Blue-buskin’d, with the softest turquoise blue,
Faint, as the speedwell’s azure dim with dew;
As far away in hue
As heaven the dainty shade is,
From the dark ultra-blue
Of literary ladies.--_The Mask_
On the morning that the Rev. Ambrose Bradley, Vicar of Fensea, had his
memorable interview with the Bishop of Darkdale and Dells, Miss
Alma Craik, of the Larches, walked on the home farm in the immediate
neighbourhood of her dwelling, accompanied by her dear friend and
companion Agatha Combe, and attended by half a dozen dogs of all sizes,
from a melancholy old St. Bernard to a frivolous Dandie Dinmont.
The two ladies, strolling along side by side, presented a curious
contrast, which was heightened not a little by their peculiarities
of costume. Miss Craik, bright as Eos, and tall and graceful as a
willow-wand, was clad in a pink morning dress, with pink plush hat to
match, and carried a parasol of the same colour. She walked lightly,
with a carriage which her detractors called proud, but which her
admirers thought infinitely easy and charming; conveying to the most
casual observer that she was a young lady with a will of her own,
perfectly mistress of herself, and at home among her possessions. Miss
Combe, on the other hand, was very short, scant of breath, and dressed
in a costume which looked like widow’s weeds, but which was nothing of
the sort, for at five-and-fifty she was still a virgin. Her face was
round and sunny, her eyes were bright and cheerful, and few could have
recognised, in so homely and kindly looking a person, the champion
of Woman’s Rights, the leader-writer of the ‘Morning News,’ and the
champion Agnostic of the controversial reviews.
Yet Miss Combe, though mild enough as a woman, was terribly fierce as
a writer. She had inherited her style and opinions from her father, a
friend and playfellow (if such an expression may be applied to persons
who _never_ played) of John Mill. She had been crammed very early with
Greek, Latin, moral science, and philosophy; and she would certainly
have developed into a female of the genus Griffin, had it not been for
a pious aunt who invited her once a year into the country, and there
managed to fill her lungs with fresh air and her mind with a certain
kind of natural religion. When Agnosticism was first invented she
clutched at the word, and enrolled herself as an amazon militant under
the banner of the creed. She hated two things about equally--Materialism
and dogmatic Christianity. She was, in fact, a busy little woman, with a
kind heart, and a brain not quite big enough to grasp all the issues she
was so fond of discussing.
Miss Craik had met her in London, and had taken to her
immediately--chiefly, if the truth must be told, on account of her
opinions; for though Miss Craik herself was nominally a Christian, she
was already a sufficiently lax one to enjoy all forms of heterodoxy.
They had come together first on one great _quoestio revata_, that of
vivisection, for they both adored dogs, and Miss Combe was their most
uncompromising champion against the users of the scalpel. So it happened
in the course of time that they spent a part of the year together. The
Larches was Miss Combe’s house whenever she chose to come to it, which
was very often, and she became, in a certain sense, the companion of her
rich young friend.
Their way lay along green uplands with a distant sight of the sea, and
they followed the footpath which led from field to field.
Presently Miss Combe, somewhat out of breath, seated herself on the
foot-rest of a stile.
‘Won’t you take a rest, dear?’ she said; ‘there’s room for two.’
The young lady shook her head. As she fixed her eyes upon her companion,
one peculiarity of hers became manifest. She was rather short-sighted,
and, whenever examining anything or anybody, slightly closed her
eyelashes.
‘If I were as rich as you,’ continued Miss Combe after a pause, ‘I know
what I should do with my money.’
‘Indeed! pray tell me.’
‘I should build a church to the New Faith!’
‘Are you serious?’ said Alma merrily. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know what
the new faith is.’
‘The faith of Humanity; not Comte’s, which is Frenchified rubbish, but
the beautiful faith in human perfection and the divine future of the
race. Just think what a Church it would make! In the centre an altar “to
the Unknown God”; painted windows all round, with the figures of all
the great teachers, from Socrates to Herbert Spencer, and signs of the
zodiac and figures of the planets, if you like, on the celestial roof.’
‘I don’t quite see, Agatha, in what respect the new Church would be an
improvement on the old one,’ returned Alma; and as she spoke her eyes
travelled over the still landscape, and saw far away, between her and
the sea, the glittering spire of the church of Fensea.
‘It would be different in every particular,’ said Miss Combe
good-humouredly. ‘In the first place, the architecture would be, of
course, pure Greek, and there would be none of the paraphernalia of
superstition.’
‘And Jesus Christ?--would He have any place there at all? or would you
banish Him with the rest of the gods?’
‘Heaven forbid! He should be pictured in the very central window, over
the altar--not bleeding, horrible, and crucified, but as the happy
painters represented Him in the early centuries, a beautiful young
Shepherd--yes, beautiful as Apollo--carrying under His arm a stray
lamb.’
Alma sighed, and shook her head again. She was amused with her friend’s
opinions, and they never seemed to shock her, but her own attitude of
mind with regard to Christianity was very different.
‘Yet,’ she said, still watching the distant spire, ‘If you abolish
Christ crucified you abolish Christ the Saviour altogether; for sorrow,
suffering, and death were the signs of His heavenly mission. Besides, I
am of Mr. Bradley’s opinion, and think we have too many churches
already.’
‘Does _he_ think so?’ exclaimed Miss Combe with some surprise.
‘Yes, I have often heard him say that God’s temple is the best--the open
fields for a floor and the vaulted heavens for a roof.’
Miss Combe rose, and they strolled on together.
‘Is he as heterodox as ever?’ asked Miss Combe.
‘Mr. Bradley? I don’t know what you mean by heterodox, but he has his
own opinions on the articles of his religion.’
‘Just so. He doesn’t believe in the miracles, for example.’
‘Have you heard him say so?’
‘Not explicitly, but I have heard----’
‘You mustn’t believe all the nonsense you hear,’ cried Alma eagerly. ‘He
is too intellectual for the people, and they don’t understand him. You
shall go to church next Sunday, and hear him preach.’
‘But I’m not a church-goer,’ said the elder lady, smiling. ‘On Sundays I
always read Herbert Spencer. Sermons are always so stupid.’
‘Not always. Wait till you hear Mr. Bradley. When I listen to him, I
always think of the great Abelard, whom they called the “angel of
bright discourse.” He says such wonderful things, and his voice is so
beautiful. As he speaks, the church seems indeed a narrow place--too
small for such words, for such a speaker; and you long to hear him on
some mountain top, preaching to a multitude under the open sky.’
Miss Combe did not answer, but peeping sideways at her companion she saw
that her face was warmly flushed, and her eyes were strangely bright and
sparkling. She knew something, but not much, of Alma’s relations with
the vicar, and she hoped with all her heart that they would never lead
to matrimony. Alma was too wise a vestal, too precious to the cause of
causes, to be thrown away on a mere country clergyman. In fact, Miss
Combe had an errant brother of her own who, though an objectionable
person, was a freethinker, and in her eyes just the sort of husband for
her friend. He was rather poor, not particularly handsome, and somewhat
averse to soap and water; but he had held his own in platform argument
with divers clergymen, and was generally accounted a ticklish subject
for the Christians. So she presently remarked:--
‘The finest speaker I ever heard is my brother Tom. I wish you could
hear _him_.’
Alma had never done so, and, indeed, had never encountered the worthy in
question.
‘Is he a clergyman?’ she asked innocently. ‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Miss
Combe. ‘No; he speaks at the Hall of Science.’
‘Oh!’
‘We don’t quite agree philosophically, for he is too thick with
Bradlaugh’s party, but I know he’s coming round to Agnosticism. Poor
Tom! He is so clever, and has been so unfortunate. He married miserably,
you know.’
‘Indeed,’ said Alma, not much interested.
‘There was a black-eyed sibyl of a woman who admired one of the
Socialist lecturers, and when he died actually went to his lodgings, cut
off his head, and carried it home under her cloak in the omnibus.’
‘Horrible!’ said Alma with a shudder. ‘But what for?’
‘To _boil_, my dear, so that she might keep the skull as a sacred relic!
When Tom was introduced to her she had it under a glass case on her
mantelpiece. Well, she was a very intellectual creature, wonderfully
“advanced,” as they call it, and Tom was infatuated enough to make her
his wife. They lived together for a year or so; after which she took to
Spiritualism, and finally died in a madhouse. So poor Tom’s free, and I
hope when he marries again he’ll be more lucky.’
Of course Miss Combe did not for a moment believe that her brother would
have ever had any attraction in the eyes of her rich friend; for Tom
Combe was the reverse of winsome, even to humbler maidens--few of whom
felt drawn to a man who never brushed his hair, had a beard like a
Communist refugee, and smelt strongly of beer and tobacco. But blood is
thicker than water, and Miss Combe could not forbear putting in a word
in season.
The word made little or no impression. The stately beauty walked
silently on full of her own thoughts and dreams.