Mr. Hamlyn was a considerable time. The girl wandered about the room, agog to hear his news, thinking with a certain terror of the grim old woman up-stairs. For what had been tartness and acerbity had become grimness now, in the pompous old-fashioned bed-chamber, where she lay waiting the beating of those great black wings which all, save she, knew were drawing near.
Although Gussie Davis knew all the foibles of her mistress and could play upon them with adroitness and success, she felt, nevertheless, a fear of the old woman. Miss Pritchett, with all her absurdities, her petty jealousies, her greed for flattery, was a woman with a personality. She was very rich, and she had chosen to remain among the surroundings of her youth and be great among the small. Yet even a petty supremacy awes the petty, and the sly Welsh girl was indubitably awed. She was not wholly bad, not unfeeling in her way, but she was weak. In the hands of the Hamlyns, she had been as putty from the very first. They were strong men. There was no doubt about that. With all the temperamental vulgarity and greed of both father and son, there was indubitable strength—and, in the case of the elder, considerable magnetic power.
They had been kind to her also. She was genuinely fond of Sam, and he was fond of her. The accident of her position, that she was able to help and forward their plans, made no difference as to that. Hamlyn, Senior, liked her. He would, she knew, be kind and fatherly to her when she was married to Sam. He was that now.
For, if Hamlyn had been able to employ his cleverness to good advantage in the exploitation of any other thing save of religion, he would have been counted as a shrewd business man and nothing more. Nothing worse than that at any rate. He had no personal vices. He did not in the least realise that he was living a life that was shameful. Religion meant no more to him than any other way of making money would have meant. That was all. And, oddly enough, Blantyre himself shrewdly suspected this, while Carr looked upon the agitator as infamous.
Hamlyn was perfectly aware that he was a humbug, but he thought that his humbug was perfectly legitimate in the war of life.
The priest at St. Elwyn's whom he had so bitterly attacked and wounded was a psychologist. Most priests are. Men who sit in churches and hear the true story of men's lives learn an infinite tenderness. Men come to them for comfort, to hear the comfortable words that our Lord has spoken for the sinful who are penitent, to receive from them that absolution which is nothing more than the confirmation, in a concrete and certain way, of the promise of God. It is only the people who have never confessed their sins, not to a priest, but to God through a priest, who speak against the Sacrament of Penance.
They do not know they are tilting at windmills. And the bitter shame that sometimes comes to a man as he tells another man the true story of his life is in itself the truest evidence that he means to amend it. No one would do that without penitence. There is a motive for every action; the motive would be wanting if confession were made without a resolve to lead a new life. If those who fulminate against the Church's method, and sneer at the members of the Church who follow it, as dupes and fools, could understand that it is discipline that purifies and exalts, they would sneer no longer. It is all very well to be a franc-tireur, no doubt. But it is better to be a member of the regular forces. It is not so jolly for a time, perhaps, but in event of capture, the former is shot at sight, the latter becomes a prisoner of war with all the rights and traditions of his lot.
Simile was one of Mr. Hamlyn's pet weapons, but in his noisy syllogisms, he left out the first two premises and confined himself to the conclusion—generally an emphatic epithet.
Mr. Hamlyn came down-stairs at last. His face was grave, but peaceful. Perspiration showed upon it. He had been having a hard time.
"I say, my dear," he whispered, "I wonder if you've got a cup of tea handy. I've had a thick time!"