FATHER FRANCIS AT FOLKESTONE
When Herrick awoke on the following morning, after a night of
restlessness and troubled dreams, the summer sunshine seemed to be
almost mocking in its brilliancy. For, in spite of the gladness of
Nature, the times were out of joint. There was something wrong with
life. With a sigh of depression, as he recalled the occurrences of the
previous night, he set about facing the problems of the day--his own
problems and Aldwyth Westwood’s in particular.
His coat lay over the back of a chair, and two unopened letters had
slipped from a pocket to the floor. They were those he had received
from the alert “Awthur” in the Temple, left unopened in the hurry of
his departure from town, and until now entirely forgotten. He picked
them up with no great interest. He knew from the envelope what one
would be about. It was a regimental notice from the headquarters of
the “Devil’s Own” in Lincoln’s Inn. Until lately he had been a keen
volunteer officer, but the systematic snubs administered by the War
Office to the citizen soldiery had greatly discouraged him and a great
many others. He opened the other letter mechanically and with a morning
yawn. But what he read--typewritten on half a sheet of thin quarto
paper--instantly fixed his attention. He stood up, stared at the words,
and read them again:
“_Give up the law (if you value your skin). It will soon be a dangerous
trade._”
[Illustration]
There was no date. The impression, which took the place of a signature,
corresponded with that produced by the familiar seals of public
companies. It was in the form of a disc, and had the outline of a
spider in the centre.
Was this some silly practical joke, or could it be a genuine and
malignant threat? But for what Sir John Westwood had told him on the
previous evening, he would have concluded unhesitatingly in favour of
the first theory. But now he pondered.
After a solitary breakfast in the coffee-room, and pondering still,
he waited about the hotel, hoping to see Aldwyth, but she was unable
to leave her father’s side. When he came out on to the Leas, the
Folkestone Church Parade had already begun. Here, among the crowd
in the sunshine, a serious reading of the threatening letter seemed
impossible.
The seaside world was decked with light as with a garment, and the
butterflies of fashion fluttered their laces and laughed at the little
jokes of the wearers of Panama hats as if life could hold nothing
more serious than the choice of a graceful “confection,” and the art
of wearing it with good effect. At the west end of the Leas there was
nothing suggestive of the seamy side of life, nothing to hint at the
possibility of social earthquake. He wondered vaguely, as he walked
eastward with hands clasped behind him, whether in olden time the good
people who then looked out upon that sparkling sea had truly realised
the danger, horror, and humiliation of the threatened invasion of a
powerful enemy of England. It struck him that the British race, which
has “worried through” so many awkward crises, obstinately cherished the
conviction that, as a nation, it bore a charmed life; that the slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune could never bring it to the proud
foot of a conqueror. A dangerous faith! For here on this very coast,
much less than two hundred years ago, invasion had been imminent. The
French were mustered at Dunkirk, Calais, and Boulogne. The Pretender’s
youngest son was with them, and there was an Irish Brigade to aid the
enterprise. The English, too, had furnished a contingent of traitors
to assist the enemy, for the Folkestone smugglers had sold themselves
to act as pilots for the invading force. But for the vigilance of
that tough old sailor, Admiral Vernon, invasion would have become an
accomplished fact. By his order, the miserable fleet, placed at his
disposal by a blundering government, patrolled the Channel unceasingly.
Warning beacons blazed along the coast from Beachy Head to the South
Foreland. There was one even on Hurricane House, as the sailors styled
the parish church of Folkestone--the church which Herrick was passing
at the very moment of recalling those far-off troubled times.
But to-day, in the old town as in the new, people knew or cared for
none of these things, nor even dreamed of the possibility of any
untoward events that might make Folkestone an ineligible resort for
week-end trippers. On every side ’Arry and ’Arriet rejoiced, and
were glad in the glorious weather. The ’Arry collars and shoes were
entirely and manifestly satisfactory to their wearers; and the blouses
of ’Arriet and her sisters, cousins, and aunts, blazed violently in the
dazzling sunshine. The yachting caps the maidens wore were all that
unbecomingness could possibly demand, and the hats of the mothers and
aunts fully exemplified that marked unsuitability for which the British
female of mature years is so renowned.
Herrick, as he made his way through the cheerful and perspiring throng,
decided that, as an advocate, he could make out a strong case for the
survival of our ancient sumptuary laws.
Though Folkestone, west and east, already was pretty full, here were
other visitors, within a stone’s-throw of the shores that welcome such
hosts of undesirables from foreign lands. One of the much advertised
steamers of the South-Eastern line was rapidly nearing the harbour
with a crowded human cargo. Of late years the Boulogne and Folkestone
route had increased in favour. It was not surprising, for it made the
journey between Paris and London shorter by twenty-eight miles than the
Calais-Dover line.
Herrick, who knew something of the signals adopted on these boats,
was aware that each ball on the foremast represented a hundred
passengers; a ball on the mainmast vouched for another twenty; a flag
on the foremast stood for fifty passengers; a ball at the peak over
the ensign represented ten. It was plain to him that the _Queen of
the South_, whose figurehead gleamed in its brand-new gilt above the
dancing wavelets, was as full as the Board of Trade would allow--and
perhaps a little fuller. While the steamer was being berthed, he stood
upon the long platform and watched the passengers as they came ashore.
The number of foreigners was quite astonishing. Swarthy, dark-haired,
ill-favoured fellows, most of them, they hurried to the London train
already in waiting, while there were a few whom the after-stress of
what Thackeray called the “marine malady” drove in eager search of
refreshment.
What, however, struck Herrick even more forcibly, and, indeed,
with something akin to shock, was the fact that each one of those
ill-favoured visitors wore upon his breast a metal disc. Yet more
amazing, the disc--unless his eyes deceived him--resembled the
impression on the threatening letter he had carefully placed inside his
pocket-book only an hour or two ago.
While this staggering circumstance held him wondering, the through
passengers entrained; the warning whistle sounded, and they were off.
A man, who had landed in leisurely fashion from the boat, stood near
him, also watching the departing train. Presently he turned. Their eyes
met, and in them came a look of recognition. Somewhere, Herrick felt
assured, he had seen that face before--but where? The man passed him, a
slight smile on his lips, and entered a well-appointed motor-car. Then,
in an instant, conviction flashed on Herrick’s mind. It was the face
that had affected him so strangely at the Central Criminal Court, when
he stood up as Counsel for the Crown in the memorable case that failed!
* * * * *
That evening, in the ancient parish church, so beautifully restored,
Aldwyth and her lover stood side by side. Sonorous and impressive,
organ, choir, and congregation together voiced a hymn of faith:
“Beneath the shadow of Thy Throne
Thy Saints have dwelt secure;
Sufficient is Thine Arm alone
And our defence is sure.”
The sadness of fleeting life found deep expression towards the end:
“Time like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.”
Then, with gathering strength, came again the cry for help and hope:
“O God, our Help in ages past,
Our Hope for years to come,
Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home.”
And all the people said “Amen.”
A rustle of expectancy, a settling movement, and, over the heads of the
sitting congregation, Herrick and his companion could see the preacher.
They exchanged quick glances of pleased surprise. The tall priest
looking down with wistful eyes upon the many faces was Father Francis.
There were others in the church besides themselves who, in the shadowed
after-time, recalled the preacher’s look and words that night.
In this narrative, though Father Francis has an honoured place, only
the gist of what he said need be recorded.
“_Watchman, what of the night?_” There were those, he said--having
given out the text--who saw a dark night gathering over England.
The growth of luxury and self-indulgence, the follies of the rich,
the miseries of the poor, the insatiable thirst for pleasure and
excitement, the struggle between capital and labour, and the faltering
of national faith in the eternal verities--these converging causes were
shaping the materials for a great catastrophe. If righteousness exalted
a nation, assuredly unrighteousness would lay it in the dust. In the
book of this same prophet Isaiah it was written: “For the nation and
kingdom that will not serve Thee shall perish; yea, those nations shall
be utterly wasted.”
Again and again such prophecies had been fulfilled. The once mighty
empires of the East, honeycombed with sensuality and corruption, had
long since fallen into decay. The Roman eagle, beneath which the whole
world had cowered in awe, no longer soared aloft; Carthage had fallen;
Athens and Alexandria, and many another ancient capital of arms or
learning, had lost their power and proud pre-eminence. The ruins of
Nineveh lay buried beneath the sands and dust of centuries; Babylon the
mighty, with its idols of silver and gold, had been laid low. “Come
down and sit in the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, sit on the
ground; there is no throne, O daughter of the Chaldeans; for thou shalt
no more be called young and delicate. Take the millstones and grind
meal. Sit thou silent, and get thee into darkness ... for thou shalt
no more be called the lady of kingdoms.”
The women of old had not differed greatly from the women of to-day,
said the preacher, looking down upon the many women who listened to his
words. The prophet had marked their ways; they walked with stretched
forth necks and wanton eyes. They were haughty in the bravery of their
tinkling ornaments, their chains and their bracelets, the changeable
suits of apparel, the mantles, the wimples, and the crisping pins, the
fine linen, the hoods, and the veils. Wherein, he asked, did those
women of old differ in their vanity and arrogance from the women of
that great modern Babylon which they all knew so well--the centre and
capital of the stupendous empire on which the sun never set?
There would yet, he believed, be a further fulfilment of that stern
prophecy of the eastern seer, and in that dark and terrible time what
part would be played by the women of England--the women of London?
They were destined to faint and fail! The luxurious, jewel-decked
women of ease and fashion would be swept like rotten leaves before
the storm! Only a woman such as Solomon described in the last chapter
of the Book of Proverbs could ever fulfil the high destiny of her
sex, whether in times of peace or in times of trouble. “Who can find
a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies ... strength and
honour are her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come, ...
she openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of
kindness.... Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband
also, and he praiseth her.... Many daughters have done virtuously,
but thou excellest them all. Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain;
but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.” You and I,
said Father Francis, may never meet in this church again, but in this
solemn evening hour, in this still and wonderful summer night, forget
not the storms which sometimes beat upon this ancient building, and
remember, too, the storms of life, the terror and distress of nations.
Whither shall we flee in that dread hour? There is and can ever be but
one refuge--the Rock of Ages, with its calm, cool shadow in a weary
land; its strength and steadfastness amid the tempestuous passions of
the human race. At the last, he said, in solemn tones, pointing to
the “Tree of Jesse” in the north transept of the church, all nations
and peoples of the earth would be brought to see that in Him of whom
the prophets and the angels testified, and in Him alone, was hope,
salvation, and tranquillity. “I am the root and offspring of Jesse, and
the bright and morning Star.”
For a moment the preacher paused. Suddenly, with a thrilling
intonation, he repeated the question of his text--” _Watchman, what of
the night?_” Then, with hand pointing eastward--an action dramatic but
not theatrical--he gave the prophet’s answer in triumphant tones--”
_The watchman saith, The morning cometh._”