A UNION OF FORCES
In Hornham, the vast majority of a poor and teeming population was quite
without interest in any religious matter. The chapels of the various
sects were attended by the residuum, the congregations at St. Elwyn's
were large--to the full holding capacity of the mother church and the
smaller mission building--and a fair proportion of people worshipped at
St. Luke's, the only other church in the neighbourhood.
Mr. Carr, the vicar of St. Luke's, was a man of about thirty-five. He
had taken a good degree at Cambridge, spent a few years in various
curacies, and had been appointed vicar of St. Luke's, Hornham, which was
in the gift of an Evangelical body known as Simon's Trustees, about four
years before Mr. Hamlyn had thrown Hornham into its present state of
religious war.
The vicar of St. Luke's was a man of considerable mental power. He was
unmarried, had no private means, and lived a lonely, though active,
life in his small and ill-built vicarage. In appearance, he was tall,
somewhat thin, and he wore a pointed, close-cropped beard and moustache.
His face was somewhat melancholy, but when he was moved or interested,
the smile that came upon it was singularly sweet. In the ordinary
business of life, he was reserved and shy. He had none of the genial
Irish _bonhomie_ of Blantyre, the wholesome breezy boyishness of
Stephens, or the grim force of King. He had a "personality"--to the
eye--but he failed to sustain the impression his appearance made in
talk. He was of no use in a drawing-room and very nearly a failure in
any social gathering. Those few members of his flock with whom, now and
again, he had to enter into purely social relations, said of him: "Mr.
Carr is a thorough gentleman, but the poor fellow is dreadfully shy. He
wants a wife; perhaps she'd liven him up a bit."
Such was the man in private life. In his clerical duties, as a
priest--or, as he would have put it, a pastor--his personal character
was sunk and merged in his office as completely as that of Father
Blantyre himself. His sermons were full of earnest exhortation, his
private ministrations were fervent and helpful, and there was a power in
his ministry that was felt by all with whom he came in contact.
He was distinctly and entirely what is known as an "Evangelical," using
that fine word in the best and noblest sense. He belonged to a school of
thought which is rapidly becoming merged in and overlapped by others,
sometimes to its betterment, but more frequently to its destruction, but
which standing by itself is a powerful force.
He did not realise the state of transition in which he and other men of
his school must necessarily stand to-day. Their position, admirable as
it often is, is but a compromise. He did not as yet realise this.
Of Blantyre and the people at St. Elwyn's he knew little or nothing. He
had met the clergy there once or twice upon official occasions, but that
was all. He was too busy with his own work to have much time to attend
to that of other people, but he had the natural distaste of his school
and bringing-up for ceremonial and teaching of which he had no
experience, and merely regarded as foreign, anti-English, and on the
whole dangerous.
He was not a bigot, and the leading feature in his religion was this: He
assigned an absolute supremacy to Holy Scripture as the only rule of
faith and practice, the only test of truth, the only judge of
controversy. He did not think that there was any guide for man's soul
co-equal or co-ordinate with the Bible. He did not care to accept such
statements as "the Church says so," "primitive antiquity says so," or
"the Councils and the Fathers also say so,"--unless it could be shown to
his satisfaction that what is said is in harmony with Scripture.
Disregarding as superfluous all external and "vicarious" form in
religion, he attached paramount importance to the work and office of our
Lord, and the highest place to the inward work of the Holy Spirit in the
heart of man. And he attached tremendous importance to the outward and
visible work of the Holy Ghost in the heart of man. His supreme belief
was that the true grace of God is a thing that will always make itself
manifest in the behaviour, tastes, ways, and choices, of him who has it.
He thought, therefore, that it was illogical to tell men that they are
"children of God, and members of Christ, and heirs of the kingdom of
Heaven" unless they had really overcome the world, the flesh, and the
devil. But he could not be stern or menacing in his dealings with
souls. The mercy of God was more in his thoughts, always and at all
times, than the wrath and judgment of God.
His attitude toward the pressing questions that were agitating the
Church of England, all over England, was in logical correspondence with
his beliefs. There was much within the Church that he had not understood
or realised as yet, but he was no Hamlyn, to break down and destroy all
that has made the Church of England what it is.
He neither undervalued the Church nor thought lightly of her privileges.
In sincere and loyal attachment to her, he would give place to none. His
apprehension of churchmanship was limited, that was all.
Nor did he--as far as he knew--under-value the Christian ministry. He
looked upon it as a high and honourable office instituted by Christ
Himself, and on priests as God's ambassadors, God's messengers, God's
stewards and overseers. Nevertheless he looked upon what he knew as
"sacerdotalism" and "priestcraft" with unfeigned dislike and uneasiness.
He believed in baptism as the appointed means of regeneration and that
it conveyed grace _ex opere operato_; a position in which he was a
little in advance of some of his school. His views on the Eucharist were
hardly so sound, though there was nothing in them absolutely
antagonistic to the truths which he had not yet realised. He certainly
did not regard Holy Communion as the chief service in the Church, its
central point.
On outward things, he was sane enough. He liked handsome churches, good
ecclesiastical architecture, a well-ordered ceremonial, and a
well-conducted service. If any one had told Mr. Carr that he was as
nearly as possible "Catholic" in his views, that if they were logically
pushed forward to their proper development he would be practically one
with the St. Elwyn's people, he would first have been startled somewhat
unpleasantly, and then he would have laughed incredulously.
And if some one had gone to Blantyre and told him that Carr was thus, he
would have smiled rather sadly to think that his informant had realised
the truths taught by the Anglican Church in a very limited way.
This mutual misunderstanding between the only two schools of thought in
the Church of England that have enduring value is very common. The
_extreme_ Protestants are not church-people at all in any right sense
of the word. The "Broad" party are confused with their own shifting
surmises from day to day, and make too many "discoveries" to have real
and lasting influence. But the "High Church" people and the pious
"Evangelicals" are extraordinarily close to one another, and neither
party realises the fact, while both would repudiate it. Yet both schools
of opinion are, after all, occupied with one end and aim to the
exclusion of all others--the attaining of personal holiness.
It was on a bright morning that Mr. Carr came down-stairs and
breakfasted, after he had read prayers with his two servants. There was
no daily service in St. Luke's, though evensong was said on Wednesdays
and Saturdays. He read his morning paper for a few moments, then put it
down and pushed his plate away. He was unable to eat, this morning.
He got up and walked uneasily about the room. His face was troubled and
sad. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and read it with a doubtful
sigh. This was the letter:
"LUTHER LODGE,
"HORNHAM, N.
"DEAR SIR:
"Your letter duly to hand. I note that you are desirous of having a
private conversation with me, and shall be pleased to grant
facilities for same. I shall not be leaving for the Strand till
mid-day, and can therefore see you at eleven.
"Faithfully yours,
"SAMUEL HAMLYN.
"_Secretary of the Luther League,_
"_Chairman of The New Reformation Association._"
The clergyman read and reread the letter, hardly knowing what to make of
it. He had done so many times. The infinite condescension of it annoyed
him; the recapitulation of the writer's position seemed a piece of
impudent bravado, and reminded the vicar of St. Luke's of the unhappy
state that religious life was in at Hornham.
Some days before, shocked and distressed beyond measure at the growing
turmoil in Hornham, startled by the continued evidences of it that he
met with in his pastoral life, he had written to Mr. Hamlyn asking for a
private interview. He had shrunk from doing anything of the sort for
weeks. His whole nature revolted against it. But he had dimly recognised
that in some measure he might be said to be in a middle position between
the two conflicting parties, and thought that his mediation might be of
some avail. Repugnant as it was to him, he resolved that he must do
what he thought to be his duty, and after he had made it the subject of
anxious and fervent prayer he had made up his mind to see if he could
not prevail with the leader of the "New Reformation" to cease his
agitation, in Hornham at any rate. He imagined that Hamlyn could hardly
realise the harm he was doing to the true religious life in the place.
It was not his business to argue with the reformer about his work
elsewhere. He knew nothing of that. But in Hornham, at any rate, he did
see that the civil war provoked nothing but the evil passions of hatred
and malice, had no effect upon either party, and prevented the steady
preparation for heaven which he thought was the supreme business of
Christians.
Hamlyn's letter certainly didn't seem at all conciliatory. It disturbed
him. He had hardly ever spoken to the man in the past, but he had known
of him, as he necessarily knew of every tradesman in the borough. Social
considerations hardly ever entered his mind, but he had not thought of
Hamlyn as a potentate in any way when he had written to him. He knew him
for a plump, shrewd, vulgar man, who dropped his aspirates and said
"paiper" for "paper," and, indeed, had thought none the worse of him
for that. But the letter surprised him. It was almost offensive, and he
was as near anger as a gentle-minded man may be.
At half-past ten o'clock, he sighed, realising that a most distasteful
duty had to be done, and prepared to leave the house. Before he left his
study, he knelt down and prayed for a blessing in his mission. He always
prayed before any event of any importance in life. An enormous number of
people still do, and it is a very great pity that some people do not
believe or realise the fact. Prayer is not the anachronism many
publicists would have us believe. If among all classes, Christians by
open profession, and people who make no profession at all, save only
contempt for Christianity, a census of prayers prayed during one day
could be taken, the result would be very remarkable indeed. It would
certainly startle the rationalists. Statistics show that every second a
child is born and a person dies. It is during the approach of such
occasions that even people who call themselves "atheists" generally
pray. Ask hospital nurses, doctors, or parish priests! There is no
greater humbug than the pretence that prayer as a general necessity and
practice is dead. There is more irreligion visible to-day than at any
other time in English history, perhaps. But that does not mean that
people do not pray. The majority live a jolly, godless life till they
are frightened. Then they pray. The minority pray always.
Mr. Carr left his house with a more vigorous step after his petition. As
so many folk know, the help that comes from prayer is only
self-hypnotism--of course. But it is certainly odd what power some of
the least gifted and most ordinary people have of this self-hypnotism.
One had always thought it rather a cryptic science, the literature of
India, for example, regarding it as a supreme achievement. But it must
be very simple after all! And if the help that comes to the human heart
after prayer _is_ a result of this magnetic power, all we can say is
that in the depths of a Whitechapel slum, the outcast, forgotten, and
oppressed have each and all the most remarkable, delicate, and cultured
temperaments, not in the least seared or spoilt by privation and want.
The only point that one quite fails to understand is, why are the
leading reviews and scientific publications still discussing this art,
or talent, as something rare, abnormal, and as yet little understood?
Mr. Carr drew near to "Luther Lodge." "Balmoral" had been deserted for
some time by the Hamlyn family, who very properly felt that it was
beneath the dignity of its celebrated head, and would also be harmful to
the glorious Protestant cause, if they remained among the
undistinguished inhabitants of Beatrice Villas.
About the time that this decision had been arrived at, a substantial
square house, unornamental but sound--like Protestantism itself--was
vacated by its former inhabitant, the Mayor of Hornham, a
leather-dresser in a large way, who had sold his business to a company
and was retiring to the country. Mr. Hamlyn looked over the place--then
known as Hide-side House--and saw that it would exactly suit him and his
altered fortunes. He changed the name to "Luther Lodge," made some
extensive purchases of furniture, and established himself there with his
son and daughter.
Carr drew near to the iron gates before the circular sweep of gravel
known to the past and present inhabitants of the house as the "drive."
The gates were hung from two stone pilasters, each surmounted by a small
but extremely rampant lion, fiercely Protestant of aspect and painted a
dull purple. The whole aspect of the place was chilling, as the
clergyman walked up to the door. The formal lace curtains in the
windows, the brilliant black-leaded boot-scraper which reflected the
sunlight in a dozen facets of vicious leaden fire, the great apple of
shining brass which was the bell-pull--all these affected him in an
unpleasant manner. He was supremely unconscious of any artistic likings
or knowledge, but the seeds of them were latent in him nevertheless, and
the place hurt his senses in a strange way.
A trim maid came to the door, the extreme antithesis of the
filibustering "general" of a year ago, and showed him into the hall.
"I'll see if master's disengaged," she said; "are you the gentleman as
has an appointment with master for eleven?"
Mr. Carr confessed to being that gentleman and the girl left him
standing there. From some room in the upper part of the house, so it
seemed, the tinkling notes of a piano came down to him. Some one--it was
Miss Hamlyn herself--was singing fervently of "violets, violets, I will
wear for thee."
After a considerable interval, the maid came back. "Master will see you
now, sir," she said, and ushered the visitor into Mr. Hamlyn's study.
It was a fair-sized room with a long French window opening upon a lawn
in the centre of a small, walled garden. Many book-shelves filled with
grave and portly tomes lined the walls, a large writing-table stood in
the middle of the carpet. Some months before, a struggling firm of
"religious publishers" had failed, and their stock of theology was
thrown upon a flooded market as "Remainders." Mr. Hamlyn, as being in
the trade himself, was enabled to acquire a library suited to his
position at remarkably cheap rates.
Mr. Hamlyn rose from his chair.
"Glad to see you," he said hastily, and with great condescension and
good humour. "Fortunate I happened to have a morning free. Now, what can
I do for you? No spiritual trouble, I hope? Ritualists been prowling
round St. Luke's? If so, say the word, give me the facts, and I'll see
you are protected!"
"It is on a question connected with the state of affairs in the district
that I called to see you, Mr. Hamlyn."
"Quite so, Mr. Carr, just what I expected. Well, I've always heard good
accounts of you as a loyal Protestant minister--though I can't approve
of your using that pestilential book, _Hymns Ancient and Modern_, in
your church--and I will do what I can for you. Providence has placed a
scourge in my hand to drive the idolaters from the Temple, so tell me
your trouble."
Carr had listened to this, which was delivered in a loud, confident
voice, with growing amazement. He hardly knew how to take the man.
"I deplore very much," he said, making a great effort, "the state into
which Hornham has been thrown. I cannot, of course, approve of much that
I understand takes place at St. Elwyn's. Yet I am beginning to fear that
the remedy is worse than the disease. I am sure, Mr. Hamlyn, that your
great desire must be to see the people led to love the Lord Jesus and to
live godly, sober lives. Well, I find that the crusade of the Luther
League is unsettling the minds of weaker brethren. They are becoming
excited, forgetful of duty, carried away by the flood of a popular
movement. All this is hurtful to souls. Men should have peace to make
themselves right with God. Strife and anger hurt the soul and wound it.
Now I have no concern with any other place but this, in which my
ministry is set. But in Hornham, at least, I have come to ask you to
moderate your attacks upon the High Church party, to extend to them the
same tolerance they extend to us."
Hamlyn stared at the speaker.
"To moderate MY methods?" he shouted in a coarse voice. "Do you know
what you're asking? Do you realise who I am?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Hamlyn," the clergyman answered with considerable
dignity. "I am speaking, I hope, to a brother Christian, and as such, in
the name of our dear Lord, I ask you to cease this strife and discord
among us. God will show his desires in his own way; prayer is a more
powerful weapon than public invective. And it is idle to deny that the
vicar of St. Elwyn's and his curates are doing good. I believe their
teaching on fundamental truths is wrong, I deprecate the ceremonial with
which they veil and cover the simple beauties of the Christian faith.
But Mr. Blantyre is a good and noble-hearted man. He gives his life and
his large income--it is a matter of common knowledge--to the service of
the poor and needy. He is utterly unselfish, he loves Jesus. Let him
work in his own way in peace."
Mr. Hamlyn's face grew very red. The man was mentally bloated by
prosperity and success. Daily he was hailed by fools as the saviour of
his country, his name was on many lips, and his sense of proportion was
utterly gone.
"Really!" he said, "of all the mad requests as was ever made me this is
the maddest! Are you in your senses, Mr. Carr--you a Protestant minister
of the Word? You can't be. You come to me, me, who Providence has set at
the head of Henglish Protestantism, and ask me to join a base conspiracy
to silence the clarion of Truth! to leave my 'igh ground of Principle
and grovel before a petticoated 'priest'! Why, you're asking me to let
the Pope and the devil into Hornham. Have you ever cast your eye upon
the works of the immortal John Bunyan? What about Mr. Facing-both-ways?"
Mr. Carr kept his temper. He was there upon an important issue. What did
it matter if the man was rude? "But don't you think, as a Christian," he
said mildly, "that it is hard enough to fight the devil, the world, and
the flesh without private differences in the Christian camp?"
"Who's speaking of Christians?" Hamlyn cried; "not I. Blantyre is no
Christian; he is doing the devil's work, which is the work of Rome. He
gives away his money because the devil showed him that it was a good
move, to win souls to Rome. As for his goodness, how do we know what
goes on in the confessional? I've heard----"
Carr stood up. "Let me tell you at once, sir," he said in a hard voice
and with flashing eyes, "that any scandal and slander you make before me
about a man I know to be pure and good I will at once repeat to him, and
you will have to take the consequences."
"Ah!" said the agitator sharply and suddenly and with his impudent smile
flashing over his face, mingled with a sneer, "I see now! I ought to
have seen it before. You are a wolf in sheep's clothing! While we all
thought you a faithful Protestant, you have secretly joined causes with
the enemy. The cloven 'oof 'as peeped out! You come as a sneaking
ambassador of Rome in the garb of a Protestant. The Jesuits have been
having a go at you, Mr. Carr, and they've got you! I shouldn't wonder if
you've got your 'air-shirt on now! Go back to them as sent you and say
that I've scourged 'em with whips in the past and I'll give 'em
scorpions now. This will make a fine story at our next meeting in the
public 'all!"
Carr turned on his heel without a word and left the room. He crossed the
hall in a couple of strides, opened the door, and walked quickly over
the gravel sweep. As his hand was on the latch of the gate, the
reformer's voice hailed him. Mr. Hamlyn was looking round the corner of
the door; a genial grin--a clown's grin--lay upon his face. "Mr. Carr!"
he bawled with unabashed and merry impudence, "been to Mass yet?"
Then, with a final chuckle, he closed the door.
The peacemaker walked sadly away. He saw at once the sort of man he had
been dealing with, and recognised how futile any protest would be in the
case. He saw clearly how unassailable Hamlyn's position was, while the
country was full of people who would pay him to keep them in a state of
pleasurable excitement. It was better than the theatre to which Hamlyn's
subscribers loudly protested that their consciences would not allow them
to go! It was a sort of bull-baiting revived; the lust of the public at
seeing some one hunted was satisfied.
How infinitely better the sober methods of the old-established
Protestant societies were! Legitimate propaganda, a dignified and
scholarly controversy, these were right and sane. But this clown's
business, this noise and venom, was utterly disgusting. He had caught a
glimpse into the machinery of the whole movement that sickened him.
He went home to his lonely house and made a frugal lunch. Something
ought to be done, but what? He was not a man to fail in any efforts he
made in a good cause. He did not propose to cease his attempts to
restore Hornham to decent calm, even now. But he could not see, at the
moment, what was the next move he should make.
During the afternoon he set out on a round of parochial visiting. He sat
by the bedsides of the sick, the querulous, the ungrateful, and told his
message of comfort. He heard much of Hamlyn's campaign. The new leaflet
with its violent language was thrust into his hand. Every one wondered
what would happen next. Would Mr. Blantyre face the Luther Lecturers in
the public hall? One old bedridden dame Carr found all agog with
excitement and spite. "It'd come to a fight," she expected, and "wot an
awful thing it was to have them wicked monsters the Papists so close.
She could 'ardly sleep o' nights thinking of it all." Carr found that
the poor old creature had not the remotest idea of what "Papist" meant,
of what anything meant, indeed; but she would hardly listen to his
prayers and Bible-reading nevertheless, so eager was she to discuss the
"goings on."
About four, as he left the last house he purposed to visit just then, a
strange thought came to him suddenly. He was at the extreme end of his
parish, not far from St. Elwyn's. Would it not be a good thing to go and
visit Blantyre, to express his sympathy and to discuss whether some way
out of the present trouble could not be found?
The idea strengthened and grew. He knew Blantyre was a decent
fellow--every one said so. But, nevertheless, he had the sense of
venturing into the lion's den! He should feel strange among these
priests with their foreign ways, their cassocks and berrettas; there
would be discomfort in the visit.
It is curious how, in the minds of the least prejudiced, the dislike to
the definite and outward symbols that a priest wears still lingers. In
another generation, it will have been swept away, but it still survives
as a relic of the dark, secularising influences of the eighteenth
century. And, again, the man in the street does not like to be reminded
that there is a God and a class of men vowed to His service, and the
complete distinction of a priest's costume is too explicit a reminder.
Carr thought the matter out for a minute or two and then made up his
mind. He would go and talk over the situation with Blantyre. With a
vivid sense of how his host of the morning would call his action "bowing
down in the house of Rimmon," a sense that only quickened his steps and
sent a contemptuous curl to his lip, he turned and walked towards the
clergy-house.
He rang the bell, and a tall and rather hulking man in livery showed him
into a large drawing-room. This was the navvy, Mr. King's former
assailant, who had been promoted, at his own request, to a distinctive
costume, which he wore with pride and diligence. His only grief was that
he was not allowed to "wipe the floor with that there Hamlyn," but he
lived in hope that some fresh outrage would provide him with the
necessary permission.
Carr looked round the room. There was nothing ecclesiastical about it,
no flavour of the monk at home. It had been newly papered; the walls
were covered with pictures so fresh and new in treatment that they might
have come from the Academy of that year. The vicar of St. Luke's
suddenly awoke to the fact that he was in a very charming room indeed.
There was a Steinway grand piano there, a beautiful instrument; he saw
that the Twelfth Nocturne of Chopin stood open upon it. Everywhere he
saw a multitude of photographs in frames of silver, copper, ivory,
peacock leather--every imaginable sort of frame. A great many of these
photographs were signed in the corner, and looking at some of them he
was surprised to see that they were of very well-known people. Here was
a well-known general, there a judge, again the conscious features of a
society actor beamed out at him. His eye, unobservant at first, began to
take in the details of the room more rapidly. There were a hundred
luxurious little trifles scattered about, numerous contrivances for
comfort. He was wondering to whom this room could belong, when the door
opened and his doubts were resolved.
A girl came in, a girl with a beautifully modelled face, healthy and yet
without crimson in it. A pair of frank, dark eyes looked at him from
beneath an overshadowing mass of dead black hair.
"How do you do, Mr. Carr," she said,--he had given the man his card,--"I
am Mr. Blantyre's sister; I've only just pitched my tent in Hornham.
Bernard will be in for tea in half an hour."
Rather nervously, Carr explained that he had called on a matter of
parochial business. He remained standing, a little at a loss. This girl
was not like the young ladies of Hornham.
"Well, you must have some tea," Lucy said with decision as she rang the
bell. Carr sat down. He anticipated a somewhat trying half hour until
the vicar should arrive. He was a gentleman, well bred in every way, but
his life, from the time of his school days, had been lonely and without
much feminine companionship.
In five minutes he found, to his own great surprise, that he was talking
vividly and well, that he was quite pleased to be where he was. And the
girl seemed to be interested and pleased with him. It was a very new
sensation, this feeling of mutual liking, to the lonely man. The
conversation turned naturally to the unrest around them. Carr said
nothing as yet of his morning's experience.
"Well, I must confess, frankly, Mr. Carr," Lucy said, "that until lately
I never took any interest at all in these things. They seemed humbug to
me. Now, of course, I know better. It's a _shame_! a black shame, that
Bernard and the others should be treated so by this disgusting man. If
he only knew what their life was! how self-denying, how full of
unceasing labour and worry, how devoted. Take Mr. Stephens, for
instance: he's only a boy, yet he's killing himself with work and
enthusiasm. He was up all last night with a man that has delirium
tremens, yet he said Mass at half-past seven, came to breakfast as merry
as a sand-boy, and was teaching in the national schools at nine. And
he'll be on his feet to-day until nearly midnight without a word of
complaint. He'll spend nearly the whole evening in the boys' club,
boxing and playing billiards with them--oh, you can't think how the
three of them work!"
She went on with a series of anecdotes and explanations, told with great
vividness and power, in her new enthusiasm for the men among whom she
had come. And throughout all her talk, the clergyman heard frequent
references to the services that went on almost unceasingly in the great
church hard by. He heard names, strange and yet familiar, startling to
his ear, and yet which seemed quite natural and fitting in the place
where he was. One thing he began to see clearly, and with interest:
whatever these men were in opinion, a life of real and active holiness
went on among them. And he noticed also, with wonder, how everything
seemed to draw its inspiration from the church, how constantly the
clergy were there, hearing confessions, saying services, praying, and
preaching. The whole thing was new to him.
They were the best of friends, talking brightly together, when the door
burst open and the impetuous priest rushed in. "Well, I'm glad to see
you!" he said with a broad grin of welcome. "Had tea?--that's right. I
see you've made friends with my clergywoman! I've been in church hearing
confessions, or I'd have been in sooner."
His manner was extremely genial. He seemed genuinely glad to see his
brother vicar and not in the least surprised or puzzled.
Carr looked attentively at him. So this merry Irishman, with the lined,
powerful face, the grey hair, and eyes which sometimes blazed out like
lamps--this was the great Ritualist, the Jesuit, the thief of English
liberty!
He had a wonderful magnetic power, that was evident at once. His
sympathy for everything and everybody poured from him; he was "big," big
in every way.
He chatted merrily away on a variety of topics while taking his tea.
Asking his sister for another cup, he suddenly turned to Carr. "That
reminds me," he said, "of a good story I heard yesterday. Father
Cartwright was here to lunch, he is one of the St. Clement Fathers at
the Oxford monastery. Not long ago a young nobleman--rather a _bon
vivant_, by the way--went down to spend a few days with the Fathers. He
made his arrival, very unfortunately for him, poor fellow! on a Friday,
when the fare's very frugal indeed. He had very little to eat, poor
chap, and went to bed as hungry as a hunter, quite unable to sleep he
was. Now, it's the custom for one of the Fathers to go round in the
night with a benediction, 'The Lord be with you.' They always say it in
Latin, _Dominus tecum_. The young man heard some one rapping at the
door. 'Who's there?' says he. '_Dominus tecum_,' was the answer.
'Thanks, very much,' said the nobleman, 'please put it down outside'!"
While they were laughing at the story, Lucy rose and, shaking hands
with Carr, went away.
The two clergymen were left alone. "You'll not mind talking in here?"
Father Blantyre said. "I've got a poor chap in me study I don't want to
disturb. I found um after lunch making a row in the street with a crowd
round him, a poor half-clothed scarecrow, beastly drunk--never saw a man
in such a state. I asked one of the crowd who he was and he said he was
a stranger, a ship's fireman, who'd been about the place for a day or
two, spending all his money in drinks, and he hadn't a friend in the
world. A policeman came along and wanted to lock um up, but I managed to
get him in here and he's sleeping it off. I shall give um egg in milk
when he comes round: his poor stomach's half poisoned with bad liquor
and no food. I always find egg and milk the best thing in these cases. I
wish he wasn't so dirty! We shall have to give 'm a hot tub before he
can go to bed."
"What will you do with him?"
"Oh, keep him here for a day or two to pull round, give um some clothes,
and pack 'm off to sea again where he can't get any drink."
"Don't such men ever rob you?"
"Hardly ever. It's not your real outcast who steals much. They're
generally so astonished to find a parson isn't as black as he's painted
that they don't think of anything else. They go away feeling they've got
a _pal_, made a friend! That's the awful want in their lives. A lot of
them come back, and write to me while they're away, too, queer letters
full of gratitude and bad language! But ye came to see me, my friend.
I'm so glad you've found your way here. Now, what can I do for you, or
are ye going to do anything for me?"
His manner had changed. His tone was indescribably sympathetic and
gentle. If ever the wisdom of charity and the light of holiness shone
out on a man's face, Carr thought that he saw it now.
He was entirely dominated by the man. In a burst of nervous words, he
poured out his thoughts. He told of his futile visit to Hamlyn, his keen
distress at the result, the misery the agitation gave him, and the harm
he believed it to be doing.
Blantyre listened with few words. Now and then he made a warm and
penetrating remark.
"It will pass," he said at length; "God will give us peace again. He is
trying the faith of the poor and ignorant among us. Our prayers will
avail. But we will concert together that we may take such measures to
stop the local evil as we properly can. I have been loath to move in the
matter, but now that you have come to me we will join forces and take
action. There are ways and means. I hate pulling wires and using
influence, but one must sometimes. I had hoped it wouldn't be necessary.
But something must be done. Lord Huddersfield will take action for us.
The street meetings can be stopped at once. Then we can inaugurate a
real press campaign and let the leader-writers loose. Hitherto it's been
our policy to say nothing much, except in the religious papers, of
course. But the time has come when we must fight, too. I was talking to
Sir Michael Manicho about it the other day. A word or two from him and
the country will be ringing with warnings. We can rob this Luther League
of its powers in a week. It will _go on_, of course, but with its fangs
drawn. The people who support it will, many of them, cease their
subscriptions. And there is the law also. The magistrates of London are
quite ready to take a strong stand. That is settled. And a word from
the Archbishop, perhaps, would be a help. Public opinion is very easily
turned."
He spoke calmly, but with conviction and a quiet sense of power. Carr
began to see dimly what great forces were behind this man and others of
his kind. The tremendous organising machinery of the Catholic Church was
laid bare for a moment.
A most confidential talk followed. Blantyre gave the other details and
names. He made it plain to Carr's astonished ears that those in high
places were waiting to act, waiting to see if the Church needed them.
The depth and force of it all astonished him.
A bell began to ring. "There's evensong," said Blantyre, "I must be off.
It's my turn to say it to-night."
"I will come, too," Carr answered.
"Do, do! and take some food with us all afterwards, and we'll have a
longer talk. You can't think how happy I am that we have come together.
What? You've never seen our church? Why, then, you've a treat in front
of ye! Every one says it's beautiful. We all love it, we're all proud of
it!"
He took him by the arm and led him away.
Not a word of the differences that separated them, no suspicion, or
distrust, nothing but welcome and brotherhood!
The tall, bearded man and the quick, shaven Celt in his cassock went
into the church together to pray--
"Give peace in our time, O Lord."