"I THINK HE IS A GOOD MAN"
The servant had turned on the lights in the drawing room, where a low
fire still glowed red upon the hearth, and left Constantine Schuabe
alone to await the vicar's arrival.
On either side of the fireplace were heavy hangings of emerald and
copper woven stuff, a present to Helena from an uncle, who had bought
them at Benares. Schuabe stood motionless before this background.
The man was tall, above the middle height, and the heavy coat of fur
which he was wearing increased the impression of proportioned size, of
massiveness, which was part of his personality. His hair was a very dark
red, smooth and abundant, of that peculiar colour which is the last to
show the greyness of advancing age. His features were Semitic, but
without a trace of that fulness, and sometimes coarseness, which often
marks the Jew who has come to the middle period of life. The eyes were
large and black, but without animation, in ordinary use and wont. They
did not light up as he spoke, but yet the expression was not veiled or
obscured. They were coldly, terribly _aware_, with something of the
sinister and untroubled regard one sees in a reptile's eyes.
The jaw, which dominated the face and completed its remarkable
_ensemble_, was very massive, reminding people of steel covered with
olive-coloured parchment. Handsome was hardly the word which fitted him.
He was a strikingly handsome man; but that, like "distinction," was
only one of the qualities which made up his personality. Force,
power--the relentless and conscious power suggested by some great marine
engine--surrounded him in an almost indescribable way. They were like
exhalations. Most people, with the casual view, called him merely
indomitable, but there were others who thought they read deeper and saw
something evil and monstrous about the man; powerless to give an exact
and definite reason for the impression, and dubious of voicing it.
Nevertheless, now and again, two or three people would speak of him to
each other without reserve, and on such occasions they generally agreed
to this feeling of the sinister and malign, in much the same manner as
the vicar and his curate had been agreeing but half an hour before his
arrival at the house.
The door opened with a quick click of the handle, and the vicar entered
with something of suddenness. One might almost have supposed that he had
lingered, hesitant, in the hall, and suddenly nerved himself for this
encounter.
Mr. Byars advanced to take the hand of his visitor. Beside the big man
he seemed shrunken and a little ineffectual. He was slightly nervous in
his manner also, for Basil's impassioned and terror-ridden words still
rang in his ears and had their way with him.
The coincidence of the millionaire's arrival was altogether too sudden
and _bizarre_.
When they had made greetings, cordial enough on the surface, and were
seated on either side of the fire, Schuabe spoke at once upon the object
of his visit.
"I have come, Mr. Byars," he said, in a singularly clear, vibrant voice,
"to discuss certain educational proposals with you. As you probably
know, just at present I am taking a very prominent part in the House of
Commons in connection with the whole problem of primary education.
Within the last few weeks I have been in active correspondence with your
School Board, and you will know all about the scholarships I have
founded.
"But I am now coming to you to propose something of the same sort in
connection with your own Church schools. My opinions on religious
matters are, of course, not yours. But despite my position I have always
recognised that, with whatever means, both the clergy and my own party
are broadly working towards one end.
"Walktown provides me with very many thousands a year, and it is my duty
in some way or another to help Walktown. My proposal is roughly this: I
will found and endow two yearly scholarships for two boys in the
national schools. The money will be sufficient, in the first instance,
to send them to one of the great Northern Grammar Schools, and
afterwards, always providing that the early promise is maintained, to
either university.
"My only stipulation is this. The tests shall be purely and simply
intellectual, and have nothing whatever to do with the religious
teaching of the schools, with which I am not in sympathy. Nevertheless,
it is only fair that a clever boy in a Church school should have the
same opportunities as in a secular school. I should tell you that I have
made the same offer to the Roman Catholic school authorities and it has
been declined."
The vicar listened with great attention. The offer was extremely
generous, and showed a most open-minded determination to put the donor's
personal prejudices out of the question. There could be no doubt as to
his answer--none whatever.
"My dear sir," he said, "your generosity is very great. I see your point
about the examinations. Religion is to form no part of them exactly. But
by the time one of our boys submits himself for examination we should
naturally hope that he would already be so firmly fixed in Christian
principles that his after-career would have no influence upon his faith.
Holding the opinions that you do, your offer shows a great freedom from
any prejudice. I hope I am broad-minded enough to recognise that
philanthropy is a fine, lovely thing, despite the banner under which the
philanthropist may stand. I accept your generous offer in the spirit
that it is made. Of course, the scheme must be submitted to the managers
of the schools, of whom I am chief, but the matter practically lies with
me, and my lead will be followed."
"I am only too glad," said the big man, with a sudden and transforming
smile, "to help on the cause of knowledge. All the details of the scheme
I will send you in a few days, and now I will detain you no longer."
He rose to go.
During their brief conversation the vicar had been conscious of many
emotions. He blamed himself for his narrowness and the somewhat
fantastic lengths to which his recent talk with Gortre had gone. The man
was an infidel, no doubt. His intellectual attacks upon Christian faith
were terribly damaging and subversive. Still, his love for his
fellow-men was sincere, it seemed. He attacked the faith, but not the
preachers of it. And--a half thought crossed his brain--he might have
been sent to him for some good purpose. St. Paul had not always borne
the name of Paul!
These thoughts, but half formulated in his brain, had their immediate
effect in concrete action.
"Won't you take off your coat, Mr. Schuabe," he said, "and smoke a cigar
with me in my study?"
The other hesitated a moment, looked doubtful, and then assented. He
hung his coat up in the hall and went into the other room with the
vicar.
During the conversation in the drawing-room Helena had come back from
the concert, and Basil, hearing her, had left the study and gone to her
own private sanctum for a last few minutes before saying good-night.
Helena sat in a low chair by the fire sipping a bowl of soup which the
maid had brought up to her. She was a little tired by the concert, where
a local pianist had been playing a nocturne of Chopin's as if he wanted
to make it into soup, and the quiet of her own sitting-room, the
intimate comfort of it all, and the sense of happiness that Basil's
presence opposite gave her were in delightful contrast.
"It was very stupid, dear," she said. "Mrs. Pryde was rather trying,
full of dull gossip about every one, and the music wasn't good. Mr.
Cuthbert played as if he was playing the organ in church. His touch is
utterly unfitted for anything except the War March from _Athalie_ with
the stops out. He knows nothing of the piano. I was in a front seat, and
I could see his knee feeling for the swell all the time. He played _the_
sonata as if he was throwing the moonlight at one in great solid chunks.
I'm glad to be back. How nice it is to sit here with you, dearest!--and
how good this Bovril is!" she concluded with a little laugh of content
and happiness at this moment of acute physical and mental ease.
He looked lovingly at her as she lay back in rest and the firelight
played over her white arms and pale gold hair.
"It's wonderful to think," he said, with a little catch in his voice,
"it's wonderful to me, an ever-recurring wonder, to think that some day
you and I will always be together for all our life, here and afterwards.
What supreme, unutterable happiness God gives to His children! Do you
know, dear, sometimes as I read prayers or stand by the altar, I am
filled with a sort of rapture of thankfulness which is voiceless in its
intensity. Tennyson got nearer to expressing it than any one in that
beautiful _St. Agnes' Eve_ of his--a little gem which, with its
simplicity and fervour, is worth far more than Keats's poem with all its
literary art."
"It is good to feel like that sometimes," she answered; "but it is well,
I think, not to get into the way of _inducing_ such feelings. The human
brain is such a sensitive thing that one can get into the way of
drugging it with emotion, as it were. I think I am tinged a little with
the North-country spirit. I always think of Newman's wonderful lines--
"'The thoughts control that o'er thee swell and throng;
They will condense within the soul and turn to purpose strong.
But he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow,
Shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every blow.'
"I only quote from memory. But you look tired, dear boy; you are rather
white. Have you been overworking?"
He did not answer immediately.
"No," he said slowly, "but I've been having a long talk with the vicar.
We were talking about Mr. Schuabe and his influence. Helena, that man is
the most active of God's enemies in England. Almost when I was
mentioning his name, by some coincidence, or perhaps for some deeper,
more mysterious, psychical reason which men do not yet understand, the
maid announced him. He had come to see your father on business,
and--don't think I am unduly fanciful--the Murillo photograph, the head
of Christ, on the mantel-shelf, fell down and was broken. He is here
still, I think."
"Yes," said Helena; "Mr. Schuabe is in the study with father. But, Basil
dear, it's quite evident to me that you've been doing too much. Do you
know that I look upon Mr. Schuabe as a really _good_ man! I have often
thought about him, and even prayed that he may learn the truth; but God
has many instruments. Mr. Schuabe is sincere in his unbelief. His life
and all his actions are for the good of others. It is terrible--it is
deplorable--to know he attacks Christianity; but he is tolerant and
large-minded also. Yes, I should call him a good man. He will come to
God some day. God would not have given him such power over the minds and
bodies of men otherwise."
Gortre smiled a little sadly,--a rather wan smile, which sat strangely
upon his strong and hearty face--, but he said no more.
He knew that his attitude was illogical, perhaps it could be called
bigoted and intolerant--a harsh indictment in these easy, latitudinarian
days; but his conviction was an intuition. It came from within, from
something outside or beyond his reason, and would not be stifled.
"Well, dear," he said, "perhaps it is as you say. Nerves which are
overwrought, and a system which is run down, certainly have their say,
and a large say, too, in one's attitude towards any one. Now you must go
to bed. I will go down and say good-night to the rector and Mr.
Schuabe--just to show there's no ill-feeling; though, goodness knows, I
oughtn't to jest about the man. Good-night, sweet one; God bless you.
Remember me also in your prayers to-night."
She kissed him in her firm, brave way--a kiss so strong and loving, so
pure and sweet, that he went away from that little room of books and
_bric-à-brac_ as if he had been sojourning in some shrine.
As Basil came into the study he found Mr. Byars and Schuabe in eager,
animated talk. A spirit decanter had been brought in during his
absence, and the vicar was taking the single glass of whisky-and-water
he allowed himself before going to bed. Basil, who was in a singularly
alert and observant mood, noticed that a glass of plain seltzer water
stood before the millionaire.
Gortre's personal acquaintance with Schuabe was of the slightest. He had
met him once or twice on the platform of big meetings, and that was all.
A simple curate, unless socially,--and Schuabe did not enter into the
social life of Walktown, being almost always in London,--he would not be
very likely to come in the way of this mammoth.
But Schuabe greeted him with marked cordiality, and he sat down to
listen to the two men.
In two minutes he was fascinated, in five he realised, with a quick and
unpleasant sense of inferiority, how ignorant he was beside these two.
In Schuabe the vicar found a man whose knowledge was as wide and
scholarship as profound as his own.
From a purely intellectual standpoint, probably Gortre and Schuabe were
more nearly on a level, but in pure knowledge he was nowhere. He
wondered, as he listened, if the generation immediately preceding his
own had been blessed with more time for culture, if the foundation had
been surer and more comprehensive, when they were _alumni_ of the
"loving mother" in the South.
They were discussing archæological questions connected with the Holy
Land.
Schuabe possessed a profound and masterly knowledge of the whole Jewish
background to the Gospel picture, not merely of the archæology, which in
itself is a life study, but of the essential characteristics of Jewish
thought and feeling, which is far more.
Of course, every now and again the conversation turned towards a
direction that, pursued, would have led to controversy. But, with mutual
tact, the debatable ground was avoided. That Christ was a historic fact
Schuabe, of course, admitted and implied, and when the question of His
Divinity seemed likely to occur he was careful and adroit to avoid any
discussion.
To the young man, burning with the zeal of youth, this seemed a pity.
Unconsciously, he blamed the vicar for not pressing certain points home.
What an opportunity was here! The rarity of such a visit, the obvious
interest the two men were beginning to take in each other--should not a
great blow for Christ be struck on such an auspicious night? Even if the
protest was unavailing, the argument overthrown, was it not a duty to
speak of the awful and eternal realities which lay beneath this vivid
and brilliant interchange of scholarship?
His brain was on fire with passionate longing to speak. But,
nevertheless, he controlled it. None knew better than he the depth and
worth of the vicar's character. And he felt himself a junior; he had no
right to question the decision of his superior.
"You have missed much, Mr. Byars," said Schuabe, as he arose to go at
last, "in never having visited Jerusalem. One can get the knowledge of
it, but never the colour. And, even to-day, the city must appear, in
many respects, exactly as it did under the rule of Pilate. The Fellah
women sell their vegetables, the camels come in loaded with roots for
fuel, the Bedouin, the Jews with their long gowns and slippers--I wish
you could see it all. I have eaten the meals of the Gospels, drunk the
red wine of Saron, the spiced wine mixed with honey and black pepper,
the 'wine of myrrh' mentioned in the Gospel of Mark. I have dined with
Jewish tradesmen and gone through the same formalities of hand-washing
as we read of two thousand years ago; I have seen the poor
ostentatiously gathered in out of the streets and the best part of the
meal given them for a self-righteous show. And yet, an hour afterwards,
I have sat in a _café_ by King David's Tower and played dice with
Turkish soldiers armed with Martini rifles!"
The vicar seemed loath to let his guest go, though the hour was late,
but he refused to stay longer. Mr. Byars, with a somewhat transparent
eagerness, mentioned that Gortre's road home lay for part of the way in
the same direction as the millionaire's. He seemed to wish the young man
to accompany him, almost, so Basil thought, that the charm of his
personality might rebuke him for his tirade in the early part of the
evening.
Accordingly, in agreement with the vicar's evident wish, but with an
inexplicable ice-cold feeling in his heart, he left the house with
Schuabe and began to walk with him through the silent, lamp-lit
streets.