On Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons Canon Beecher enjoyed the
privilege of a fire in his study. He was supposed to be engaged at these
seasons in the preparation of his sermons, a serious and exacting work
which demanded solitude and profound quiet. In earlier years he really
had prepared his sermons painfully, but long practice brings to the
preacher a certain fatal facility. Old ideas are not improved by being
clothed in new phrases, and of new ideas--a new idea will occasionally
obtrude itself even on the Christian preacher--the Canon was exceedingly
mistrustful. The study was an unexciting and comparatively comfortable
room. The firelight on winter afternoons played pleasantly on the
dim gold backs of the works of St. Augustine, a fine folio edition
bequeathed to Mrs. Beecher by a scholarly uncle, which reposed
undisturbed along a lower shelf. Adventurous rays occasionally explored
a faded print of the Good Shepherd which hung above the books, and
gleamed upon the handle of the safe where the parish registers and
church plate were stored. The quiet and the process of digesting his
mid-day dinner frequently tempted the Canon to indulge in a series of
pleasant naps on Sunday afternoons.
When Hyacinth tapped at the study door and entered, the room was almost
dark, and the sermon preparation, if proceeding at all, can have got no
further than the preliminary concatenation of ideas. The Canon, however,
was aggressively, perhaps suspiciously, wide awake.
‘Who is that?’ he asked. ‘Oh, Conneally, it is you. I am very glad to
see you. Curiously enough, I thought of going down to call on you this
afternoon. I wanted to have a talk with you. I dare say you have come up
to consult me.’
Hyacinth was astonished. How could anyone have guessed what he came
about? Had Marion told her father already?
‘It is a sad business,’ the Canon went on--’ very distressing and
perplexing indeed. But so far as you personally are concerned,
Conneally, I cannot regard it as an unmixed misfortune. You were meant
for something better, if I may say so, than selling blankets. Now, I
have a plan for your future, which I talked over last week with an old
friend of yours. Now that something has been settled about the Quinns,
we must all give our minds to your affairs.’
Then Hyacinth understood that Canon Beecher expected to be consulted
about his future plans, and even had some scheme of his own in mind.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I shall be very glad of your help and advice,
although I think I have decided about what I am going to do. It was
not on that subject I came to speak to you to-day, but on another, more
important, I think, for you and for me and for Marion.’
‘For Marion?’
‘I ought to tell you at once that I love your daughter Marion, and I am
sure that she loves me. I want to marry her.’
‘My dear boy! I had not the slightest idea of this. It is one of the
most extraordinary things--or perhaps extraordinary is not exactly the
proper word--one of the most surprising things I----’
The Canon stopped abruptly and sat stroking his chin with his forefinger
in the effort to adjust his mind to the new situation presented to it.
It was characteristic of the man that the thought of Hyacinth’s poverty
was not the first which presented itself. Indeed, Canon Beecher was one
of those unreasonable Christians who are actually convinced of the truth
of certain paradoxical sayings in the Gospel about wealth and poverty.
He believed that there were things of more importance in life than the
possession of money. Fortunately, such Christians are rare, for their
absurd creed forms a standing menace to the existence of Church and
sect alike. Fortunately also, ecclesiastical authorities have sufficient
wisdom to keep these eccentrics in the background, confining them as far
as possible to remote and obscure places. If ever a few of them escape
into the open and find means of expressing themselves, the whole
machinery of modern religion will become dislocated, and the Church will
very likely relapse into the barbarity of the Apostolic age.
‘I believe, Conneally,’ said the Canon at last, ‘that you are a good
man. I do not merely mean that you are moral and upright, but that you
sincerely desire to follow in the footsteps of the Master.’
He looked as if he wanted some kind of answer, at least a confirmation
of his belief. Fresh from his interview with Marion, and having the
Canon’s eyes upon him, it did not seem impossible to Hyacinth to answer
yes. Even the thought of the work he was to engage in with Miss Goold
and Patrick O’Dwyer seemed to offer no ground for hesitation. Was he
not enlisting with them to take part in the great battle? He had
never ceased to believe his father’s words: ‘And the battlefield is
Ireland--our dear Ireland which we love!’ He felt for the moment that
he was altogether prepared to make the confession of faith the Canon
required.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am on His side.’
‘And you love Marion? Are you quite sure of that? Are you certain that
this is not a passing fancy?’
This time Hyacinth had no doubt whatever about his answer.
‘I am as certain of my love as I am of anything in the world.’
‘I am glad. I am very glad that this has happened--for your sake,
because I have always liked you; also for Marion’s sake. I shall see you
happy because you love one another, and because you both love the Lord.
I ask no more than those two things. But I must go and tell my wife at
once. She will be glad, too.’
He rose and went to the door. With his hand stretched out to open it he
stopped, struck by a sudden thought.
‘By the way, I ought to ask you--if you mean to be married--have you
any--I mean it is necessary--I hope you won’t think I am laying undue
stress upon such matters, but I really--I mean we really ought to
consider what you are to live upon.’
It was the prospect of imparting the news to his wife which forced this
speech from him. Mrs. Beecher was, indeed, the least worldly of women.
Did she not marry the Canon, then a mere curate, on the slenderest
income, and bear him successively five babies in defiance of common
prudence? But it had fallen to her lot to order the affairs of the
household, and she had learnt that the people who give you bread and
beef demand, after an interval, more or less money in exchange. It was
likely that, after her first rapture had subsided, she would make some
inquiry about Hyacinth’s income and prospects. The Canon felt he ought
to be prepared.
‘Of course, I have lost my position with Mr. Quinn. You know that. But I
have an offer of work which I hope will lead on to something better,
and will enable me in a short time to earn enough money to marry on.
You know--or perhaps you don’t, for I am afraid I never told you’--he
remembered that he had carefully concealed his connection with the
_Croppy_ from his friends at Ballymoy, and paused--‘I have done some
little writing. Oh, nothing very much--not a book, or anything like
that, only a few articles for the press. Well, a friend of mine has got
me the offer of a post in connection with a weekly paper. It is not a
very great thing in itself just now, but it may improve, and there is
always the prospect of picking up other work of the same kind.’
The Canon, who had never seen even an abstract of one of his own sermons
in print, had a proper reverence for the men who guide the world’s
thought through the press.
‘That is very good, Conneally--very satisfactory indeed. I always knew
you had brains. But why did you never tell me what you were doing? I
should have been deeply interested in anything you wrote.’
Hyacinth’s conscience smote him.
‘The truth is, that I was sure you wouldn’t approve of the paper I
wrote for. It is the _Croppy_, the organ of the extreme left wing of the
Nationalist party. It is Miss Goold--Augusta Goold--who now offers me
work on that paper. She says---- But you had better read what she says
for yourself. Then you will know the worst of it.’
He took the letter from his pocket. The Canon lit a candle and read it
through slowly and attentively. When he had finished he laid it upon the
table and sat down. Hyacinth waited in extreme anxiety for what was to
come.
‘I do not like the cause you mean to work for or the people you call
your friends. I would rather see my daughter’s husband doing almost
anything else in the world. I would be happier if you proposed to break
stones upon the roadside. You know what my political opinions are.
I regard the _Croppy_ as a disloyal and seditious paper, bent upon
fostering a dangerous spirit.’
Hyacinth listened patiently. He had steeled himself against the hearing
of some such words, and was determined not to be moved to argument or
self-defence except as a last resort.
‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you will at least give me credit for honestly
acting in accordance with my convictions.’
‘I am sure--quite sure--that you are honest, and believe that your cause
is the right one. I recognise, too, though this is a very difficult
thing to do, that you have every right to form and hold your own
political opinions. It seems to me that they are very wrong and very
mischievous, but it is quite possible that I am mistaken and prejudiced.
In any case, I am not called upon to refuse you my affection or to
separate you from my daughter because we differ about politics.’
Hyacinth breathed a great sigh of relief. He looked at the Canon in
wonder and admiration. It had been beyond hope that a man grown gray in
a narrow faith, a faith in which for centuries religion and politics had
been inextricably blended, could have risen in one clear flight above
the mire of prejudice. It seemed, even after he had spoken, impossible
that in Ireland, where political opponents believe each other to be
thieves and murderers, there could be found even one man, and he from
the least emancipated class of all, who could understand and practise
tolerance.
‘I say,’ went on the Canon, speaking very slowly, and with evident
difficulty, ‘that I have no right to put you away from me because of
your political opinions. But there is something here ‘--he touched Miss
Goold’s letter--’ from which I must by all means try to save you.
Will you let me speak to you, not as Marion’s father, not even as your
friend, but as Christ’s ambassador set here to watch for your soul? But
I need not excuse myself for what I am about to say. You will at least
listen to me patiently.’
He took up Miss Goold’s letter and searched through it for a short time;
then he read aloud:
‘“He just asked one question about you: Does Mr. Conneally hate England
and the Empire and everything English, from the Parliament to the police
barrack? For it is this hatred which must animate our work. I said
I thought you did.” Now consider what those words mean. You are to
dedicate your powers, the talents God has given you, to preaching
a gospel of hate. This is not a question of politics. I am ready
to believe that in the contest of which our unhappy country is the
battle-ground a man may be either on your side or mine, and yet be
a follower of Christ. It is impossible to think that anyone can
deliberately, with his eyes open, accept hatred for the inspiration of
his life and still be true to Him.’
Hyacinth was greatly moved by the solemnity with which the Canon spoke.
There was that in him which witnessed to the truth of what he heard. Yet
he refused to be convinced. When he spoke it was clear that he was not
addressing his companion, for his eyes were fixed upon the picture of
the Good Shepherd, faintly illuminated by the candle light. He desired
to order his own thought on the dilemma, to justify, if he could, his
own position to himself. ‘It is true that the Gospel of Christ is a
Gospel of love. Yet there are circumstances in which it is wrong to
follow it. Is it possible to rouse our people out of their sordid
apathy, to save Ireland for a place among the nations, except by
preaching a mighty indignation against the tyranny which has crushed us
to the dust?’
He felt that Canon Beecher’s eyes never left him for a moment while he
spoke. He looked up, and saw in them an intense pleading. There
stole over him a desire to yield, to submit himself to this appealing
tenderness. He defended himself desperately against his weakness.
‘I am not choosing the pleasanter way. It would be easier for me to give
up the fight for Ireland, to desert the beaten side, to forget the lost
cause.’ He turned to Canon Beecher, speaking almost fiercely: ‘Do you
think it is a small thing for me to surrender your friendship, and
perhaps--perhaps to lose Marion? Is there not _some_ of the nobility of
sacrifice in refusing to listen to you?’
‘I cannot argue with you. No doubt you are cleverer than I am. But I
_know_ this--God is love, and only he who dwelleth in love dwelleth in
God.’
‘But I do love: I love Ireland.’
‘Ah yes; but He says, “Love your enemies.”’
‘Then,’ said Hyacinth, ‘I will not have Him for my God.’
Hardly had he spoken than he started and grew suddenly cold. It was no
doubt some trick of memory, but he believed that he heard very faintly
from far off a remembered voice:
‘Will you be sure to know the good side from the bad, the Captain from
the enemy.’
They were the last words his father had said to him. They had passed
unregarded when they were spoken, but lingered unthought of in some
recess of his memory. Now they came on him full of meaning, insistent
for an answer.
‘You have chosen,’ said the Canon.
He had chosen. Could he be sure that he had chosen right, that he knew
the good side from the bad?
‘You have chosen, and I have no more to say. Only, before it becomes
impossible for you and me to kneel together, I ask you to let me pray
with you once more. You can do this because you still believe He hears
us, although you have decided to walk no more with Him.’
They knelt together, and Hyacinth, numbly indifferent, felt his hand
grasped and held.
‘O Christ,’ said Canon Beecher, ‘this child of Thine has chosen to live
by hatred rather than by love. Do Thou therefore remove love from him,
lest it prove a hindrance to him on the way on which he goes. Let the
memory of the cross be blotted out from his mind, so that he may do
successfully that which he desires.’
Hyacinth wrenched his hand free from the grasp which held it, and flung
himself forward across the table at which they knelt. Except for his
sobs and his choking efforts to subdue them, there was silence in the
room. Canon Beecher rose from his knees and stood watching him, his lips
moving with unspoken supplication. At last Hyacinth also rose and stood,
calm suddenly.
‘You have conquered me,’ he said.
‘My son, my son, this is joy indeed! All along I knew He could not fail
you. But I have not conquered you. The Lord Jesus has saved you.’
‘I do not know,’ said Hyacinth slowly, ‘whether I have been saved or
lost. I am not sure even now that I know the good side from the bad.
But I do know that I cannot live without the hope of being loved by Him.
Whether it is the better part to which I resign myself I cannot tell.
No doubt He knows. As for me, if I have been forced to make a great
betrayal, if I am to live hereafter very basely--and I think I am--at
least I have not cut myself off from the opportunity of loving Him.’