FATHER BARHAM VISITS LONDON.
It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic
vote in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great
thing both in the House and out of the House to "catch" Roman
Catholic votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or
that individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place, so that he
personally may be made secure; or the right hand of fellowship may
be extended to the people of the Pope generally, so that the people
of the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being
made towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is
the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The
promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as
good a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be
conciliated, and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an
enemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very
efficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic
in Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation
is coming round to them;--and in this or that borough the same
conviction has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant,--that is
the peculiarly Protestant,--vote and the Roman Catholic vote at the
same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment; but it has been
attempted before, and was attempted now by Mr. Melmotte and his
friends. It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants
would not notice the £100 given for the altar to St. Fabricius; but
Mr. Alf was wide awake, and took care that Mr. Melmotte's religious
opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large. During
all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article
that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the
"Evening Pulpit," with a special question asked at the head of it,
"For Priest or Parson?" In this article, which was more than usually
delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as
being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man, who did
that business, declared that it was really important that the nation
at large and especially the electors of Westminster should know what
was the nature of Mr. Melmotte's faith. That he was a man of a highly
religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities
on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been
made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular
continuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The
"Evening Pulpit" by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended
to have any reference to the approaching election. Far be it from
the "Evening Pulpit" to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmotte
looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity.
But still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented
in Parliament by a Protestant member, and as Roman Catholics as
naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr.
Melmotte would not object to declare his creed.
This was biting, and of course did mischief; but Mr. Melmotte and his
manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any
way. He had thrown his bread upon the waters, assisting St. Fabricius
with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other, and must
leave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants
chose to believe that he was hyper-protestant, and the Catholics
that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any
enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such conviction's would
not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested
malignity of Mr. Alf's newspaper.
It may be doubted whether the donation to the Curates' Aid Society
did have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in
some few to go to the poll whose minds were active in regard to
religion and torpid as to politics. But the donation to St. Fabricius
certainly had results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman
Catholic party generally, till a report got itself spread abroad and
almost believed that Mr. Melmotte was going to join the Church of
Rome. These manoeuvres require most delicate handling, or evil may
follow instead of good. On the second afternoon after the question
had been asked in the "Evening Pulpit," an answer to it appeared,
"For Priest and not for Parson." Therein various assertions made by
Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were
brought together, so as to show that Mr. Melmotte really had at last
made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew
now, said Mr. Alf's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty
which was the Great Financier's peculiar characteristic,--the Great
Financier was the name which Mr. Alf had specially invented for Mr.
Melmotte,--he had doubted, till the truth was absolutely borne in
upon him, whether he could serve the nation best as a Liberal or as
a Conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom. And now this
other doubt had passed through the crucible, and by the aid of fire a
golden certainty had been produced. The world of Westminster at last
knew that Mr. Melmotte was a Roman Catholic. Now nothing was clearer
than this,--that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help
a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned. This
last article vexed Mr. Melmotte, and he proposed to his friends to
send a letter to the "Breakfast Table" asserting that he adhered
to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected
by many, and was now being whispered to the world at large, that
Melmotte had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been
too strong. "Do nothing of the kind," said Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk.
"If any one asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a
Protestant. But it isn't likely, as we have none but our own people.
Don't go writing letters."
But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such
a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined
to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I
think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a
beauteous stirring of people's minds in favour of Rome. The fervent
Romanists have always this point in their favour, that they are ready
to believe. And they have a desire for the conversion of men which
is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means
which they employ to produce it. Father Barham was ready to sacrifice
anything personal to himself in the good cause,--his time, his
health, his money when he had any, and his life. Much as he liked the
comfort of Carbury Hall, he would never for a moment condescend to
ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. Roger
Carbury was hard of heart. He could see that. But the dropping of
water might hollow the stone. If the dropping should be put an end
to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that
would not be his fault. He at any rate would do his duty. In that
fixed resolution Father Barham was admirable. But he had no scruple
whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use,--or as
to the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of
his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up
his mind that Melmotte was a great man, and that he might be made a
great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the enormous
proportions of the man's wealth,--believed that he was powerful in
all quarters of the globe,--and believed, because he was so told by
"The Surplice," that the man was at heart a Catholic. That a man
should be at heart a Catholic, and live in the world professing the
Protestant religion, was not to Father Barham either improbable or
distressing. Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration.
By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able
to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was a mystery and
religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young
priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar
time,--in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He
had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in
order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who
from time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius.
And so, just at this season of the Westminster election, Father
Barham made a journey to London.
He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr.
Melmotte himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or
two as to the man's faith. And he thought, also, that it might be a
happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who
was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to
his country. On Saturday night,--that Saturday night on which Mr.
Melmotte had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India
Office,--he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius;
he spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church
services of the metropolis; and on the Monday morning he sallied
forth in quest of Mr. Melmotte. Having obtained that address from
some circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day, and
on the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmotte was
not expected in the City, and the priest was referred to his present
private residence in Bruton Street. There he was told that the great
man might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in
the square Father Barham was at last successful. Mr. Melmotte was
there superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the
Emperor.
The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault
in giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in
great confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being
suspended, last daubs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden
capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the
smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being
moved; and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together
for the accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and
poor Father Barham, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster
election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the
Emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations
were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way, and did soon
find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmotte in the banqueting hall.
Mr. Melmotte was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was
standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the
Emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry
indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first
planned, that he was to sit opposite to his august guest;--by which
he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of
the Emperor of Emperors, of the Brother of the Sun, of the Celestial
One himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be
done. In face of the Emperor there must be a wide space, so that his
Majesty might be able to look down the hall; and the royal princesses
who sat next to the Emperor, and the royal princes who sat next
to the princesses, must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr.
Melmotte's own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was
having a very bad time of it. "It's that fellow from 'The Herald'
office did it, not me," he said, almost in a passion. "I don't know
how people ought to sit. But that's the reason."
"I'm d---- if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house,"
were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham
walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived
by either of the Grendalls, Mr. Melmotte was trying, but trying in
vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been
put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared
for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own
hall. "Who the d---- are you?" he asked, when the priest appeared
close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar.
It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek
apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that
age can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little,
but in the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the
stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely
priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace.
Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite
pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an
enterprise,--was the rule of his life. "I am the Rev. Mr. Barham,"
said the visitor. "I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I
am speaking to Mr. Melmotte."
[Illustration: Father Barham.]
"That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you
are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room
without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred,
who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles.
Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall?"
"I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse," said
the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain
his mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it
better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man
himself.
"Is it business?" asked Lord Alfred.
"Certainly it is business," said Father Barham with a smile.
"Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the
City," said his lordship.
"My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross,
who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmotte himself that his
heart is inclined to the true Faith."
"Some lunatic," said Melmotte. "See that there ain't any knives
about, Alfred."
"No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who
are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others."
"Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go
away."
"You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmotte," continued the
priest. "If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes--"
"Certainly not;--certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not
go away you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows
him."
"Mr. Carbury, of Carbury Hall, is my friend."
"Carbury! D---- the Carburys! Did any of the Carburys send you here?
A set of beggars! Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of
him?"
"You'd better go," said Lord Alfred. "Don't make a rumpus, there's a
good fellow;--but just go."
"There shall be no rumpus," said the priest, waxing wrathful. "I
asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own
servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this
fashion?"
"You're in the way," said Lord Alfred.
"It's a piece of gross impertinence," said Melmotte. "Go away."
"Will you not tell me before I go whether I shall pray for you as one
whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm; or as one
still in error and in darkness?"
"What the mischief does he mean?" asked Melmotte.
"He wants to know whether you're a papist," said Lord Alfred.
"What the deuce is it to him?" almost screamed Melmotte;--whereupon
Father Barham bowed and took his leave.
"That's a remarkable thing," said Melmotte,--"very remarkable." Even
this poor priest's mad visit added to his inflation. "I suppose he
was in earnest."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred.
"But why did he come to me in his madness--to me especially? That's
what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man
in all England at this moment thought of so much as--your humble
servant. I wonder whether the 'Morning Pulpit' people sent him here
now to find out really what is my religion."
"Mad as a hatter," said Lord Alfred again;--"just that and no more."
"My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far.
The truth is they don't know what to make of me;--and I don't intend
that they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of 'em
understands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know.
I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything?"
"What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about."
"I'll have this bar down, at any rate." And he did succeed in having
removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his
intrusion on his own guests in his own house. "I look upon that
fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times," he went
on to say. "They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes
made, and who measures me for my boots!" Perhaps the most remarkable
circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that
he came almost to believe in himself.
Father Barham went away certainly disgusted; and yet not altogether
disheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman
Catholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed
and cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must
have known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to
this priest, who had been born an English gentleman, as being no
gentleman. But, not the less might he be a good Catholic,--or good
enough at any rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes
Melmotte, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more
hopeful man than Roger Carbury. "He insulted me," said Father Barham
to a brother religionist that evening within the cloisters of St.
Fabricius.
"Did he intend to insult you?"
"Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of
polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be
done. He was preparing for some great festival, and his mind was
intent upon that."
"He entertains the Emperor of China this very day," said the brother
priest, who, as a resident in London, heard from time to time what
was being done.
"The Emperor of China! Ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he
is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for
saying so. Will they vote for him, here at Westminster?"
"Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them."
"There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose," said Father Barham.
"Some people do doubt;--but others say he is the richest man in the
world."
"He looked like it,--and spoke like it," said Father Barham. "Think
what such a man might do, if he be really the wealthiest man in the
world! And if he had been against us would he not have said so?
Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him." Father Barham, with
a simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning,
made himself believe before he returned to Beccles that Mr. Melmotte
was certainly a Roman Catholic.