The Case of Richard Meynell Part 7

Mrs. Flaxman took no notice.

"--And he has hundreds of other supporters--thousands perhaps--and some of them parsons--in this diocese, and outside it. And they are all convinced that they must fight--fight to the death--and _not_ give in.

That, you see, is what makes the difference! My brother-in-law"--the voice speaking changed and softened--"died twenty years ago. I remember how sad it was. He seemed to be walking alone in a world that hardly troubled to consider him--so far as the Church was concerned, I mean.

There seemed to be nothing else to do but to give up his living. But the strain of doing it killed him."

"The strain of giving up your living may be severe--but, I a.s.sure you, your man will find the strain of keeping it a good deal worse."

"It all depends upon his backing. How do you know there isn't a world behind him?" Mrs. Flaxman persisted, as the man beside her slowly shook his head. "Well, now, listen! Hugh and I went to church here last Sunday.

I never was so bewildered. First, it was crowded from end to end, and there were scores of people from other villages and towns--a kind of demonstration. Then, as to the service--neither of us could find our way about. Instead of saying the Lord's Prayer four times, we said it once; we left out half the psalms for the day, the Rector explaining from the chancel steps that they were not fit to be read in a Christian church; we altered this prayer and that prayer; we listened to an extempore prayer for the widows and orphans of some poor fellows who have been killed in a mine ten miles from here, which made me cry like baby; and, most amazing of all, when it came to the Creeds--"

Manvers suddenly threw back his head, his face for the first time sharpening into attention. "Ah! Well--what about the Creeds?"

Mrs. Flaxman bent forward, triumphing in the capture of her companion.

"We had both the Creeds. The Rector read them--turning to the congregation--and with just a word of preface--'Here follows the Creed, commonly called the Apostles' Creed,'--or 'Here follows the Nicene Creed.' And we all stood and listened--and n.o.body said a word. It was the strangest moment! You know--I'm not a serious person--but I just held my breath."

"As though you heard behind the veil the awful Voices--'_Let us depart hence_?'" said Manvers, after a pause. His expression had gradually changed. Those who knew him best might have seen in it a slight and pa.s.sing trace of conflicts long since silenced and resolutely forgotten.

"If you mean by that that the church was irreverent--or disrespectful--or hostile--well, you are quite wrong!" cried Mrs. Flaxman impetuously. "It was like a moment of new birth--I can't describe it--as though a Spirit entered in. And when the Rector finished--there was a kind of breath through the church--like the rustling of new leaves--and I thought of the wind blowing where it listed.... And then the Rector preached on the Creeds--how they grew up and why. Fascinating!--why aren't the clergy always telling us such things? And he brought it all round to impressing upon us that some day _we_ might be worthy of another Christian creed--by being faithful--that it would flower again out of our lives and souls--as the old had done.... I wonder what it all meant!" she said abruptly, her light voice dropping.

Manvers smiled. His emotion had quite pa.s.sed away.

"Ah! but I forgot"--she resumed hurriedly--"we left out several of the Commandments--and we chanted the Beat.i.tudes--and then I found there was a little service paper in the seat, and everybody in the church but Hugh and me knew all about it beforehand!"

"A queer performance," said Manvers, "and of course childishly illegal.

Your man will be soon got rid of. I expect you might have applied to him the remark of the Bishop of Cork on the Dean of Cork--'Excellent sermon!--eloquent, clever, argumentative!--and not enough gospel in it to save a tom-t.i.t!"'

Mrs. Flaxman looked at him oddly.

"Well, but--the extraordinary thing was that Hugh made me stay for the second service, and it was as Ritualistic as you like!"

Manvers fell back in his chair, the vivacity on his face relaxing.

"Ah!--is that all?"

"Oh! but you don't understand," said his companion, eagerly. "Of course Ritualistic is the wrong word. Should I have said 'sacramental'? I only meant that it was full of symbolism. There were lights--and flowers, and music, but there was nothing priestly--or superst.i.tious"--she frowned in her effort to explain. "It was all poetic--and mystical--and yet practical. There were a good many things changed in the Service,--but I hardly noticed--I was so absorbed in watching the people. Almost every one stayed for the second service. It was quite short--so was the first service. And a great many communicated. But the spirit of it was the wonderful thing. It had all that--that magic--that mystery--that one gets out of Catholicism, even simple Catholicism, in a village church--say at Benediction; and yet one had a sense of having come out into fresh air; of saying things that were true--true at least to you, and to the people that were saying them; things that you did believe, or could believe, instead of things that you only pretended to believe, or couldn't possibly believe! I haven't got over it yet, and as for Hugh, I have never seen him so moved since--since Robert died."

Manvers was aware of Mrs. Flaxman's affection for her brother-in-law's memory; and it seemed to him natural and womanly that she should be touched--artist and wordling though she was--by this fresh effort in a similar direction. For himself, he was touched in another way: with pity, or a kindly scorn. He did not believe in patching up the Christian tradition. Either accept it--or put it aside. Newman had disposed of "neo-Christianity" once for all.

"Well, of course all this means a row," he said at length, with a smile.

"What is the Bishop doing?"

"Oh, the Bishop will have to prosecute, Hugh says; of course he must! And if he didn't, Mr. Barron would do it for him."

"The gentleman who lives in the White House?"

"Precisely. Ah!" cried Mrs. Flaxman, suddenly, rising to her feet and looking through the open window beside her. "What do you think we've done? We have evoked him! _Parlez du diable_, etc. How stupid of us! But there's his carriage trotting up the drive--I know the horses. And that's his deaf daughter--poor, downtrodden thing!--sitting beside him. Now then--shall we be at home? Quick!"

Mrs. Flaxman flew to the bell, but retreated with a little grimace.

"We must! It's inevitable. But Hugh says I can't be rude to new people.

Why can't I? It's so simple."

She sat down, however, though rebellion and a little malice quickened the colour in her fair skin. Manvers looked longingly at the door leading to the garden.

"Shall I disappear?--or must I support you?"

"It all depends on what value you set on my good opinion," said Mrs.

Flaxman, laughing.

Manvers resettled himself in his chair.

"I stay--but first, a little information. The gentleman owns land here?"

"Acres and acres. But he only came into it about three years ago. He is on the same railway board where Hugh is Chairman. He doesn't like Hugh, and he certainly won't like me. But you see he's bound to be civil to us.

Hugh says he's always making quarrels on the board--in a kind of magnificent, superior way. He never loses his temper--whereas the others would often like to flay him alive. Now then"--Mrs. Flaxman laid a finger on her mouth--"'Papa, potatoes, prunes, and prism'!"

Steps were heard in the hall, and the butler announced "Mr. and Miss Barron."

A tall man, with an iron-gray moustache and a determined carriage, entered the room, followed by a timid and stooping lady of uncertain age.

Mrs. Flaxman, transformed at once into the courteous hostess, greeted the newcomers with her sweetest smiles, set the deaf daughter down on the hearing side of Mr. Manvers, ordered tea, and herself took charge of Mr.

Barron.

The task was not apparently a heavy one. Mrs. Flaxman saw beside her a portly man of fifty-five, with a penetrating look, and a composed manner; well dressed, yet with no undue display. Louis Manvers, struggling with an habitual plague of shyness, and all but silenced by the discovery that his neighbour was even deafer than himself, watched the "six-foot-two Inquisitor" with curiosity, but could find nothing lurid nor torturous in his aspect. There was indeed something about him which displeased a rationalist scholar and ascetic. But his information and ability, his apparent adequacy to any company, were immediately evident. It seemed to Manvers that he had very quickly disarmed Mrs. Flaxman's vague prejudice against him. At any rate she was soon picking his brains diligently on the subject of the neighbourhood and the neighbours, and apparently enjoying the result, to judge from her smiles and her questions.

Mr. Barron indeed had everything that could be expected of him to say on the subject of the district and its population. He descanted on the beauty of the three or four famous parks, which in the eighteenth century had been carved out of the wild heath lands; he showed an intimate knowledge of the persons who owned the parks, and of their families, "though I myself am only a newcomer here, being by rights a Devons.h.i.+re man"; he talked of the local superst.i.tions with indulgence, and a proper sense of the picturesque; and of the colliers who believed the superst.i.tions he spoke in a tone of general good humour, tempered by regret that "agitators" should so often lead them into folly. The architecture of the district came in, of course, for proper notice. There were certain fine old houses near that Mrs. Flaxman ought to visit; everything of course would be open to her and her husband.

"Oh, tell me," said Mrs. Flaxman, suddenly interrupting him, "how far is Sandford Abbey from here?"

Her visitor paused a moment before replying.

"Sandford Abbey is about five miles from you--across the park. The two estates meet. Do you know--Sir Philip Meryon?"

Rose Flaxman shrugged her shoulders.

"We know something of him--at least Hugh does. His mother was a very old friend of Hugh's family."

Mr. Barron was silent.

"Is he such a scamp?" said Mrs. Flaxman, raising her fine eyes, with a laugh in them. "You make me quite anxious to see him!"

Mr. Barron echoed the laugh, stiffly.

"I doubt whether your husband will wish to bring him here. He gathers some strange company at the Abbey. He is there now for the fis.h.i.+ng."