as\nshe did not mind dying she did not intend to carry fire-arms. The whole\ngist of the experiment lay in the fact that, disappearing from the\neye of civilization to the south-east of trails which no white woman\nhad ever yet penetrated, she intended to re-emerge 2,500 miles to the\nnorth-west, an unharmed specimen of that superior race-product which\nshe believed herself to be.\n\nShe and Jonathan had not been pleased with each other during the War;\nand for the first time in his grown-up life Mr. Trimblerigg had adopted\ntoward his sister the superior moral tone which circumstances seemed\nto justify; for in this contention he had not only the world with him\nbut all the Churches. He told Davidina that she was wrong. Davidina\u2019s\nreply was: \u2018Seeing is believing; and at present I don\u2019t see much except\nmess, nor do you. In war nobody can.\u2019 And having waited till travel by\nland and sea had once more become possible, Davidina sent him word of\nthe object-lesson she was going to give him. \u2018And if,\u2019 she concluded,\n\u2018you don\u2019t see me again, you needn\u2019t believe in my method any more than\nI believe in yours. In any case, I shan\u2019t haunt you; and I\u2019ve left you\nmy love in my will.\u2019 And with that cryptic remark she took herself off,\nleaving no address.\n\nIt would be hard to say what exactly Mr. Trimblerigg wished, hoped,\nor expected to be the outcome of her attempt to give him the promised\nlesson. Probably he thought she would come back the way she had gone,\nwith a good record of adventure to her credit, a safe failure; for\nhe had great faith in Davidina\u2019s powers of survival. What he did not\nexpect in the least was what actually happened. Mr. Trimblerigg was\ninattentive to maps and unattracted to geography; and when Davidina\nstarted on her adventure she was more than 2,000 miles away from any\npart of the world in which Mr. Trimblerigg had interests.\n\nMiss Trimblerigg\u2019s travels have since been published in two large\nvolumes, with photographs taken by herself of things never seen before,\nand of some, towards the end, which Mr. Trimblerigg would rather she\nhad not seen. For the scientific side of her work, two rival societies\nawarded her their gold medal for the year--the first time these\nhad ever been won by a woman; for the other and more adventurously\nexperimental side, she received an address of commendation from\ncertain philanthropical and humanitarian societies and other bodies\nwith crank notions, whose zealous leaflets and public meetings give\nthem an appearance of life, but whose influence in the world is\nnegligible.\n\nDavidina had as her companions two other whites, husband and wife,\nwhom she chose for the curious reason that they were both deaf and\ndumb,--very insensitive therefore to shock, very uninterfering and\nvery observant of the natural phenomena that lay around them. By this\nmeans she secured undisputed control of the expedition, and as much\ninsulation for her moral experiment as was practically possible. The\ndeaf-mutes were a great success with the natives whom she employed as\ncarriers: they regarded them as holy mysteries, and held them in as\nmuch awe as they did Davidina herself. Another curious choice she made\nwas to have in her following no native Christians. For this particular\nexperiment she regarded the unspoiled pagan as the better material;\nand there was plain horse-sense in it, seeing that before long her\nfollowing not only looked upon her as a goddess, but worshipped her as\nwell. This great sin (though by some it might be regarded merely as\nan example of Relative Truth) Davidina committed for more than a year\nand over a space of 2,000 miles with great apparent success, and was\nnot punished for it. It was not my affair: those who read this record\nwill have discovered before now that I do not hold myself responsible\nfor Davidina: she belonged, and belongs still, elsewhere; and what\nwere her inner beliefs or her guiding authority I have never been able\nto discover. She never applied to me. And yet between us we shared,\nor divided the conscience of Mr. Trimblerigg. The phenomena of the\nspiritual world are strange, and many of them, to gods and mortals\nalike, still unexplained.\n\nDavidina, then, went upon her travels unarmed--unarmed, that is to\nsay, with civilized weapons of war, or even of the chase--but by no\nmeans unprovided for. Weapons of a certain kind she had, weapons of\nprecision, very subtle and calculated in their effect. But these were\naimed not at the bodies but at the minds of those denizens of the\nforest and swamp and high table-land whom she encountered in her march.\nEvery member of the expedition carried a toy air-balloon: and they\nhad mouth-organs and bird-warblers; and the two deaf-mutes carried\nconcertinas on which they played with great effect tunes by no means in\nunison. Natives, chiefs and warriors, coaxed to the encounter--often\nwith difficulty--wept and bowed down to their feet as they performed;\nalso they blew soap-bubbles which had an even greater effect, so that\nword of them went far ahead and on all sides, and the route they\nfollowed became populous.\n\nUpon Davidina\u2019s shoulder, for mascot, sat a small pet monkey in\nscarlet cap and coat; and he too, when the occasion fitted, carried a\ntoy air-balloon. And as it went by land or by water, the expedition,\ninstead of going secretively and silently, made music and song,\nand bird-warbled; and waving its toy air-balloons, and blowing its\nsoap-bubbles--with nods, and wreathed smiles, and laughter, and\nhand-clappings--was safe by ways that never varied but never became\ndull.\n\nAgain and again, in the dense forest jungle, ambushers who had hung\nin wait for them, fled howling at their approach--first to report\nthe heavenly wonder to the heads of their tribe, then returning as\nwatchers from a distance to be won by the beauty of their sound and\nthe delicacy of their going--the decorativeness, the ritual, the\nblithe atmosphere of it all. And at the next settlement to which they\ncame, the natives in holiday attire would turn out to greet them with\npropitiatory offerings, and songs which had no tune in them, but which\nmeant that all was for the best in this best of all possible worlds.\n\nMonth after month, sometimes camping for weeks, sometimes marching\nin the track of rivers or skirting swamps, the expedition wore its\nway steadily on, making for the point of the compass to which it\nhad set its face, north-north-by-west. And still word went ahead,\nthrough a thousand miles of virgin forest; and Davidina coming after,\ncontinued--however bad her theology might be--to prove the thesis\nshe had set out to demonstrate; always triumphal in her progress,\nsuccessfully collecting botanical specimens, her course unpunctuated\nby gunfire and unstained by blood. For when, in the languages of the\nnative tribes they became variously known as the Music-makers, the\nBall-bearers: the Breathers of the breath of life, their way was not\nmade merely safe but prepared before them, and a choice of many roads\nwas offered them. Runners from a hundred miles distance to right and\nleft of their route would come entreating them to turn aside and do\nhonour to communities waiting to welcome them.\n\nFor food they depended entirely on the skill of the native bow-men,\nslingers, trappers, and blowers of darts who formed their company;\nfor Davidina had quite correctly calculated that if by this means the\nnatives could support themselves in life, they could also support an\nexpedition in which the whites were only as one to ten. Had these\nfollowers deserted, she and her two companions would speedily have\nstarved. It was a risk--not greater, she maintained, than the carrying\nof fire-arms; and since some risk must be taken, that was the one she\npreferred.\n\nIn the end she had actually to face it and come through on her own; but\nthe goal of her itinerary was then not far.\n\nIt happened one night, after a heavy march that, without knowing it,\nshe had pitched her camp upon the confines of the Ray River Company\u2019s\nsphere of operations,--at the point, therefore, where civilization\nmight be said to begin. When she turned in for the night all appeared\nto be well. Outside her tent the native guards sat motionless upon\ntheir haunches looking out into the black bush; the toy air-balloons\nfloated dreamily on their pole in the centre of the camp, and about its\nbase all the impedimenta of the expedition stood neatly piled: there\nwas then neither sign of danger, nor prospect of alarm, for up to that\ntime nobody knew that they had touched civilization.\n\nBut during the dead hours, some sense--sight, or sound--of peril\nlurking ahead: native runners, perhaps, from a distance, or hidden\ndwellers in the surrounding forest, had struck the hearts of her\nfollowers a blow. In the morning the camp was empty. The cases of\nbotanical specimens lay undisturbed, but the toy air-balloons had\nvanished. The pipes, the soap, the bird-warblers, the monkey, and the\ntwo concertinas remained, also a small amount of food--rice, flour,\nextracts of meat, and other medicaments which white men think that they\nrequire when travelling. It was panic not the loot-instinct which had\ncleared the camp of its carriers.\n\nBut the cause of the trouble--the propinquity of civilized man--was\nalso the way out of it. Shouldering what they could of the things\nmost necessary to life, and striking the downward course of the Ray\nRiver--here a baby stream, shallow and fordable,--they headed toward\ncivilization.\n\nToward the end of the second day they came upon the sun-dried bodies of\nsix natives planted head-downwards in the soil: their withered limbs\ntrained upright on stakes, their dark leathery trunks still showing the\nscores of stripes borne by the flesh.\n\nDavidina had been, for over a year, so far removed from civilization,\nthat she did not know the latest things that civilization in its\nmilitary necessities had been doing; nor had she at that time any\nclue for connecting this unsightly object-lesson with the pacific and\nmissionary efforts of her brother Jonathan. But that night, coming into\na white camp, well fenced and armed--offshoot of the larger expedition\nnow actively out to impose peace by reprisals--she got the situation\nfully explained.\n\nOn the same spot where she had seen the impaled natives, a\nlay-missioner a few weeks earlier had been found dead from the same\ncauses.\n\n\u2018This time we only managed to catch six,\u2019 explained the commandant;\n\u2018our regulation number is twenty.\u2019\n\n\u2018Regulation number is good,\u2019 was her tart comment. \u2018It suggests order\nand discipline. Do you reduce the number as you go on; or do you\nincrease it?\u2019\n\n\u2018Increasing isn\u2019t much good,\u2019 replied her informant. \u2018These beggars can\nonly count up to ten. We chose twenty as a good working average: it\u2019s\nthe number we can generally manage to bag if we butt in quick enough.\u2019\n\n\u2018But a higher scale,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018would give you a better\nclearance: rid you of more dangerous characters.\u2019\n\n\u2018Not necessarily. The dangerous ones can run. We only get what\u2019s left.\u2019\n\n\u2018You are acting strictly to order, I suppose? Whose?\u2019\n\n\u2018Trimblerigg\u2019s,\u2019 said the man.\n\n\u2018I\u2019m Trimblerigg\u2019s sister.\u2019\n\nAfter that he treated her as though she were royalty--a little puzzled,\nhowever, not quite understanding her. Her dry ironic commendations were\nthrown away on him; he was the plain blunt man, doing his job honestly\naccording to the light or darkness with which others provided him.\n\nThe information she got from him decided Davidina not to stay the\nnight. The natives, it appeared, had a wonderful faculty for moving\ninvisibly and without sound in the darkness; so in that camp throats\nwere sometimes found cut in the morning; and Davidina wished rather\nparticularly not to come to that end before she had seen Jonathan.\n\nShe spent the rest of that night and the whole day following in a\ncanoe rowed by picked Christian natives; the two other members of the\nexpedition going back under an escort to recover what could be saved of\nthe impedimenta and botanical specimens which they had been forced to\nabandon.\n\nLate the next evening she arrived ahead of rumour at the armed camp of\nthe central mission. Off the river\u2019s landing-stage she met some one she\nknew who directed her to Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s quarters. \u2018I think he has\nturned in. Shall I call him?\u2019 he asked.\n\n\u2018I\u2019ll call him myself,\u2019 she replied, \u2018if you don\u2019t mind. It will be a\nnice little surprise for him.\u2019\n\nHe gave her the necessary password through the lines, for the camp was\nwell guarded, double sentries everywhere.\n\nThe coming of a white woman seemed to startle them, being so much less\nexplainable than a ghost; but she and her monkey got through. Coming to\na window covered by a chick-blind and showing no light, she lifted the\nblind and looked in.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\n_A Night\u2019s Repose_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, lying on his well-earned bed, was looking out through\nthe dark canes of the chick at the large-eyed tropical night, when\nan opaque and curiously crested form entered his square of vision.\nThe chick lifted, to the flash of a torchlight the crest detached\nitself, and a small scarlet-coated monkey leapt down on to the bed.\nThis incongruous combination scared his calculating wits out of him;\nsnatching his revolver he fired without aim.\n\nThe monkey, chattering in alarm, skipped back to the shoulder it had\nsprung from. \u2018Missed again!\u2019 said a familiar voice. \u2018How do you do,\nJonathan? May I come in?\u2019\n\nShe clambered in as she spoke, and sat upon the bed, while Mr.\nTrimblerigg, exclamatory with anger and apology, lighted the lamp\nand stared at the unwelcome apparition. Met under such nightmare\nconditions, they did not stop to embrace.\n\n\u2018So that was your object-lesson, was it?\u2019 said Davidina. \u2018Bad shot.\nWhat made you do it?\u2019\n\n\u2018_You_ made me do it!\u2019 retorted Mr. Trimblerigg sharply. \u2018A fool\u2019s\ntrick, coming like that! How could I tell it was you?\u2019\n\n\u2018You couldn\u2019t. But what are your sentries for? Haven\u2019t you enough of\nthem to feel safe?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, defending himself, gave away more of the situation\nthan he intended. \u2018Why, it might have been a sentry himself!\u2019 he\nexclaimed. \u2018You can\u2019t trust one of them.\u2019\n\n\u2018Not even your converted Christians?\u2019\n\n\u2018Not as things are now. Christians?--scratch the surface, and you find\nthey go pagan again.\u2019\n\n\u2018So you\u2019ve been scratching them?\u2019\n\n\u2018No need. They scratch themselves; it\u2019s reversion to type; the\ncommonest disease missions have to contend with.\u2019\n\n\u2018And catching to civilization,\u2019 remarked Davidina; \u2018A scratch lot, all\nof you.\u2019 Then, as Mr. Trimblerigg looked at her with furtive suspicion,\n\u2018I\u2019ve been interviewing a specimen,\u2019 she said; \u2018one of yours.\u2019\n\nShe named her man. \u2018He seemed honest enough,\u2019 she went on, \u2018but he\u2019s\nbeen scratched badly, acting (_he_ says) under your orders.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg bristled to the implied criticism. \u2018He has only done\nwhat was absolutely necessary.\u2019\n\n\u2018Necessary, of course,\u2019 she returned. \u2018You can always make a thing\nnecessary if you want to. If a man sets fire to the tail of his shirt,\nhe has got to get out of it. But that doesn\u2019t make him look less of a\nfool, Jonathan. Necessary? It\u2019s necessary, I suppose, that you should\nshoot people at sight before you know who they are. But if you mean\nthat for an object-lesson, I don\u2019t find it attractive.\u2019\n\n\u2018Object-lesson of what?\u2019 demanded Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\n\u2018Yes, of what?\u2019 she retorted. \u2018It\u2019s not Free Evangelicalism, it\u2019s not\ncommon sense, and I don\u2019t suppose _you_ think it comic either.\u2019\n\nHer accent on the word enraged him, as she had expected. \u2018I was only\nasking,\u2019 she said. \u2018You\u2019ve your sense of humour, and I\u2019ve mine,\nand they don\u2019t always agree. A man who can never see a joke is a\npoor creature; but when he makes a joke of himself and can\u2019t see\n_that_--he\u2019s past praying for. Did you say your prayers to-night,\nJonathan? You did? Then better say \u2019em again backwards, and see if you\ncan\u2019t get more sense out of them.\u2019\n\n\u2018Thank you,\u2019 said Mr. Trimblerigg. \u2018You mean well; but I don\u2019t need to\nbe told how to pray: I pray as I feel.\u2019\n\n\u2018You do,\u2019 she said comfortingly. \u2018D\u2019you ever look at your tongue first\nto see your symptoms? No? Well, you should then. There\u2019s nothing in\nthis world so dangerous as prayer if you\u2019ve fixed up the answer before\nyou begin. Forty years ago, Jonathan, you set that trap for yourself,\nnow it\u2019s a habit you can\u2019t get rid of. Let\u2019s look at your tongue. It\u2019s\nmy belief you\u2019ve got an attack of it now, worse than usual. Either pray\nbackwards from the way you\u2019ve been doing--which means don\u2019t begin by\ngiving yourself the answer--or leave off.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, who during the past six months had been through deep\nwaters and in his own eyes had done valiantly, sat up quivering with\nindignation.\n\n\u2018If I hadn\u2019t prayed,\u2019 he cried, \u2018prayed all I knew, prayed without\nceasing--and if I had not depended every instant on my prayer being\nanswered in ways beyond human power to devise, before this I should\nhave been dead.\u2019\n\n\u2018Yes,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018and if you had aimed your last prayer a little\nstraighter, so should I. It missed--like some of the others, I\u2019m\nthinking. Two days ago I met six of your prayers, as you call \u2019em,\nstriped like a barber\u2019s pole, dead as door-nails, standing on their\nheads in native earth. They weren\u2019t exactly addressed to me; but I\u2019ve\ncome in answer to them; and if you don\u2019t think it\u2019s the word of the\nLord I\u2019m telling you now, Jonathan, put up another and have done with\nme!\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s sense of lifelong grievances came to a head, and he\nspoke plainly: \u2018I shall never have done with you, Davidina, never,\nnever! All my life you\u2019ve hated me, persecuted me, wished me ill. Yes;\nyou\u2019ve been sorry whenever I succeeded, glad when I\u2019ve failed; and if I\nwere to fail now, you\u2019d only say--\u201cServe him right! Serve him right!\u201d\u2019\n\n\u2018That\u2019s true,\u2019 said Davidina; \u2018the rest isn\u2019t. Hated you? Don\u2019t flatter\nyourself! You wouldn\u2019t so much mind me hating you; it\u2019s my seeing\nthrough you that you don\u2019t like. \u201cO Lord, so look upon me from on high\nthat You don\u2019t see me clear as Davidina sees me!\u201d That has been your\nlife-prayer, Jonathan, though you never put it into words. Yes, to\nyou it may sound like blasphemy, but if you\u2019d prayed a little less to\nyourself, and a little more to me, maybe, you might not have cut so\nfamous a figure in the world--been such a firework, setting a spark to\nyour own tail and running round after it (which is what you are doing\nhere) but there\u2019d have been more meat on you for one to cut and come\nagain than there is now. It\u2019s my belief, Jonathan, you don\u2019t truly know\nwhere you begin and where you leave off. You\u2019ve been standing in your\nown light so long, and walking in it, that you see yourself a child\nof light every time you look in the glass. I\u2019ve only to switch this\ntorch on\u2019--she played it upon him as she spoke--\u2018and you look like a\nsaint in a halo, waiting for the Kingdom of Heaven to come. Yes, that\u2019s\nwhat you are always giving yourself--a halo; you\u2019ve only to pray and\nit comes--like hiccoughs, or housemaid\u2019s knee. You touch a button, you\nswitch on the light, and you see yourself in a glory. Some day you\u2019ll\nget one in real earnest; and when you do, I wonder what you\u2019ll make of\nit, and what people will say? I think they\u2019ll laugh.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg looked at her with that same sort of uneasy awe which\nweak saints have for the Devil. Under her penetrating gaze he sealed\nhimself to secrecy. This, that she was saying--so nearly true, yet\ntreating it as a joke--was not a thing about which even relatively the\ntruth could be told. Davidina had no sense of the mysterious, and very\nlittle of the divine; she lacked reverence; but her uncanny way of\ntouching the spot did rather scare him. He changed the subject hastily.\n\u2018Where have you been all this time?\u2019 he inquired. \u2018You\u2019ve come a long\nway. How did you get on?\u2019\n\nDavidina, accepting the diversion, gave him a sketch of her travels. He\nheard of the toy air-balloons, the bird-warblers, and the soap-bubbles;\nthe singing, and the playing, and the worshipping deputations of\nnatives. Nor did Davidina disguise from him the fact that she had\nallowed godlike honours to be paid to her.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, though he had used Relative Truth for his own ends,\ncould not, as a Free Evangelical, think that was right.\n\n\u2018I dare say it isn\u2019t,\u2019 said Davidina, \u2018not as we think it. But if you\nstart applying your own sense of what\u2019s right to natives, they don\u2019t\nthink you a god, they think you a devil. That\u2019s what you\u2019ve been doing,\nJonathan; and devil\u2019s the result. And for my part, I don\u2019t see that\nit\u2019s any more against true religion to let yourself be worshipped as\na god than to make yourself feared as a devil. Devil or god, it\u2019s one\nor the other--you can\u2019t get out of it; and to be thought a god and to\nact accordingly does less harm, comes cheaper, and makes things easier\nfor all concerned.\n\n\u2018Anyway here\u2019s your object-lesson and there\u2019s mine. I could have soon\nenough made them think me a devil if I\u2019d taken your line, Jonathan.\nSo now, unless it\u2019s against your religion, you\u2019d better try mine for\na change. Be a god, Jonathan, be a god! It won\u2019t be true; but believe\nme--sing, glory hallelujah! it\u2019s the better hole to fall into. And now\nI\u2019m going.\u2019 So saying, she started to climb out the way she had come.\n\n\u2018Where to?\u2019 inquired Mr. Trimblerigg, astounded at so abrupt a\nleave-taking.\n\n\u2018Anywhere, so long as it\u2019s away from civilization--and you!\u2019 she\ndeclared. \u2018I\u2019ll send my specimens down to the coast, then go back the\nway I\u2019ve come. And, Jonathan, if you get beautifully burnt out by a\nbush-fire in the next day or two, don\u2019t think it\u2019s them; it\u2019ll be me.\u2019\n\n\u2018What for?\u2019\n\n\u2018For fun, or for a moral object-lesson, just as you like to take it:\nDavidina\u2019s dose--or jumps for Jonathan. Good-bye!\u2019\n\nShe had escaped--had already gone a few paces, when Mr. Trimblerigg\nbethought him and called after her.\n\n\u2018Daffy!\u2019 It was the old abbreviated usage from days of childhood. She\nreturned, and stood outside the chick without lifting it.\n\n\u2018Well, what?\u2019 she queried.\n\nAnd Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s voice came cooingly from within: \u2018You haven\u2019t\nkissed me, Daffy.\u2019\n\n\u2018I have not,\u2019 she replied starkly.\n\n\u2018But we haven\u2019t quarrelled, have we?\u2019\n\n\u2018Quarrelled? Have I ever quarrelled with you yet, Jonathan? No fear!\nI\u2019ve been saying your prayers for you--right way up. Now you say\n\u201cAmen\u201d; kiss yourself your own way, and go to sleep!\u2019\n\nShe heard him chuckle; then in a whinnying tone, as he stretched\nhimself: \u2018Oh, you _are_ a comfortable person to talk to!\u2019\n\n\u2018You\u2019ve said that before.\u2019\n\n\u2018It\u2019s true. I\u2019m glad you came, Davidina. You\u2019ve given me a new idea.\u2019\n\n\u2018I generally do,\u2019 she replied.\n\n\u2018But this is my own,\u2019 he insisted.\n\n\u2018So is the stuffing of a goose, once it\u2019s inside him,\u2019 was her retort.\nAnd with that she was gone.\n\nAnd Mr. Trimblerigg, with the feeling that something now remained to\nhis credit, turned over and went blissfully to sleep. For having let\nDavidina know that she was \u2018comfortable to talk to,\u2019 he had turned the\nsharp points of her arrows, and so robbed them of venom that not a word\nshe had said troubled him any more.\n\nSo he gave his beloved sleep; and into his dreams came hovering the\ncrocean dawn or that new idea, so entirely his own, prompted by\nDavidina.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\n_Practical Idealism_\n\n\nWhen Mr. Trimblerigg again woke, he was happy; he had an idea, and\nthe idea was entirely his own. It was not less his own because it had\nflashed into life during his talk with Davidina, or because it ran on\ndiametrically opposite lines (up to a certain point, at least) from his\nprevious policy of black-and-tan stripes and head-downward reprisals.\n\nThe thing which had been \u2018absolutely necessary\u2019 the day before and\non those grounds had been justified, was now a discarded, if not a\ndiscredited device. He had found a better. It was inconsistent, no\ndoubt; for if it could be put into practice now, it could have been\nput into practice earlier, and the tarrings and the featherings and\nthe rest need never have happened. But it is no good condemning Mr.\nTrimblerigg for his inconsistencies; they were as much a part of that\nstrangely divided unity, his character, as the extreme notes which\ngive the range of a singer\u2019s voice; and even when he had a divided\nmind, it served like the divided hoof of the mountain goat which gives\nnimbleness and elasticity to the tread. Often and often, because of his\ndivided mind, his enemies did not know where to have him, nor sometimes\nwhere he would have them.\n\nIn these see-saw gymnastics his doctrine of Relative Truth helped him\nnot a little. Mr. Trimblerigg never worried about methods; he judged\nhimself only by results, and expected the world to have as short a\nmemory as his own and to do likewise.\n\nAnd I cannot deny that if results are a justification for doubtful\nfaith and slippery dealings, results often did justify him; and many of\nhis flashlight successes were won entirely because he had a mind of\ntwo parts diametrically opposed, which he never troubled to reconcile.\nThey were there for alternate use and combined effect, just as oil and\nvinegar are used by a maker of salads--opposites resulting in a balance\nof flavour.\n\nAnd undoubtedly, though they produced a mixed record, the tactical\nadvantage was great. For what enemy of sane mind could anticipate\nattack from such opposite quarters as those chosen by Mr. Trimblerigg\nwhen he found himself in a tight place? It was not the simple strategy\nof a general whose armies came into action simultaneously from north\nand south; it was rather the conjuration of a wizard able to summon to\nhis aid at the same moment and for a common end the hosts of Heaven and\nthe powers of Hell--or of one who came offering peace, with a dove in\none hand and a vulture in the other, undecided up to the last moment\nwhich of the two he intended to let go.\n\nSo it was when, in all the freshness of his new idea, Mr. Trimblerigg\nset out to play the god--the god of peace, mercy, and reconciliation\nto the expropriated natives of Puto-Congo; not because he regarded\nit as specially true to his character, or as the better hole to fall\ninto--for to fall he did not intend; but because the coming of Davidina\nhad made him realize that a sporting alternative to reprisals did\nactually exist; and being a sportsman by instinct, where matters of\nprinciple were concerned, he saw it adventurously as the obvious game\nto play.\n\nHaving made up his mind to it, he played it with a swift hand, and\nthree days later set off unattended for the upper wilds of Ray River\nTerritory (into which the elusive natives had gradually retired) with\nnothing to protect him but the safe conduct of one of their chiefs whom\nhe had made captive, and whom he now released handsomely on parole to\nbe his fore-runner and messenger.\n\nAnd who, seeing him thus set forth, his feet shod with the preparation\nof the gospel of peace, his loins girt with truth, and having on the\nshield of faith, and the sword of the spirit, who, seeing him so\narrayed, could ever have supposed that at the same time he had planned,\nswiftly and covertly, a forced march of armed missionaries by night\nto secure at dawn the ratification of an imposed treaty; and that the\nsignal of their presence was to be--not indeed the dropping of bombs\nand the rattle of machine-guns (though the bombs and machine-guns\nwere to be all there, primed and ready to let go), but a strain of\nholy voices setting forth the alternative thus presented, threat and\npersuasion combined, to the tune of the Puto-Congo love-chant, which\nfrom time immemorial the young warriors had sung in spring outside the\nwigwams of their beloved ones.\n\nIt was possible to suppose one or other of two such courses of action:\nbut to imagine them inextricably combined as the single homogeneous\nplan of a sane mind was altogether beyond reckoning; only Mr.\nTrimblerigg could have thought of it, only Mr. Trimblerigg could have\nasked a blessing for it--as he confidently did, in his prayers, and\nhave gone forth to the experiment assured that he had not only the\nbombs and the machine-guns with him, but the favour of Heaven as well.\nAnd though a word from Davidina had prompted it, he was quite right in\nsaying that the idea was entirely his own.\n\nAnd so at dawn of the third day his idea came to fruition, and Mr.\nTrimblerigg saw the desire of his soul and was satisfied. He had\nlaboured for long hours in the rough council chamber of the tribe,\nand his efforts still hovered between success and failure, when the\nwailing sound of the love-chant arose in the woods without; and all\nthe warriors, struck mute by the wonder of it, stiffened and sat up\non their haunches. And as they listened they joined hands, and their\nfaces softened as the growing light of day crept in through the wattled\nwalls. Then Mr. Trimblerigg took up a banjo which he had brought with\nhim, and though no expert as a musician, played his country\u2019s national\nanthem upon one note; and then \u2018Rock of Ages\u2019; and then, in alternate\nphrases (\u2018_Nothing in my hand I bring, God save our gracious King_\u2019),\nthe two tunes combined: a symbolic performance emblematic of the Treaty\nof Peace which he now called on them to sign. And there he was, still\nin their hands, confident, resourceful, self-assured, with nothing to\nsave him from death but his calculative understanding of human nature,\nand the soft drift of the love-chant coming like bird-song from the\nwood.\n\nThen, through his interpreter, he spoke the final word, in so\npersuasive a voice and with so smiling a face, that they could not but\nfeel that all was now well; and with nod and grunt, and soft patting\nof palm on thigh, and slow swayings to and fro, they glimmered back at\nhim, suspicious no more of one so equal and fearless, and confiding,\nsitting peacefully in their midst.\n\n\u2018Brothers,\u2019 he said, \u2018these are your white friends, who have come,\nfeeling their way through the dark night with hands eager for the dawn,\nto know whether we have indeed made peace. We have, have we not? I told\nthem that I should be here sowing seed fit for fruit-bearing, and that\nin the night it would take root, and grow, and become a tree wherein\nthe love-singers would nest: I told them to wait and hope. But their\nhope was so great that they could wait no more; therefore have they\ncome. Their eager hearts have led them through the blackness and terror\nof night to behold the glad faces of their dark brothers shining to\nwelcome them. O Brothers, what matters a little giving and taking on\nthis side or on that, if only we can be at peace, and share together\nthe heat and light of the sun which are, indeed, so abundant that if we\neach take half it will be better for us. Hark! they have learned your\nsong of love, and you shall learn ours; let us go out and meet them!\u2019\n\nHe rose and led the dazed and awe-struck natives to the gate of their\nstockade; then, as it opened, skipped nimbly across to the shelter of\nthat happy band of pilgrims, who, wearing white robes and carrying\nguns concealed under palm-branches, stood and smiled amicably upon the\nsituation which Mr. Trimblerigg had prepared for them.\n\nThe faces of the chiefs fell; without a word they stepped back into\nthe council chamber where lay the drafted treaty, cut each a small\nwrist-vein and signed it in his blood. \u2018Our tribe will kill us for\nthis,\u2019 said one chief as he affixed his mark. And two months later he\nwas dead.\n\nAnd Mr. Trimblerigg, having successfully won his point, by a\njudicious mixture of incompatible principles, was quite pleased with\nhimself--and me. For while he took over most of the credit, he did\nnot forget his stars for having made him the man he was. Grateful\nas well as gratified, and very tired after all his efforts, he fell\nasleep without having risen from his knees. And as in that attitude\nhe slept the sleep of the just, with just a suspicion of the crocean\ndawn once more illuminating the pillow on which at sideway turn his\nhead so confidingly rested, I felt once again that curious sense of\nhelplessness which his achievement of a good conscience always imposed\non me; and the old doubt recurred--difficult to put into words, but\nvirtually to this effect: was the relation between us a reality or only\na dream; did he belong to me, or did I belong to him? Was I using him,\nor was he using me? Ought I to consider myself anything more than a\nrather shining reflector of his brain?\n\nAll through the world\u2019s history there have been men doubtful of\ntheir makers, honestly incredulous of the source from which they\nsprung--infidels, sceptics, atheists--of lives too short to mark the\nchanges, vicissitudes and final disappearance of the creeds they would\nnot hold. Many such have I known with sympathy and with understanding;\nbut Mr. Trimblerigg, so far as my experience goes, is the unique\ninstance of that process reversed--one who has raised a like doubt in\nthe mind of his creator. Was he really mine, or did I only dream of him\nas fantastically as he so often dreamed of me? Now he has gone from me,\nand I do not know: perhaps I never shall. But if in that other region\nto which he has now passed he has at last found not me but himself--and\nin that image has satisfied the requirements of his soul--can it be\ncalled a lost one--so far as he is concerned?\n\nHis work accomplished, he returned home. Incidentally the ship which\nbore him and his fortunes back to the old world encountered storm\nalmost the whole way. But Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s conscience was at peace,\nand he was not afraid. For myself I own that I was anxious; I never\nquite know how storms are going to end; and I did not wish, at this\njuncture, to lose Mr. Trimblerigg merely by accident.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\n\n_Second Wind_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s home-coming, in spite of the triumphal note\nsedulously given to it by his out-and-out supporters, was a sad one.\nHe found Free Evangelicalism divided against him. His results had\nnot wiped out the memory of his methods; and as there had been loud\nprotest while these were still going on, there was now controversy\nas to whether they had in the least helped to the more peaceful\n_d\u00e9nouement_ which had followed. In the main his only backers among\nthe Free Evangelicals were the armed missionaries who had carried out\nhis policy, and the shareholders whose investments he had saved from\nruin. And though True Belief had rallied whole-heartedly to the support\nof his more than Mosaic discipline--finding for it the warrant of\nScripture--True Belief, in spite of the new importance thus given to\nit, was not the mould into which he could pour himself at this advanced\nstage of his career upon his return to civilization. Except in the\nmission field, where he had used it to meet an emergency, its die-hard\ntenets were incompatible with Relative Truth; yet though some of its\nfollowers still held that the world was flat, and others that it did\nnot go round, in a matter of religious war against the barbarism of\nsavage tribes he could work with them, and in their eye-for-an-eye and\ntooth-for-a-tooth standpoint find the Relative Truth which served his\nneed. But they, for their part, would not doctrinally budge an inch to\ncome to him.\n\nSo when the main body of Free Evangelicalism turned against him,\nintimacy with True Belief stood rather as a liability than as an asset;\nthough for a time it was a question whether he had anywhere else to\nturn--whether any religious connection large and lively enough to serve\nhis purpose was willing to have him except on terms into which even his\ndiversified record could not fit without foolishness.\n\nWith the ruddy honours of Puto-Congo fresh upon him, he stood for\nre-election to the Presidency of the Free Evangelical Union, and\ngot turned down. The blow was a shrewd one, though he met it with a\nsmiling face. But when, following upon that, after long and heated\ndiscussion an adverse motion was carried by the executive of the Free\nEvangelical Missions, whose organization on its present vast scale owed\nits prosperity mainly to him, then indeed he felt as though the bottom\nwas being knocked out of his ministerial career; and was almost of a\nmind--of two minds, that is to say--to turn from divinity to politics.\n\nFor in politics at that time events were moving fast, creating for\nadaptable men opportunities of a new kind. If, as seemed likely, the\nold two-party system was about to give place to group-formations, whose\ntenure of life must necessarily be more of a negotiable than a fixed\nquantity, and if for the manipulation of democratic government to a\nsafe middling course, opportunism must henceforth take a higher place\nthan principle, could anyone be found with a more instinctive touch for\nthe job than Mr. Trimblerigg?\n\nIn the political world the situation was there waiting for him: in the\nreligious world, on the other hand, where for the time being movement\nseemed retrograde rather than forward, the situation would have to be\nmade. It was the tougher job.\n\nTo give Mr. Trimblerigg his due, that--if only he could find for it the\nright environment--would be but an added attraction. A tough job always\ndelighted him; so much so that, setting his teeth to the toughness of\nit, he thenceforth forgot everything but appetite; and as his appetite\nalways grew with what it fed on--given a proposition of sufficient\ntoughness, his appetite was apt to go strange lengths. So it had been\nwhen he set out to hew Agag, and skin the scapegoat, giving to the\nfantasy that air of probability which it needed in order to make it\npopular; so likewise when he had to find moral excuse for standing\nChristianity upon its head in the burnt-out cinders of native villages,\nwith the compulsorily converted Free State of Puto-Congo as his reward.\nIn each case the toughness of the job and the moral difficulties\nit presented took the place of conviction, supplied the necessary\nenthusiasm, and jogged him on to his goal.\n\nSo it was to be now. All that he lacked for the moment was the\nnecessary environment, the atmosphere into which a new spiritual\nmovement could be born. In politics it existed; in religion it had\nstill to be found. Mr. Trimblerigg hesitated; and while he hesitated\nthe call came, the spark of inspiration descended from on high, and\nwhat thereafter was saved to religion in a revivalism which swept the\nworld, was lost to politics.\n\nTwo events, small in themselves, gave to his mind the impetus and\ndirection it required. The first was the death of the harmless,\nunnecessary Caroline, the wife whose previous uneventfulness had given\nto his career the only ballast it had ever known; the other was the\nrecrudescence of Isabel Sparling, manufacturing for herself in the\nspiritual and religious world a success which arrested his attention,\nand awoke in his breast first a small spark of jealousy, then emulation\nand the determination, doing likewise, to make a bigger thing of it.\n\nCaroline\u2019s death was due to obscure causes for which the doctor found\na scientific name that satisfied all legal requirements; but if I have\nany qualification for diagnosing mortality in the human race, I should\nbe inclined to say that she died of a gradual and cumulative attack of\nfright. Mr. Trimblerigg had once made her doubt the evidence of her\nsenses--and not only of her own but of the children she had borne to\nhim; and though she had acquiesced submissively at the time--having\nthe negative proof always before her that the glory with which her\nimagination had surrounded him was departed, that he was in truth no\nsaint, and had not after all taken his baths in cold weather--she was\nnever the same woman again. That she should have imagined so difficult\na thing, only to be told that it was a delusion after all, caused\na shock to her system. Her breathing became asthmatic, she coughed\nwith nothing to cough for, had flutterings of the heart, and began\nto wear shawls even when the weather was warm. And waking one night,\nshortly after Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s return from Puto-Congo had made them\nbed-fellows again, she saw or thought she saw upon the pillow beside\nher a recrudescence of her fear--the thing which could be seen but was\nnot to be believed. Faint, very faint--the product only of a dream--it\nflushed feebly and passed away. But that single sight, or the mere\nsuspicion of it, gave her a habit of wakefulness which grew on the\napprehension that lay at the back of it; and just as people who see\nspots crossing the field of vision damage their eyesight by pursuing\nthem, or as others who have a singing in their ears go mad in trying\nto be quit of it; so did Caroline in trying both to realize and get\nrid of the suspicion she wished to avoid, reduce herself to a nervous\nwreck; and day by day, eyeing Mr. Trimblerigg with looks whose meaning\nshe would not explain, sank into a despondency which by destroying her\ndomestic efficiency robbed life of its remaining _raison d\u2019\u00eatre_.\n\nAnd so one morning, after an ecstatic dream of more than usual\nvividness, Mr. Trimblerigg woke to find her lying very quiet and\nopen-eyed beside him; and though the expression was not peaceful,\nCaroline had nevertheless found peace; and Mr. Trimblerigg with\ncuriously mixed feelings, yet with a decent modicum of grief which was\nquite genuine, saw that he had become a widower.\n\nAmong the letters of condolence which reached him after the sad\nevent--not immediately but a few months later--was one of peculiar\ninterest from Sir Roland Skoyle, conveying not merely sympathy, but\nnews. For it now appeared that Caroline was not as lacking in spirit\nas her life had made out; rather had she reserved it for future\nuse. Caroline, in fact, had suddenly become interesting; and if she\nhad not quite found herself again in the old world where her real\ninterests lay, she had found her medium; she was there, waiting for her\ncredentials to be put to the test, and asking for him with such urgency\nthat Mr. Trimblerigg had a doubt whether he was yet free to consider\nhimself a complete widower.\n\nIf, on that matter, he felt that his liberty was less than he could\nhave wished, there was nevertheless a compensating interest; for here,\nin germ, was the idea he had been waiting for: if he could convince\nhimself that spiritualism was really true--his previous experience,\nthough momentarily impressive had finally disappointed him--he would\ngo on and convince the world. It was some such conviction that the\nreligious world was now needing to spring it into fresh life; and he\nhimself only needed confidence in the case to be presented, in order to\nbecome the man to do it. And so, at this point of his career, when he\nleast expected it, Caroline became an important character.\n\nIt was a strange apotheosis; and the realization of its truth came to\nhim in strange words at the first interview which Sir Roland Skoyle\narranged for them. The medium, sitting entranced, was not in the least\nlike her; but no matter. She breathed asthmatically, coughed, and\nholding hand to heart hugged an imaginary shawl. Taking her disengaged\nhand tenderly, he asked: \u2018Caroline, my dear, is that you?\u2019 And the\nvoice of Caroline answered: \u2018I did see it, Jonathan; I really did! And\nI can see it now. You look beautiful.\u2019 Then, after a pause, \u2018Who have\nyou got to mend your socks for you?\u2019\n\nThat was Caroline all over; and as conviction settled into his brain,\nher importance established itself. The conversation that ensued was\ntrivial and domestic in character; it was, nevertheless, a world-moving\nevent.\n\nAnd the second was like unto it--in this at least, that a woman whom he\nhad come to regard as of no importance assumed all upon a sudden a new\nsignificance and took her place once more in the shaping of his career.\n\nIsabel Sparling, failing to find lodgment for her preaching powers in\nany home-grown community among the Free Churches, had passed on to\nAmerica, where strange faiths and novel methods have always a better\nchance.\n\nA stray paragraph in a newspaper gave him the news that among the\nBlue Ridge and Alleghany mountains she had achieved a startling\nsuccess in the propaganda of Second Adventism. The rural population\nof Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina had begun robing itself\nin white; drawn by the spirit, thousands upon thousands of Last Day\nsaints made periodical pilgrimages to the tops of the high mountains,\nand there picnicked for whole weeks at a time waiting for an Event\nwhich, though it failed to show visibly, always sent them back to\ntheir homes spiritually refreshed. Rain-baptisms--by preference in a\nthunder-storm--were another manifestation of the new faith. There were\nstartling cases when a date had been fixed weeks beforehand; torrential\nrains had descended in answer to prayer and washed into renewed\nsanctity five thousand converts at a time.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had always had a modernist\u2019s doubt about the efficacy\nof prayer either for fine weather or wet. But supposing these accounts\nto be true, Isabel Sparling was a water-finder of no uncertain power.\nIf she had ever failed, the papers made no report of it; at any rate,\nin States where the rainfall was generally less than could be desired,\nthe average was going steadily up, and conversion to Second Adventism\nhad in consequence become popular. Manifestly she had got her stick by\nthe right end; in this practical age a combination between revealed\nreligion and good business was the one thing needful, and as the\nincreased rainfall was welcome to a large agricultural interest, so\nalso were the pilgrimages and the picnics to the retail traders. Pious\npeople, who had hitherto been frugal stay-at-homes, were now spending\na great deal upon white linen sunshades, Panama hats, shoe leather,\nthermos flasks, mineral waters, cooked food of a portable kind and all\nother necessary accompaniments for outings conducted on a large scale.\nIn a quite important slice of the States religion had once more become\nnot merely popular but vibrant and all-embracing in its character.\nAn \u2018urge\u2019 for righteousness had taken hold of whole districts where\nno \u2018urge\u2019 of any kind had been felt before; and what at first had\nonly occurred in rural districts was now rapidly assuming a civic, a\nmunicipal, and a territorial character. It was announced that one State\nGovernor at least, and the whole population of a large penal settlement\nwere waiting to receive rain-baptism on the earliest date that Isabel\nSparling\u2019s engagements with Heaven would allow.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg read and was impressed. He went further; he took steps\nto have the matter investigated, and while awaiting a further report\nhe thought much. Over there something was moving which had affinity to\nthe motions of his own brain; a sense of opportunity and of environment\nbegan to stir in the inner recesses of his soul. And when the report\ncame--favourable in its main facts--he found all at once that he had\nrecovered his spiritual appetite. The world was the right world after\nall; there was something in it waiting for him to do.\n\nNevertheless, for a man of his modern tendencies, Second Adventism\nwas a big pill to swallow; he did not quite see how he was going to\nbelieve in it--sufficiently to make it a popular success, and for a\nwhile wondered whether he could not run spiritualism alone, with Second\nAdventism left out.\n\nHe consulted Caroline; she was stimulating, but rather vague. \u2018Oh, if\nyou only knew, if you only knew, you could do anything!\u2019 she told him.\n\u2018Let your light shine, Jonathan! It\u2019s there, though you don\u2019t see it.\nIf you did, you\u2019d know the way. If you don\u2019t, it may go again, like it\ndid before.\u2019\n\nThat little imperfection of grammar, uncorrected in the spirit-world,\ngave Mr. Trimblerigg a fresh thrill of conviction that this was the\nreal Caroline. How often, as they climbed the social ladder, had he\ncorrected, a little impatiently, those symptoms of a lowly origin. But\nnow it rejoiced his heart to hear her recount the beatific vision she\nhad of him with homely incorrected speech \u2018like\u2019 she might have done\nbefore.\n\nYes, it sounded encouraging, but it still left him in doubt; there was\ntoo much \u2018if\u2019 about it. He wanted to be quite sure, without any \u2018ifs\u2019,\nbefore he began.\n\nIt was at five o\u2019clock one morning, after a sleepless night, that the\nspark of inspiration swam into Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s brain, and though it\nwas not my sending--being entirely his own--I saw it come.\n\nHe was lying with his head on one side sucking a cough lozenge, when,\nwith a sudden jerk of astonishment, first his eyes opened, then his\nmouth. The cough lozenge fell out, staining the pillow: he turned his\nhead sharply, eyes front, and sat up.\n\nThe conception which had got hold of him was large but quite simple;\nhe saw that Second Adventism depended for its success on one thing and\none thing alone. If what he was pleased to regard as Christendom--that\nis to say, Free Evangelicalism and its dependent relatives among\nthe Free Churches--if Free Evangelicalism could but be persuaded to\nbelieve in a Second Advent, and to desire it wilfully, whole-heartedly,\npassionately--then by the law of spiritual gravity, the Second Advent\nwould come.\n\nIt was a great idea; Pragmatism, a thing he had only half-believed\nin before, would thus be given a test worthy of its powers--would,\nhe believed, win through and make the world what it ought to\nbe--theologically up-to-date. The saints under the Throne crying \u2018How\nlong?\u2019 would suddenly change their tune, take up the initiative, and\nwith spiritual Cou\u00e9-ings themselves fix the date.\n\nIt was a bold democratic conception, and since he had always been\na whole-hearted democrat there was no inconsistency--though he now\nthought of it for the first time--in applying it to things doctrinal.\nMan had his spiritual destiny--including dates--in his own hands; all\nhe needed was unanimity or, failing that, a commanding majority. He\nhad never had it, had never applied it till now. Had he done so the\nmillennium would already have bloomed into being.\n\nAnd the means to this spiritual unanimity, or commanding majority, by\nwhich the race was to be won? In the moment of inspiration that also\nhad been flashed into his brain, and Civilization stood explained. The\nconquests of science were to become the weapons of faith, and publicity\nthe final expression of religious art. What countless missionaries\ncould not have done in a previous age a single voice would do now.\nAll that was required was a world-wide audience of converts to Second\nAdventism, a voice going out into all lands, a trumpet signal, and a\nshout, and at that shout the walls of Jericho would fall flat:\n\n  Faith would vanish into sight,\n  Hope be emptied in delight,\n\nand every man would go up straight before him and possess the city of\nhis inheritance.\n\nNor had Mr. Trimblerigg any doubt--in that first flush of\ninspiration--whose the voice was to be. As for the trumpet whose\nblast was to rend the veil of a new world, science had providentially\nsupplied the instrument. It would be a big business to get possession\nof it; but once done, it would be Big Business indeed. At the stroke\nof a wizard\u2019s wand--or call it Aaron\u2019s rod--trade and commerce were to\nbecome spiritualized, and the fiery chariot of Elijah would be found\namong men once more, conveying the voice of prophecy to the far ends\nof earth--in that moment, that division of a breath, that twinkling of\nan eye of which older prophecy had spoken. Or to put the matter quite\nprosaically--on that business footing which was to prove the secret of\nits success--a monopoly of Broadcasting throughout the English-speaking\nworld was revealed to him as the means for the coming of the Kingdom on\nEarth.\n\n\u2018The coming of the Kingdom\u2019? The phrase was picturesque; but it was old\nand obsolete. \u2018Making Heaven safe for Democracy\u2019 was better. That was\nwhat Mr. Trimblerigg intended to do.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY\n\n\u2018_Arise, Shine!_\u2019\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s acceptance of the phenomena of spiritualism, though\nit drew mass-meetings to hear him, gave a bad jolt to Free Evangelical\nunity. Thenceforth pulpits were divided; and Mr. Trimblerigg had the\nrun of only half of them. But when, following upon that, he announced\nhis conversion to Second Adventism, a special conference of the\nconnection was called, and secession followed. Mr. Trimblerigg went out\nhopefully into the wilderness, drawing a tail of all the Free Churches\nafter him; and though for a time they lacked funds, and found many\ndoors closed against them, they had not to be long in doubt that theirs\nwas the winning cause.\n\nWhat the world wanted--the religious even more than the secular--was\na real bird-in-the-hand; proof positive, quick results, practice not\ntheory, ocular demonstration, moral certainty, wheels which actually\nwent round, whose buzz could be heard to the far ends of earth. A race\nfor Heaven without obstacles, and a goal visibly to be won were the\nmaterials to make religion once more popular. Spiritualism and Second\nAdventism run together seemed to meet the demand. The Free Churches\nMilitant began, in an expressive American phrase, \u2018to palp with\nemotion\u2019; and as the new spiritual Combine devised by Mr. Trimblerigg,\nwith joined effects of dark s\u00e9ance and lurid anticipation of coming\nevents, filled its hired halls to overflowing with suffocating\nconverts, the churches grew empty.\n\nWith the sword of his spirit unsheathed and high uplifted, Mr.\nTrimblerigg did not spare his old associates who hung back in this\nday of battle for the new birth of spiritual democracy; and, to ears\nwhich had drunk in the sound of it, the old gang\u2019s trumpetings ceased\nhenceforth to avail or mean anything. Starting upon his fiery crusade\nto the sound of a hundred drums hired for the occasion, he stood at the\ndoor of his Pulman car, in the special that had been provided for him,\nand flourished defiance to all opposers over the heads of the seething\nmultitude which filled the terminus, frantic with joy at having found a\nleader whose single aim was to keep things on the run.\n\nHe stood there at the crowning point of his career; for here at last\nhe had created his own atmosphere; at the touch of his magician\u2019s wand\na new and densely populated environment had sprung up to spread itself\nround him. Power had been given him, vision, and the gift of tongues;\nthe future of revealed religion in the Free Churches hung trembling in\nthe balances of his mind.\n\nBut though it trembled (as it might well), he himself did not. From\nall over the world he felt a responsive rush of wings to meet him;\nthe right button had been touched, his call to make Heaven safe for\nDemocracy had come at last and the means to it had been found. All the\nrest had been but a preparation; this was the real thing.\n\nThe first sure proof of it was the readjustment of the news-headings in\nthe daily press; Religion began to take a front place. In the beginning\nthis perhaps was merely due to the novelty of the thing, with its\nattendant features of controversy and secession upon a large scale. But\nwhen weekly meetings all over the country, in the largest halls that\ntowns or cities could provide, became an established feature of the new\nmovement, it acquired not only a popular but a commercial importance\nas well; and when presently Mr. Trimblerigg did his first great stroke\nof business--combining the earthly with the heavenly on a scale that\nhad never been attempted before--Big Business itself sat up and began\nto pay attention. In less than six months, for reasons soon to be\nexplained, the Stock Exchange, for the first time in its existence,\nbecame sensitive to the call of Religion; and before the finish even\nthe Bank-rate had become affected by the vast scale of reinvestments\nin other worldliness engineered by Mr. Trimblerigg. For it was quite\nnatural, was it not?--if the world was coming to an end--that people\nshould want to take their money to Heaven with them. Mr. Trimblerigg\nobligingly provided them with a way, and even coined a new form of\ncurrency to give it better effect, image and superscription no longer\nC\u00e6sar\u2019s.\n\nBut this is to anticipate. Before these things happened, Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s faith in himself had reached an intensity which, except\nfor outside assistance, it could hardly have achieved. The impetus had\ncome from an unexpected quarter, and at first had not been welcome.\n\nIt was characteristic of Mr. Trimblerigg, when he took up with\nSecond Adventism, to do so without acknowledging or even recognizing\nthe source of his inspiration; for it is safe to say that within\ntwenty-four hours of making it his own he had, by an acrobatic feat\nof mental detachment, put Isabel Sparling entirely out of his mind\nas having anything to do with it; and had almost forgotten her\nexistence in the whirl of his own discovery, when among the rushing\nwings that flew to meet him from the far parts of the earth, came\nfirst a message from Isabel, couched in tactful terms, hailing him\nnot as her follower but as her leader, and then Isabel herself. Nor\ndid she come with her hands empty; she brought with her the proffered\nallegiance of her own vigorous following, already some fifty thousand\nstrong and going stronger every day; Rain-Baptists, Seals of Solomon,\nFirst Resurrectionists, Second Adventists, Last Day Disciples, New\nJerusalemites--all these, so little known in their separate capacities,\nnow joined together under her leadership in a common bond were a force\nno longer to be despised. And however little Mr. Trimblerigg might\nwelcome the reminder that his inspiration was shared by another, he\nwas too practical to reject the material thus offered him. Even though\nat home the movement was going ahead by leaps and bounds, a nucleus\nof fifty thousand souls in a country so impressionable as America was\nworth having: it meant at least a year to the good in solid spade work;\nin publicity it meant even more.\n\nBut Isabel had something else to give beside adherents; something very\nunique and wonderful and precious--so, displaying it, she told him; nor\nwas it the first time he had heard of it.\n\nIt was not much to look at: a small wooden box with a domed lid, and a\ncover of mildewed paper in an old-fashioned diaper; and around its rim\nwere seven seals, chipped and blackened with age, two of them already\nhanging loose where the covering paper had detached itself. But though\na poor thing to look at, it had of late years acquired fame, or at\nleast notoriety; and the Press had made copy of it. For this was the\nbox of the American prophetess, Susannah Walcot, dead now for over a\nhundred years but having followers still--the box concerning which she\nhad said that it must wait till one wearing a crown should open it,\nand reveal to the world its prophecies concerning the last things.\nAnd because all the crowned heads approached had refused to open it,\nand had been much abused by the faithful remnant of her followers for\nso doing, therefore it had remained sealed; till, coming into the\nhands of Isabel Sparling, upon the adherence to her teaching of the\ndwindling group which held it, it brought to mind a bright particular\nhead she had once seen, which, though in no earthly or material sense,\nhad indubitably been crowned in a glory of its own, so fulfilling the\ncondition which the prophetess had laid down.\n\nAnd that memory being in her mind when the treasure came into her\nkeeping, it may be guessed with what joyous confirmation of hope she\nheard presently that the once-crowned head had itself become a sudden\nconvert to Second Adventism. No sooner did the news reach her than she\nfelt that he was already hers; and having first sped a message, a week\nlater she was upon the high seas, on her way to meet him, and the box\nwith its seven seals, bore her company.\n\nAt the Customs she expensively saved its sacred contents from profane\nscrutiny by declaring it to be a special brand of tea hermetically\nsealed from sea-air. And as nothing of that weight could have cost her\nmore, officials with uncrowned heads took her word for it, and passed\ninto the country a prophecy destined to make its mark in history,\nbesides giving a neat finish to the career of Mr. Trimblerigg.\n\nWhat happened next must be briefly told; for I do not quite know\nall the circumstances that lay behind it. With the soul of Isabel\nSparling I have had so little acquaintance that I do not make myself\nresponsible for it; only as she came within range of Mr. Trimblerigg,\nand affected his career, did she interest me. For which reason I must\nleave unsolved the problem of the seven seals and what they contained\nat different dates, more especially whether they contained different\nthings before and after the day when she actually took charge of them.\nI will only say this, that Isabel Sparling was by the look of her an\nastute, a daring, and a resolute character; nor do I think that for\ngood and great ends she would stick at trifles or have more scruple\nthan Mr. Trimblerigg himself. Also I have reason to believe that she\nknew her man; and it may well be that in the gyrations of her emotional\ncareer, on which Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s own orbit had had its gravitating\neffect, she may have assimilated the doctrine of Relative Truth more\nthan one knows. And so whether it was genuine prophecy, coincidence,\nor only Relative Truth which brought the thing to pass, I leave each\nreader to decide according to his own taste or credulity.\n\nThe initial fact is that when Isabel Sparling, obliterating a\ndisputatious past, again met Mr. Trimblerigg, in order to make him the\ninstrument of her vision for the Millennium that was to be, she did not\nfind his head visibly crowned. Nor had she expected it; yet she was\npuzzled that it was not so. Such self-abnegation, to the foregoing of\na gift so uplifting and spiritual, though admirable as a mere act of\nhumility was not to be encouraged when a world in flux was waiting to\nbe saved not so much by knowledge in things spiritual as by novelty,\nand when, in consequence, anything in the way of signs and wonders\nmight be of so much help.\n\nMiss Sparling had seen the manifestation, and had believed in it;\nbelieved therefore that what had been once could be again. The\ncircumstances under which she had seen it, gave her grounds for\nsuspecting that Mr. Trimblerigg had not then borne witness valiantly\nto the light which was in him, had in consequence lost it, and needed\nperhaps to be encouraged in order to find it again. She recalled also\nthe case of Jonah: prophets were sometimes reluctant and had to be\npushed. All that I have now to record is the pushing.\n\nOutwardly it was very gently applied: Miss Sparling merely placed\nthe box in Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s hands for safe-keeping, and there left\nit. Inwardly? There after stating the facts, I can only leave others\nto guess. But be it noted that when she left it in his hands she did\nnot ask him to open it; she even told him that only a crowned head\ncould qualify for that purpose; and at that time at all events Mr.\nTrimblerigg was wearing no crown. Nevertheless--she having asked him to\nuse his influence and persuade a crowned head to open it--the box lay\nin his undisputed possession. And, as I have said before, I think that\nMiss Sparling knew her man, and how best to have him.\n\nAnd so it came about that, finding himself alone with it, though by no\nmeans yet convinced of its importance or the truth of its credentials,\nhe became interested in it. The mere fact that a box has been shut up\nfor nearly a hundred and fifty years makes it interesting--at least\nuntil it has been opened again: and this was a box claiming to contain\nprophecy.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg was no longer of a mind to reject anything which might\nbring grist to his mill. His discovery of Publicity as the wide gate\nand the broad road leading to eternal life, forbade him to dismiss as\ncommon or unclean anything which might seize the public interest. And\nhis public was now in a mood to seize anything: a whirl of excitement\nhad caught hold of the great semi-detached unsectarian forces of this\ntransitional age; and the fact that he was emptying the Churches was\nsufficient proof that what the public wanted was something it did not\nget there. The Churches had ceased to prophesy; prophecy, therefore,\nmight be the right card to play. Second Adventism was based on it:\nif anticipation was to be raised and seals opened, any old box might\nhelp; and this one had already attained publicity though not of a very\nserious kind. \u2018Can any real prophecy come from America?\u2019 had been the\ndepreciatory attitude with which the religious communities of the\nOld World met its claims; and if from America, why this demand for a\ncrowned head to open it? Why not a President, or a millionaire?\n\nMr. Trimblerigg himself, though doubting the extreme claims made for\nit, had never entirely rejected prophecy. Even when, for a brief\nspell, he had counted himself a modernist, the better to escape from\nthe trammels of True Belief, he had still found a rhetorical use for\nit; and the Land of Promise with its flowings of milk and honey had\noftentimes evoked soul-stirring utterances from his tongue which, when\nthey failed to materialize, became mere figures of speech. But he would\nmuch rather that they had materialized; and had they done so would have\nclaimed the credit for it. That precisely was, and always had been his\nattitude toward prophecy; if he could give its fulfilment he would\nclaim credit for it; if not he would treat it as a figure of speech.\n\nIt was in that same attitude, tentatively, that he laid his hand on\nthe box. It might be a good egg; but he did not want to commit himself\npublicly to anything that would let him down. He would like first to\nknow more of the contents. Prophecy might be what his public required\nto complete the spell he had begun to lay on it; but the extant\nwritings of Susannah Walcot, obscure, diffuse, and ungrammatical,\ntogether with the diminished number of her followers, did not inspire\nhim with confidence; and so for the present his attitude toward\nprophecy, as he laid his hand on a box said to be full of it, remained\nunchanged,--he was only prepared to accept it conditionally--in his own\ntime and in his own way; that is, if it suited him.\n\nBut as he stooped and examined the box, its structure as well as its\npossibilities began to interest him; for he noticed that though it\nhad many seals at the top its bottom was quite removable; long rusty\nnails sticking out a little where the dried wood had shrunk, and at\none point a gap where cautious leverage might be possible, suggested a\nway which in the interests of Relative Truth one might adopt. From one\naspect--the one which practically did not matter--it was an equivocal\nand surreptitious deed; but as over everything else which might have\nheld others in doubt, having quite made up his mind to it, he prayed\nlong and fervently that he might be guided aright in what he did, and\nalso that he might have sufficient skill in carpentry to cover up his\ntracks when the will of Heaven was done.\n\nHe worked at it very patiently for three hours, when the rest of his\nhousehold was a-bed, till with gathered experience he acquired a\nstandard which, if not skilled, allowed him to feel safe.\n\nIt was not hard work so much as delicate; the wood was tender and\nworm-eaten, the old-fashioned nails with screw-heads came out quite\neasily--too easily in fact, at first; bits of the wood came with them.\nThis frightened him, he went more slowly. After a tedious period of\nminute labour the wood was ready to come away in his hand. With his\nattitude to prophecy still unchanged he lifted it away, and out of the\nbox like a pudding from its mould came a compact mass of very yellow\nstained paper slightly stuck together by mildew, and dampness that had\ndried.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg saw at once that a long task was before him. The\nprophecies were in a small cramped hand with numerous contractions, and\nmany words badly spelt.\n\nHere and there the ink had gone faint; in other parts time and moisture\nhad made whole passages undecipherable; portions of the prophecy had\nindubitably passed into oblivion; but far larger portions remained.\n\nWith the help of headings--titles symbolic in character--Mr.\nTrimblerigg began skimming. At first sceptical and a little bored, he\npresently grew interested; and though not yet convinced, he saw that\nfrom the publicity point of view the thing had possibilities. This, for\ninstance, he regarded as an arresting passage:\n\n\u2018And lo, when the Cock, stricken by the double-pated Eagle, draws in\nits claws, causing the Scarlet Parrot to fall from its perch, then\nshall a city fall and a people go free, and the mark of the Beast that\nwas on it shall be blotted out.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, questing this way and that, searched his history; and\nwhen presently his mind lighted on a likely spot, he found there an\nastonishingly close parallel; for this, clearly, was--or could be taken\nas--a reference, couched in unfriendly terms, to the Papacy\u2019s loss of\nTemporal Power in the year 1870, owing to the withdrawal of the French\ntroops which protected it.\n\nPresently he began to feel that he was missing things through not\nknowing as much about modern history as he ought to do; and that a\ngreat deal that he was reading might possibly be true could he but\ndiscover the application.\n\nPresuming that the prophecies followed a chronological order, he turned\non, and before long had struck substance. Here he was no longer out of\nhis depth.\n\n\u2018When the Bear and the Lion and the Cock shall rise up and stand\ntogether in a heap, and become as one for the defence of a Lamb that\nwas without blame--\u2019 This clearly was modern history, and though not\nquite true history it was the kind of history that was still being\nswallowed by the Public for which Mr. Trimblerigg had to cater. This at\nall events was the sort of thing that would go down; there was, in the\njournalistic sense, good copy in it.\n\nAt first Mr. Trimblerigg had inclined to suppose that \u2018the Lamb\u2019 had a\nscriptural significance; he soon decided, however, that it was better\nfor it to mean Belgium; without making the prophecy more true it made\nit more obvious.\n\nThis wresting of the text to suit his possible requirements was a\nsufficient indication that now Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s interest had become\nactive. His attitude to prophecy had not exactly changed, but it was\nbeing accentuated. He was beginning to see Opportunity upon a large\nscale; in fact he was not far off from becoming a Susannah Walcotite.\nWith hope mounting to enthusiasm he read on.\n\nStartling analogies began to come thick and fast; with a whirring of\nwings like coveys put up from fields of unreaped harvest--invisible at\none moment, at the next dominating the whole landscape, they flew over\nhis head making a plumed darkness on the bright heavens beyond. From\nthis strange scripture, diffuse, chaotic, with pages not numbered, he\nbegan to take notes. Amid much that he did not understand and a good\ndeal which might mean anything, certain figures leapt into definite\nsignificance, capable of meaning but one thing only.\n\n\u2018When the Striped Eagle is seen walking upon the waters with his\nface to the sun,\u2019 was the entry of America into the War. It is true\nthat, in the first instance, he read the third word as \u2018stupid\u2019; but\non consideration of the facts and the post-war susceptibilities of\nAmerica, he decided that \u2018striped\u2019 was better. And there was more like\nunto it.\n\nThen, turning for awhile from its theme of nations at War, the prophecy\nbecame personal and particular.\n\n\u2018And in that day behold a man shall arise and become a beacon; in him\na candle shall be set up, and its wick shall be kindled, so that the\nfour corners of the earth shall know of it. His light shall shine; yea,\nmen shall see it and be amazed. Honour shall be upon his head; and\nwhatsoever he sayeth shall come to pass; his hand shall prosper it. My\n\u201cyea\u201d shall be upon his lips, and my yolk upon his shoulders; to his\nvoice the \u201cyea, yea\u201d of the nations shall answer: they shall be all\nyolked together because of him.\u2019\n\nSusannah\u2019s spelling was often queer; but as I read this, looking over\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s shoulder to do it, I began to think that her spelling\nwas sometimes inspired; for I saw now what was coming.\n\nTurning a page,--a page which stood somehow by itself, mildewed like\nthe rest, but with most of its script obliterated--Mr. Trimblerigg read\non:\n\n\u2018He is my prophet, my messenger; unto Nineveh have I called him; yea,\nI have given him a name that he may be known, that he may be called the\nsecond Jonah. Than him none shall be more exalted; and of all feet that\nrun no feet shall run faster.\u2019\n\nJonathan sat up; his name almost _was_ Jonah; and with the word that\nfollowed, dropping only an H, the anagram was perfect. Uplifted and\nentranced, he read on:\n\n\u2018When I call him, he shall be afraid; but though he fears me I will\nrun after him. Yea, I will run while I wait; and though I bide my time\nyet will I catch him. When I make my light shine on him he shall be in\ndoubt; I will withdraw my light from him, so that in darkness he may\nlearn and know. I will put my hook in his mouth and lead him; yea, I\nwill bait his breath so that he may become a catcher of men. He shall\ntravel west, but east he shall return: he shall go far, but I will make\nhim come again. Yea, the ship whereon he goes shall be shaken because\nof him; the rigging thereof shall tremble. Have I not given him a name?\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg no longer merely sat up, he skipped to his feet. Only\none letter--the letter \u2018i\u2019 was missing to make the prophecy absolute.\nBut proper names, he remembered, were very seldom correctly spelt in\nold days; and it had ever been a source of pride to him to know that\nupon his father\u2019s side, far back, the family had been illiterate for\ngenerations.\n\n\u2018Trimblerigg!\u2019 \u2018And the rigging thereof shall tremble. Have I not given\nhim a name?\u2019 What could be plainer than that?\n\nHe continued to pore over the quaint crabbed writing, with its\nmisspellings and its occasional misconstructions,--a style of grammar\nbelonging to the half-educated of a century ago, but not much worse\non the whole than the bad Greek of the New Testament. Was bad grammar\nand bad spelling a reason for rejecting a message so high? In the\nworld\u2019s eyes he feared it would be. In the worldly sense this Susannah\nwas but a half-educated person; sometimes she made prophecies which he\nnot only failed to identify, but which even seemed contradictory, in a\nwrong tone, out of place. This, for instance, presented a meaning less\ndoubtful than undesirable; he had no use for it:\n\n\u2018In that day the Lion and the Ass will lie down together; they will\nshare a bed, they will eat hay together, and the heart of the Lion\nshall wax faint, and his thoughts grow foolish. And the Lion shall\nlisten to the voice of the Ass, and shall think it wisdom. For the Ass\nshall bray and speak, saying, \u201cIt is going to rain\u201d; and immediately it\nshall do so. Then shall the Ass say, \u201cCome into my stable; for there I\nhave a place prepared for thee, where it does not rain.\u201d So shall they\nrise up and go, the Lion and the Ass together; and in the stable they\nshall find one waiting for them with his tackle prepared; and he shall\nlet down his tackle upon their backs and harness the two of them, the\nLion with the Ass, and the Ass with the Lion, making them to be a pair\nunder one yolk. And all their apples shall be in one cart; and the man,\nthe owner of the Ass shall drive them whither they know not.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg read the passage twice; he did not like it, it\nperturbed him. Assuming the Lion to mean what he thought it to mean,\nthis was an event which no reading of history could justify: it never\nhad been true, it never would be true. In the other prophecies it was\nquite evident that the Lion was the chosen beast, well-pleasing to the\nLord; how, then, did it come into this forecast of divine dispensation\nthat the Lion should go so far astray?\n\nAnd who the dickens was the Ass? He looked ahead wherever he saw Ass\nand Lion figuring together; and the obscurities and perversities of the\nprophecy became more confounding. The Lion was clearly not doing the\nright thing; it was following the Ass into a course of action which was\nleading to no good, which was, in fact, morally wrong; and so far as\nhe could place the prophecies in their chronological sequence, these\nmisdoings must some of them be quite recent, and some actually taking\nplace now. Unedified, he began turning the pages in haste, to find\nsomething better; and so doing--it was a pity!--managed to miss this,\nwhich caught my quicker eye:\n\n\u2018And the Ass said to the Lion, \u201cLet us drive the scapegoat into the\nwilderness and there skin it; and from the skin of the scapegoat let\nus make coats for ourselves and for our children.\u201d And the Lion said,\n\u201cWill it be enough?\u201d And the Ass answered, \u201cIt shall be enough; for\nwe will stretch it this way and that and make it enough; or if so it\nbe not enough, then we will wait till a second skin be grown, and\nwill take that also; and after that another, and another, till we be\nsatisfied.\u201d Then said the Lion, \u201cBut if he die of it, how shall we be\nsatisfied?\u201d And the Ass answered, \u201cWe will not let him die, till we be\nsatisfied.\u201d So together they drove the scapegoat into the wilderness,\nand there they lost him. And the Lion reproached the Ass saying,\n\u201cWhere is the skin of the scapegoat that you promised me?\u201d And the\nAss answered, \u201cA proposal is not a promise, neither is a promise a\nperformance. Let it suffice that we have driven the scapegoat into the\nwilderness, and that he will presently die there. What matter how he\ndies, so long as he does die?\u201d But the Lion said, \u201cI have no coats for\nmy children, and I am not satisfied.\u201d\u2019\n\nHad Mr. Trimblerigg read that, I wonder what he would have made of it?\nHad he done so his attitude toward prophecy might have altered. He\nmight have given the box back to Isabel Sparling \u2018unopened,\u2019 without\nhaving found what followed.\n\nThis was a separate enclosure of folded tissue paper, spotted and\nyellow with age, broken at the folds, and very frail to the touch.\nIt was sealed with the seal of the prophetess; but a single seal on\npaper presented little difficulty to Mr. Trimblerigg. With great\ncircumspection and delicacy of handling he applied the hot blade\nof a knife, lifted the seal away, and laid open the contents. A\nwash-drawing in sepia on mildewed paper was what met his eye. From the\nartistic point of view it was very poor and amateurish; but to say\nthat it interested him were to put the matter very mildly indeed. It\nrepresented a man with rather short legs, middle-aged, somewhat full in\nthe body, and clad in a full-skirted coat. As a forecast of present-day\nfashions it was not very good; but the legs were in trousers, not\nknee-breeches, and the head did not wear a wig.\n\nIt was the head that most interested him; a large spot of mildew had\npartly obliterated the features, but not enough to obscure the type.\nThe face was broad, the cheeks were smooth-shaven, the forehead was\nnoble, the hair rather long, and curled up at the ends like the hair\nof the knave of hearts in a pack of cards; a large bow-tie sat under\nthe chin,--the black tie of a Free Church minister. Underneath were\nthe words, \u2018Behold the Fore-runner!\u2019 And again, underneath that, were\nthese words of Scripture: \u2018Arise, shine, for thy light has come, and\nthe glory of the Lord is risen upon thee!\u2019 Around the head was an\nindubitable halo; and faint, very faint, upon the blank space of it to\nright and left, the initials \u2018J\u2019 and \u2018T.\u2019\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\n\n_The Procession of a Flea_\n\n\nMr. Trimblerigg stopped to breathe; and while he did so I made a\npsychological examination of that poor work of art which was yet, in\nits way, so perfect a masterpiece. Had Mr. Trimblerigg been more of\nan expert in old wash-drawings and brushwork, had he been gifted with\na more sceptical turn of mind than that which had fitted his views\nto such differing situations, he might have examined those initials,\nand that spot of mildew defacing the supposititious features, more\nminutely, analytically and chemically than he actually did. That the\nwash-drawing as a whole was well over a hundred years old any expert\nwould probably have agreed; whether he would have given the same date\nto the initials, and a few other salient touches I had my doubt, and\nthe doubt remains unresolved; no expert has ever been called in to\ndecide the matter. If Miss Sparling herself limed that snare, she\ncertainly did it well; the obliteration of the face, with just the\nsuggestion of a likeness left, was finely controlled; and yet the\ncontrol may have only been Father Time\u2019s; and whether it was luck, or\nwhether Susannah Walcot was in truth a prophetess of penetrating power,\nwho is now to say? The lengths to which the human faculties can go\nhave often filled me with astonishment; Mr. Trimblerigg was only one\ninstance among many. On this occasion, however, he did not astonish me\nin the least; he did what I expected him to do.\n\nBefore that culminating piece of evidence--that silent but resounding\ncall--he sank upon his knees, and remained on them for a long time.\n\nI watched the motions of his mind; they were very interesting; but\nthey had not really to go far. That he was called to be a shining light\nto the whole civilized world did not at this stage of things surprise\nhim. As a probability he had thought so ever since he could remember;\nrecently he had been made sure of it. It was only the strange manner\nof this final call, and its clearly miraculous accompaniments that did\na little stagger him. It also caused a definite shift--a shift to the\nright--in his always adjustable theology. It drew him definitely from\nmodernism back toward True Belief. For this was something with which\nmodernism could not be reconciled; it was primitive, apocalyptic,\nultra-evangelical, it made, amongst other things, for the literal\ninterpretation of Scripture: if this was true, the other was not.\n\nAnd so it became clear that in accepting the call from such a source,\nhis own cast of faith must be simplified once and for all,--that he\nmust revert to the earlier faith of his Uncle Phineas.\n\nUncle Phineas was right. It might still be true that the sun did not\nactually go round the earth, that the earth was not literally fixed,\nor flat, as Uncle Phineas had wished him to believe; but there was\nnevertheless a principle of fixture in eternal truth, fixture rather\nthan evolution or motion, going much deeper into the nature of things\nthan he had supposed. He became, all at once, curiously doubtful of his\ndoctrine of Relative Truth, for he saw that to his exposition of this\nmore divine and direct dispensation it might prove a hindrance.\n\nIt was for his followers he was now troubled. As regards himself he\nhad no difficulty in getting rid of it. For the recovery of that purer\nfaith his early training now stood him in good stead, and Uncle Phineas\nbecame a rock in whose shadow he could hide. What he had trained\nhimself to believe in his \u2019teens, what he had broken away from in his\nearly twenties, what he had exploitively used for opportunist purposes\nin the propaganda of war and of Mosaic reprisals on savages who could\nnot otherwise be taught better, was still in his blood--waiting to give\nhim the upward push. In his new childlikeness he thanked whatever gods\nthere be that he had always treated with tender allowance and regard\nthe primitive views of Caroline, both as wife and mother; and that he\nhad never allowed the scepticism of Davidina--Davidina, who had now\nfound a new sphere for her dispensing powers in the exploration and\nhumane taming of savage tribes--to discolour the rainbow gradients of\nhis mind. The theological problems she had maliciously presented to\nhim in old days, he had happily ignored: they had at least done him no\npermanent harm. Reversion to type, in his case at all events, was not\ndifficult. In a certain sense Relative Truth helped him; for even if\nthe simpler faith were not as absolutely true as it now seemed to him,\nit was true relatively to the immediate purpose in hand. And so still,\nas one might say, upon two legs--one numbed and quiescent but the other\nlithe and active--he entered confidently and with singleness of purpose\ninto the Kingdom that had been prepared for him.\n\nGoing up to bed in the small hours he was very tired, and did not stop\nto look in the glass, did not stop to do anything. He switched out the\nlight and got into bed. Only then did the great recovery he had made\ndawn on him.\n\nTurning his head sideways in comfortable adjustment for slumber, he\nsaw upon the pillow a patch of yellow light, faint, but for small\nimmediate use efficient. In the centre of its radiance marched a flea.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg did not like fleas; he made an instinctive pounce, and\nthe flea died the death. Then the wonder of it occurred to him. He sat\nup, he got out of bed, he went to the glass. In the darkness he could\nsee himself: Crocean dawn was round him once more. His surreptitious\naction of the last few hours, Heaven had now justified. He had no\nlonger any doubts, any fears; he did not even see difficulties, for now\nthe world was running to meet him, and millions of his fellow-creatures\nwere prepared to take without question anything he offered them.\n\nFaint with bliss, he tottered back to bed, laid his crowned head upon\nthe pillow, and slept.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\n\n_The Procession Continues_\n\n\nThe next morning there was a small fly in the ointment of his bliss; a\nletter from Davidina. Thousands of miles away, among the swamps of the\nAmazon, news had apparently reached her of her brother\u2019s marvellous\ndoings; and of course, as he might have expected, her comment sounded\nthe note of criticism.\n\n \u2018My dear Jonathan,\u2019 ran the letter, \u2018if you go on like that, you will\n burst.\n                                                \u2018Yours affectionate,\n                                                                 \u2018D. T.\u2019\n\nThe letter came too late. Mr. Trimblerigg no longer cared what the\nfar-removed Davidina thought of him. Her long-distance pin-pricks had\nlost their medicinal virtue. \u2018Puff!\u2019 he remarked airily; and as he\nflipped the letter into the waste-paper basket, his fate resumed the\njiggety tenor of its way, and the bursting process went on. For in the\nlast few hours Mr. Trimblerigg had greatly fortified himself by prayer,\nso that his good opinion of himself was now undeflectable; and the\nold helpless feeling, which his attacks of prayer so often gave me,\nhad come upon me once more. But this time I was rather enjoying it,\nand was very much interested, wondering how far--left to himself--Mr.\nTrimblerigg would go.\n\nIf ever the human race comes to read its own history, without\nprejudice, or blindness, or superstition, it will discover as never\nbefore what a tremendous part answer to prayer has played in man\u2019s\nmaking. As never before: for the strangest part of that discovery\nwill be from which end the answer to prayer has come. Man claims\nmany virtues which he does not possess; but he has also a few which\nhe does not know; and if my materials have sometimes disappointed\nme, and inclined me to think that, on the whole, the making of\nman was a mistake, I have only had to turn and watch him in his\nmarvellous manufacture of answers to his own prayers, to feel afresh\nthe encouragement and diversion with which the work of creation has\nprovided me.\n\nUnder the auspices of a thousand religions, which cannot possibly all\nof them be true, operated in the interests of gods who are, or who were\nsome of them, no better than they should be, prayer has always been\nanswered. And the more firmly man has held to that faith bowing before\nthe dark altars of his strange and shifting creeds, the more surely and\nswiftly has he evolved and made for himself a life worth living, and\nfor me a spectacle worth contemplating.\n\nHad all those Heavens to which he addressed his prayer really sent\nback the answer, bobbing it like a cherry to the open mouth of the\nsupplicant, what a poor effete parasitic thing he would have become!\nBut because the Heavens were more aloof and the gods much harder of\nhearing than he knew, or because a wise silence was the true air from\nwhich his spirit drew breath of life, therefore has man, left to answer\nhimself from that Kingdom of Heaven which is within him, become the\noverruling factor of his still changing and troubled world; possessing\nhimself of the lies wherewith priestcraft has so generously provided\nhim, he takes and turns them into truth.\n\nAnd so, by prayer, he has made history. But, though he has told many\ntales to the contrary for the bettering of his faith, has anything\never really happened in his contact with wind or weather, seed-time\nor harvest, storm, earthquake, eclipse, course of sun and moon, that\nhe has not brought about himself? He still talks of the evidence of\nhis senses: but there the evidence of his senses stands immemorially\nbefore him, and he still does not believe them! In spite of all the\nBank-holidays and National F\u00eates that wet weather has spoiled for him,\ninflicting disappointment and misery upon millions of his fellows out\nfor a snack of holiday whose date cannot possibly be changed--in spite\nof that evidence staring him in the face, he still thinks that I am the\nclerk of the weather, and prays to me about it, and still likes me; and\ndoes not think me cross-grained, or spiteful, or revengeful, because I\nhave spoiled so many of his holidays! Truly, with all his faults, man\nis the most marvellously forgiving creature that was ever made--or else\nthe most inconsequent in all those matters which are called matters of\nfaith.\n\nOften and often have I had cause to wonder at the things which man\nfound possible to believe: his queer creeds, his superstitions, his\ntransference of justice from this world to the next, his appetite for\nmaking his gods like himself in their bad as well as in their good\nqualities; and then for making them unlike himself, with miraculous\npowers, attended by signs and wonders, and visitations, and unexpected\nhappenings, which even in his insurance policies he calls \u2018acts of\nGod.\u2019 All these things fill me with amazement that any man should\nbelieve in them as having any spiritual significance whatsoever.\nBut when I consider how many believe that I provide the weather for\nBank-holiday and harvest, and can change it at will, then I have to\nadmit that man can make himself believe anything if once he starts\npraying about it. And so it was quite natural that having prayed about\nhimself so long and earnestly, Mr. Trimblerigg should also believe in\nhimself as much as he did.\n\nAnd so upon its second advent, Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s halo was a great\nsuccess. It did not have to appear unexplained; a public meeting was\narranged for it. And there with due solemnity for the strengthening\nof faith the box of Susannah Walcot was brought forth like a new ark\nof the covenant; and a crowned head, having first prayed to be guided\naright, broke the seals, drew out the contents, and read extracts, and\ncoming upon an illustrated page was for putting it modestly aside, when\nhis hand was stayed by the vigilance of Isabel Sparling. After that\nthe success of Susannah\u2019s prophecies was assured. Judiciously edited\nthey caused a tremendous sensation, arousing also, in the episcopal\nchurches, derision and furious opposition.\n\nIt was the finishing touch requisite for full success. With that final\npush Second Adventism, under the ban of the older theology, moved on\nfrom strength to strength. In the Free Churches it swept the board, and\nnot many months later candidates for holy orders, in all congregations\nwhere the incumbents were democratically chosen, had little chance\nof selection unless they came as certified converts to Spiritualism,\nSecond Adventism, and the prophetic writings of Susannah Walcot. The\norgan of the movement, _The Last Trump_, displaying on its cover an ace\nof hearts with rays emanating, ran into a circulation of millions. And\nthough its opponents might call it \u2018The Artful Card,\u2019 and its radiant\neditor \u2018The Artful Dodger,\u2019 and publish parodies of the prophecies\nas they appeared in weekly instalments, its scope and influence\nbecame more and more irresistible. In the price and extent of its\nadvertisement columns alone it was only beaten by that most popular of\nall ladies\u2019 journals _The Toilet Table_. And even _The Toilet Table_ in\nits editorials was kind to the movement, and gave prominent reports of\nits preachers and the smartness of its congregations.\n\nIndeed before long there were scarcely any other congregations worth\ntalking about outside the high and dry pale of Episcopacy. And\nthen, against that also, Mr. Trimblerigg struck his blow. A brief\nannouncement without boast or comment, in _The Last Trump_, told that\nexclusive arrangements had been made by Second Adventism for the\nbroadcasting of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s orations, every Sunday, morning and\nevening, at the competitive hours of divine service.\n\nAt that scrapping of its preachers, Episcopacy became active, appealed\nto public opinion for its protection, and found that it was too\nlate. Within a month informal disestablishment had become its lot;\nand though with its endowments and its powers of preferment left, it\nremained rich, and in its own narrow circle influential; it ceased to\ncount as an organization of national importance. And meanwhile, in\nsurreptitious driblets, adherents of the Free Church rump--Baptists,\nCongregationalists, Methodists, Free Evangelicals were passing over to\nthe ranks of Second Adventism.\n\nHow, indeed, could any who did not accuse Mr. Trimblerigg of demoniacal\npossession--which was the cry of the \u2018Scarlet Parrot\u2019--do otherwise?\nFor here, undeniably, was a light that shone, which only spiritual\nagencies could explain; and, good or bad, the world must make its\nchoice, and camp accordingly. For the most part it camped where the\nextraordinary phenomenon could best be seen--that is to say among Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s audiences, which now--aided by loud-speakers--had become\nvast, occupying almost daily a deserted stadium, where an ephemeral\nexhibition, having burned out its six-months\u2019 popularity, still\nstood with only its shell of lath, plaster, and paint, awaiting the\ndissolution of time. Into that vast auditorium, in all weathers, wet or\ndry, special trains, running to the exhibition terminus, poured their\nthousands day after day. And day by day the world\u2019s conviction that\nit was coming to a speedy and a prosperous end, increased and became\na fever raging through the body politic, unstabilizing the currency,\ndoing certain vested interests much harm, but others much more good.\n\nWhen it was announced that Second Adventism had become a co-operative\ncompany for the conversion of Commerce to the reception of the New\nJerusalem, presently to appear upon earth in concrete form, and when\nMr. Trimblerigg promulgated a great building scheme--mainly of the\nsaid concrete--by which the vision was to materialize on the ground\nwhere the derelict Exhibition with its plaster palaces stood awaiting\ndecay, then began ugly rushes on the Stock Exchange, a sharp shifting\nof investments; and between Big Finance, Episcopacy, and the Liquor\nTrade a desperate alliance was formed--quite as in the old days of Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s early career--sign that at last the real issue was to\nbe joined, and that there were interests in the world--and powerful\nones--which Second Adventism did not suit.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, though it often annoyed him, was not the kind of man\nto fear opposition when it came. He did not avoid the challenge, he\nwent out to meet it. But he saw that the tussle was coming, and in\norder to gain access of strength as expeditiously as possible for the\nordeal that lay ahead he decided that the psychological moment had come\nfor him to visit America.\n\nOffers of a sensational character had, of course, already reached him.\nOne Lecture Agency had assured him that if his halo would stand the\nchange of climate, a scientific investigation, and the nervous strain\nincidental to a daily appearance before mammoth audiences, it could\nguarantee that thousands should be turned away in every city, and no\nseats sold to the public under five dollars a head.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg, when the time came, decided otherwise. He announced\nthat admission was to be free. When America heard that, it first fell\ndown and worshipped him, then in panic began to mobilize its army,\ndouble its police force, set up steel barricades and enlarge its\ncemeteries in order to cope with the record crowds and the ensuing\nmortality which would result. The problem of how to deal with countless\nmultitudes all ruthlessly set at whatever expense to life and limb, on\nseeing a real halo alive on a man\u2019s head, and hearing the man\u2019s head\nspeak from the midst of it, occupied the headlines of the newspapers\nfor weeks, even before Mr. Trimblerigg started on his voyage. And when\nhe had started, then all the reporters of the American press chartered\na ship and went out to meet him.\n\nIt was then that Mr. Trimblerigg was asked the historic question what\nit felt like to be the greatest man in the world. And Mr. Trimblerigg\nanswered that it made him feel shy; and the next moment could have\nbitten his tongue out for having fallen so easily into the first trap\nwhich an expert in publicity had set for him.\n\nIt did not in the least really matter. It made good copy; and\nthough it also made the judicious smile, the judicious--always an\ninsignificant minority--in an affair conducted on so vast a scale did\nnot count.\n\n\u2018Trimblerigg charges that he is the greatest man alive,\u2019 was an unfair\nway of putting it; but it could not be described as untrue. And so he\njust had to live it down.\n\nHe did so without any difficulty. He was in a country where only\nthe statue of Liberty shared the distinction that he carried about\nwith him; and while her halo only shot out in separate rays from\nperforations concealed under her crown, his was a perfect round, it\nwent out everywhere; it was also alight continuously day and night. The\ntorchlight procession organized up Fifth Avenue to greet its arrival\nwas thrown into the shade by its ever-increasing vitality. The torches\nwere a foolish excrescence, they interested nobody; and though five\nmiles of them impeded the distant view, the one central fact outshone\nthem all.\n\nThe reporters, dealing with that central fact, after a brief attempt\nto be facetious had become hushed and awes-truck. Their public would\nnot allow them to be otherwise; America, having gotten a live halo\nto its shores, was not in a mood to have its genuineness questioned,\nthe mystery of its origin derided, or any other slight put upon\nits dignity. It became a thing inviolate, sacred as \u2018Old Glory\u2019\nherself; and when an unfortunate youth, unimpressed by the beauty of\nits holiness, shouted a derisive remark at its passing, the crowd\nlynched him for it. After that minority opinion became as terrorized\nfrom expressing itself as it had been while the \u2018Liberty Loan\u2019 was\nvoluntarily subscribing for America\u2019s entry into the war. There was no\nhalf-way safety point left: those who doubted the divine origin of Mr.\nTrimblerigg\u2019s luminosity were regarded as Satanists; and when here, as\nin the old world, Episcopacy persisted in holding out, the genuineness\nof its Orders began for the first time to be generally doubted, and the\nnumbers of its adherents seriously diminished. No wonder that even the\n\u2018Movies\u2019 became afraid of him, and offered him fabulous sums to turn\nfilm-artist, on the single condition that during his term of contract\nhe would keep himself hid from the public eye.\n\nAnd so, if anybody had laughed at Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s ingenuous answer\non the question of his greatness, the laugh speedily died down, having\nleft nothing to feed on. For if Mr. Trimblerigg was not the greatest\nman in the world, he was, at all events, the greatest success. In a\nsingle week he had made America believe in miracle; after which, from\nsuch a source, America was ready to believe almost anything.\n\nHis first message was delivered from the plinth of the Statue of\nLiberty in New York Harbour, to an arrangement of loud-speakers\nwhich enabled him to be heard from Newark round by Staten Island to\nBrooklyn; thence, to a yet wider circle--embracing the greater part\nof the western hemisphere--broadcasting took up the tale, and if not\nquite making the world one, making Mr. Trimblerigg its sole topic of\nconversation.\n\nRecord crowds attended the performance; two ferry-boats capsized under\nthe one-sided weight of the thousands who jammed the upper decks. The\nchurches, smarter in the uptake than those of his own country, were\nsatisfactorily filled; for there also loud-speakers adorned the vacant\npulpits, and congregations of a hundred denominations hung upon his\nlips.\n\nIn that there was a danger, since verbal inspiration was now generally\nascribed to him: and Mr. Trimblerigg being one of those orators who,\nwhen they let themselves go, are never quite sure what they may\nsay,--or, afterwards, what they actually have said,--found it very hard\nto keep within safe bounds, or to withhold certain inspiring facts\nwhich he believed himself to possess.\n\nHe knew, for instance, the day on which the world, as regards its\npresent dispensation, was to end. Susannah Walcot had given her word\nfor it; but hitherto the Council of the Second Adventists had decided\nnot to publish it,--to keep it till their position had become more\nabsolutely assured, and the world psychologically ready to receive it.\n\nBut it was very difficult for Mr. Trimblerigg, when a whole continent\nwas rushing into a state of conversion, and millions listening\nfervently to his daily orations, it was very difficult to keep back,\nin moments of inspired utterance, a declaration which would give\nthe _clou_ to the whole movement, letting organized society know in\ndefinite terms how brief, how startlingly brief, was its time-limit,\nbefore that great cataclysmic change which would take and turn it\nupside down.\n\nAnd so one day, in a moment of effervescence, Mr. Trimblerigg let it\nout. And having done so, there was no going back on it.\n\nWith many millions already declared converts, and at least as many\nmore hovering upon the brink, waiting for the deciding push, Second\nAdventism in that act of inspired indiscretion revealed its weakness\nand its strength. Western civilization (the East staying strangely\nunmoved, sceptical, slightly amused) received a shock comparable to\na renewed outbreak of war. It was as though a half of the world had\nleapt to its feet in startled amaze, then staggered and plunged. For\nthen on all the stock exchanges the wildest rush for reinvestments\nbegan that had ever been known, and mainly for shares in the vast\nco-operative concerns of New Jerusalem Ltd. which had been set going\nbefore his departure to America by Mr. Trimblerigg. A city designed to\nhold a million souls--self-governing, self-supporting, with its own\ntrade-tokens for currency, and closely encircled by an agricultural\ncombine exclusively supplying its needs from day to day--was now being\nrushed into being before the astonished eyes of a metropolis which had\nhitherto regarded itself as the biggest thing of its kind in the world.\n\nBut if, in less than a year, such a city could spring up mushroom-like\nfrom the soil, with a mere used-up playground set about with\ntoy-palaces as its nucleus, what might it not do within a decade\nunder a new dispensation? Its huge neighbour, unplanned, haphazard,\nfortuitous in the slow growth through which it had attained its\npresent dimensions, and replete with vested interests opposed to so\ndislocating a change, paled at the mere thought of it. But the plan was\nalready in operation, building was going on; and half the farmers and\ndairymen of the surrounding counties had signed contracts of future\nservice entirely subversive to the supply-system of a city ten times\nits size. The trade-interests tried to get an act through Parliament,\nbut the electoral power of Second Adventism was too strong. They tried\nto engineer a strike in the building trade, but Second Adventism was\npaying its workers too well. In every department there was prosperity\nand contentment; and when the Trade Unions and their leaders themselves\nbecame converts to Second Adventism, what more could the enemy do?\nThey tried to get Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s co-operative currency prohibited\nas a base imitation of the coin of the realm; but Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ncurrency had been designed with holes through it--haloes with the heads\nmissing--so that it could deceive nobody; and the Courts ruled that\nas a trade-token for convenience in commerce, it was allowable. Then\nthey tried to swamp out its value by forging it; but as it had its full\nworth of silver in the world\u2019s exchange, forgeries did not matter. Of\ncourse no bank would handle it; but that also did not matter. The New\nJerusalem was going to have a bank of its own; and when the present\nstate of things came to an end, it might well be the only bank that\nwould count.\n\nFor Second Adventism did not teach that the world was going to end in\nfire, and earthquake, and physical overthrow; but that a new spirit\nwould come hovering, responsive to the call of its worshippers; and\nentering into the place prepared for it, there set up a light; and\nall the world would see a working object-lesson of the new society\nthat was soon to be; co-operation would take the place of competition;\na reorganization of industry would make strikes superfluous;\ninternationalism would arise, not from the adjustment of racial\ndifferences but from religious unity. And out of that would come Peace.\n\nThe originality of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s idea had been this--first to make\nreligion irresistibly popular, by running it as a kind of \u2018stunt\u2019--big\nbusiness and beatific vision combined--and then having made piety\nprosperous, to substitute, for the solution of the world\u2019s ills, the\nreligious organization for the political.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg had seen that habit--habit of mind as well as body--is\nthe dead weight in the world\u2019s affairs which separates man from\nfaith, and prevents mountains from being moved. And so with Second\nAdventism, backed by spiritualism and prophecy, he had routed men\u2019s\nminds out of their groove, simply by convincing them that on a given\ndate, willy-nilly, the groove was coming to an end. Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s\ngreatest exploit was not in building a city capable of containing a\nmillion souls, but in finding a million souls ready to flock to it. And\nhe had done so, in the main, by convincing them that the New Jerusalem\nmeant good business. \u2018Homes for Haloes,\u2019 the motto he had chosen for\nhis scheme, did not really mean much when you came to examine it, for\nthough the homes were fast taking shape, the haloes were still to seek.\nBut \u2018Homes for Heroes\u2019 or \u2018Homes for Haloes\u2019, have an encouraging sound\nabout them, and each, on different occasions, have served their turn,\nhelping publicists out for popular applause to rouse a fictitious\nenthusiasm in their followers, till cold fact came after and snuffed it\nout.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\n\n_The Procession Ends_\n\n\nHaving announced a date for the end of the world--the old world with\nits troublous record, its damaged reputation, its useless strivings\nafter success,--an end which was to be brought about not by the death\nand destruction of the wicked, but by a new birth unto righteousness\nupon an unprecedented scale,--having so definitely announced the\nspiritual transformation which was about to take place before the eyes\nof all, the Second Adventists had to live up to it.\n\nAnd to their credit, be it said, they did so without a qualm of doubt.\nMr. Trimblerigg\u2019s experience since his adoption of Second Adventism had\nconvinced him that if only it were well organized for a fixed purpose,\nprayer could get itself answered; and that given a commanding majority\nand a united aim, the human race was master of the Event. He had backed\nhis country through war with prayerful conviction, had even prayed that\nit might go on an extra eighteen months so as to avoid a negotiated\npeace, and secure the dictated one which was to be so much better; and\nthen, because hearts and aims were divided, had seen the dictated peace\nlost and become very much worse than a negotiated one; and though he\ndid not for a moment consider that his own prayers and strivings for a\ndictated peace made him in the least responsible for its bad results,\nhe had an uneasy suspicion that the world, and even his own country,\nmight have done better for itself by letting the war end sooner than it\ndid, for the simple reason that though it could agree about fighting it\ncould not agree about peace.\n\nBut about making the bad old world come to an end on a given date,\nSecond Adventists were all enthusiastically agreed; and when Mr.\nTrimblerigg returned from America he found the building of the New\nJerusalem so well advanced that though it might not be entirely\nhabitable on the day, externally it looked habitable; and though a good\nmany scaffolding poles still had to remain, they would serve to hang\nbunting on, and so enhance the welcoming effect when Heaven sent down\nits new spirit to take possession.\n\nFor that something auspicious and visible would take place was the\ngeneral belief; the writings of Susannah Walcot suggested it, and\nthough the idea had not been officially endorsed, yet, since it\nhelped publicity, nothing had been said to discourage it. It might be\nprophecy, or it might only be figure of speech; but in a very literal\nsense the faith of millions did undoubtedly look skywards expecting a\nsign to be given it. For it must be remembered that always now before\nmen\u2019s eyes one sign stood conspicuous; and if upon one eminent head\nglory had so forecast itself, might it not be possible when the Day\ncame that Heaven would rain haloes by the million upon those found\nfaithfully waiting to receive them?\n\nFor that given date the railway companies had already arranged to run\nspecial excursions from all parts of the country, timed to arrive at\nlatest before the stroke of midnight signalled the beginning of the\nnew Day. Behind the railways were the caterers, all ready to link up\nthe meat and the fish markets, the dairies, the greengrocers, and the\nprovision-dealers, with the demanding appetite of the new-born and\nspiritualized world.\n\nIt was computed that not less than a million prospective inhabitants\nof the New Jerusalem would be there all ready and waiting in wedding\ngarments for the hour when Heaven should declare itself.\n\nAll were to come dressed in white; and a city dressed in white stood\nprepared to receive them. A little garish by day, the New Jerusalem\nlooked very beautiful by moonlight; then, with its white walls,\nand pearly windows, and blue-grey roofs, crowned fantastically by\nthe points and perforated pinnacles of its toy-palaces, it seemed\nlike a city of silver. In the midst of it--the great co-operative\nshopping-centre--were buildings composed entirely of glass, with\ncovered streets where the weather would no longer count for anything;\nand on the outskirts, separated from the residential quarters by parks\nand public gardens and ornamental lakes, stood the power-stations,\nand water-towers, and above all these, in noble battlemented walls,\nlike a medi\u00e6val castle converted to spiritual ends, the gasometers\nhad concealed themselves. It was all very expansive and opulent, and\nself-complacent, and plausible, and what perhaps in an earlier age\nmight have been called genteel; but what to my mind it resembled most\nwas the character--the public character, I mean--of Mr. Trimblerigg as\nit appeared when things went well with him. In this \u2018Home for Haloes\u2019\nhe had finally and magnificently expressed himself as he wished he\nmight be. \u2018Si monumentum requiris, circumspice\u2019 was the motto with\nwhich, after looking out of his Presidential window on that last happy\nnight of his career, he closed his eyes in post-prandial repose, so\nas to be up blithe and fresh for \u2018the Great Watch\u2019 which at midnight\nwas to begin. In all the streets that lay before his gaze orderly\ncrowds, clothed in white and carrying lanterns and palm-branches in\ntheir hands, paraded with happy unanimity, all marching one way as the\ntraffic signals directed, and singing as they went. It was a marvel of\norganization; as a human demonstration--the expression of a commanding\nmajority devoting itself for the first time to one single spiritual\nend--it was still more wonderful.\n\nAnd so with a happy smile upon his illuminated face Mr. Trimblerigg lay\ndown in his Presidential robe, and slept like a child.\n\nHe was awakened at about half-past ten by a terrific explosion.\nFragments of plaster battlements were falling into the street and\nagainst his front door as he opened the window and looked out.\nHurriedly he drew his head in again; but what had sent him back was\nnot the falling fragments but the despairing ululations of the crowd,\nwhich, dropping its hymn-singing parade was now rushing hither and\nthither frantic for shelter from showering rubble and glass which\nfilled the air. Under the calm blaze of the full moon, queening it\nin a cloudless heaven, a ragged scud of black dust jagged its way\nfrom roof to roof, obliterating the distant view; in its rear, at a\nmore ponderous gallop, came a hunch of smoke, which as it advanced\nbillowed and spread, and became huge; swallowing up the clear air as\nit advanced, it left in its track a pallid haze which went everywhere.\nThe New Jerusalem became a ghost, vague of form, clad no longer in\nwhite, but in a dun grey streaked by scarves of black lined with\ncolours of fire. In this settling obscurity the sound of human woe went\non increasing, enlivened now and again by cries of rage. The crowd,\ncumbered by its wedding raiment, was fighting confusedly for priority\nof place; the terminus was being rushed, empty excursion trains\nboarded. A faint-hearted exodus from the New Jerusalem had already\nbegun: the world was not coming to an end in the peaceful way that had\nbeen foretold.\n\nA ring-up on Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s telephone gave him the news. His castle\nof gasometers had been blown up; as to the cause, inquiry was being\nmade; incendiarism was suspected. Following upon that came other news\nof a similar kind. Something had gone wrong with the power-stations;\nwires fused and lights went out; after that went the water-supply;\nabout midnight to the sound of bombs, three water-towers cascaded to\nearth; and when, here, there, and everywhere, fainting people turned\ntaps to get water, none came. Presently in various parts of the city\nfires began; and as there was no water to put them out, they spread.\nBefore morning the New Jerusalem had had several bits taken out of\nit, and many of its prospective inhabitants were left homeless. About\ndawn a covey of aeroplanes let down a discharge of sticky gas--the\nlatest military invention for the humane dispersal of unarmed crowds.\nIt had adhesive properties of an extraordinary effectiveness; the\nNew Jerusalem became like well-spread fly-paper, and all humans with\nwhom it established contact walked thereafter as though they had been\nanointed with treacle, or honey, or preserved-ginger, or turpentine;\nand having no water in which to wash themselves, their misery became\ngreater than they could bear; and from all that crowd of souls which\nhad come together with such singleness of purpose, and confidence, and\ngoodwill, the social sense was cast violently out, so that they all\nhated the sight and the touch and the sound of each other.\n\nNow all this, it must be understood, was not the operation of Heaven,\nbut only of Big Finance, and certain other vested interests which did\nnot wish the old ways of the world to end, or competitive society\nto become co-operative, or religion in any form to have control over\neconomics and politics, or Mr. Trimblerigg to go any farther than\nthey considered safe for the well-being of the country. And as Second\nAdventism had in these respects become a peril, quite as formidable\nin its way as foreign invasion, therefore an underground organization\nhad been formed, which, calling itself \u2018Red Knights of the Fiery\nCross\u2019, had designed for itself a costume, and a secret ritual, and\nan oath which could not be broken; and had laid up store of military\npreparation, and with prayer and fasting and genuflections, had\npractised bomb-throwing and incendiarism and the casting down of sticky\ngas in solitary places where a Duke preserved pheasants, and where,\ntherefore, no members of the outer public were allowed to intrude. And\nhaving become experts in the game, upon the advertised day they made\na match of it, and in this, the first round, had apparently won hands\ndown. For the New Jerusalem had become a sticky object, coated with\ndust and very offensive to the smell: and the Second Adventists sharply\ndivided into two bodies of an unequal size: the larger fugitive and\ndispersive in tendency, no longer wishing for the end of the world,\nbut only for the excursion trains to start upon their return journeys:\nthe other comparatively small, but vigorous, vocal and tending to\ndirect action: truculent, abusive, full of grievance, clamorous for the\nreturn of its deposits in a co-operative scheme which no longer seemed\nsafe, and with regard to which, in certain important respects, the\nundertakings, as per contract, were not being carried out.\n\nIt was this section which presented itself at an early hour outside\nthe Presidency, and howled to be received in deputation by Mr.\nTrimblerigg. For three hours they howled, while Mr. Trimblerigg, in\norder to give confidence to his frightened followers, had his breakfast\nand his bath (for which sufficient water remained in the cistern) and\ndealt with certain arrears of correspondence.\n\nAt ten o\u2019clock punctually, he looked at his watch, and said to his\nsecretary, \u2018Now I will go out and speak to them.\u2019\n\nThe secretary said, \u2018I think, sir, you had better not. If I know\nanything of crowds, that crowd is dangerous.\u2019\n\nMr. Trimblerigg said, \u2018I hope it is. I shall do my best to make it so.\u2019\n\nThe light of battle was in his eye. He said to his secretary, \u2018You must\ndress yourself up; you are a Knight of the Fiery Cross whom we have\ntaken prisoner. You must be shown to the people, with your hands bound\nand your face stained with blood. It will only be for a moment; but it\nwill satisfy them. I will do the rest.\u2019\n\nBut before he had finished, he spoke to emptiness: the secretary had\nfled. He looked out into the ante-chamber. All the others had fled with\nhim. Outside the crowd was howling like a pack of wolves.\n\nMr. Trimblerigg sighed: \u2018Then I must do it all by myself,\u2019 he concluded\nthoughtfully. \u2018Deserted of my followers, I stand alone. No matter; they\nshall see!\u2019 He felt that he was a great man, and this a great occasion\nfor making the fact known.\n\nHe went out from his study into the Council Chamber, a handsome\napartment hung with mirrors. It had four windows overlooking the\nstreet, windows that went down to the ground and opened upon a balcony\nsupported by a colonnade extending from the entrance-porch to right\nand left.\n\nI have never admired Mr. Trimblerigg more than I did at that moment;\nas he crossed the open space before him he paused to glance at himself\nin one of the mirrors: his light had not failed him; its radiance was\nundiminished; in the midst of it his countenance shone cherubic and\nhopeful. He was going to enjoy himself; for of all whose fortunes\ndepended on the breath of popular applause there was no one who\nunderstood a crowd as he did.\n\nThat this one was now hostile only added to the zest with which\nhe faced the task that lay before him. Standing back in the deep\ninterior of the room and where he could not be seen, he studied its\nphysiognomy--a sea of faces in storm, multitudinous but yet one. He\nlooked at it with affection and pride; for in another minute he was\ngoing to take and turn it round his finger, and make it into a new\ninstrument to suit his need.\n\nSuddenly, while he so stood, the very window-pane through which he\nlooked fell into splinters; from the crystal chandelier above his head\ncame a rain of shattered glass. That was the prelude; he stepped back,\nand skirting the wall, while all the other panes flew into fragments,\nreached the far window, in which by that time not a pane remained\nunbroken. He only paused to fasten the last button of the morning coat\ninto which he had tactfully changed; and then, lightly embraced by the\ncivilization he had come to save, he opened the window and stepped out.\n\nFor one moment the crowd, shocked into mute amaze, stood and gaped;\nthen a roar of execration filled the air. Even the bright manifestation\nof his mission, which had once awed and delighted, failed to placate\nthem now. Mr. Trimblerigg knew enough of crowds to admit that his\nsecretary was right; this crowd was dangerous; but he knew also that\nhe had only to get them to listen, to hear his opening words, for his\nspell to be on them. He could trust the inspiration of the moment to do\nthe rest.\n\nAnd so, with exactly the right emotional expression upon his face, he\nleaned out from the stone balustrade, and over the heads of the crowd\npointed into the distance.\n\nThe gesture had its calculated effect: heads turned, necks were craned;\nthe roar died down to a confused murmur. Presently they would turn back\nto him and seek to have the thing explained; then would come silence\nand they would hear what he had to say; and though that was not going\nto make them less dangerous, it would no longer be danger for him, but\nfor others.\n\nNow it so happened that in the direction where he pointed there was,\nby fate or by chance, something which on being pointed at, did excite\nthe curiosity of the crowd. On its far outskirts a lone taxi with\npersistent wrigglings was trying to get through; an attempt which,\nuntil the attention of the crowd had been directed towards it, would\nhave been absolutely hopeless. But now, as if by the manipulation of an\ninvisible police, a way grew open before it, and the taxi triumphantly\nadvanced.\n\nAs it did so it became--though nobody could guess why--a thing of\nextraordinary importance; people began climbing on each other\u2019s backs\nto look at it. Even Mr. Trimblerigg became interested; for this--though\nan interruption--was also a diversion; it meant safety. A crowd which\ncould focus its interest on a taxi-cab, could focus it also upon him;\nnor had he now the slightest doubt that when he spoke to it the crowd\nwould prove amenable.\n\nFolding his arms on the balustrade, and playing with his eyeglasses,\nhe was the very picture of confidence and hope and courage and\nresourcefulness, and all the other things which, in their leaders, men\nadmire. How could people look at him without liking him? How could they\nhear him without trusting him? How could there be any danger for a man\nwho stood up to face it with such an air of high spirits and genial\nacceptance of a situation which seemed awkward. He felt with a sure\ninstinct that the crowd was coming his way, that in another moment it\nwould be cheering him.\n\nThe taxi was coming his way also. It stopped. Davidina put out her\nhead. Over the hushed murmurs of the crowd, clear and incisive her\nvoice reached him:\n\n\u2018Jonathan, take that off!\u2019\n\nIf the end of Mr. Trimblerigg\u2019s world could have come then in whatever\nother form it chose to take, it might have been said of him thereafter\nthat he died happy, died believing in himself, and believed in by\nothers even though the immediate circumstances spelt failure.\n\nBut when he felt the probing eye of Davidina, and heard the challenge\nof her voice, \u2018Take that off!\u2019--then all his sense of spiritual\nnakedness returned; and the power over his soul which she had been\nused to exercise reinstated itself in all its potency. In a moment, in\nthe twinkling of an eye, and in the presence of all that people whose\nmood towards him was on the very point of ceasing to be dangerous, and\nwhose hearts in another minute he would have won to the fulfilling of\nvengeance due--in a space of time too brief for breath to be taken, she\nhad spiritually scalped him. With his head shorn of glory he stood and\nlooked at her; and fleeing suddenly to the domestic note as his last\nchance of refuge from the storm which was about to burst, \u2018How do you\ndo, Davidina?\u2019 he said.\n\nIt was magnificent, but it was no good. The crowd\u2019s yell of derision\ntold him that it had failed. Suddenly the taxi disappeared from view;\nten, twenty, thirty human atoms, excited, gesticulating, were up and\nwere over it. He saw Davidina fighting her way out of the collapsed\nframework; saw her in imminent danger, saw her emerge safe and\nunharmed. With no use or duty to stay him, conscious that all was lost,\nhe turned to flee. It was too late. Active members of the crowd pushed\nfrom below swarmed up the colonnades; faster than the eye could count,\nheads appeared on a level with his waist,--hands, feet, fiery eyes,\nfierce mouths showing teeth; he became one of a confused group, felt\nhis legs carrying much more than his own weight, his buttons bursting\nto a rending strain--from behind. Collared, surrounded, forced to the\nbalcony\u2019s edge, he looked down into a sea of eyes; and heard dimly, in\nthe background of his dream, Davidina knocking for admission at the\ndoor under his feet; a door which nobody would answer.\n\n\u2018Up, up!\u2019 came the cry of the crowd. He was hoisted, stood giddily on\nthe stone ledge; swayed, tottered, but hands still held him. Everything\nthen seemed very near and immediate and objective: individual faces,\nblemishes, blackened eyes, the very cut and colour of men\u2019s clothes, a\nbroken watch-chain, the taxi-driver trying to recover possession of a\ncab that had become a wreck. Fifty yards away an arc-lamp high aloft on\na street refuge for some unexplainable reason spat itself into light.\nThat attracted him, only to remind him with a pang of despair that he\ncould no longer do the same. Light and hope and faith had all gone out\nof him.\n\n\u2018Down! Down!\u2019 the crowd\u2019s cry had changed: but its intention was the\nsame. A thousand hands reached up, opening and shutting like mouths,\nhungry to have hold of him. The hands from behind gave a jerk, then\ntossed and let go. He felt himself falling, but of that was not afraid.\nA real fall was impossible; of that the thousand hands made him feel\nsafe. They caught him, forced him down, and set him upon his feet. A\nvoice at his back cried: \u2018Stand clear! Give him a run!\u2019\n\nMagically a way cleared for him: a long stretch of pavement, then a\nroad: in the middle of the road, aloft on its iron standard, spluttered\nthe arc-lamp, very wan and pale against the healthier light of day.\n\nPropelled from behind he began running towards it, with an agility\nwhich for a moment, in his responsive mind, wakened an absurd hope.\n\nBut a moment later, under the lamp-post, he was off his feet again. Up\nin front of him swarmed a man-monkey of the sailor-breed trailing a\nrope. The crowd roared gloriously, its rage changing to delight.\n\nClasping the iron standard despairingly with legs and arms in a last\nembrace, he felt hands below pushing him, making him go higher. Then\nsuddenly there came a wrench; the hands loosed him, but his feet did\nnot touch ground. And as his agitated body sought this way and that for\nthe hand-hold or foot-hold it had lost never to find again, I, reading\nfor the last time the scrip of his brain, found the truth fairly lodged\nthere at last:\n\n\u2018O, you fool! O, you damned fool! O, you silly, damned fool, look what\nyou have done to yourself now!\u2019\n\nAnd then something happened: something quite unexpected, for which I\ncannot account; though I have a sort of a fear that I know in what\ndirection the account may hereafter be found.\n\nI followed him into those last moments--for his last moments they\nproved to be--with a breathless interest, which at least told me that\nthough he had tried me much, I was not as tired of him as, for my own\npeace, I would have liked to be. And up to the last hitch, I still\nwondered whether so agile an executant of quick turns would not manage\neven then to escape from his enemies. His enemies, I say. But my wonder\nnow is whether his last escape has not been made from one who, like\nDavidina, was his faithful though discriminating friend. For when,\nafter the rope had done its work, I looked for him on the spiritual\nplane, it was to find that he had vanished. And if I, too, must own the\ntruth--I do not know what has become of him.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES:\n\n\n  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.\n\n  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.\n\n  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.\n\n  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.\n\n  New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the\n    public domain.","title":"Trimblerigg : $b A book of revelation","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":88316}