LORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE GUESTS AT SCARNING COURT
From April until the beginning of August, Lord Huddersfield generally
lived at his house at Scarning, the famous old Tudor mansion on the
river, below Pangbourne.
Peers who are something more than merely "in society" are generally
known to the public at large by reason of some cause which they benefit,
defend, or are associated with. When it is not a cause, it is a business
that gives such an one his label for the man in the street.
Lord _So-and-so_ is, of course, the great banker or brewer; Lord _This_
is the famous picture collector, who has all the Holbeins; Lord _That_
is known to be the best amateur actor, billiard player, or breeder of
bloodhounds in England. In an age when all celebrities are easily
distinguished thus, Lord Huddersfield, was perfectly familiar to
everyone as the great organising churchman. The ordinary person would
say, "Lord Huddersfield? Oh, yes, the great Ritualistic Johnny,"
imagining that he had summed up his man with completeness. Yet, saving
only to churchmen and their antagonists--a very small proportion of the
public to-day--Lord Huddersfield was personally quite unknown. He was
hardly ever caricatured in the comic papers or pictured in the more
serious illustrated journals. His face was wholly unfamiliar; the
details of his private life formed no portion of the gossip papers. To
the vast army of English folk, who are utterly indifferent to religious
questions, he was nothing more than a name.
He had only once excited a really general flicker of interest. On the
occasion of a visit to Italy, like many other distinguished visitors to
the capital, he had been received in audience by the Bishop of Rome. As
usual, the evening papers had published "rumours."
"LORD HUDDERSFIELD AND THE POPE.
WILL HE BECOME A CATHOLIC?"
had appeared as a scare head-line in one enterprising sheet, and the
peer's telegram, stating that he had been one for many years had been
hastily printed as a startling revelation--until some charitable person
had stepped round to the office and explained the joke to a bewildered
Scotch editor, and the paragraph was excised from later editions.
This much for the figure he cut to the outside world. In the English
Church, he was looked upon as one of the leading laymen, if not the
chief of all of them. He was the proprietor of the great weekly paper
known as the _Church Standard_. He was the chairman of many church
societies, the friend and patron of all Anglican movements and
institutions, and a man whose word carried enormous weight and power.
In private life, his two children and his intimate friends found him
true, devout, diligent, winning all hearts by opening his own, where one
found a singular freshness and simplicity. He went as little into
general society as he could, for all his thoughts and aims were occupied
in one endeavour.
On the Monday after the events in Hornham, Agatha Poyntz and her brother
James were in the lovely private backwater of Scarning. Their punt was
moored to the side of a tiny island, set like a gem in the clear brown
water, the red silk cushions of the boat making a vivid splash of colour
on the bank. With these two was Miss Poyntz's great friend and
confidante, Lucy Blantyre, the only sister of the vicar of St. Elwyn's.
Lucy was a girl of medium height, not at all the willowy modern heroine
of pictures and romance. Her hair was of a deep, dead black, coiled on a
small Greek head. Her complexion was dark, like that of her brother, the
priest, but quite without a certain sallowness that was noticeable in
him. It had the dusky paleness, the pearl-like _morbidezza_ of some
southern types, and, despite the lack of colour, showed a perfect and
happy health. The mouth was rather large. Mockery lurked there, and in
the dark eyes a lambent and somewhat scornful humour was wont to play.
Agatha Poyntz was a tall and merry girl--"a nut-brown maid" her father
called her. Her round, plump face showed a sheer light-heartedness and
joy in life that was always refreshing to people who found this life
rather a drab and ordinary affair. The care-worn priests and churchmen
who were her father's friends, men who were always too painfully aware
of the great stream of human tears which is for ever falling through the
shadows of the world, were all fond of her freshness and sparkle. And,
so the wisest of them thought that since she took nothing seriously, and
was quite untouched by the vexing problems in which they were
submerged, it was perhaps a good thing that so gay and bright a creature
should come into their lives for a space, realising that, after all, God
made the butterflies which hovered so daintily over the Scarning
water-flowers upon their painted fans.
James Poyntz, Lord Huddersfield's only son, was a very different type.
He resembled his dead mother, a daughter of the Duke of St. Just. He was
tall, slender, and muscular. His face was clean-shaved, lean, and with a
heavy jaw, not the heaviness that signals sensuality and dulness, but
purpose and resolution. His eyes were grey, and glittered when he became
animated, and his clear, cold voice grew emphatic.
Not long before, he had come down from Oxford, where he had
distinguished himself in the history schools, and also by availing
himself of the little-used permission to absent himself from chapel and
the examination known as "Divinity Moderations," granted to men who have
come of age, and who sign a declaration of their absolute and sincere
disbelief in the supernatural. It had been a piquant spectacle to the
sceptic undergraduates and younger dons, to see the son and heir of
Lord Huddersfield openly scornful and protesting against all that his
father held so dear, and quietly taking the much severer tests that the
University statutes impose upon those who would dispense with the
puerile divinity examination.
James Poyntz was on rather bad terms with his father. There was no
confidence between them, and perhaps but little love--though that had
never been tested. The young man had a sufficient fortune from his
mother, and his father was prepared to supplement his income in any way
he might wish, being far too sensible and just a man to endeavour to
make his son suffer financially for his opinions. But James Poyntz
refused money which, as he said, would have been purely superfluous to
him, and was occupied in carving a career for himself at the common-law
bar, where he was already a not inconspicuous figure among the junior
men.
His knowledge of ecclesiastical law was good, and in the wrangles
between diocesan chancellors and recalcitrant clergy which were becoming
more and more frequent, he was frequently retained. He was a very
familiar figure in Dr. Tristram's Consistory Court, and his familiarity
with ecclesiastical litigation only increased a contempt for those who
professed and called themselves Christians, which was as profound as it
was sincere, and as fundamentally the result of ignorance as it was
both.
For, brilliant as he was, the young man had not the slightest
acquaintance with modern religious thought. He saw everything through
the spectacles of temperamental distaste, and still believed that
Professor Huxley had dealt the final blow to Christianity in 1876! Lord
Huddersfield had often pressed his son to read the question as it at
present stood, to see what Gore and the philosophic apologists were
saying, or even to note the cautious but inevitable conclusions that
prominent scientists like Lord Kelvin and Sir Oliver Lodge were arriving
at. But the young man always refused. The ancient indictment of the
Gadarene swine represented the last word in the controversy for him, and
a brain keen and finely furnished with facts on all other questions, on
this was not only content to be forty years behind the conclusions of
theological science, but imagined that it was in the van of contemporary
thought.
Of late, Lord Huddersfield had given up the attempt to influence his
son's opinions. "It is impossible," he had said, "to explain that the
sky is blue to a man who has blindfolded himself all his life, and one
cannot build a basis in a vacuum." So, while both men respected each
other's attainments on all subjects but religious ones, on these James
thought his father a fool, and Lord Huddersfield knew that his son was.
Despite all this difference, the younger man was a frequent and welcome
visitor at his father's various houses, and between him and his sister
Agatha there was a real and deep affection. Agatha was conventionally
indifferent to religious things, James was profoundly antagonistic to
them, and thus, if they did not meet quite on common ground, they were
never likely to disagree.
And Lucy Blantyre, the third member of that gay young trio on the summer
morning, was a combination of both of them. She was very well off in the
affairs of this world, as indeed was her brother, Bernard Blantyre of
St. Elwyn's. But, while he had early devoted his life and money to the
service of God, Lucy had refused to identify herself with his interests.
She lived with her aunt, Lady Linquest, a gay old dame of Mayfair, and
it was only at rare intervals that she paid a duty visit to her
brother. Yet, though she was, from a surface point of view, purely a
society girl, popular, and happy in a bright and vivid life, there were
temperamental depths in her, unsounded as yet, which showed her
sometimes--to her own wonder and discomfort--that she was a true
blood-sister to the priest in north-east London. At times, a wave of
scorn for the Church possessed her. She saw the worst side of religious
externals and poured bitter fun upon their anomalies. This is, of
course, a very easy thing to do. Any one can ridicule the unseen and its
ministers: it requires no special talent to be rude to God! At other
times, the girl saw this very clearly and was ashamed. She had a good
brain and despised all that was cheap and vulgar at the bottom; and when
her moods of wilfulness had passed, she stood upon the brink of devotion
and belief.
Nothing serious animated any of the three. The day was wonderful. In a
sky like a hard, hollow sapphire the sun burned like a white-hot disc of
platinum. The island was deliciously cool; the murmur of a near river
mingled with the bourdon of the bees. The smooth turf on which they lay
was starred with chaste and simple flowers.
"Isn't it _perfect_ to-day!" Agatha said. "Bee, go away from my face!
'Pleasant it is when the woods are green and the winds are soft and low,
to lie amid some sylvan scene'--Lucy, dear, what are you thinking
about?"
"I was wondering if we were really reclining in what the poets of last
century called 'bosky shade.' Is this bosky, Mr. Poyntz?"
"Decidedly bosky, I should say. But surely both of you can put the
island to a better use than merely to illustrate quotations from the
poets? It's far too fine for that."
"Oh, do let me have 'bosky'," Lucy replied. "It's such a dear, comic
word. I've always loved it. It always seems a fat word to me. I'm sure
it's fat and it waddles--in the word world!"
"Then what does Agatha's 'sylvan' do?"
"Oh, sylvan?--well, I should think it was a slim, graceful, and very
young-ladyish kind of word. It wears a neat grey tailor-made coat and
skirt, and says, 'Papa is of opinion that,' or, 'Mamma has frequently
told me.'"
They all laughed, pleased with themselves, the hour, and the charm that
perfectly absurd talk has for young and happy people.
"Oh, don't talk of words, Miss Blantyre," Poyntz said, "I'm tired of
them. The long vacation draws near, when I want to forget all about
them. My words, the words I live by, or for, are beasts."
"Quote, dearest," Agatha said.
"Well, this is the sort of thing I see more often than anything else at
present," he replied: "'The humble petition of the vicar and
churchwardens of St. Somebody sheweth that, it being considered
desirable to make certain alterations and improvements in the church of
the said Parish, a meeting in Vestry duly convened for considering the
same, was held on the first of June, at which it was resolved that the
alterations shown in the plan annexed hereto and there produced, should
be carried out, a copy of which resolution is also hereto annexed.'"
Both the girls cried out to him to stop.
"What musty words, dry and rusty words!" Lucy said. "And, please, what
are they all about, and what do they mean?"
"They mean this--some worthy parson has badgered his congregation for
money. It is the desire of his soul to have a rood-screen in his
chancel, with a gilt and splendid crucifix upon the top. So, armed with
a mouthful of words like that, he gets him to a sort of cellar near St.
Paul's, where a dear old gentleman, named the Right Worshipful T. H.
Tristram, K. C., D.C.L., sits, in a big wig and a red robe. The parson
eloquently explains his wishes, and the Right Worshipful tells him to go
and be hanged--or polite words to that effect. Then I and other young
legal 'gents' get up and talk and argue, and the Right Worshipful
listens until he's tired, and then says no again. The parson goes back
to his roodless temple and preaches against Erastianism, and I and the
other young legal 'gents' pouch a few guineas, and go and play pool at
the Oxford and Cambridge Club."
"And then," Agatha went on,--"then father makes a speech and writes a
letter to the _Times_ and gets fearfully excited and worried for about a
week, neglects his meals, passes sleepless nights, and behaves in a
perfectly foolish manner generally. Then he goes down to the parish and
has a convivial meat tea with the poor parson, and before he goes gives
him a cheque for fifty pounds to go and have a holiday with after all
the strain!"
"Exactly," said Lucy, "I will take up the parable. I have seen our
friend, the parson, in the unutterable north London slum, where my poor
dear brother Bernard spends all his time and money. He goes, as you
say, for a holiday, to recover from the scene in the cellar near St.
Paul's. He goes to Dieppe or Boulogne, where he attends the cathedral
three times a day, and tries to fraternise with the priests, who regard
him as a layman masquerading in borrowed plumes. In revenge, he goes and
makes things uncomfortable for the local English chaplain, who, in most
continental towns, is an undersized person with a red nose and an
enormous red moustache and a strong flavour of Chadband at home. So
'all's well that ends well.' But, really, what fearful nonsense it all
is! Isn't it wonderful that people should waste their energies so!"
"If it amuses them it doesn't matter in the least," Agatha said. "Look
how happy it makes poor dear father. And I daresay he does good in his
way, don't you know. It's far better than racing or anything like that.
Poor dear Hermione Blackbourne was staying here not long ago, and she
was telling me what a wretched time they have at home. Lord Saltire
hardly ever pays the girls' allowances unless he's won a race, and the
poor dears have to study the sporting papers to know if they'll be able
to afford new frocks for Goodwood. Father's fads are at least harmless,
or, at any rate, no one has to suffer for what he gives away."
"The old type of clergyman seems to have quite died out," Lucy said.
"When I was a little girl, the rector at home was a dear old man, who
dressed just like an ordinary person, and went otter-hunting three days
a week. Yet I'm sure he was just as earnest as any of these new faddy
people. We had a delightful old pew, with a fireplace and chairs, and
poor dear father used to get his nap. And as for altar lights and copes
and incense, I don't suppose dear old Mr. Jenkyns had ever heard of such
things. The amount of money that Bernard spends on his church in that
way is ridiculous."
"The only good I can see in it," James Poyntz said, "is that it brings a
certain colour element into drab and dull lives. The people in your
brother's parish, who never see any thing artistic, must gain in that
way, I suppose. After all, Miss Blantyre, 'it's an ill wind that blows
nobody any good.' All this Church nonsense gives pleasure, however much
we may laugh at it. Take myself, for example. I'm intensely amused at
all the squabbles that go on between Christians. More evil passions are
stirred up and let loose over half a yard of green silk or the precise
manner in which half an ounce of flour and water is baked than the
politics of a century excite! It's perfectly true. There's a spirit of
bitter hatred in it all that is intensely interesting to the student of
character. There are hundreds of thousands of people in England who
would burn my poor father in front of St. Paul's to-morrow if they
could--good, respectable, honest British folk!"
"Well," Lucy said, with affected gloom, "all this only reminds me of my
coming penance. In a day or so now, I must dive into Hornham for my
yearly stay with Bernard. I shall emerge quite thin and crushed. I
always do. The 'clergy-house,' as they call the vicarage, is a
lugubrious place that suggests a rather superior workhouse. When I go,
the drawing-room is solemnly opened by the housekeeper. Bernard gives a
couple of dinner parties and a garden party to a set of the most
extraordinary people you ever saw in your life. I have to be hostess and
chatter to weird people, with whom I haven't a single idea in common.
Lady Linquest drove down from Park Lane to the garden party last year. I
shall never forget it. She gave Bernard such a talking to, told him to
'dress like a gentleman,' and exchange to a nice country parish with
some county people close by, and marry. I wish he would, too! He's
wasting his life, his money, and his health in that awful place. I don't
wonder at aunt's being angry. Why can't he do as she says? He could have
high jinks in a nice little country church in one of the home counties
just as well as where he is now."
"Beastly life, I should think," James Poyntz said. "Does he live all
alone?"
"Oh, the two curates live with him, Father Stephens and Father
King--they're all 'fathers,' it seems. These are two intense youths, who
dress in cassocks and tippets all day long, and wear their berrettas
everywhere. I think it's positively indecent to sit down to a meal
dressed like that. But the worst of it is, that there's always some fast
day or other, and I feel an awful pig to be having chicken and claret
while the other three have oatmeal and apples. But I insisted on proper
meals last year, much to the disgust of a gaunt old cat of a
housekeeper, whom Bernard thinks the whole world of."
She stopped, laughing at her own volubility, and lay back upon the
cushions, staring up at the green-leaf canopy above her head. All these
questions seemed very trivial and unreal at that moment, in that
pleasant place of sunshine, soft breezes, and the murmur of falling
water. She thought of the long, mean, suburban streets of Hornham with
humorous dismay. Thank goodness that she was only going to spend a
fortnight there, and then would be away in a gay continental
watering-place with Lady Linquest. But the few days were imperative. She
was fond of her brother and knew how bitterly disappointed he would be
if she were to withdraw from her promise to stay at St. Elwyn's. It was
a duty which must be done, and it was an unkind fate indeed that had
placed her brother in surroundings which were so uncongenial to her, and
endowed him with opinions so alien to her own.
James Poyntz had lighted a cigarette. The smoke curled upwards in
delicate grey spirals, and he could see his sister's friend through
them, surrounded by a shifting frame which cut off the striking and
clever face from its immediate surroundings, giving it a vivid and
independent individuality. He could survey it more completely so. There
was something in Lucy Blantyre that had begun to appeal to the young
man with great and greater strength as the days went on. She was close
upon beauty, and she had all the charm of a high-spirited and well-bred
girl in perfect health, and knowing no trouble in life. But in the life
to which he had been born, girls like her were not uncommon. Despite the
fiction-mongers who fulminate against the vices of "society," and would
have their readers believe that the flower of English girlhood is to be
found in the middle class alone, Poyntz knew many gracious girls who
were worthy to stand by any man's side throughout life. But in Lucy
Blantyre he was beginning to discern something deeper and stronger. He
thought that he saw in her a wonderful capacity for companionship, a
real talent for wifehood. He could imagine that she would be more to her
husband than an ordinary wife, identified with his hopes and career with
all her soul's power, one for whom Milton's epithalamium itself would
not be unworthy, with its splendid "Hail, wedded love!"
But, though such thoughts had been in and out of his mind for some time,
he was hardly in love with her as yet. His temperament was honest and
sincere, but cool and judicial also. He was the last man to take any
definite step without a full weighing of the chances and results.
But the two had become great friends. Agatha Poyntz had her own thoughts
about the matter, and they were very pleasant ones. Nothing would have
pleased her more than the marriage of her brother and her friend, and
she had made _tête-à-têtes_ for them in the adroit, unobtrusive manner
that girls know.
In all his conversations with Lucy, Poyntz had found a keen, resilient
brain that answered to his thoughts in precisely the way he wished. The
tinge of cynicism in her corresponded to the flavour of it in him, and
there was sometimes real wit and understanding in her mockery.
She "suited" him--that is how he would have put it--and he was now
beginning to ask and examine himself if love were not being born, a love
which might make their union a perfect and lasting thing upon his way
through life. Of her sentiments towards him he knew no more than that
she sincerely liked him and that they were friends.
The regular throbbing pant of a steam launch on the silver Thames
outside was heard, and Lucy turned suddenly in Poyntz's direction. She
saw that he was looking at her gravely and steadily. A very faint flush
came into her cheeks, almost imperceptible indeed, and then she smiled
frankly at him.
He smiled also, pleased with himself and her, and with a sense that a
new intimacy was suddenly established between them, an odd sense of
which he was quite certain.
Agatha looked at the little watch in a leather bracelet on her wrist.
"It's nearly lunch time!" she said; "I don't know how you people feel,
but the word has a very welcome sound to me. Jim, get up and punt us
home. You'll be able to argue with Father Saltus; I've asked him to
lunch with us to-day. I didn't know you were coming down."
She spoke of Lord Huddersfield's domestic chaplain, a wise and courtly
elderly man, whom they all liked, without in the least realising the
part he played in Church affairs, regarding him, indeed, as a harmless
student and a pleasant companion, but no more.
In fact, as the light and careless conversation of all of them showed,
not one of the three young people had the remotest idea of what they
were discussing. And though each one of them had a sense of humour, they
were not able to see the humorous side of their airy patronage of the
Catholic Church! This Mr. Saltus was known as one of the most profound
metaphysicians of the day. The greatest modern brains were influenced by
his writings in Christian apologetics; bishops, statesmen, great
scientists knew of him as one to whom it was given to show how all
thought and all philosophy were daily proving the truth of the
Incarnation. His work in the life of the Church was this, and he was
Lord Huddersfield's chaplain because that position gave him leisure and
freedom for his work, and kept him in touch with the very centre of
things.
James Poyntz had arrived from London by an early train, and had joined
the girls at once.
In a moment or two, the young man was propelling the long mahogany punt
with easy strokes towards the artificial cutting which led to the
Seaming boathouse. Then, laughing and talking together, the three
strolled over the wonderful lawns, pneumatic to the tread, brilliant as
emerald to the eye, towards the old house with its encircling oaks and
elms.
The tall red chimneys rose up between the leaves, that triumph of the
Tudor style, which alone of all architectural systems has shown how
chimneys may aid and complete the beauty of a building. The house rested
upon the lawns as if it might float away at any moment, as they passed
round an ancient grey dove-cot and some formal box-trees, and came in
sight of the beautiful place. James Poyntz gave a quick breath of
pleasure as he saw it, the old riverside palace of his ancestors. There
were other houses which would one day be his--a great, grim Yorkshire
fortress, the gay villa at Nice by the old citadel of Mont-Albano, where
the Paglion sings its song of the mountain torrent, the decorous London
mansion in Berkeley Square. But of all, he loved the old Tudor house by
the river best.
How well Lucy walked! her carriage was a pleasure to watch. Yes! she
harmonised with her background, she was in correspondence with her
environment, she would be a fit mistress of Scarning in some dim future
day.
They sat down to lunch in an ancient, mellow room, panelled in oak, with
Tudor roses everywhere. It was beautifully cool and fresh after the
glare outside. Father Saltus was a tall and very portly elderly man. His
head was large, formed on a grand scale, and his mouth powerful but
good-humoured. His eyebrows were very bushy and extremely white, and
they overhung eyes which were of a dark grey, deep but not sombre, with
much that was latent there.
The meal was progressing merrily when the butler entered and spoke to
the footman who had been waiting on them. Then he went up to Agatha.
"His Lordship has returned, Miss," he said, "and will be down to lunch
in a moment."
Lord Huddersfield had been away for several days. The family house in
London was let, as the Baron did not entertain largely since his wife's
death. Agatha's season was spent under the wing of the St. Justs, her
mother's people. But Lord Huddersfield had chambers in Piccadilly, and
no one ever quite knew whether or not he would be at Scarning at any
given time.
He entered in a moment, a slim, spectacled man, with a short beard, very
quietly dressed, a man who did not, at first glance, in any way suggest
the power he wielded or the strenuous personality he was.
He kissed his daughter, shook hands with his son, Lucy, and the
chaplain, and sat down. They noticed that he was pale and worried.
"Have any of you seen the papers?" he said in a strong, resonant voice,
which came oddly from a man so ordinary and undistinguished in
appearance.
"I saw the _Times_ this morning, Father," Poyntz said, "but that is
all." The girls confessed that they had not touched the pile of journals
in the library, and Mr. Saltus said he had been writing letters all the
morning and so had not yet been able to see the news.
"I am sorry," said Lord Huddersfield sadly. "I had hoped that you would
have seen the thing that has happened. I had hoped that I should not
have had to tell you, Miss Blantyre."
His voice was so charged with meaning that Lucy shivered. Her eyes
became full of apprehension. "Why me, Lord Huddersfield?" she said,
"what has happened?"
Agatha, who was thoroughly frightened, laid a sympathetic hand upon her
friend's arm. James, who was gazing anxiously at the girl, suddenly
turned to his father.
"I think you had better tell your news right out," he said quietly.
"Don't keep Miss Blantyre in suspense, Father; it is mistaken kindness.
I am sure that she will be brave."
Every one looked at Lord Huddersfield; the air was tense with
expectation. "Your good brother, Miss Blantyre," the peer began--Lucy
gave a quick gasp and the colour faded from her lips--"your good
brother, yesterday in church, was saying Mass when suddenly some local
residents rose in their places and made an open protest, shouting and
brawling at the very moment of the Prayer of Consecration!"
Lucy gazed steadfastly at him, waiting. He said nothing more. "Go on,
please," she managed to whisper at last.
"They were at once ejected, of course," Lord Huddersfield said.
"And Bernard?"
"Although his state of mind must have been terrible, despite his pain, I
learn from a private telegram that he continued the service to the end."
The three young people stared incredulously; only Father Saltus suddenly
looked very grave.
"But--why--is that all, Lord Huddersfield?" Lucy said with a gasp of
half-relief. "I thought you meant that something dreadful had happened
to Bernard."
"Yes," he said, very surprised, "I have told you."
James picked up his knife and fork, and continued his lunch without a
word. He was very angry with his father.
Agatha shrugged her shoulders slightly.
"Oh, that wasn't quite fair, Lord Huddersfield," Lucy said tremulously.
"You really made me think some awful thing had happened. Only a brawl in
church?"
"I am very sorry, my dear," he answered quickly; "I fear I have shown a
great want of tact. I did not know. I forgot, that is, that you don't
quite see these things as we do. You don't realise what it means."
"Shall I give you some chicken, Father?" Agatha said, looking at a dish
of mayonnaise before her. She thought that there had been quite a fuss
made about nothing.
Lord Huddersfield sighed. He felt that he was in a thoroughly
uncongenial atmosphere, though he was sorry for the alarm he had caused.
Once his eye fell in mild wonder upon his guest. How unlike her brother
she was, he thought.
There was an awkward silence, which James broke at length.
"I always thought," he said, "that there would be trouble soon. The days
for locking clergymen up have passed by, but Protestant feeling is bound
to have its outlet."
His quick brain had seized upon the main point at once.
"Well, there will be more work for the lawyers," he continued.
Lord Huddersfield frowned a little. "Of course, I can't expect you to
see the thing as I do, James," he said. "To me such a public insult to
our Lord is terrible. It almost frightens one. What poor Blantyre must
have felt, what every Catholic there must have felt, is most painful to
imagine."
"I'm sure Mr. Poyntz has sympathy with any body of people whose most
sacred moment has been roughly disturbed," the chaplain said. "Whatever
a man's convictions may be, he must feel that. But the thing is over and
nothing can put it right. What I fear is, that this is only the
beginning of a series of sacrilegious acts which may do the Church
incalculable harm."
"The newspaper report, which appeared everywhere but in the _Times_,"
Lord Huddersfield replied, "stated that it was only the beginning of a
campaign. All the reports were identical and apparently supplied to the
papers by the same person, probably the brawlers themselves--who appear
to be people of no consequence whatever."
"There will be a service of reparation?" asked the chaplain.
"Yes, to-morrow," answered Lord Huddersfield. "I am going down to
Hornham and shall be present. We must discuss everything with Blantyre
and settle exactly what lines the _Church Standard_ will take up."
"Of course, Mr. Blantyre will prosecute?" James said.
"Oh, yes. My telegram told me that the summons had already been issued.
The law is quite clear, I suppose, on the point, James?"
"Quite. Brawling in church is a grave offence. But these people will, of
course, pose as martyrs. Public opinion will be with them, a nominal
fine will be inflicted, and they'll find themselves heroes. I'm afraid
the Ritualists are going to have a bad time. In '68, the Martin _v._
Mackonochie judgment was very plain, and in '71 the judicial committee
of the Privy Council was plainer still in the case of Herbert _v._
Punchas. Then, after the Public Worship Regulation Act, the Risdale
judgment clinched the whole thing. That was at the beginning of it all.
Now, though prosecutions have been almost discontinued, the few cases
that have been heard before the ecclesiastical courts are all the same.
So far as I can see, if this pleasant little habit of getting up and
brawling protests in church becomes popular, a big fire will be lighted
and the advanced men will have to draw in their horns."
Lord Huddersfield smiled. He attempted no argument or explanation. He
had thrashed out these questions with his son long ago. Father Saltus
spoke instead.
"If this really spreads into a movement, as it may," he said, "ignorant
public opinion will be with the protestors for a month or two. But that
is all. The man in the street will say that every one has a right to
hold whatever religious opinions he pleases, and to convert others to
his views--if he can--by the ordinary methods of propagandism. But he
will also say that no one has a right to air his opinions by disturbing
the devotions of those who don't happen to agree with him. And what is
more, no religious cause was ever advanced by these means. I have no
doubt that these people will boast and brag that they are vindicating
the cause of law in the Church of England. But if they knew anything of
the history of that Protestantism they champion--which, of course, they
_don't_, for they know nothing whatever--they would know that the law is
the most impotent of all weapons to crush a religious movement."
James nodded. "It is a truism of history," he agreed.
"Exactly. To call in the aid of the law to counteract the spread of any
religious doctrine or ceremonial is to adopt the precise means that sent
the Oxford martyrs to the stake and lighted the Smithfield fires. From
the days when the High Priests called in the law's aid to nip
Christianity in the bud, the appeal to the law has never been anything
but an appeal to the spirit of intolerance and persecution against the
freedom of religious belief and worship."
Agatha rose from the table. "Come along, Lucy dear," she said; "'all's
well that ends well,' and your brother's not going to have a bomb thrown
at him just yet. You will be in the thick of the disturbance in a few
days; meanwhile, make the most of the river and the sunshine! Jim, come
and punt us to the Eyot."
She kissed her father and fluttered away singing happily a snatch of an
old song, _Green Grow the Rushes O!_
The others followed her. The two elder men were left alone, and for a
minute or two neither spoke.
Then Saltus said: "They are all young, they have made no contact with
real life yet. God does not always call in early life. To some people,
the cross that is set so high over the world is like a great star,--it
is not seen until the surrounding sky is darkened and the sun grows
dim."
"I am going into the chapel," Lord Huddersfield said, "to be alone for
an hour. There must be many prayers going up to-day to God for the wrong
these poor ignorant men have done."
"Pray that they may be forgiven. And then, my dear Lord," he continued,
"suppose we have a talk over the situation that has been created--if any
situation beyond the purely local one _has_ been created." A fighting
look came into his face. "We shall be wise to be prepared, to have our
guns loaded."
"Yes, Father," Lord Huddersfield said rather grimly, "we are not without
power and influence, I am happy to think."