“By sacrifice ye shall enter,” said the vicar.
“I am not competent to speak upon that. But one’s private conception of God is not banished from this corner of the planet as long as England teems with Gervase Brandons.”
“There I am fully with you,” said the vicar. “To me Gervase Brandon will always be a symbol of what man can rise to in the way of deliberate heroism, just as the beaches of Gallipoli will be enshrined forever in the history of the race to which he belongs. I have only to think of Gervase Brandon to affirm that God is more potent in the world than he ever was—and that is the awful paradox.”
“I don’t presume to question that,” said the host. “But the problem now for the world is, how shall his power be made supreme? That is what a ruined civilization has now to ask itself. All civilized people agree that war itself must cease, yet before it can do so there will have to be a conversion of the heart of man.”
“You are right,” said Speke, in his dry, cool voice. “And to my mind, as the world is constituted, the problem admits of no solution.”
“In other words,” said the host, “there must always be wars and rumors of wars until God has created Himself.”
“Or rather let us say,” the vicar rejoined, “until God has affirmed Himself. Hence the need for the second advent.”
“I wonder if we shall realize it when it occurs,” said Speke, his hand straying to his champagne glass. “In all its fundamentals the world is as it was two thousand years ago in Palestine. If Christ walked the earth again, it is certain that he would be treated now as he was then.”
“That, one cannot believe,” interposed Lady Jane with ready vehemence. “Even you admit, George, the amount of practical Christianity there is in the world. I, for one, will not believe all this sacrifice has been in vain.”
“I agree with you, Lady Jane,” said the vicar. “When He comes to resume His ministry, as come He will, at all events He will find that His Church has been true. But at present, I confess, one looks in vain for a sign of His advent.”