A LOST CAUSE
BY GUY THORNE
AUTHOR OF "WHEN IT WAS DARK," ETC.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1905
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
PREFACE
A few words are necessary in preface to this story. After _When It Was
Dark_ made its appearance, the writer received a great number of letters
from his readers, and up to the present moment he still continues to
receive them.
Out of nearly two hundred communications, a large proportion are
concerned not so much with the main issue of the tale, as with
controversial matters in the Church of England arising from it.
The definitely Catholic[1] tone of the first book aroused, as might be
expected, vigorous protest, and no less vigorous commendation. The five
or six Bishops--and many other dignitaries--who preached or lectured
about the story avoided the controversial sides of it. But the writer
has received innumerable letters from the clergy and others to the
following effect.
[Footnote 1: The term "Catholic" is here, and throughout the book, used
in the sense in which it is employed by a certain division of the Church
of England and of the Episcopal Church of America.--The PUBLISHERS.]
It was pointed out to him that while the extreme "Protestant" party was
constantly employing fiction as a method of propaganda, churchmen were
almost unrepresented in this way. The Catholic Faith has been bitterly
assailed over and over again in books which are well enough written, and
have sufficient general interest to appeal to the man of the world, who
is often indifferent to the points debated.
After considerable discussion, the writing of _A Lost Cause_ was
resolved upon. The author desires to thank those priests who have
assisted him with their counsel and experience, and begs leave to
explain here something of his aims in publishing the tale.
At no period in modern Church history has the Church been assailed with
such malignance, slander, and untruth as at the present. "Protestantism"
within the Church is a lost cause, it is dying, and for just this reason
the clamour is loudest, the misrepresentation more furious and
envenomed. Shrewd opportunists are taking their last chance of emerging
from obscurity by an appeal to the ignorance of the general public on
Church matters. Looking round us, we see dozens of uneducated and noisy
nobodies who have elected themselves into a sort of irregular prelacy
and dubbed themselves "Defenders of the Faith," with about as much right
as Napoleon crowned himself emperor.
Church people do not take them very seriously. Their voices are like the
cries of hedge-birds by the road, on which the stately procession of the
Church is passing. But the man in the street is more attentive and he
enjoys the colour and movement of iconoclasm. He believes also that the
brawlers have right on their side.
But there is an inherent fairness in the man in the street, and, if this
story reaches him, he will have his opportunity to hear the Catholic
side of the argument.
The author begs to state that no single character in this tale is a
"portrait" of any living person, or of any real person whatever. The
imaginary folk are designed to be merely typical, their methods are
analogous to much that is going on to-day under the pretences of
patriotism and love for religious liberty, but that is all.
There will probably be the usual nonsense written, and the braves of
"Protestantism" will give the usual war-whoops. Whether this is to be
so or not, the author is profoundly indifferent.
He attacks those of the extreme "Protestants" whom he believes to be
insincere and who rebel against the Truth for their own ends. He does
not say or think that all "Protestants"--even the extremists--are
insincere. He has endeavoured to point out that there is as much
difference between the street-corner "Protestants" and the pious
Evangelical Party within the Church as there is between Trinitarians and
Unitarians.
The incident in the tale where the Archbishop of Canterbury compels a
"Protestant" publicist to give up the Blessed Sacrament, which he has
stolen from a church for purposes of propaganda, is founded on fact. It
has not before been made public, except in a short letter to the _Church
Times_ a few months ago, which was written with the design of preparing
Church readers for the detailed publication of such a painful incident.
The facts, however, have been supplied to the writer to make such use of
in the story as he thinks fit. The authors of this disgraceful
profanation have, naturally, been silent on the matter. It is not an
isolated instance. But it is not to be thought that the imaginary
characters concerned in the affair in the story, are intended to
represent, or do in any way, the real heroes of this great blow struck
for "Protestant" truth.
Finally, the noisiest "Protestants" are hitting the Church as hard as
they can. The author has endeavoured to hit back as hard as _he_ can--of
course, in that spirit of Christian love in which the "Protestants"
themselves tell us these controversies are always conducted.
The brawlers have enjoyed an astonishing immunity hitherto, and it is
only fair that battle should be joined now. And, however inadequate his
forces and generalship, that is the writer's aim. He is, of course, a
_franc-tireur_, but he fires his musket on the right side, and with a
perfect assurance of the justice of his Cause.
G. T.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE INTERRUPTED EUCHARIST 1
II.--MR. HAMLYN AND SON AT HOME 19
III.--LORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE GUESTS AT SCARNING COURT 38
IV.--LUCY BLANTYRE AT THE CLERGY-HOUSE 69
V.--WEALTHY MISS PRITCHETT AND POOR GUSSIE DAVIES ENTER THE VICARAGE
GARDEN 108
VI.--BOADICEA, JOAN OF ARC, CHARLOTTE CORDAY, JAEL, AND MISS PRITCHETT
OF HORNHAM 127
VII.--THE OFFICES OF THE "LUTHER LEAGUE"--AN INTERIOR 146
VIII.--A PRIVATE CONFERENCE AT MIDNIGHT A YEAR LATER 166
IX.--A UNION OF FORCES 182
X.--LOW WATER AND GREAT EXPECTATIONS 214
XI.--THE NEWS THAT CARR BROUGHT 241
XII.--THE REPARATION OF JANE PRITCHETT EX-PROTESTANT 281
XIII.--THE ARCHBISHOP AND THE HAMLYNS 302
A LOST CAUSE
CHAPTER I
THE INTERRUPTED EUCHARIST
The Church of St. Elwyn was a building of brick that went up to a great
height.
In the crowded district between Hornsey and Wood Green, it was one of
the largest buildings, and, though not externally beautiful, acquired
dignity and impressiveness from its setting of small villa houses, which
made an interminable brick wilderness all round it.
It was nearing the time of the High Celebration on a Sunday morning in
summer. Matins had been said in a side chapel, to a scanty congregation,
at half-past nine, and now the central act of the day was to take place.
The interior of St. Elwyn's was severe but beautiful, save for one or
two minor blemishes here and there.
The eye was caught and carried away down the aisles till it found its
focus on the high altar which was set like a throne, above many marble
steps, in the curve of the distant apse. The sanctuary was lighted from
the sides and so the eye was not disturbed and distracted by hideous
windows of stained glass with their clamorous coal-tar colours, but
could rest quietly upon the altar with its green and gold, its flowers
and central cross.
The organ was hidden away in a side gallery and the pulpit was a stone
bracket high in the sweep of the chancel arch, to which it clung like
the nest of a bird on a cliff side.
All this was as it should be. In so many English churches the object of
the builders appears to have been to destroy all the dignity and beauty
possible in a service. The organ and the pulpit are elevated to the
importance of shrines, and dominate everything like Gog and Magog in the
Guildhall. Everything is done to minimise the place and office of the
altar, to exalt the less important functions of worship, and to prevent
comfortable consciences from being uneasy in the realisation of the
presence of God.
Only one tawdry note could be detected in this beautiful church. The
pictures which hung on the walls round the aisles, and represented the
stations of the cross, were ill-drawn, and stiff in colour and design.
These pictures, which were said by the ignorant and unimaginative to be
idolatrous, or at least "Roman"--a little understood but very
efficacious term of reproach in the parish--were sufficiently like the
hideous stained-glass figures in the Evangelical Church of St. Luke hard
by to have satisfied the most pious lover of ugliness. But those folk,
who so vehemently preferred the medallion portraits of their respectable
ancestors on the walls of a church to any other form of symbol or
decoration, did not see this. They spoke bitterly of the pictures as
being "high," suggesting to outsiders unfamiliar with the parrot cry of
the partisan that they had been kept too long in a warm place.
Since Father Blantyre had been appointed vicar of St. Elwyn's, the
congregation had increased until few of the rush-bottomed chairs were
empty, and on days of great festivals, people would be found kneeling in
the aisles. The opposition party in the parish frequently commented on
this custom, which was thought to savour of heathenism or worse. One or
two people who had spent holidays in continental towns, and had made
excursions into foreign cathedrals in much the same spirit as they went
into the chamber of horrors in the wax-work exhibition, had brought back
news that this habit was in vogue among "the Catholics." It was felt
that real salvation could only be found in a pew, with one's name
legibly written on an ivory tablet at the end and the vestry-clerk
calling for the rent once a quarter in the decent old-fashioned way. Any
one who knelt on the uncushioned stone showed an anxiety to worship and
a superstitious abasement quite unworthy of a bluff, honest, British
Christian; and his doings must be displeasing to a Deity who, the
objectors were persuaded, was--though they did not say so in actual
words--a great _English_ God.
The single bell that summoned the people to Mass--that word which
church-people are becoming less afraid to use in this century--had
ceased. The server was lighting the Eucharistic candles with a long
taper.
As the people came in, it was noticeable that they proceeded to their
places without side-looks at each other, or muttered social greetings.
They went to their seats, young and old, men and women, and began to
kneel and pray.
No one, apparently, had come there to be seen by his fellows.
Since the Catholic Revival in the English Church, no fact has been more
obvious and easily determined than this. It is one which the bitterest
opponent of churchmanship has never been able to deny and has never
attempted to deny. The most prejudiced observer paying an alternate
visit to a church where the Faith is taught and to another which is
confessedly "Protestant" cannot fail to observe the difference. At the
celebration of the Eucharist in a church of the former type, there is an
absolute stillness and reverence. The congregation kneels, it worships.
In the latter, there is an unrest. People do not show marked
consciousness of being in the presence of mysteries. Whatever they may
think, they do not give the observer the impression that they think God
is there. They sit rather than kneel, they notice the clothes of other
people, there is a certain sense that they are doing the right thing in
"patronising" the church, and the Sunday dinner looms large over all.
The man lit the candles. A moment afterwards Father Blantyre entered
with the servers and the service began.
The singing was simple but harmonious. There was nothing especially
noticeable in the hymn or the chanting of the Kyries after the
commandments.
The priest went into the pulpit, kissed the white stole, and placed it,
as a yoke, upon his shoulders. Over his head was a crucifix. He was a
small man, dark of hair, and swarthy of complexion. The nose was
prominent and aquiline, the eyes bright, with a net-work of fine
wrinkles round them, the mouth large and mobile. There was almost a
suggestion of the comedian in his face, that is, in its extreme mobility
and good-humour. One could imagine him as a merry man in his private
life. But mingled with this, one saw at once the lines of an unalterable
purpose, and of conviction. Any strong belief stamps itself upon a man's
face in an unmistakable way. When that belief is purely holy and good,
then we say that the man has the face of a saint.
For a moment or two, Mr. Blantyre looked round the church. The eyes, so
puckered at the corners, very much resembled the eyes of a sailor, who
is ever gazing out towards a vast horizon and through furious winds. Men
who are much occupied with the Unseen and Invisible sometimes have this
look, which is the look of a man who is striving to see God.
The subject-matter of the sermon itself was not very remarkable. It was
a sermon dealing with the aids to worship that symbol gives, showing how
a proper use of material objects may focus the brain upon the reality
behind them. During the last week or two, the local paper had been
printing some violent attacks upon the services at St. Elwyn's, for
there was a by-election in progress and one of the candidates was
seizing the opportunity afforded by a "No Popery" cry.
The local writer, the vicar pointed out, was obviously alarmed lest
people should worship too much. He spoke of the attacks with sincere
good humour and more than once his words provoked a smile. The
journalist, with the sublime ignorance of lesser local scribes, had
spoken of Queen Elizabeth and expressed a fervent desire that the times
of "good Queen Bess" would come again and that the Royal Spinster could
descend on the purlieus of Hornsey and sternly order all Romish toys to
be removed. Father Blantyre quoted Elizabeth's letter to Sandys:
The queen's majesty considered it not contrary to the Word of
God--nay, rather for the advantage of the church--that the image
of Christ crucified,--together with Mary and John, should be placed
as heretofore in some conspicuous part of the church, where they
may the more readily be seen by all the people.
The last few words of the sermon were preparatory for the mystery that
was about to begin, an earnest exhortation to all there to make
themselves ready to receive the Lord, who was presently coming among
them.
There was nothing in the short discourse that was remarkable, but its
delivery was extraordinary. The words were uttered with a great
tenderness and solemnity, but quite without any formal note. There was
almost a gaiety in them now and then, a spiritual gaiety that was very
impressive. Father Blantyre leaned over the rail and talked to his
people. The voice, which sank into a whisper at times, and at others
rang out with a sharpness that echoed up in the lofty roof, never once
lost its suggestion of confidential intimacy with those to whom it
spoke. In the entire absence of the usual "preaching" note, the sermon
gained immensely in value with this particular audience. Anything
academic would have been endured, but it would not have gone home.
While the offertory sentences were being sung, the congregation saw
that a small group of people had entered the church, presumably to hear
Mass.
One of the churchwardens was able to find seats for the party about
half-way down the central aisle. The new-comers were four in number. All
of them were men.
It is perhaps strange to speak of one of their number as being the
"leader" of the party, but that was the impression he gave to those
members of the congregation immediately around him. At the close of the
service, moreover, several worshippers agreed with each other that this
person had suggested that to them.
He was a shortish, thick-set man of some five and forty years of age.
His large, intelligent face was clean-shaved. The eyes were small and
very bright, shifting hither and thither in a constant flicker of
observation. The mouth was large, and though the lips were thick and
loose, there was nevertheless a certain resolution in them. They were
frequently curved into a half-smile which had something indescribably
sinister and impudent about it. One saw that, in whatever situation he
might find himself, this person would not easily be abashed or unready.
He wore a frock-coat of shining broadcloth. The waistcoat was cut low,
not as well-dressed people would wear it, showing a large expanse of
imitation shirt-front through which a black stud was thrust. A small bow
of black ribbon served as necktie. In some nameless way, he suggested a
peculiarly unpleasing type of irregular dissenting minister in his
appearance, and this was enhanced by the fact that under one arm he
carried a large Bible of limp leather, secured by an india-rubber band.
Yet, with all this, the new-comer had a remarkable and even arresting
personality. Wherever he went, he would not easily escape notice.
By his side sat a tallish youth with sufficient likeness to him to
proclaim a near relationship.
The young fellow's complexion was somewhat muddy, his hair was smooth
and mouse-coloured, his mouth resembled his father's, except that it had
not the impudent good-humour of the elder man's, and was altogether more
furtive and sly.
The two remaining members of the party were men apparently of the
prosperous small-tradesman type, pursy, flabby with good living, who
had added mutton-chop whiskers to their obvious self-esteem.
To one or two members of the congregation there, the father and son were
not unknown. The thick-set, clean-shaved man was Mr. Samuel Hamlyn, the
editor and proprietor of a small local journal,--the _Hornham
Observer_,--and the youth was his son, who acted as reporter to the
paper and signed himself S. Hamlyn, Junior.
Both were well known in local affairs; Hamlyn was a member of the
school-board and held one or two kindred positions. His religious
sympathies had hitherto been supposed to lie with the numerous
dissenting sects in the parish, all of whom had their bills and other
announcements printed at his office.
The momentary interest and stir created by the entrance of the party
died away almost immediately and Mass continued. Certainly no one in the
church realised that in a few short weeks the fat man with the smile
would be notorious all over England, and that they were to be present at
the very first step in the career of one of the shrewdest of vulgar
opportunists the country had ever known.
The seats reserved for the churchwardens were on the opposite side of
the aisle, but almost upon a level with those in which the new-comers
were seated--perhaps some two rows of chairs behind.
Accordingly Doctor Hibbert, the vicar's warden, had a clear view of the
four men just in front.
Hibbert was an upright, soldierly-looking man, who had, in fact, been an
army surgeon, and had now bought a practice in the parish. He was a
skilful doctor, and a man of considerable mental strength, who had made
himself indispensable in the district and was in the way of becoming a
wealthy man. His earnest churchmanship had not militated against his
success, even among the most extreme Protestants and Dissenters of
Hornham. He was known to be a first-class doctor, and he was too strong
a man for any one to take a liberty with, and of such superior power and
mould to the mass of lower-class people whom he attended that his
opinions were respected.
But going about as he did, among every one in the parish, the Doctor
knew far more of its internal state than any one else. Nothing is
concealed from a medical man in general practice. Confession is
compulsory to him; he sees the secrets of men's lives, knows the
tarnished story of the "respectable" person, as sometimes the heroism of
the outcast. Hibbert had his finger on the public pulse of Hornham in a
measure that Father Blantyre himself could hardly achieve.
It was therefore with some little uneasiness and a good deal of
conjecture that the doctor had noticed the advent of Hamlyn and his
party.
The disturbances to public worship which are so familiar to-day were
quite unknown at that time. Hibbert anticipated nothing of what actually
occurred, but his eye was watchful nevertheless.
The Mass went on.
The servers knelt on the altar steps in cotta and cassock, the priest
moved above them in his stiff, flowered chasuble, robed in the garments
of the Passion of our Lord.
The Comfortable Words were said, and the Sursum Corda began.
A deep throbbing sound came from the organ, and, in one great outburst
of solemn avowal, the congregation lifted up their hearts to God.
SURSUM CORDA!
HABEMUS AD DOMINUM
GRATIAS AGAMUS DOMINO DEO NOSTRO!
Ever since the days of the Apostles, the Mass had been said thus, the
most solemn part of the service had begun with these profound words of
adoration. The doctor forgot all else as he worshipped.
Let it be remembered, in the light of what follows, that the vast
majority of the people there believed this, were waiting for
_this_--they believed that when the priest said the Prayer of
Consecration, our Lord Himself had come suddenly among them.
Throughout the rite there was a growing sense and assurance of One
coming. Most of them were quite sure of it.
Human hearts, worn with the troubles of the week, sick to death, it may
be, of a hard material lot, now bowed in contrition and repentance, or
were filled with a certain Hope. Everything in this world was as
nothing, because, upon the altar before which the priest was bending so
low, they believed that God had come.
In what way, or how, they did not know and could not have explained. Did
they _imagine_ it week after week as they knelt in church? Most of them
_knew_ that it was no imagination or delusion that caught at their
hearts, that changed the air of the building in a swift moment, that
caught up heart and soul and spirit in one great outpouring of love and
faith and adoration.
Was _this_ a fable, as folks sometimes told them? This which dissolved
and broke the chains of bodily sense, banished the world, and enfolded
them with its awful sweetness, its immeasurable joy? What else in life
had power to do this, power to hurry away clogging, material things as
in a mighty spiritual wind, to show them once more the stupendous
sacrifice of the Saviour--what else but the indubitable presence of our
Lord?
The priest held up the Host.
At that supreme moment, Doctor Hibbert, whose state of mind may be taken
as typical of many others there, bent in humble adoration and
contrition.
An absolute silence lay over the church; there was not the slightest
sound or movement in it.
A chair was pushed harshly over the tiles, there was a heavy shuffling
of feet. Such sounds in that holy moment affected some of the
worshippers as a physical blow might have done.
But few people looked up. Many of them did not hear the sound, their
ears being tuned to harmonies that were not of this world.
The doctor heard the noise with his ears, but for a merciful moment it
did not penetrate to his brain. And then with a horrid clangour the
visible things of the world came rushing back to him.
He looked up.
The four men just in front of him had risen in their places. The two
tradesmen were red in the face and manifestly uneasy. They breathed
hard, a breath of ostentatious defiance.
Young Hamlyn was glancing round the church with swift, malevolent
movements of his head. His eyes flickered hither and thither until they
finally settled on the motionless figure at the altar, the figure with
the upstretched arm.
The elder Hamlyn held a paper in his hand, from which he began to read
in a loud, unsteady voice:
"_I, Samuel Hamlyn, a lawful parishioner of St. Elwyn's parish, Hornham,
do hereby rise and protest against the illegal and blasphemous fable of
the Mass as performed in this church. And as a member of the Protestant
Church of England I give notice----_"
Every one had risen to his feet. In a distant corner of the church, a
woman began to shriek. A murmur broke into shouts, there was a crash of
some heavy body falling.
A horrid tumult seemed broken loose, as if it had been confined till now
and had broken its bars with one great effort.
In a second, the four men were surrounded by a pushing crowd of men,
beside themselves with horror and anger. Sticks began to quiver in the
air, the crash of the chairs as they were overturned was like the
dropping rattle of musketry fire.
The hard voice of the brawler had gone up a full tone. In its
excitement, it dominated an abominable chorus of shouting.
In half a minute, the doctor and other members of the congregation had
Hamlyn and his son gripped by the arms and were hurrying them towards
the west door without any answer to their frantic threats and menaces.
The other two men followed stolidly.
Nearly every face was turned away from the altar.
The one or two people who had fallen trembling upon their knees when the
riot was at its height saw that the vicar was also kneeling in adoration
of the Blessed Sacrament.
A loud metallic _clang_ resounded through the church. The door was
barred, the brawlers were shut out.
When the maimed, polluted rite was at last concluded, amid deep sobs
from men and women alike, Father Blantyre gave the blessing. They saw
with deep sympathy that the tears were rolling down his cheeks also.
But the doctor saw, with a sudden quickening of the pulses, that the
first finger and the thumb were joined still. It is the custom of the
priest, after he has broken the bread, that the finger and thumb are
never parted till Mass is said.
They were not parted now.
The fact comforted and cheered the doctor. He had been on battle-fields
and had not known the fear and horror he had known to-day.