A PRIVATE CONFERENCE AT MIDNIGHT A YEAR LATER
It was late at night in Father Blantyre's study at Hornham. King and Stephens had gone to bed, but the vicar sat with Dr. Hibbert, his churchwarden.
Both men were smoking. By the side of the doctor stood a modest peg of whiskey; the priest contented himself with a glass of soda-water. The candles by which the room was lighted showed that Mr. Blantyre's face was very worn and weary. He seemed a man who was passing through a time of stress and storm. The bronzed countenance of the doctor wore its usual aspect of serenity and strength. Both men had been talking together earnestly for a great part of the night. A true and intimate friendship obtained between them, and it was a plan that fortnightly they should meet thus and make confidences to each other about that which they held so dear.
"It is just a year," Blantyre said, "since Hamlyn committed his first sacrilege in our own church."
"The time goes very fast," Hibbert answered, "yet look at the changes! The man has become almost a power in the land, or at least he seems to be. It is his talent for organisation. It's supreme. Look how this wretched 'League' has grown. It has its spies and agents everywhere, its committee has names of importance among its members, the amount of money that rolls into Hamlyn's coffers must be very large."
"I'm afraid so. But think of the turmoil and unrest one man can create—the misery and pain churchmen feel every day now as they see the jocose blasphemies of these people and see the holiest things held up to an utterly vulgar and soulless ridicule. It's a wrong thought, Hibbert, perhaps, but I do sometimes long to be out of it all, to start afresh on such new work as God may give one in another life!"
"Such a thought comes to all of us at times, of course. But it's physical mainly. It's merely a languor of overstrain and a weak nervous state. You know yourself how such thoughts come chiefly at night, and how after your tub, in the morning light and air they all go."
"Materialist! But you're right, Hibbert, quite right."
"You go on taking the physic I've sent you and you'll pick up soon. But, of course, this is a very trying time. The parish is in a constant turmoil. These Sunday evening Protestant meetings when folk are coming out of church are a bad nuisance. That's a new move, too."
"Yes. They found that the hooligan riot-provoking business was very simply dealt with, and so they are trying this. It is that poor, silly old creature, Miss Pritchett. The Hamlyns are hand and glove with her. I suppose she is sincere, poor old lady! I hope so. She was an ardent Catholic, and I hope she does honestly believe in the new substitute for the Faith. I am very sorry for her."
"I'm less charitable, Blantyre; she's a spiteful old cat. I am not violating any professional confidence in telling you that she won't live long if she goes on living in the thick of this noisy Protestant agitation. I do my best for her, of course, but she won't do as she's told."
"She's a nuisance," the vicar said, "but I hope she won't go yet. I should like to make friends with her before she dies. And I should like her to die in the Faith."
"She won't do that, I'm afraid, Blantyre. She has gone too far away from the Church. But, now, what do you honestly think the effect of this Luther crusading business has been on the Church."
"Well, I think there can be no doubt of that. I was talking it over with Lord Huddersfield last week and we both agreed. The Church has gained enormously. People who were simply attracted by ceremonial and what was novel to them have gone out, in a restless endeavour to find some new thing. But that is all. Our congregations here, our communicants, have grown very much. There is a deeper spiritual fervour among us, I am sure of it. No churchman has taken Hamlyn seriously for a moment. He has failed in every attempt he has made to interfere with our teaching or our ceremonial, failed absolutely. All his legal cases have fallen through, or proved abortive, or are dragging on towards extinction. The days of ritual prosecutions are utterly dead. All the harm Hamlyn has done the Church itself is to weary our ears and hearts with a great noise and tumult, with floods of empty talk. He has stung our nerves, he hasn't penetrated to any vital part."
"Yes, that is so. It needs more than the bellowings of such a man, more than the hostility of people who are not members of the Church, to hurt her in any serious degree. The man and his friends have a large rabble behind them, but they can only parade through the streets of England beating their drums and rattling their collecting boxes. The Church is safe."
"It is. And yet in another way, all this business is doing fearful harm to the morale of the country, limited though it may be. The mass of non-Christian people who might be gathered into the Church are looking down upon these unseemly contests with a sneer. They feel that there can be little good or truth in a system of philosophy which seems to them to be nothing but an arena of brawling fools. Therein comes the harm. Hamlyn isn't injuring church people, he is giving contraband of war to infidelity. And just at this particular moment in the world's history this is extremely dangerous. In thirty years, the danger will have passed away; to-day, it is great."
"And why particularly at this moment?"
"Why, because the world is utterly changing with extraordinary rapidity. That world which once adjusted itself so sweetly to our faith is vanishing, is gone. The new world which is arriving is unassimilated, unsorted, unexplained. The light hasn't entered it yet, it doesn't know how to correspond. The trouble lies in that. The new politics, science, philosophy, art, are only social habits. And these will not talk our language yet, or confess Christ. And this squabble and turmoil will retard the new adjustment for years, because outsiders won't even trouble to examine our claims or make experience of our system. And people are glad of any excuse to ignore or at least avoid Christianity. You see, a new religion has sprung up."
"Yes—go on."
"It is the religion of pleasure, excitement, nervous thrill bought at any cost. Renan, who had eyes and used them, saw that. He has given us the hint in his Abbess of Jouarre. 'Were the human race quite certain,' he says, 'that in two or three days the world would come to an end, the instinct of pleasure'—l'amour is his word—'would break out into a sort of frenzy; in the presence of death, sure and sudden, nature alone would speak, and very strange scenes would follow. The social order is preserved by restraint; but restraint depends upon a belief in a hereafter.' And already, 'If a man dies, shall he live again?' is the burden of a new soliloquy on the lips of a new Hamlet. Faith is becoming more and more an act, a habit, of heroism. So you see the harm Hamlyn and his gang are indirectly doing. But do you know where it seems to me the great counteracting influence to his work lies at the moment?"
"Where?"
"You will wonder to hear me say so, but I firmly think for the moment it lies in the ranks, and true love of our Lord, of the pious Evangelical Party in the Church! They are Catholic without knowing it. They think, and think sincerely, that the forms the Church has appointed, some of her Sacraments even, obscure the soul's direct communion with God. They are not in line with us yet. But there is a sterling and vivid Christianity among them. There is a personal adoration of Jesus which is strong and sweet, a living, wonderful thing. And, you see, all this section of the Church is exempt from the attacks of the extreme Protestants—who seem themselves to have hardly any Christianity at all. Nor do the really pious Evangelicals approve of this civil war. They won't be mixed up in it. They are far too busy doing good works and preparing themselves for the next world to join in these rowdy processions of the shallow, the ill-informed, or the malevolent. They don't approve of us, of course, but they have no public quarrel with what they see is substantially powerful for good. Since Hamlyn's brigade has been throwing mud at us, and we, of course, have defended ourselves to the best of our ability, the minds of those who are eager to justify their adhesion to the religion of pleasure cannot, at least if they have any logic or sincerity, avoid a consideration of the quiet Evangelicals."
"It is a new idea to me," said the doctor, refilling his pipe, "but I suppose you are right. They despise the whole business of agitation, and yet don't make it a pretext as the rationalists are glad to do. The whole thing is a miserable business! What annoys me, Vicar, is the facility with which a rowdy, ignorant man of the lower classes has been able to make himself a force."
"It is hard. But one must remember that however sincere he is—and I know nothing against his personal character—he only appeals to the ignorant and rowdy. Have you seen his new leaflet?"
"No, I think not. What is it?"
"It came by post last night; apparently the whole district is being circularised. Really, the thing is quite a curiosity. I will read you a few paragraphs."
He opened a drawer and took a small pamphlet from it, which was headed "The Hornham Scandal." "Listen to this:
"'At St. Elwyn's, Hornham,' writes a lady member of the Luther League, 'I recently attended the so-called "High Mass." There were three priests in vestments; there were eight candles burning at eleven o'clock on the altar; there was incense and all the appurtenances of a Roman Mass; the men bore that ignorant and unwashed appearance which is commonly to be seen at any time in an Italian church. At times they crossed themselves, but often they seemed to forget, and then suddenly to remember. I stayed as long as I could, but it was not long, for I was sick at heart at the thought of what our country is being mercilessly dragged into, and that it is for services of this description that we hear from time to time our foolish girls exclaim, "How I hate the name of Protestant."'"
"Elegant style," said the doctor dryly, "but to call our congregation 'unwashed' is not only perfectly untrue, but a little touch of feminine spite that shows the spirit in which these crusades are carried on. I wonder how many of the five thousand were unwashed when our Lord fed them!"
"That is a quotation," said the vicar, "now hear the robuster prose of the great Hamlyn himself:
"'It appears that there are literally no lengths of lawlessness, ecclesiastical insubordination, blasphemous poperies, or unscriptural profanation of places of worship to which Ritualistic innovators will not proceed. Among other Romanising acts of the vicar of St. Elwyn's, the notorious "Father" Blantyre, is a direction to some of his congregation who attend the Lord's Supper. These members have taken the bread from him—or rather the superstitious wafer which is substituted for bread—with the thumb and finger. "Oh, no," says our priest, "you must hold out your hand for it." These are the "instructions" of "Father" Blantyre to those about to attend the Lord's Supper for the first time after confirmation:
"'As soon as the priest comes up to you, hold up your hands as high as the chin, so that he may place the Blessed Sacrament in your hand while he says the words, The Body of our Lord.
"'But we ask our Protestant brethren how, if the minister—falsely called "priest"—places the bread in the hand of the communicant, how the latter can comply with the direction "take this"? Let England awake to this "priestly" and insidious Popish plan.'"
"Well!" said the doctor, "of all the—" Words failed him.
"Isn't it vulgar and childish!" said the vicar, "but how admirably adapted to suit the ignorant folk who will read it. The adroit substitution of a colloquial use of the word 'take' for its real meaning of 'receive'! And then the continual effort to degrade the Mass, to rob it of its mystery and holy character—it's clever, it's subtle. Hamlyn is a man of parts!"
"Is there any more?"
"Oh, yes, plenty. So far I have only read the mildest parts. Here is a distorted simile which I should hardly have thought even Hamlyn would have printed. It is painful to read:
"'One of our Luther Lecturers recently asked a poor, deluded young female who is in the habit of attending the pantomime at St. Elwyn's why she went there. The poor, deluded creature replied—doubtless with words put into her mouth by her "Father Confessor"—that its "spirituality" and "devotion" attracted her. Ah! Rome and Ritualism have ever known how to appear as a pure and modest virgin, even when rotting (to use the image of the Holy Spirit in the Word) with fornication. O foolish young woman! How have you been bewitched with these sorceries? A clean thing is to be got of an unclean thing!'"
The doctor ground his teeth. "I wish we'd had the man in the regiment!" he said. "Unclean! I'd have cleaned the brute!"
The vicar sighed. "Of course it doesn't really matter," he said. "This sort of stuff carries its own condemnation with it. Still it is most distressing. It does wound one deeply to hear the highest and holiest things spoken of in this way. All my people feel it. Some of them—poor things—have come to me weeping to hear such words—weeping for shame and sorrow. Here is the last paragraph. The pamphlet concludes with a fine flow of rhetoric, and an invitation to me:
"'The late Dr. Parker said: "Popery is the vilest blasphemy out of hell. It is the enemy of liberty; it is the enemy of intelligence; it is the enemy of individuality, of conscience, and responsibility; it is the supreme wickedness of the world, the master effort of the devil."
"'And so say we. Therefore, honest, English, Protestant people of Hornham, look to it that these doings in your midst are put down with a stern hand. A great meeting of ratepayers will shortly be held in the Victoria Hall under the auspices of the Luther League. A lecture, with lime-light views, will be delivered on the cloaked and hooded Popery that stalks in our midst. An invitation will be extended to "Fathers" Blantyre, King, and Stephens, the "Priests" of St. Elwyn's church, who will be accommodated with seats upon the platform if they care to come. We of the Luther League invite them to public controversy, to an open debate upon the great questions at issue. Will they be present? Time will show.'"
Hibbert rose. "Well, it's time we were in bed," he said. "Good-night. I should think over that sporting offer of Hamlyn's if I were you. A public appearance might do good. I like a fight."
"I doubt it," the vicar answered; "still, it may be worth considering. One never knows. One doesn't want people to say that one is afraid."
"Good-night, Vicar."
"Good-night, Hibbert. Forget all about these surface worries and sleep well."
The vicar was left alone.
He took a letter from his pocket. It was from Lucy, who wrote from Park Lane. In the letter, she said that she purposed—if he would care to have her—to come down to Hornham at once and spend some months at the clergy-house.
"If you can put up with a girl for a time in your bachelor stronghold! I'm sick to death of this life; it has lost all its attractions for me. I want to live, not play, and you, my dear old boy, will show me the way. A letter is no way—for me—to tell you of my thoughts. But higher things than of old are working in me. St. Elwyn's calls me, it seems home; I so often think of the big quiet church and the ceaseless activity that centres round it. I long for the peace there! I have much to tell you, much to consult you about, and I am beginning to wonder why I have left you alone so long. Good-night, dear."
Putting down the letter, he looked at the clock. It was now far after midnight, and he stayed the hand that was about to raise the glass that stood on the table beside him.
In a few hours it would be dawn, the dawn when in the dim hour he daily went to meet the Lord in the Eucharist. How wonderful that was! What unending joy the break of day had for this good man, as he began the ancient and mysterious rite of the Church! There, there, beside the altar, there was peace! In this desert world, that was so far from Home, there was always that daily glimpse into the Unseen, that Communion in which dead friends and great angels joined, when the Paraclete came to the weary, sinful hearts of men like fire, when our Lord in his risen majesty came to the world to hearten his soldiers, to fill his toiling saints with power to continue to the end.
If only the whole world knew and realised this! Sometimes the priest thought with simple wonder, that if only men knew, all trouble and sorrow would be over. To him the material world was the unreal place, the dream, the fable. Daily he knew that the Unseen was ever near, close, close!—how blind and sorrowful the world was, that did not know or care for Jesus.
He knelt down now to say his prayers. He prayed for the Church, his congregation, for his sister, and his friends. Then he prayed that he might be worthy to receive the Blessed Sacrament at dawn.
And then, happy, comforted, and at peace, with the certainty of an unseen glory all round him, with august watchers to shield him through the night, he sought his couch and slept a deep, dreamless sleep with crossed hands.
"From henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus."