THE NEWS THAT CARR BROUGHT
As the days wore on, and Lucy Blantyre became accustomed to her
surroundings, she found that she was in thorough tune with them. During
the year she had been away from St. Elwyn's, she had spent most of the
time abroad, at first with Lady Linquest, afterwards with friends. The
old life of fashionable people and "smart" doings palled horribly.
Travelling was a diversion from that, and, in some sense, a preparation
for the more useful life that she determined to live in the future.
She had quite made up her mind to that. Nothing would induce her to go
back to live in Park Lane once more. Life offered far more than the West
End of London could offer; so much was plain. She kept up a regular
correspondence with her brother and was fully informed of all that took
place in Hornham. Her thoughts turned more and more affectionately
towards the dingy old house, centre of such ceaseless activities, the
old house with the great church watching over it.
Down there it seemed as if provision was made for all one's needs of the
mind. Stress and storm beat upon it in vain, and it combined the joys of
both the cloister and the hearth.
In her limited experience, there had been nothing like it. A year or two
ago, she would have smiled incredulously if any one had told her that
she would like going to church twice or three times on a week-day. But
during her stay at St. Elwyn's how natural and helpful it had seemed,
how much a part of the proper order of things. The morning Eucharist
while day in the outside world was beginning, the stately and beautiful
evensong as men ceased their toil, these coloured all the day, were
woven into its warp and woof. She knew that the _abnormal_ life was the
life of the majority, the life of those who lived in a purely secular
way, who never worshipped or prayed.
When any mind, in its settling of its attitude towards the Unseen, gets
as far as this; when it realises that, despite the laughter of fools and
the indifference of most people, the _logical_ use of life is to make
it in constant touch with God, then, as a rule, the personal religious
conviction will come in due time. It had not come to Lucy yet in full
and satisfying measure, it had not come even when she determined to make
her home with her brother for a time and help in any way she could.
During the year of travel, she was also in regular communication with
James Poyntz. Insensibly his letters to her had become the letters of a
lover. He told her all his thoughts and the details of his work and
hopes, and, mingling with what were in fact a series of brilliant
personal confessions, there began to be a high note of personal devotion
to her. One does not need the simple alphabet of lover's words to write
love letters. Poyntz used no terms of endearment, and as yet had made
her no definite proposal of marriage. But the girl knew, quite
certainly, exactly how he felt towards her. There was no disguise in his
letters, and the time was drawing near when he would definitely ask her
to share his life.
She had not yet definitely summed up her attitude towards him. She was
at the crossing of the roads; new influences, new ideas were pouring
into her brain from every side. It was necessary to readjust herself to
life completely before she could settle upon any course.
She knew that to be Lady Huddersfield was to take a high seat in Vanity
Fair. The Huddersfields belonged to the old order of society, to that
inner circle of the great who never open their door indiscriminately to
the Jew and the mining millionaire. People laughed at them and called
them pompous and dull, but there was a high serenity among them
nevertheless. She might have married half a dozen times had she so
chosen. Her income was large enough to make her a small heiress, at any
rate to be an appreciable factor in the case, besides which her birth
was unexceptionable. It was known that when Lady Linquest fluttered away
to another world, the old lady's money would come to her niece. But
position merely, rank rather, did not attract a girl who already went
wherever she chose. And among the men in society who had offered her
marriage, or were prepared to do so, she found no one capable of
satisfying her brain. Poyntz did this. She found power in him, strength,
purpose. She knew that, in whatever station of life he was, the man was
finely tempered, high in that aristocracy of intellect which some people
say is the only aristocracy there is.
She was conscious of all this, but, especially since she had been
settled in the vicarage as a home, she was becoming conscious of many
other influences at work upon her. Religion, the personal giving of
one's self to God, was tinging all her life and actions now. Hour by
hour, she found herself drawing nearer to the Cross. Her progress had
become a matter of practical experience. It was impossible to live with
the people she was among, to watch every detail of their lives, to find
_exactly where the motive power and the sustaining power came from_,
without casting in her lot with them in greater or less degree. Every
day she found some hold upon the outside world was loosened, something
she had imagined had great value in her eyes suddenly seemed quite
worthless! Looked at in the light that was beginning to shine upon her,
she was frequently surprised beyond measure to find how worthless most
things were! Her brain was keen, cool, and logical. Hitherto she had
refused to draw an inference--no proof, by the way, of any want of
logical skill;--now she was drawing it.
She was great and intimate friends with the two assistant priests,
Stephens and King. Stephens was engaged to a girl in the country, King
belonged to some confraternity of celibates. Both were high-minded men,
who appreciated to the full the charm of cultured feminine society and
found her drawing-room a most pleasant oasis now and then. And every one
at the clergy-house began to see a great deal of Mr. Carr. The lonely
man found companionship and sympathy there. He found intellectual men,
university men like himself, with whom he could talk. He had been
intellectually starving in Hornham, and good brains rust unless they
have some measure of intercourse with their kind.
He was constantly with his new friends. One Sunday Father Blantyre
preached at St. Luke's. The church was crowded, to hear a man whom a
great many there believed capable of almost any form of casuistry and
sly dealing. But when the little Irishman got into the pulpit he gave
them a simple, forcible discourse on some points of conduct, delivered
with all his personal charm, his native raciness and wit; many wagging
tongues were silenced in the parish. Carr's experiment was a bold one,
but it succeeded. An ounce of fact is worth a pound of hearsay.
Blantyre was so transparently honest, so obviously incapable of any of
the things imputed to him by the Luther Leaguers, that the most
prejudiced folk at St. Luke's said no more than that it was a pity such
a decent fellow, who could preach such a good sermon, wasted so much of
his time over unnecessary fads!
For some reason or other,--she could not quite explain it to
herself,--Lucy looked on Carr with different eyes from those with which
she viewed Stephens or King. He seemed less set apart from the ordinary
lot of men than they were. His ordinary clerical costume may have had
something to do with it, the contrast between his clothes and those of
the laymen not being so marked as in the case of the High Church clergy.
And his manner also was different in a subtle way. Lucy liked the manner
of King and she liked the manner of Carr, but they were markedly unlike
each other. The former spoke of everything from the Church's point of
view, the latter more from the point of view of an ordinary layman who
loves and serves our Lord.
Lucy had no fault to find with the ecclesiastical attitude. She had long
before realised what were the spiritual results of rebellion and
schism; they were too patent in Hornham. She was definitely Catholic.
Therefore she approved of King as a priest and liked him as a man. But
Carr seemed to be more upon her own level, not set apart in any way. She
knew he was just as much a priest as the other, but he came into her
consciousness from a purely human standpoint, while the other did not.
Viewing him thus, she had come to find she liked him very much indeed.
He was a very "manly" man, she found, with a virile intellect which had
had too little play of late years. She came to know of his life and
found it as full of good works as her brother's. The methods differed,
the Church and its services took an altogether secondary place in these
ministrations; the charities of a poor man were necessarily more
circumscribed than those of his rich neighbour, but the spiritual
fervour was as great.
Lucy could not help wondering why a man who had such abundant means to
his hand of holding and influencing his people used so few of them. Why
was his church not beautiful? How did he exist spiritually without the
sacramental grace so abundantly vouchsafed at St. Elwyn's?
She had a glimpse deep down into the man once. One evening at St.
Elwyn's, when Carr had come to supper, the conversation turned upon a
rather serious epidemic of typhoid fever that had only just been
overcome in Hornham and which had caused a widespread distress among the
poorer classes.
"I'm getting up a fund," Father Blantyre said, "to relieve some of the
worst cases and to send as many as possible of the convalescents off to
the seaside. Now, Lucy, my dear, what will you stump up? This girl's
rolling in money, Carr! She's more than she knows what to do with!"
Lucy noticed--no one else did--that Mr. Carr flushed a little and
started as Blantyre finished speaking.
She turned to her brother. "I'll give you a hundred pounds, dear," she
said.
"Good girl!" he shouted in high good humour.
Lucy turned to Carr. "I suppose you've a great many destitute cases in
St. Luke's?" she asked.
"Very many, I'm sorry to say," he answered sadly. "I've done what I
could, but I've hardly any money myself until next quarter-day, and our
people are nearly all of them poor." He thought with gentle envy of
these wealthy folk who were able to do so much, while he, alas! could do
so little.
"I'll subscribe something to St. Luke's, too," Lucy said. "I'll give you
the same, Mr. Carr. I'll write you a cheque after supper."
"That's a sportswoman!" said Father Blantyre; "good for you, Lucy!"
Carr flushed up. The destitution in his parish had been a constant grief
to him during the last few weeks. He had not known where to turn to
relieve it. He had prayed constantly that help might be forthcoming. He
broke out into a nervous torrent of thanks which came from his very
heart, becoming eloquent as he went on and revealing, unconsciously
enough, much of his inward self to them. They were all touched and
charmed by the man's simplicity and earnestness. He showed a great love
for the poor as he talked. Sympathy for suffering and kindness towards
it are not rare things in England. We are a charitable folk, take us in
the mass. But this quality of personal love for the outcast and
down-trodden is not so often met with. It is a talent, and Carr
possessed it in a high degree.
A step in their intimacy was marked that night; all felt drawn more
closely to the Evangelical vicar. He stood alone; his life seemed
cheerless to them all and their sympathy was his--though he had never
made the least parade of his troubles. Moreover, the three clergy of St.
Elwyn's were beginning to find out, with pleased surprise, how near he
was to them in the great essentials, how Catholic his views were.
Already much of Carr's dislike to the ceremonial of St. Elwyn's was
fading away. He had witnessed it, found that there was absolutely no
harm in it, that it did _not_ stand between the soul and God, but even
sometimes assisted in the journey upwards. He did not endorse it as yet,
he did not contemplate anything of the sort for himself or his people,
but he saw the good there and found nothing to disgust or harm.
Later on that evening, Dr. Hibbert came in, and there was music. Lucy
played and sang to them, and Carr, who had a fine baritone, sang an old
favourite or two, college songs, _Gaudeamus Igitur_, _John Peel_, and
the like.
Then, while the four other men took a hand at whist--if only Mr. Hamlyn
could have seen the "devil's picture books" upon the table!--Carr had a
long, quiet talk with Lucy Blantyre. He found himself telling her much
of his work and hopes, of his early life in a bleak Northumberland
vicarage, of Cambridge, and the joyous days when he rowed three in the
King's boat and all the skies were fair.
Now and then, when he would have withdrawn into himself again, fearing
that he was boring her, she encouraged him to go on. With her cheque in
his pocket, he went home in a glow that night. He thought constantly of
her, and when he went to bed, he looked curiously in the mirror, turning
away from it with a sigh, a shake of the head, and the chilling memory
that the girl was rich, allied to great families, a personage in London
society, and that a poor gentleman toiling in Hornham could never be a
mate for such as she was.
Three or four days after the incident of the subscription, Lucy received
a letter from Agatha Poyntz, who was staying with the St. Justs in
Berkeley Square. The letter begged Lucy to "come up to town" for an
afternoon. A theatre party had been formed, which was to consist of
Agatha herself, Lady Lelant, a young married cousin of hers, and James
Poyntz. Lucy was begged to come and complete the party. They were to go
to tea afterwards at the Savoy or somewhere, and Lucy could drive home
in the evening. The letter was quite imperative in its demand for Lucy's
presence, and the girl had a shrewd suspicion who it was that had
inspired it. Her last few letters from Poyntz had been almost, so she
fancied, leading up to just some such occasion as this which was now
proposed.
She thought it all over during the morning of that day. Her mind
wavered. A few weeks ago she knew that she would not have hesitated for
a moment. Whatever her answer might eventually be to what James Poyntz
had to say, she would have gone to the tryst and listened to him. To
hear him pleading, to see this scion of an ancient and honourable house,
this big-brained man, pleading for her, would be sweet. Every woman
would feel that. But now she hesitated very much. She hardly owned it to
herself, but a very different figure was coming to have a continual
place in her thoughts. A graver figure, a less complex figure, and one
invested with a dignity that was not of this world, a dignity that the
peer's son had not.
For now, most indubitably, a new element was coming into her life, one
that had not been there before.
And there was yet another cause for her hesitation. She had come to see
that the supremely important thing in life was religion; she knew that
it was going to be so for her. She wasn't bigoted, she realised the
blameless life that many people who did not believe in our Lord appeared
to live. But that was not the point. Works were good, they were a
necessary concomitant of any life that was to be bound up with hers. But
faith was a paramount necessity also. She had no illusions about James
Poyntz. She did not think, as less keen-sighted girls have thought of
atheist lovers, that she could ever bring him to the Faith. She knew
quite well that it would be impossible, that he was one of those folk to
whom the "talent" of faith does not seem to have been given, and who
will have to begin all over again in the next world, learning the truths
of Christianity like children.
While she was thinking out the question of acceptance or refusal, her
eye caught a date on her tablets. It was the date of the theatre party
and also of a meeting to be held during the afternoon in the public
hall at Hornham, at which Father Blantyre had consented to hold public
argument upon the legalities of ritual and the truth of Catholic dogma
with some of the Luther Lecturers.
Hamlyn had intended that this meeting should take place in the evening,
for two reasons. In the first place, during the afternoon he was himself
to address a great meeting in London, to which all the "red-hot
Protestants" on the lists of the League had been specially invited by
ticket, and at which a great sensation was hinted at, in much the same
way as music-hall managers announce the forthcoming appearance of some
entirely new spectacle, trick, or performer.
Mr. Hamlyn had hoped to arrive in Hornham from the Strand flushed with a
great victory, the news of which would have preceded him during the
afternoon.
Moreover, in the evening an audience would assemble with which the
Luther Lecturers would be thoroughly at home--Mr. Sam Hamlyn would have
seen to that--and the place would be packed by rowdy non-churchgoers who
would come with the intention of witnessing a row, even if they
themselves had to create it. Thus a "great Protestant demonstration of
North London" would be absolutely assured.
Unfortunately, Mr. Hamlyn received the plainest of plain hints from the
local chief of police that he would get himself into particularly hot
water if he proceeded with his little scheme, and that the words of one
of his men--the ingenuous Mr. Moffatt indeed, who, locked out of every
church in England, had lately returned to his parental roof for a
holiday--to a certain rough section of the community, in connection with
this very meeting, would be brought up against him.
The police had no objection to a meeting during the afternoon. The
dangerous element would still be pushing their barrows of plums and
pears through the city streets, and though the meeting would, no doubt,
be skilfully packed with partisans, many women would be present and
nothing more than a wordy war would be likely to result.
Lucy saw the date and considered that the question of the matinée was
decided for her. She mentioned the invitation at lunch, and was very
much surprised to find that her brother strongly deprecated her
intention of being present at the discussion and welcomed this
invitation.
"I don't want you to go, dear," he said; "I beg of you not. It will be
rough and bitter. I know it. I shrink from it myself, but I must show
them that we are not afraid to meet them openly. But it would do nothing
but distress you. Write to Miss Poyntz this afternoon and say you'll go.
Then you can hear all about the meeting in the evening when you get
back." He was so obviously in earnest that Lucy could not but agree.
It seemed fate sent her to meet James. Well, it must be, that was all.
Circumstances must be faced, and if she did not know her own mind now,
it was possible that the event itself would decide it for her.
But she addressed the letter with marked nervous excitement, and the
"Hon. Agatha Poyntz" was more tremulous than her writing was wont to be.
There were two days more to wait, a Sunday intervened, and she hardly
left the church during the whole day, seeking counsel and help where
only they are to be found.
On Monday, she arrived at the theatre at about two. She had refused to
lunch with her friends and drove from Hornham in a hansom cab, meeting
them at the door of the building.
They went at once to their box and found that there were some five
minutes to wait before the rise of the curtain.
The theatre was curious after the glare of the sun outside, fantastic
and unreal. Hardly anybody talked, though there was a good house, and
the strange quiet of a matinée audience seemed to pervade the four
people in the box also.
Lucy leaned back in her chair with the sensation of dreaming. This
morning she had knelt in the side chapel at St. Elwyn's! A moment before
she had been alone in the cab, among the roar and bustle of Trafalgar
Square. Now she was in a dream. Agatha and Adelaide Lelant smiled at her
without speaking--just like odd dream people. James Poyntz sat just
behind her. She was acutely conscious of his presence. Now and then he
bent forward and made some remark or other in a low voice. That also
seemed to come from a distance. She seemed to have left all the real
things behind in Hornham.
The scents, the dresses of the fashionable people in the stalls, the
dim, apricot light, seemed alien to her life now, a reminder of
experiences and days long since put away and forgotten.
The little band below had been playing a waltz of Weber's, a regret
which was strangled into a sob as the curtain rose suddenly upon the
first act of the play.
How acutely conscious one was at first of the artificial light! The big
frame of the proscenium enclosed a rich garden scene, beautifully
painted. But it was full of hot yellow light, until the eye forgot the
outside day it had lately quitted. Lucy thought that for the sake of
illusion it was a mistake to come to the play in the afternoon. She said
so to James.
"Well," he whispered, "for my part, there is never any illusion in the
stage for me. It is a way of passing an idle hour now and then. That is
all. I came here not to see the play, but to see you."
She turned towards the stage again with a slight flush.
Behind the footlights the perfectly dressed men and women went through
their parts. All appeared as if they had put on for the first time the
clothes they wore; both men and women had the complexion of young
children--peaches and cream--unless the light fell on the face at an
awkward angle. Then it glistened.
And all the people on the stage talked alike, too. They did not speak
quite like ladies or gentlemen, but imitated the speech of ladies and
gentlemen wonderfully! The play did not interest Lucy. It was a
successful play, it was played by people who were celebrated actors, but
she was out of tune with the whole thing. It wasn't amusing. Between the
acts, Lady Lelant chatted merrily, of such news as there was to be
gleaned during a passage through town. She spoke of the movements of
this or that acquaintance, whom this girl was engaged to, why Lord
Dawlish had quarrelled with the Duke of Dover. Lucy had no interest in
these matters any more. She realised that with astonished certainty. She
didn't care a bit. After all, these smart people and their doings were
not, as she had thought in the past, any more interesting than the group
of church people at St. Elwyn's. Indeed they were less so. Dr. Hibbert,
one or two of the nursing sisters, some of the choir men, King,
Stephens, Carr--all these people had more individuality, _lived,
thought, felt, prayed_ more intensely than Lady Lelant's set, Lady
Linquest's set, any purely fashionable set. There was not a doubt that
in the mere worldly economy of things, in the state politic, every one
of these Hornham people _mattered more_ than those others. And, where
hearts and wills are weighed, to the critical Unseen eyes, their value
was greater still. Lucy was glad when the play began again, and she was
relieved of the necessity for a simulated interest in things she had
long since put away from her.
The last act of the mimic story dragged on. Agatha and Lady Lelant were
absorbed in it. Lucy withdrew a little from the front of the box. She
cared nothing for the play, nor did her companion. Both of them knew of
things imminent in their twin lives greater than any mimic business
could suggest to them.
He began to tell her in a low voice of his joy in seeing her again. It
thrilled her to hear the lover-like tones creeping into a voice so
clear, cold, and self-contained in all the ordinary affairs of life. It
was an experience that disturbed and swayed all the instincts of her
sex. For she knew that this was no ordinary conquest that she had made,
no ordinary tribute to her mind and person. She might have received the
highest compliment that he was about to pay her from many a man as
highly placed and socially fortunate as he. There was no exhilaration,
no subtle flattery of her pride and the consciousness of her womanhood
in that. But she knew him for what he was. She had learned of the
intellect and power of the man--herein lay an exquisite pleasure in his
surrender. And she liked him immensely. Physically, he pleased her eye,
and her sense of what was fitting in a man. Mentally he compelled her.
And now and again in their intimacy, an intimacy that had grown
enormously during the last year, fostered on their mutual epistolary
confidences, she had found a sudden surrender, a boyish leaning on her,
a waiting for her approving or helpful word, that was sweet to her.
At last the curtain fell.
"Now, then," Poyntz said, "we'll go and have tea on the terrace at the
Sardinia. There will be a band, a really good band, and the embankment
will look beautiful just now. Come along, young ladies; we'll walk,
shall we? It won't take us five minutes." They left the theatre.
"Ah!" Lucy said with a sudden gasp of relief, "how good the air is after
that dark place and the stage. My eyes feel as if they had been actually
burnt."
The long lights of the summer afternoon irradiated everything. There
are moments in summer when the busiest London street seems like a street
in fairy-land. It was so now as they walked to the great riverside
hotel; a tender haze of gold lay over all the vast buildings, the sky
began to be as if it were hung with banners.
They passed from the roar of the street to the great courtyard, with its
gay awnings of white and red, its palms and tree-ferns in green tubs,
its little tables like the tables of a continental café. Little groups
of people of all nationalities sat about there. The party heard the
twanging accent of the United States, the guttural German, the purring,
spitting Russian.
They entered the hotel, walked down a corridor, descended some steps,
and came out upon the terrace.
Lucy had a finely developed social instinct. She knew what was going on
instinctively, and it was plain to her at once that the moment had come.
Agatha Poyntz and her cousin had disappeared as she sat down at a small
table with James, hidden by shrubs from the rest of the terrace.
Below and beyond were gardens in which children were playing, the wide
embankment, and the silver Thames itself, all glowing under the
lengthening sun rays.
What did she feel at that moment? She found that she was calm, her
pulses were quiet, her breathing untroubled and slow.
He leaned forward and took her hands strongly in both of his. At first,
his words came haltingly to him, but then, gathering courage, he made
her a passionate declaration.
Her heart cried out vaguely to some outside power for guidance; her
inarticulate appeal was hardly a prayer, it was the supreme expression
of perplexity and doubt.
"For months, all my work and life have been coloured by thoughts of you,
have had reference to you. I can conceive, since I have been writing to
you, and you to me, I have had hopes and dreams that have become part of
my life! If you could accept this, this devotion, this strong feeling of
love which has grown up in me, I feel that our companionship would be a
beautiful thing. Lucy, I am not eloquent in love as some men are said to
be, I can only tell you that I love and admire you dearly and have no
greater hope than to share everything with you, my lady, my love!"
The strong, self-contained young man was deeply moved. He continued, in
a monologue of singular delicacy and high feeling, to pour out the
repressed feelings of the past year, to offer her a life that was more
stainless--she knew it well--than that of most young men.
She was deeply touched, interested, and rather overawed. But there was
no thrill of passion in her that could answer to the notes of it that
were coming into his voice and shaking it from its firmness, sending
tremulous waves quivering through it.
Her hand shook in his hold, but it was passive. Emotion rushed over her,
but it was a cool emotion, so to say; she was touched, but her blood did
not race and leap at his touch, she felt no wish to rest in his arms, to
find her home there!
At last she was able to speak. There was a pause in his pleading, his
eyes remained fixed upon her face in anxious scrutiny.
She withdrew her hand gently.
"You have touched me very deeply," she said. "But I can't, oh, I _can't_
answer you now. This is such a great thing. There is so much to think
over, so much self-examination. It might all look quite different to
one to-morrow! Let me wait, give me time. I will write to you."
His ear found the lack of what he sought in her voice. Even to herself
her tones sounded cold and conventional after his impassioned pleading.
But she found herself mistress neither of reason nor of feeling as she
spoke. She was bewildered, though not taken by surprise.
He seemed to understand something of her state of mind. If his
disappointment was keen, he showed nothing of it, realising with the
pertinacity of a strong, vigorous nature that nothing really worth
having was won easily, thankful, perhaps, that he had won as much as he
had--her consideration.
"You know how great a thing this is to me," he said. "You would never be
unkind or hard to me and it would be an unkindness to prolong my
suspense. When will you give me my answer?"
"Oh, soon, soon! But I must have time. I will write to you soon, in a
fortnight I will write."
"That is so long a time!"
"It will pass very swiftly."
"Then I accept your decree. But I shall write to you, even if you don't
answer me until I get the letter, oh, happy day! on which you tell me
what my whole heart longs to hear. You will read my letters during the
time of waiting? Promise me that, Lucy."
"Yes, yes, I promise," she said hastily, seeing that Agatha and Adelaide
Lelant were coming towards them.
Her brain was whirling; James himself was agitated and unstrung by the
vehemence of feeling, the nerve storm, that he had just passed through.
And in the minds of Miss Poyntz and Lady Lelant the liveliest curiosity
and interest reigned, as it naturally would reign, under such
circumstances, in the minds of any normal young women, gentle or simple,
with blue blood or crimson.
But the four people had learned the lessons their life-long environment
had taught. Their faces were masks, their talk was trivial.
When at length Lucy rose to go, declining to drive home with Lady
Lelant, they all came into the big, quiet courtyard of the hotel, "to
help her choose her hansom." Every unit of the little party felt her
departure would be a relief, she felt it herself. The two girls did not
know what had happened and were eager to know. James wanted to be
alone, to go through the interview step by step in his brain,
reconstructing it for the better surveyal of his chances, and to plan an
epistolary campaign, or bombardment rather.
Lucy felt the desire, a great and pressing desire, for home and rest.
She arrived at the vicarage an hour or so after. As the cab had turned
into the familiar, sordid streets she had felt glad! She smiled at her
own sensations, but they were very real. This place, this "unutterable
North London slum," as she used to call it, was more like home than Park
Lane had ever been.
How tired she felt as she went up-stairs to her room! Her face was pale,
dark circles had come out under her eyes, she bore every evidence of
having passed through some mental strain.
After a bath she felt better, more herself, after these experiences of
the afternoon. And to change every article of clothing was in itself a
restorative and a tonic. It was an old trick of hers, and she had always
found it answer. When she went down-stairs again she was still pale, but
had that freshness and dainty completeness that have such enormous
charm, that she always had, and that her poorer sisters are so unable
to achieve in the _va et vient_ of a hard, work-a-day life.
She wanted to see Bernard, she hungered for her brother. With a pang of
self-reproach, she remembered, as she came down-stairs, that this had
been the afternoon of the public debate with Hamlyn's people. It was an
important event in the parish. And from her start from the clergy-house
to her arrival back at its doors, she had quite forgotten the whole
thing! In the absorption with her own affairs, it had passed completely
from her brain and she was sorry. Of late, she had identified herself so
greatly with the affairs and hopes of the little St. Elwyn's community,
that she felt selfish and ashamed as she knocked at the door of the
study. She waited for a moment to hear the invitation to enter. It was
never safe to go into Bernard's room without that precaution. Some
tragic history might be in the very article of relation, some weary soul
might be there seeking ghostly guidance in its abyss of sorrow and
despair.
Some one bade her enter. She did so. The room was dark, filled with the
evening shadows. For a moment or two, she could distinguish nothing.
"Are you here, Ber?" she said.
"The vicar is up-stairs, Miss Blantyre," came the answer in King's
voice, as he rose from his seat. "I'm here with Stephens."
"Well, let me sit down for a little while and talk," Lucy said. "May
I?--please go on smoking. I can stand Bob's pipe, so I can certainly
stand _yours_. I want to hear all about the meeting in the Victoria
Hall."
They found a chair for her; she refused to have lights brought, saying
that she preferred this soft gloom that enveloped them.
Her question about the meeting was not immediately responded to. The men
seemed collecting their thoughts. By this time, she was really upon
something that resembled a true sisterly footing with these two. Both
were well-bred men, incapable of any slackening of the cords of
courtesy, but there was a mutual understanding between them and her
which allowed deliberation in talk, which, in fact, dispensed with the
necessity of conventional chatter.
King spoke at length. "Go on, young 'un," he said to Stephens, waving
his pipe at him, as Lucy could see by the red glow in the bowl. "You
tell her."
"No, _you_ tell her, old chap."
Lucy wanted to laugh at the odd pair with whom she was in such sympathy.
They were just like two boys.
King sighed. Conversation of any sort, unless it was actually in the
course of his priestly ministrations, was always painful to him. He was
a man who _thought_. But he could be eloquent and incisive enough when
he chose.
"Well, look here, Miss Blantyre," he said, "to begin with, the whole
thing has been an unqualified success for the other side! That is to say
that the people in the hall--and it was crammed--have gone away in the
firm conviction and belief that the Luther Lecturers have got the best
of the priests, that, in short, the Protestants have won all along the
line."
"Good gracious! Mr. King, do you really mean to say that one of these
vulgar, half-educated men was able to beat Bernard in argument, to
enlist the sympathies of the audience against _Bernard_?"
"That's exactly what has happened," King answered. "The vicar is
up-stairs now, utterly dejected and worn out, trying to get some sleep."
"But I don't understand how it could be so."
"It is difficult to understand for a moment, Miss Blantyre. But it's
easily explained. One good thing has happened: Every priest in the
kingdom will have his warning now----"
"Of what?"
"Never to engage in public controversy with any man of the type sent out
to advertise the Luther League. I'll try and explain. You'll know what I
mean. The controversy upon any sacred and religious subjects, subjects
that are very dear to and deeply felt by their defender, is only
possible if their attacker pursues legitimate methods. What happened to
day is this:
"The audience was mostly Protestant, with a strong sprinkling of people
who cared nothing one way or the other, but had come to be amused, or in
the expectation of a row. And even if the meeting wasn't 'packed,'--and
I've my doubts of that,--you see Catholics don't like to come much to
anything of the sort. It is so terribly painful to a man or woman whose
whole life is bound up in the Sacraments, who draws his or her 'grace of
going on' and hope of heaven from them, to sit and hear them mocked and
derided by the coarse, the vulgar, the irreligious. It's an ordeal one
can hardly expect any one to go through without a burning indignation
and a holy wrath, which may, in its turn, give place to action and words
that our Lord has expressly forbidden. One remembers Peter, who cut off
the ear of the High Priest's servant, and how he was rebuked. That's why
there were not many Catholics present, and besides, the chief had asked
many of the congregation to stay away. He wouldn't let Dr. Hibbert go;
he knew that he'd lose his temper and that there would be a row."
Lucy listened eagerly. "And what did happen?" she cried.
"Tell Miss Blantyre, Stephens," King answered. "I'm not lazy, but
Stephens has got colour in his descriptions! It's like his sermons, all
poetry and fervour and no sound discipline! And besides, he's got the
'varsity slang of the day. It's nasty, but it's expressive. When I was
up, we talked English--go on, young 'un."
His voice sank, his pipe glowed in the gloom. Stephens took up the
parable. "Well, I can't go into all the details," he said. "But the
first thing that happened was that the lecturer stood upon the platform,
shut his eyes, and prayed that Hornham might be delivered from the
curse of priesthood and the blasphemy of the Mass!--this while the vicar
was on the platform. The man was going to begin right away, after this,
when Mr. Carr stopped him and said that he wished to offer up a prayer
also. The fellow frowned, but he dare not stop him. So Carr prayed for a
quiet and temperate conduct of the meeting! Then the man began. It was
the usual thing, mocking blasphemy delivered in the voice of a
cheap-jack, with a flavour of the clown.
"The man had two sacramental wafers and he kept producing them out of a
Bible, like a conjuring trick! They were of different sizes, and he
said: 'Now, here you see what the Ritualists worship, a biscuit god! And
you'll notice there's a little one for the people and a big one for the
priest--priests always want the biggest share!' Roars of laughter from
every one, of course. Then the fellow went on to speak of the fasting
communion. 'For my part,' he said, with a great grin, 'I like to have my
breakfast comfortable in the morning before I go to church, and I
honestly pity the poor priests who have to starve themselves till
mid-day. I shouldn't wonder if the Reverend Blantyre'--with a wink
towards the vicar--'often has visions of a nice bit of fried bacon or an
'addock, say, about eleven o'clock in the morning.'"
Lucy gasped. "How utterly revolting," she said, "and people really take
that sort of thing seriously?"
"Oh, yes, the sort of people to whom these Luther Leaguers appeal. You
see it's their only weapon. They can't argue properly, because they are
utterly without education, and they only supplement the parrot lectures
they've been taught with their own native low comedy. Our friend this
afternoon wound up his oration by inviting the vicar to ask
questions--he didn't want him to speak at length, of course. 'Now,' he
said, 'I call upon the Reverend Blantyre to ask me any questions he
chooses. And I'll just ask him one myself--if God had meant him to wear
petticoats, wouldn't He have made him a woman?' This was rather too
much, and there were some hisses. The vicar was in his cassock. But the
vicar laughed himself, and so every one else did. It seemed to restore
the good humour of the meeting, which was just what the lecturer didn't
want.
"Well, to cut a long story short, every question the vicar put was the
question of a cultured man, that is to say, it assumed _some_ knowledge
of the point at issue. Each time he was answered with buffooneries and a
blatant ignorance that gave the whole thing away at once to any one that
_knew_. But there was hardly any one there that did, that was the point.
The whole audience imagined that we were being scored off tremendously.
They got noisy, cheered every apish witticism of the lecturer--oh! it
was a disgusting scene. I'll give you an instance of what was said
towards the end. The vicar was appealing to the actual words of the
Gospel in one instance. 'The Greek text says,' he was beginning, when
the man jumps up--'Greek!' he shouted, 'will Greek save a man's soul?
_Do you suppose Jesus of Nazareth understood foreign tongues?_'
"There was a tremendous roar of applause from the people at this. They
thought the lecturer had made a great point! They actually _did_! Well,
of course, there was hardly any answer to that. In the face of such
black depths of ignorance, what _could_ any one do? It would be as easy
to explain the theory of gravity to a hog as to explain the Faith to a
grinning, hostile mob like that. The vicar sat down. The clown always
has the last word in argument before an audience of fools or children.
It must be so."
"How did it all end up?"
"Oh, the lecturer got upon his hind legs again and made a speech in
which he claimed to have triumphantly refuted the sophistry of the vicar
and to have shown what Ritualism really was. Then, encouraged by the
general applause, he was beginning to be very personal and rude, when
there was a startling interruption. Bob got up from the back of the
hall--we didn't know he was there--and began to push his way towards the
platform, with a loudly expressed intention of wringing the lecturer's
neck there and then. I got hold of him, but he shook me off like a fly.
'Let me be, sir!' he said, 'let me get at the varmin, I'll give him a
thick ear, I will!' Then King saw what was going on and rushed up. Bob
remembered what King gave him last year and he tried to dodge. By this
time, the whole place was in an uproar, sticks were flying about, people
were struggling, shouting, swearing, and it looked like being as nasty a
little riot as one could wish to see."
"How _horrible_!" Lucy said with a shudder. "I wish Bernard had never
been near the place."
"Well, then, all of a sudden," the curate continued, "a mighty voice was
heard from the platform. It was Carr! I never heard a man with such a
big, arresting voice. He was in a white rage, his eyes flashed, he
looked most impressive. He frightened every one, he really did, and in a
minute or two he got every one to leave the hall quietly and in order."
"How splendid!" Lucy said. She thought that she could see the whole
scene, the squalid struggle, the strong man dominating it all. Her hands
were clenched in sympathy. Her teeth were locked.
"He's a big man," the young fellow replied, "a bigger man than any one
knows. He'll be round here this evening, I expect. You must get him to
tell you all about it, Miss Blantyre."
A few minutes afterwards every one went to church. It was a choral
evensong that night, and sung somewhat later than the usual service was.
Blantyre did not appear. Lucy would not have him wakened. She knew that
sleep was the best thing for over-tired nerves, that he would view the
futile occurrences of the afternoon less unhappily after sleep.
It was after nine o'clock when the vicar eventually made his appearance.
He was worn and sad in face, his smile had lost its merriment. Lucy had
made them all come into her room for music. They wanted playing out of
their depression, and in ministering to them she forgot her own quandary
and perplexities. At last the light, melodious numbers of _Faust_ and
_Carmen_ had some influence with them, and about ten the three men were
visibly brighter. They were in the habit of taking a cup of tea before
going to bed; to-night Lucy made them have soup instead.
It was a few minutes after the hour, when the bell rang; in a moment or
two, Bob--extremely anxious to efface himself as much as possible after
the event of the afternoon--showed Mr. Carr into the drawing-room.
His face was very white and set. "I am extremely sorry," he said, "to
call on you so late, but have you seen the evening papers, any of you?"
No one had seen them.
"I'm afraid there is something that will give you great pain, a great
shock. It has grieved me deeply, it must be worse for you, my
friend--thinking as you do of the Eucharist."
"What is it?" Father Blantyre said.
Carr held out an evening paper. "Briefly," he said, "while we were at
the meeting down here, Hamlyn, Senior, had a special gathering of
extreme Protestants in Exeter Hall. He produced a _consecrated wafer_
and exhibited it, stating that he had purloined it from the Holy
Communion service the day before. This was corroborated by two men who
went with him and were witnesses of the act."
Every vestige of colour left the faces of the three priests of St.
Elwyn's. Suddenly Blantyre gave a little moan and fainted, sinking on to
a couch behind him.
They brought him round without much trouble, and King helped him
up-stairs to bed, refusing to let him go into the church as he wished.
Lucy saw that tears were falling silently over the grim, heavy face of
King.
When the vicar was safely bestowed in his room, Stephens and King,
saying nothing to each other, but acting with a common impulse, went
into the church. In the side chapel, where the dim red glow of the
sanctuary-lamp was the only light, they remained on their knees all
night, praying before the Blessed Sacrament.