EPILOGUE.
A little more than a year had passed since the inquest on Sir Reginald and Koda Bux. For Vane Maxwell, the Missionary to Midas, as every one now called him, it had been a continued series of tribulations and triumphs. From Land's End to John o' Groats, and from Cork Harbour to Aberdeen he had preached the Gospel that he had found in the Sermon on the Mount. He had, in truth, proved himself to be the Savonarola of the twentieth century, not only in words, but also in the effects of his teaching.
He had asked tens and hundreds of thousands of professing Christians, just as he had asked the congregation of St. Chrysostom, to choose honestly between their creed and their wealth, to be honest, as he had said then, with themselves or with God; to choose openly and in the face of all men between the service of God and of Mammon. And his appeal had been answered throughout the length and breadth of the land.
Never since the days of John Wesley had there been such a re-awakening of religious, really religious, feeling in the country. Just as the rich Italians brought their treasures of gold and silver and jewels and heaped them up under the pulpit of Savonarola in the market-places, so hundreds of men and women of every social degree recognised the plain fact that they could not be at the same time honestly rich and honestly Christians, and so, instead of material treasure, they had sent their cheques to Vane.
Before the year was over he found himself nominally the richest man in the United Kingdom. He had more than five millions sterling at his absolute disposal, almost countless thousands of pounds given up for conscience' sake because he had said that honest Christians could not own them; and he and Father Philip, Father Baldwin and Ernshaw, having given many hours and days of anxious consideration to the very pressing question as to which was the best way of disposing of this suddenly, and, as they all confessed, unexpectedly acquired wealth, decided to devote it to the extirpation, so far as was possible in England, of that Cancer in Christianity which Christians of the canting sort call the Social Evil.
As Jesus of Nazareth had said to the woman taken in adultery, "Go thou and sin no more!" so the Missionary and his helpers said:
"You have sinned more through necessity than choice, and the Society which denies you redemption is a greater sinner than you, since it drives you into deeper sin. There is no hope for you here. Civilization has no place for you, save the streets or the 'homes,' which are, if anything, more degrading than the streets.
"Those who are willing to save themselves we will save so far as earthly power can help you. We will give you homes where you will not be known, where, perhaps, you may begin to lead a new life, where it may be that you will become wives and mothers, as good as those who now, when they pass you in the street, draw their skirts aside fearing lest they should touch yours. And, if not that, at least we will save you from the horrible necessity of keeping alive, by living a life of degradation."
The foregoing paragraphs are, to all intents and purposes, a précis of a charter of release to the inhabitants of the twentieth century Christian Inferno which was drawn up by Dora Russell the day before she yielded to Ernshaw's year-long wooing, and consented to be his helpmeet as well as his helper.
It was scattered broadcast in hundreds of thousands all over the country. Storms of protest burst forth from all the citadels of orthodoxy and respectability. It seemed monstrous that these women, who had so far defied all the efforts of official Christianity to redeem them, should be bribed—as many put it—bribed back into the way of virtue, if that were possible, with the millions which had been coaxed out of the pockets of sentimental Christians by this Mad Missionary of Mayfair—as one of the smartest of Society journals had named him.