Chapter XI

There are few differences in this drab-coloured world so startling as those between various kinds of minds. One man, after a glance at a fragment of bone, will reconstruct Hercules; another, after the entire skeleton stands before him, will even then question whether it is Hercules at all. One man will by intuition discover, or believe himself to have discovered, an entirely new philosophy; another will spend laborious days in working out a sum, with the help of the most prosaic of all faculties, and, even then sometimes will get it wrong, or, what is worse, doubt his own accuracy.

Now Percy had fallen in love, head over ears, with that extraordinary society called The Catholic Church. He could have given extremely few, and, to the scholastic theologian, perhaps, very inadequate reasons for his conclusions. Mr. Main, on the other hand, had for the last two years and a half been piling up very solid reasons indeed for a conviction that that same Society had a claim on him such as none other had, and, simultaneously was doubting his conviction.

It had begun in a little unimportant incident that had aroused his interest. Then he had taken up a book showing a great many plain reasons why no man in his senses ought to join the Church of Rome, and his discomfort had increased. Then he had read one or two more books on the other side, and had again run back to his Anglican fortifications. So it had gone on; and for the last few months he had resolutely laid aside all reading upon the

Digitized by Google subject and had thrown himself instead into feverish activities of visiting and confirmation classes: he had even made small evening engagements to coach a spectacled youth, of the grammar-school type, in trigonometry. Yet in that strange underself of which psychologists have begun to talk so eloquently, a certain process, he was aware, still continued — a process that caused him, at certain moments, a distinct physical sensation in the diaphragm — on such occasions, for example, as that of reading in church certain words about building a Church upon a Rock, or of catching a glimpse of a cleric in a rather abbreviated overcoat and a trilby hat. It was a sensation as of being slightly bruised immediately beneath the breastbone — such a sensation as people experience when the lift in which they stand suddenly begins to move downwards.

The Vicar had been so exceedingly discreet about Percy, that Mr. Main, until the unhappy interview in his own dining-room, had been firmly under the impression that the young man was merely suffering under one of those fits of agnosticism that attack the adolescent Christian almost as punctually as scarlet fever or measles attack a child.

"Young Percy Smith's in trouble about his faith," the Vicar had said to him one. evening after choir-practice. " One must not forget to pray for him."

Mr. Main, too, had been so discreet as to ask no further questions: he had nodded his head with compressed lips, and, as soon as he had returned home, had entered Percy's name on a little leaflet which he carried in his prayer-book....

And now the disclosure had been made; and the sensa-

Digitized by Google tion of a bruised diaphragm had returned with such violence as to promise a considerable stay. His discomfort was increased by a conviction, against which he strove courageously, that Percy's confidence was meant as a Sign.

Now let it be clearly understood that Mr. Main was not yet convinced (or at any rate, if he were convinced, he did not know it) that the Church of Rome was right and the Church of England wrong. He was still able to repeat to himself with sincerity — even though of a rather feverish nature — quite a number of statements, each of which, if true, completely demolished the claims of the Pope over Mr. Main's conscience. He still could assure himself that these claims were entirely founded upon certain forged Decretals; that more than one Pope had authoritatively taught heresy; that Petros and Petra meant entirely different things; and so on. (These statements, and others like them, can be found in abundance in any modern work on the Roman controversy.) And, as he sat this evening staring into the fire, one part of his mind busily repeated them. But it was in the other part of his mind that the trouble lay (that part which energizes physically, as has been said, in the region of the diaphragm) — and, since it is entirely untrue that the average man cannot think of two things at once, Mr. Main sat silent and compressed and miserable, while his inner self conducted the conflict.

" It's impossible," murmured Mr. Main, half aloud, presently, shaking his head. " I could not, in any case. Marion...." And then he was off again, contemplating those reasons which really most affected his action, and which he knew ought not to affect it at all.

Marion, indeed, loomed very large in the poor man's life — far more large than any wife has a right to loom. She was there always, as the east wind is there, and that

Digitized by Google strange bitter atmosphere which indicates it. There was hardly an incident which he did not interiorly refer to her. If he stumbled in reading the lessons, he wondered whether she had noticed, and, if so, whether she would say something disagreeable afterwards. When Tommie Mann misbehaved under his eye, he wondered whether Marion would think that he ought to lean over and press him firmly and kindly on the shoulder. When his sermon went better than usual, he wondered whether, possibly, she would be pleased. He knew this kind of attitude was all wrong, and that no human being in the world ought to count for so much in the life of any man — and especially of a clergyman. Yet one is none the less liable to irritability in the east wind, however much one may assert that an immortal soul ought to be impervious to atmosphere conditions.

It was Marion, then — the Marion-element, so to speak — that oppressed and burdened him now.

He began, for the tenth time, yet for the first time, perhaps, with full deliberation, to contemplate the effect of his conversion to Rome, on the Marion-plane. First, he would have to tell her.... Then he would have to give some kind of reasons for the step he proposed to take, and listen to the kind of scorn in which she was so proficient. Then — (Mr. Main forced himself on in a kind of desperation) — if he 'really took the step, it would mean having to pack up their furniture and go away; and where? And how could he possibly earn his living, and hers? He had perhaps sixty or seventy pounds saved; and he might make a little more by selling some furniture. And then there would follow an entirely different kind of life — a life, too, that would certainly be more sordid, even than this — in smaller rooms; and all with Marion. •..

Mr. Main sucked in his lower lip and bit it hard,

Digitized by Google screwing up his eyes tight, as if in neuralgia. He was still smarting from his recent encounter with his wife: she appeared to him now as wholly lurid and bitter. It appeared to him inconceivable that he could give her such an emphatically solid excuse for being really disagreeable.

Ill

The last glimmer of light had faded completely outside, and the windows presented rectangles of chilly blackness. Now and again a step sounded on the pavement outside, and once a cheerful and shrill whistling grew out of the distance and faded again, as a boy went home. It seemed to Mr. Main as if life were a complete blank, as hopeless as the empty street. There was no gleam anywhere to relieve its dreariness.

He had sunk now far below the realm of activity: his mind did no more than stare upon the pictures which his imagination sent past it. Now an array of Anglican arguments went by — very positive and clear and upright, like drilled men marching. Now a flare of half -seen lights — Catholic arguments — lit all into a confused and suggestive crowd of fire and darkness. Now Marion, with a contorted face, said bitter things, such things as she had said an hour ago in this very room.

"I wish I had never married you. — You are selfish; you think only of yourself; never of me. — You shall not spoil my life. — I have as much right to live my life as you have to live yours " — things that always had a deformed kind of truth within their bitterness.

And the world might be so splendid a place; he saw that well enough. If Marion still were to him what she had been for the first six months of married life; if she still retained even a reflection of that radiance she had

Digitized by Google worn in that glimpse of Paradise called a Honeymoon — when they had had, he thought, no secrets from one another; when they had knelt together, like children, each night, to say their prayers, and he held her hand and, at the end, had blessed her with a solemn joy; when he had awakened, morning by morning, an hour before she, and had lain there in a kind of tranquil ecstasy, knowing that this was his dear wife, before God and man; when he had been able, by the help of his religion even to think of her death Without despair, so utterly, he had believed, were they two one for both time and eternity....

Ah! if she were still like that now! If only he could go now to the other room, and find her there turning to meet him as he came in; and if he could but tell her, simply and tranquilly, of his trouble; and they could pray over it together, and resolve to follow God's Will together wherever it might lead them. Why, he could face anything, if only she were on his side, or at least not against him!

She had been so sweet during those first months. She had told him, more than once, how sacred the relationship had seemed — the more sacred since he was an ordained priest of God. She had even gone so far once as to say that it seemed to her that a clergyman's wife had access to a kind of double sacrament — one in matrimony, and the other in the priesthood of her husband. He had explained to her then, carefully and laboriously, that she was not quite correct in what she said; and that a wife could not, however holy and perfect the matrimonial bond, really share at all in her husband's priesthood. She had smiled so delightfully, then; and said that she had not really meant it, but that she liked to think it.

Or, again; he remembered a day when she had asked him something about the Church of Rome; and he had

Digitized by Google solemnly explained to her exactly in what points that Church was unscriptural. First and foremost there were the claims of the Pope; there was the " mutilation of the Sacrament"; then there was the Invocation of Saints, for which, he had told her, there was no scriptural authority at all; and he had added a few more points beside. She had said that it was quite clear to her now: and he had answered that the Romanists were, of course, still our fellow Christians, and had quoted a line or two from Keble about our " fallen sister."

Well; if she were still in the very least that Marion whom he had married, with what a simple ease he could go to her and remind her of their conversation, and tell her how his opinions were changing. Of course (he made haste to assure himself), he would add that he was not yet in the least convinced; but that he thought it his duty to say that his mind was not quite so certain as it had been; that they must talk it all over together, and he would explain exactly what points they were that troubled him; and they must pray over it together.

His eyes began to smart a little as he contemplated the picture, and its hopeless remoteness.... And, if the prospect of telling her was difficult, how infinitely more difficult the prospect of doing it.

He leaned forward, presently, and looked at his watch. It was not yet seven. The spectacled boy was coming at half-past for his trigonometry, and supper would be as usual, at nine.

He had had a sudden idea that he would like to go to the church for a few minutes, and see whether a little praying there would clear his mind. But, as he stood up, the door opened suddenly, and Marion came in.

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" He's gone? " she said in a sharp questioning tone.

She had closed the door behind her, and remained standing before it, with the table still between them. The unshaded gas shone straight on her white sharp face, as she stood there in rigid dignity.

" Yes, my dear," said her husband mildly, also standing. " He went quite an hour ago."

"What have you been doing here?"

" I have been thinking," he said quietly.

She came a step nearer, as if with sudden impetuousness.

" I'm not going to give in," she said. " I hold to every word I said just now. But I want to know what you're going to do."

" I have not yet decided."

She looked at him with a kind of expectant hesitation: her eyelids flickered a little. Then she came resolutely forward and sat down.

" Sit down too," she said. " I can't bear to talk to anyone standing up: and we must just talk this out."

" I have Dick Mortimer coming at half -past," he said.

94 There's half an hour yet," she said sharply. " Please sit down."

He did so.

" Now I want it to be perfectly clear," she said, " that I am going to publish this book. (Wait till I've finished, please.) You do not seem to consider that money is of real importance to us both. If it were not for the money, I might possibly consider postponing its publication for a little — until we leave this place, for instance. I don't suppose we shall live here for ever. But we want money: and we don't want to touch what we've saved. Supposing

Digitized by Google you lost your curacy here, for instance, we should be quite destitute. How much is there in the bank? "

" Between sixty and seventy pounds, I think/'

She made an impatient sound.

"There!" she said. "And I thought it was nearly a hundred! Well: all the more I must publish this book while I have the chance. It might not be accepted again. How shall we get a holiday next year, I should like to know! And I want a new dress."

He said nothing.

"Well; I am going to publish it, and at once. Let that be quite clear."

She paused, as if for a remonstrance: but again he said nothing.

"Well?" she asked sharply.

" I am listening to you, my dear."

" Well; why can't you tell me what you mean to do? " she snapped. " It isn't very civil "

He lifted his long hand, and half closed his eyes with the expression that she always found trying; but she stopped.

" My dear," he said, " I was waiting for you to finish.... Well; I have not yet decided what I shall do." "What can you do?"

" I might decide to tell the Vicar — in spite of the promise I gave when I did not understand the circumstances. (Please do not interrupt me, Marion.) Or I might... I might find it necessary to leave Hanstead."

" Leave Hanstead? And where would you go? "

One strain of Mr. Main's nature cried aloud within him that now was the moment to begin to prepare the way — to hint at his trouble. But the rest of him, including what is known as Prudence, urged him to do nothing of the

Digitized by Google kind — to wait till one crisis was passed before provoking another.

" I... I do not know/' lie said undecisively. " That is why 99

" It's perfect madness! 99 she cried. " How can you leave Hanstead unless you've got work elsewhere? And what work are you likely to 99

But then even she stopped in her brutality, so agonized was the look in the long solemn face that was turned to her under the gaslight.

Mr. Main swallowed, audibly, in his throat.

" I cannot bear very much more of this," he said; and his voice broke piteously in the last two or three words. " You do not seem to consider 99

He made a loud grotesque choking noise, and hid his face in his hands.

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CHAPTER Xm

"Percy, my boy," said the doctor an evening or two later, as the young man walked into the sitting-room after hanging up his coat in the hall. " Percy, my boy; I want you to come round with me to the Vicarage after dinner."

" Oh! to talk things over? " asked the boy rather wearily. He was tired with his day in the City: there had been a little overtime, and every hour had been strenuous.

" That's it," said his father.

There was a look of a slight suppressed excitement in the doctor's face, but so slight as very nearly to evade notice. Percy just perceived it; and then thought no more of it. His mother sat silent at her davenport.

It was a heavy starless night as they set out about nine o'clock. Doors and windows were for the most part closed; and the street was almost completely dark except for the light cast by the street lamps.

" Is it anything particular? " asked the boy, aware again that his father's very silence seemed suggestive.

"No, my boy, no: at least Well, your mother wished you to hear the other side from... from one who knows. The Vicar suggested it."

" Oh; just that then "

" That's it," said the doctor rather hurriedly.

They were obviously expected. Steps came immediately across the hall in answer to their ring at the Vicarage door; and it was the Vicar himself who opened to them.

He greeted them almost effusively; and again Percy noticed an air of unusual excitement.

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" Come in," he said. " Come in... Good evening, doctor; good evening, my boy. Mr. Railton's quite ready."

It was not possible at that moment to ask who Mr. Railton might be. Plainly he was some sort of a controversialist, and Percy prepared himself for the fray. His weariness seemed gone; there was communicated even to him a touch of the excitement that plainly affected the others. Later he fancied that there had been something a trifle sinister in this excitement.

The study was lit as usual with its shaded lamps. As Percy followed the other two in he noticed that Mrs. Bennett was not there; but that there sat in the deep chair by the fire a heavily built man, clean shaven, slightly bald, dressed in dark clothes. So much he saw in the light of the lamp, but no more. But, as the door was closed by the Vicar, he saw that the man had stood up, and that his face was in shadow.

" This is Mr. Railton, doctor... Doctor Brandreth Smith.... And this is the young man, Mr. Railton."

Percy found his hand taken an instant later by the stranger, and could see his features more clearly.

He was a rather heavy-faced man, going grey about the temples: and there were lines about the corners of his mouth and of his eyes. He wore a stand-up collar, with straight edges in front, and a broad black tie that hid any sign of a shirt about his throat. His hand was large and Arm and well cushioned.

The Vicar, still obviously rather perturbed, bustled about, setting them all in their places. Percy was placed in the deep chair opposite the stranger's; his father was near him, and like a kind of umpire, the Vicar settled himself in an upright desk-chair, as if to arbitrate between the disputants. No refreshment — not even cocoa — was mentioned. The hour was evidently too pregnant.

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A& AVERAGE MAN

" Now, Mr. Railton," began the Vicar, leaning forward and clasping his hands over his knees, " In media* res, if you please. I have told you the outlines. This young man here has been much taken by a friar — Father Hilary — in St. Francis', Kensington; and wants to become a Romanist. It is only fair that he should hear both sides. He is most reasonable — most reasonable," he repeated, looking up at Percy approvingly. " He wants just to hear both sides, I am sure — no more than that; and... and it is his father's hope, and indeed of all of us, that when he has done so he will be content to remain where he is — where he is, in our dear old Church of England. Now, Mr. Railton, if you please."

There was a moment's silence, the Vicar glanced up again at the stranger, and then at Percy. Then the big man began.

"Well — er — can you give me any reasons, Mr.... Mr. Smith — I mean solid theological reasons for wishing to make this change? I suppose you would scarcely allow that... that the mere attractiveness of a Franciscan is a sufficient reason for separating yourself from the religion of your parents? "

His voice was rather impressive: deep and a little husky; and with an odd ring of a kind of authoritativeness in it. He kept his eyes down as he spoke.

Percy moistened his lips with his tongue. He was quite sure now that he did not like this man. There was a certain domination about him; but it repelled rather than attracted. He felt entirely different towards him from that which he felt, for example, towards the Vicar. He was conscious of an air of oppression.

" Well," he began, " it's rather hard to put it into words. I... I haven't had many talks yet with Roman Catholics.

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I... I think I should find it rather hard to put into words."

There was dead silence. Percy felt this would never do: he really must marshal an argument or two.

" It... it was the idea of sacraments that first began "

This was too much for the Vicar. He almost wailed out a protest.

" But, my dear boy, surely you have heard all that again and again from the pulpit here: we Anglicans, you know, have the sacraments just as much as the Romanists. Surely you know that!"

"I know," said Percy, warming up a little. (He felt he could talk so much more easily to the Vicar.) "I know. But... but it sounded different somehow, when Father Hilary preached about them. But that's only the beginning "

"But " burst out the Vicar again; and then he realized that they would never get on like this. "Well — my dear boy, finish your statement; finish your statement, and then listen to what Mr. Railton has to say."

So Percy began again.

" It was that that began it," he said — " that's to say after I began to think about it. And all I can say is that it really did sound different. I know that we've got Confirmation, as well as Baptism and Communion;

and... and Absolution " (He paused again and glanced tentatively at the Vicar: he was really not quite sure whether this was a sacrament or not, according to Church of England theology. But Mr. Bennett only nodded his head, half encouragingly, once or twice.) " Then there are Matrimony and Orders — if those are sacraments." (Again he was not quite sure of his ground.

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ISO

He had lately looked through the Thirty-Nine Articles with some care, and felt a little confused on the point.) "And then there's Unction.... Oh! no, we haven't got that, have we? "

The Vicar cleared his throat.

" That is in abeyance," he said firmly. " But it's not necessary to salvation in any case." Percy passed on.

"Well; but all this seemed so much clearer when Father Hilary preached.... I don't know why, but it did. But that's only the beginning."

Again he paused; and again the heavy figure opposite him was silent and motionless. The Vicar leaned back as if in despair.

"Well;" began Percy again; "after that I read some books and talked to a friend; and it seems to me that the texts about St. Peter settle it."

"Which texts, please?" came the steady voice from the deep chair.

"Well — the Thou art Peter, and J will give thee the keys — for one."

" And what about, Get thee behind me, Satan? "

" That was when St. Peter said what was wrong, wasn't it?"

"Then St. Peter can say what is wrong? And if so, what becomes of his pretended Infallibility? "

There was a curious ring, as if of a strongly repressed violence in the voice. It pricked Percy into a more alert mood. A faint thrill of resentful defiance went through him.

"Of course he can say what is wrong, but not when, as the Catechism says, he speaks to the whole Church on a matter of faith, as Pastor of all Christians."

"Well; go on, sir."

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" That seems to me the point/' said Percy. " Of course there are others, but "

" But you have not yet told us how, even if Christ did give to St. Peter the prerogative you suggest, you go on to prove that it was handed on to his successors."

" It's like the kings of England," said Percy feebly.

" Nor how is it that so many saints and doctors, whom even you would allow to be so, have lived and died outside the communion of Rome without any notion at all that they were outside the Church of Christ."

" I don't think that is so," said Percy, once more pricked into defiance by the growing contempt and patronage in the other's voice.

" You will find that it is so, if you will consult impartial authorities," said the stranger, in whom a kind of glow seemed steadily to be rising, warming up his voice with something like suppressed passion. " Nor have you told us how, if all this be true, you can reconcile with it the lives of some of the monsters of iniquity who have sat in Peter's chair; nor, if the Truth is so mighty and must prevail, the Roman Court of to-day — and indeed of all days — has always been so bitterly opposed to all intellectual progress or liberty. Nor again how it is that, if this be the Church of Christ, the countries under Rome's domination have always been the most backward of all European lands; nor why it is that the Church of Christ tramples down the liberties of men, and crushes their instincts, and breaks or forbids domestic ties.... My dear young sir, you have not yet touched the fringe of this question.... Now listen to me "

The glow had waxed to a white hot passion, so swiftly and overpoweringly, that while the man spoke, he dominated the room. It was extraordinary how it transfigured him; and how, too, the others seemed, so to

Digitized by Google speak, shrunken to nothing. His face was still in shadow, yet it seemed as if it burned; his eyes were pools of shadow, and the lines about his mouth like gashes. His great voice vibrated like a harp; and his words poured forth without hesitation.

" Now listen to me — " he cried. " Here are you, my young sir, proposing to change the religion you were brought up in, to sever yourself from your family, and to deliver yourself over, bound hand and foot, into the power of a Church of which you know nothing — absolutely nothing — a Church which has been the enemy of all progress and enlightenment since the day in which its rulers, mad with ambition, first seized on words of Christ — which He may or may not have spoken — and tortured them into a system to bolster up their own domination. There is not an honest theologian or scholar in the world — even Romanist scholars (if there are any!) — who will not confess that nine-tenths of the Papal claims are built up on forgery and ambition. I tell you that there is no doubt on the subject at all. I have studied these things as you can never hope to study them. I know the system as you cannot possibly know it; and I tell you it is lies, lies, lies from beginning to end. And it is this Church to which you are thinking of submitting! I tell you that you will rue the day, bitterly, when your eyes are opened and you see the trutli — bitterly, when you understand for what you have exchanged your liberty and the love of your friends and your own self-respect. The texts you quote mean nothing — at least nothing of the kind that you pretend. I could point you to a dozen texts, or omissions, that militate against the Papal claims, for every one that you can quote for them. But the root of the matter does not lie in texts: it lies deeper: it lies in the character of every man — in the

Digitized by Google choice as to whether he will preserve his liberty or sacrifice it; whether he is strong enough to walk alone, or weak enough to rely upon a false authority that cannot perform what it promises/'

Percy leaned back, dazed and bewildered, as the other ended.

Yet the whole of his being was in protest. He knew with a conviction which he could not, intellectually, in the least justify, that this assault was unfair and one-sided. He had heard it before, though not in one blistering torrent, nor driven in by the power with which it was now forced at him; and he knew well enough that its apparent strength lay in the circumstances and air of its delivery, rather than in its contents. Yet he did not know what to answer. He could not meet force by force: and in his despair he was aware that his whole soul had, so to speak, set its teeth in obstinacy, and was more inclined by the tirade towards his growing convictions rather than away from them.

" I... I don't agree " he began.

" Don't agree! " thundered the other. u What do you mean by that? I tell you there is no other point of view tenable by an intelligent man. Do you suppose you know more of the subject than I? Why, I tell you "

He stopped, as if on the edge of an indiscreet disclosure. And in that instant there flashed on Percy's mind a conviction that came to him like an inspiration. He remembered to have seen this man's name before, somewhere, in some paper or pamphlet: he understood, or began to think that he understood, something of the reason why this man's personality at once evaded and dominated and repelled him. And a huge wave of wrath rose up in him,

Digitized by Google such as he had never experienced before in all his life — a wave that he kept suspended from breaking, by a violent effort of will, until he was sure.

He was on his feet without knowing it; and a tremendous determination was in his voice.

"Mr. Bennett/* he cried. "Who is he? I will know. I think I do know.... Who is he? "

The Vicar too was on his feet, tremulous and deprecatory.

" My dear boy, my dear boy — now why all this "

"I will know," cried Percy. "Tell me— who is he? I'll... I'll never trust you again if you don't tell me "

He felt a hand on his shoulder from behind; but he whisked fiercely on his heel.

" Let go, father. I'm not a child. I tell you, I will know."

There was dead silence.

The stranger sat motionless in the deep chair; his elbows rested on the arms of it; and his hands met across his mouth; his eyes were in shadow, and seemed expressionless.

Percy was shaking all over. Never in all his life had so strange a passion seized him. It was like some amazing intoxication of the spirit. He gripped himself with his whole will, and went straight across to the door, and stood there with his hand on the handle.

" Mr. Bennett," he said, " if you are going to treat me like a child, I... I shall behave like one. If you do not tell me who Mr. Railton is, I shall leave this house and never come into it again. But if you will tell, then, if I am wrong, I will apologize; and if I am right, well, I will promise still to hear anything you have to say — as soon as he's gone or at any other time... • Now, will you tell me? "

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" Doctor/' cried the Vicar piteously. " Percy, my dear boy "

Percy stamped, without knowing it, and gripped the handle more tightly.

"Will you tell me?" he cried. "Is Mr. Railton the ex-priest, and the anti-Catholic lecturer? "

There was silence.

Then as conviction solidified, the boy cried again:

" Is he the ex-priest, who married a week after he had left the Church — who — who "

He stopped. He could not go on. The strange passion was on him again, shaking and tearing him. So he stood a moment, waiting for an answer. Then he wheeled and went out.

" There, my dear," said Mrs. Bennett soothingly. " Now you've had your cocoa, just tell me all about it quietly."

It was nearly eleven o'clock on that lamentable night; and Mrs. Bennett, it appeared, had been the only person who had behaved at once adequately and tranquilly. She had entirely refused to be present at the portentous interview in the study, and even to entertain Mr. Railton to supper.

" If you think it right to have him, my dear," she had said, " I must not say a word to dissuade you. But I had so very much rather not meet him. You know it was not a very pleasant story. I daresay he's a very good man now, as you say; but somehow I can't quite forget 99

" That seems to me not quite Christian " interrupted her husband.

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" I daresay it's not/' she said peacefully. "I am a very poor Christian, I know."

So it was settled. The Vicar went down to the station to meet the lecturer and entertained him at supper, saying that his wife was not very well and begged to be excused. (This was sufficiently true: she really had a cold.) And Mrs. Bennett sat upstairs, retaining at least so much humility as not to condemn her husband for doing a thing which, personally, she disliked extremely; and listening to the subdued voices. Then the study door had banged beneath about half-past nine, quick steps had gone across the hall, and then the hall door had banged too. Then there were confused noises that made her sit upright listening even more acutely; again steps ran across the hall, to and fro; and then a loud lamentable talking in her husband's voice. Then the footsteps of at least two people had passed through the hall and gone out. And then silence.

It was not till nearly eleven that her husband had returned alone, and come straight up to her where she awaited him, in such a state of agitation that she had led him straight downstairs again, forced him to put on his slippers and to drink two cups of cocoa before consenting to listen to any connected story. Then at last she had bidden him unburden himself.

" It has been terrible, terrible," moaned the Vicar. " You were quite right, my dear: I should never have had such a man.... He, he spoke very well indeed, though I did not quite agree with all that he said; but even then I began to get a little nervous. And then Percy guessed who he was; and there was a dreadful scene; and "

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She looked up patiently.

" Please begin at the beginning, dear; I don't understand at all."

He told her, with tolerable intelligibility; describing the scene, and Percy's violence, and his exit. Then it seemed that the doctor ran after his son, leaving the Vicar alone with the lecturer, who immediately demanded some kind of apology for the insults to which he had been subjected. The Vicar had given him these, abundantly: he said that he was horrified and ashamed at such a scene, and to think that a guest of his had been so treated.

Then Mr. Railton had demanded the same of Percy, and desired to be confronted with him; and the two had gone down to the doctor's house through the dark.

There, again, scene had followed scene. Percy had locked himself into his room, and refused to open. There had been an agitated consultation in the doctor's room at the back of the house, with Mrs. Smith present. (Fortunately, Helen had gone to bed early.) And, in the middle Percy had appeared; and had finally used words which might conceivably be construed into an apology, saying that he regretted having shown so much violence; and that it was not for him in his undecided state to lay down the law quite so furiously as he had done. • • •

Well, at last Mr. Railton had gone, still white and angry, but apparently pacified; and there had followed again another interview with Percy.

"Yes, my dear," said the Vicar. "He did finally promise to come and talk the whole matter over again. But it has been terrible — terrible. I have never had such a scene in my life. I... I had no idea that the boy had such strong feelings. You were quite right; I should

Digitized by Google not have had such a man, even in so good a cause. I... I fear it has had quite the contrary effect to what I had hoped."

His wife laid her hand on his knee.

" And now you must go to bed/' she said gently.

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