RECONCILIATION.
"I am not," said the Bishop, "putting this before you as an argument.
I have lived and mixed with men long enough to know that they are
usually persuaded by other things than argument, sometimes by better.
. . . I am merely suggesting a _modus vivendi_--shall we call it a
truce of God?--until we have all done our best against a common
peril: for, as your Petition proves you to be earnest Churchmen,
so I may conclude that to all of us in this room our Cathedral stands
for a cherished monument of the Church, however differently we may
interpret its history."
He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze travelling from one to
another with a winning smile. All the petitioners were gathered
before him in the Master's library. They stood respectfully, each
with his hat and staff. At first sight you might have thought he was
dismissing them on a pilgrimage.
Master Blanchminster sat on the Bishop's right, with Mr. Colt close
behind him; Mr. Simeon at the end of the table, taking down a
verbatim report in his best shorthand.
"I tell you frankly," pursued the Bishop, "I come rather to appeal
for concord than to discuss principles of observance. If you compel
me to pronounce on the points raised, I shall take evidence and
endeavour to deal justly upon it: but I suggest to you that the
happiness of such a Society as this is better furthered by a spirit
of sweet reasonableness than by any man's insistence on his just
rights."
"_Fiat Caelum ruat justitia_," muttered Brother Copas. "But the man
is right nevertheless."
"Principles," said the Bishop, "are hard to discuss, justice often
impossible to deal. . . . 'Yes,' you may answer, 'but we are met to do
this, or endeavour to do it, and not to indulge in irrelevancy.'
Yet is my plea so irrelevant? . . . You are at loggerheads over
certain articles of faith and discipline, when a sound arrests you in
the midst of your controversy. You look up and perceive that your
Cathedral totters; that it was _her_ voice you heard appealing to
you. `Leave your antagonisms and help one another to shore me up--me
the witness of past generations to the Faith. Generations to come
will settle some of the questions that vex you; others, maybe, the
mere process of time will silently resolve. But Time, which helps
them, is fast destroying us. You are not young, and my necessity is
urgent. Surely, my children, you will be helping the Faith if you
save its ancient walls.' I bethink me," the Bishop went on, "that we
may apply to Merchester that fine passage of Matthew Arnold's on
Oxford and her towers: '_Apparitions of a day, what is our puny
warfare against the Philistines compared with the warfare which this
queen of romance has been waging against them for centuries, and will
wage after we are gone?_'" He paused, and on an afterthought
succumbed to the professional trick of improving the occasion.
"It may even be that the plight of our Cathedral contains a special
lesson for us of St. Hospital: '_If a house be divided against
itself, that house cannot stand_'"
"Tilly vally!" muttered Brother Copas, and was feeling for his
snuff-box, but recollected himself in time.
"You may say that you are old men, poor men; that it is little you
could help. Do not be so sure of this. I am informed, for instance,
that the proceeds of our forthcoming Pageant are to be devoted to the
Restoration Fund, and not (as was originally intended) to missionary
purposes."
Here Mr. Simeon, bending over his shorthand notes, blushed to the
ears. It was he, good man, who had first thought of this, and
suggested it to Mr. Colt; as it was Mr. Colt who had suggested it to
the Committee in the presence of reporters, and who, on its
acceptance, had received the Committee's thanks.
"I am further told"--here the Bishop glanced around and caught the
eye of the Chaplain, who inclined his head respectfully--"that
a--er--representation of the Foundation Ceremony of St. Hospital
may be included among the--er--"
"Episodes," murmured Mr. Colt, prompting.
"Eh?--yes, precisely--among the Episodes. I feel sure it would make
a tableau at once impressive and--er--entertaining--in the best
sense of the word. . . . So, you see, there are possibilities; but
they presuppose your willingness to sink some differences and join
heartily in a common cause. . . . Or again, you may urge that to
re-edify our Cathedral is none of your business--as officially indeed
it is none of mine, but concerns the Dean and Chapter. I put it to
you that it concerns us all." Here the Bishop leaned back in his
chair, on the arms of which he rested his elbows; and pressing his
finger-tips together, gazed over them at his audience. "That, at any
rate, is my plea; and I shall be glad, if you have a spokesman, to
hear how the suggestion of a 'truce of God' presents itself to your
minds."
In the pause that followed, Brother Copas felt himself nudged from
behind. He cleared his throat and inclined himself with a grave bow.
"My lord," he said, "my fellow-petitioners here have asked me to
speak first to any points that may be raised. I have stipulated,
however, that they hold themselves free to disavow me here in your
lordship's presence, if on any point I misrepresent them."
The Bishop nodded encouragingly.
"Well then, my lord, it is peculiarly hard to speak for them when at
the outset of the inquiry you meet us with a wholly unexpected appeal
. . . an appeal (shall I say?) to sentiment rather than to strict
reason."
"I admit that."
"As I admit the appeal to be a strong one. . . . But before I try to
answer it, may I deal with a sentence or two which (pardon me) seemed
less relevant than the rest? . . . _If a house be divided against
itself, that house cannot stand_. True enough, my lord: but neither
can it aspire."
The Bishop lifted his eyebrows. But before he could interpose a word
Brother Copas had mounted a hobby and was riding it, whip and spur.
"My lord, when a Hellene built a temple he took two pillars, set them
upright in the ground, and laid a third block of stone a-top of them.
He might repeat this operation a few times or a many, according to
the size at which he wished to build. He might carve his pillars,
and flourish them off with acanthus capitals, and run friezes along
his architraves: but always in these three stones, the two uprights
and the beam, the trick of it resided. And his building lasted.
The pillars stood firm in solid ground, into which the weight of the
cross-beam pressed them yet more firmly. The whole structure was
there to endure, if not for ever, at least until some ass of a fellow
came along and kicked it down to spite an old religion, because he
had found a new one. . . . But this Gothic--this Cathedral, for
example, which it seems we must help to preserve--is fashioned only
to kick itself down."
"It aspires."
"Precisely, my lord; that is the mischief. When the Greek temple was
content to repose upon natural law--when the Greek builder said,
'I will build for my gods greatly yet lowlily, measuring my effort to
those powers of man which at their fullest I know to be moderate,
making my work harmonious with what little it is permitted to me to
know'--in jumps the rash Christian, saying with the men of Babel,
_Go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto
heaven_; or, in other words, 'Let us soar above the law of earth and
take the Kingdom of Heaven by storm.' . . . With what result?"
"'Sed quid Typhoeus et validus Mimas
Contra sonantem Palladis aegida . . . ?'"
"The Gothic builders, like the Titans, might strain to pile Pelion on
Olympus. _Vis consili expers_, my lord. From the moment they take
down their scaffolding--nay, while it is yet standing--the
dissolution begins. All their complicated structure of weights,
counterweights, thrusts, balances, has started an internecine
conflict, stone warring against stone, the whole disintegrating--"
"Excuse me, Brother--"
"Copas, my lord."
"Excuse me, Brother Copas," said the Bishop with a smile, "if I do
not quite see to what practical conclusion we are tending."
"There is a moral ahead, my lord. . . . Thanks to Mr. Colt's zeal, we
have all begun to aspire along our different lines, with the result
that St. Hospital has become a house divided against itself. Now, if
I may say it modestly, _I_ think your lordship's suggestion an
excellent one. We are old poor men--what business have we, any
longer, with aspiration? It is time for us to cease from pushing and
thrusting at each other's souls; time for us to imitate the Greek
beam, and practise lying flat. . . . I vote for the truce, my lord;
and when the time comes, shall vote for extending it."
"You have so odd a way of putting it, Brother--er--Copas," his
lordship mildly expostulated, "that I hardly recognise as mine the
suggestion you are good enough to commend."
Brother Copas's eye twinkled.
"Ah, my lord! It has been the misfortune of my life to follow
Socrates humbly as a midwife of men's ideas, and be accused of
handing them back as changelings."
"You consent to the truce, at any rate?"
"No, no!" muttered old Warboise.
Copas turned a deaf ear.
"I vote for the truce," he said firmly, "provided the one condition
be understood. It is the _status quo ante_ so far as concerns us
Protestants, and covers the whole field. For example, at the
Sacrament we receive the elements in the form which life-long use has
consecrated for us, allowing the wafer to be given to those Brethren
who prefer it. Will the Master consent to this?"
Master Blanchminster was about to answer, but first (it was somewhat
pitiful to see) turned to Mr. Colt. Mr. Colt bent his head in
assent.
"That is granted," said the Master.
"Nor would we deny the use of Confession to those who find solace in
it--"
"Yes, we would," growled Brother Warboise.
"--Provided always," pursued Copas, "that its use be not thrust upon
us, nor our avoidance of it injuriously reckoned against us."
"I think," said the Master, "Brother Copas knows that on this point
he may count upon an honourable understanding."
"I do, Master. . . . Then there is this new business of compulsory
vespers at six o'clock. We wish that compulsion removed."
"Why?" snapped Mr. Colt.
"You would force me to say, sir, 'Because it interferes with my
fishing.' Well, even so, I might confess without shame, and answer
with Walton, that when I would beget content and increase confidence
in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God I will walk
the meadows by Mere, 'and there contemplate the lilies that take no
care, and those very many other various little living creatures that
are not only created but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of
the God of nature, and therefore trust in Him.' . . . But I am
speaking here rather on behalf of Brother Warboise--if he will leave
off nudging me in the small of the back. It happens that for a
number of years Brother Warboise has daily, at this hour, paid a
visit to a sick and paralysed friend--"
"He is not a friend," rasped out Brother Warboise. "On the
contrary--"
"Shall we," interposed the Master, "agree to retain the service on
the understanding that I am willing to hear any reasonable plea for
non-attendance? I need hardly say, my lord, that visiting the sick
would rank with me before any formal observance; and," he added, with
the hint of a smile which Brother Copas caught, "even to less
Christian excuses I might conceivably be willing to listen."
So, piece by piece, the truce was built up. . . . When the
petitioners had thanked his lordship and withdrawn, and Mr. Simeon,
having gathered up his notes, presently followed them out, the
Bishop, the Master, and the Chaplain sat for half an hour talking
together.
The time came for Mr. Colt to take his leave, being due at a Pageant
rehearsal. When he was gone the Bishop suggested a quiet stroll in
the home-park, and the two old divines fared forth to take the
benediction of evening, still keeping good grave converse as they
paced side by side.
"My dear Eustace," said the Bishop (they were friends of long
standing, and in private used Christian names in place of titles),
"confess, now that this business is over, it was not so bad as you
feared."
The Master respired the cool air with a quiet sigh.
"No, Walter, it was not so bad as I feared. But having ruled all
these years without question, you understand--"
"You have certainly not ruled all these years for nothing.
They were honest fellows, and made it pretty plain that they loved
you. It does not rankle, I hope?"
"No." Master Blanchminster drew another deep breath and emitted
it as if expelling the last cloudy thought of resentment.
"No," he repeated; "I believe I may say that it rankles no longer.
They are honest fellows--I am glad you perceived that."
"One could read it in all of them, saving perhaps that odd fellow who
acted as spokesman. Brother--er--Copas? . . . He lectured me
straightly enough, but there is always a disposition to suspect an
eccentric."
"He was probably the honestest man in the room," answered Master
Blanchminster with some positiveness.
"I am the more glad to hear it," said the Bishop, "because meeting a
man of such patent capacity brought so low--"
"I assure you, he doesn't even drink--or not to excess," the Master
assured him.
They were passing under the archway of the Porter's Lodge.
"But hallo!" said the Bishop, as they emerged upon the great
quadrangle, "what in the world is going on yonder?"
Again, as the Master had viewed it many hundreds of times, the sunset
shed its gold across the well-kept turf between long shadows cast by
the chimneys of the Brethren's lodgings. As usual, in the deep
shadow of the western front were gathered groups of inmates for the
evening chat. But the groups had drawn together into one, and were
watching a child who, solitary upon the grass-plot, paced through a
measure before them 'high and disposedly.'
"Brayvo!" shrilled the voice of Mrs. Royle, champion among viragoes.
"Now, at the turn you come forward and catch your skirts back before
you curtchey!"
"But what on earth does it all mean?" asked the Bishop, staring
across from the archway.
"It's--it's Bonaday's child--he's one of our Brethren: as I suppose,
rehearsing her part for the Pageant."
Corona's audience had no eyes but for the performance. As she
advanced to the edge of the grass-plot and dropped a final curtsey to
them, their hands beat together. The clapping travelled across the
dusk of the quadrangle to the two watchers, and reached them faintly,
thinly, as though they listened in wonder at ghosts applauding on the
far edge of Elysian fields.