THE ALTAR STEPS

BY

COMPTON MACKENZIE

_Author of "Carnival, " "Youth's Encounter, ""Poor Relations, " etc. _

NEW YORKGEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY1922

_The only portrait in this book isof one who is now dead_

THIS BOOK, THE PRELUDE TO_The Parson's Progress_

I INSCRIBEWITH DEEPEST AFFECTIONTO MY MOTHER

_S. Valentine's Day, 1922. _

CONTENTS

 I The Bishop's Shadow

 II The Lima Street Mission

 III Religious Education

 IV Husband and Wife

 V Palm Sunday

 VI Nancepean

 VII Life at Nancepean

 VIII The Wreck

 IX Slowbridge

 X Whit-Sunday

 XI Meade Cantorum

 XII The Pomeroy Affair

 XIII Wych-on-the-Wold

 XIV St. Mark's Day

 XV The Scholarship

 XVI Chatsea

 XVII The Drunken Priest

 XVIII Silchester College Mission

 XIX The Altar for the Dead

 XX Father Rowley

 XXI Points of View

 XXII Sister Esther Magdalene

 XXIII Malford Abbey

 XXIV The Order of St. George

 XXV Suscipe Me, Domine

 XXVI Addition

 XXVII Multiplication

XXVIII Division

 XXIX Subtraction

 XXX The New Bishop of Silchester

 XXXI Silchester Theological College

 XXXII Ember Days

THE ALTAR STEPS

CHAPTER I

THE BISHOP'S SHADOW

Frightened by some alarm of sleep that was forgotten in the moment ofwaking, a little boy threw back the bedclothes and with quick heart andbreath sat listening to the torrents of darkness that went rolling by. He dared not open his mouth to scream lest he should be suffocated; hedared not put out his arm to search for the bell-rope lest he should beseized; he dared not hide beneath the blankets lest he should be keptthere; he could do nothing except sit up trembling in a vain effort toorientate himself. Had the room really turned upside down? On an impulseof terror he jumped back from the engorging night and bumped hisforehead on one of the brass knobs of the bedstead. With horror heapprehended that what he had so often feared had finally come to pass. An earthquake had swallowed up London in spite of everybody's assurancethat London could not be swallowed up by earthquakes. He was going downdown to smoke and fire . . . Or was it the end of the world? The quickand the dead . . . Skeletons . . . Thousands and thousands of skeletons. . . . 

"Guardian Angel!" he shrieked. 

Now surely that Guardian Angel so often conjured must appear. A shaft ofgolden candlelight flickered through the half open door. The little boyprepared an attitude to greet his Angel that was a compound of thesuspicion and courtesy with which he would have welcomed a new governessand the admiring fellowship with which he would have thrown a piece ofbread to a swan. 

"Are you awake, Mark?" he heard his mother whisper outside. 

He answered with a cry of exultation and relief. 

"Oh, Mother, " he sighed, clinging to the soft sleeves of herdressing-gown. "I thought it was being the end of the world. "

"What made you think that, my precious?"

"I don't know. I just woke up, and the room was upside down. And first Ithought it was an earthquake, and then I thought it was the Day ofJudgment. " He suddenly began to chuckle to himself. "How silly of me, Mother. Of course it couldn't be the Day of Judgment, because it'snight, isn't it? It couldn't ever be the Day of Judgment in the night, could it?" he continued hopefully. 

Mrs. Lidderdale did not hesitate to reassure her small son on thispoint. She had no wish to add another to that long list of nightly fearsand fantasies which began with mad dogs and culminated in the Prince ofDarkness himself. 

"The room looks quite safe now, doesn't it?" Mark theorized. 

"It is quite safe, darling. "

"Do you think I could have the gas lighted when you really _must_ go?"

"Just a little bit for once. "

"Only a little bit?" he echoed doubtfully. A very small illumination wasin its eerie effect almost worse than absolute darkness. 

"It isn't healthy to sleep with a great deal of light, " said his mother. 

"Well, how much could I have? Just for once not a crocus, but a tulip. And of course not a violet. "

Mark always thought of the gas-jets as flowers. The dimmest of all wasthe violet; followed by the crocus, the tulip, and the water-lily; thelast a brilliant affair with wavy edges, and sparkling motes dancingabout in the blue water on which it swam. 

"No, no, dearest boy. You really can't have as much as that. And nowsnuggle down and go to sleep again. I wonder what made you wake up?"

Mark seized upon this splendid excuse to detain his mother for awhile. 

"Well, it wasn't ergzackly a dream, " he began to improvise. "Because Iwas awake. And I heard a terrible plump and I said 'what can that be?'and then I was frightened and. . . . "

"Yes, well, my sweetheart, you must tell Mother in the morning. "

Mark perceived that he had been too slow in working up to his crisis anddesperately he sought for something to arrest the attention of hisbeloved audience. 

"Perhaps my Guardian Angel was beside me all the time, because, look!here's a feather. "

He eyed his mother, hoping against hope that she would pretend to accepthis suggestion; but alas, she was severely unimaginative. 

"Now, darling, don't talk foolishly. You know perfectly that is only afeather which has worked its way out of your pillow. "

"Why?"

The monosyllable had served Mark well in its time; but even as he fellback upon this stale resource he knew it had failed at last. 

"I can't stay to explain 'why' now; but if you try to think you'llunderstand why. "

"Mother, if I don't have any gas at all, will you sit with me in thedark for a little while, a tiny little while, and stroke my foreheadwhere I bumped it on the knob of the bed? I really did bump it quitehard--I forgot to tell you that. I forgot to tell you because when itwas you I was so excited that I forgot. "

"Now listen, Mark. Mother wants you to be a very good boy and turn overand go to sleep. Father is very worried and very tired, and the Bishopis coming tomorrow. "

"Will he wear a hat like the Bishop who came last Easter? Why is hecoming?"

"No darling, he's not that kind of bishop. I can't explain to you whyhe's coming, because you wouldn't understand; but we're all veryanxious, and you must be good and brave and unselfish. Now kiss me andturn over. "

Mark flung his arms round his mother's neck, and thrilled by a suddendesire to sacrifice himself murmured that he would go to sleep in thedark. 

"In the quite dark, " he offered, dipping down under the clothes so as tobe safe by the time the protecting candle-light wavered out along thepassage and the soft closing of his mother's door assured him that comewhat might there was only a wall between him and her. 

"And perhaps she won't go to sleep before I go to sleep, " he hoped. 

At first Mark meditated upon bishops. The perversity of night thoughtswould not allow him to meditate upon the pictures of some child-lovingbishop like St. Nicolas, but must needs fix his contemplation upon acertain Bishop of Bingen who was eaten by rats. Mark could not rememberwhy he was eaten by rats, but he could with dreadful distinctnessremember that the prelate escaped to a castle on an island in the middleof the Rhine, and that the rats swam after him and swarmed in by everywindow until his castle was--ugh!--Mark tried to banish from his mindthe picture of the wicked Bishop Hatto and the rats, millions of them, just going to eat him up. Suppose a lot of rats came swarming up NottingHill and unanimously turned to the right into Notting Dale and ate him?An earthquake would be better than that. Mark began to feel thoroughlyfrightened again; he wondered if he dared call out to his mother and putforward the theory that there actually was a rat in his room. But he hadpromised her to be brave and unselfish, and . . . There was always theevening hymn to fall back upon. 

 _Now the day is over, _ _Night is drawing nigh, _ _Shadows of the evening_ _Steal across the sky. _

Mark thought of a beautiful evening in the country as beheld in a SummerNumber, more of an afternoon really than an evening, with trees makingshadows right across a golden field, and spotted cows in the foreground. It was a blissful and completely soothing picture while it lasted; butit soon died away, and he was back in the midway of a London night withicy stretches of sheet to right and left of him instead of goldenfields. 

 _Now the darkness gathers, _ _Stars begin to peep, _ _Birds and beasts and flowers_ _Soon will be asleep. _

But rats did not sleep; they were at their worst and wake-fullest in thenight time. 

 _Jesu, give the weary_ _Calm and sweet repose, _ _With thy tenderest blessing_ _May mine eyelids close. _

Mark waited a full five seconds in the hope that he need not finish thehymn; but when he found that he was not asleep after five seconds heresumed:

 _Grant to little children_ _Visions bright of Thee;_ _Guard the sailors tossing_ _On the deep blue sea. _

Mark envied the sailors. 

 _Comfort every sufferer_ _Watching late in pain. _

This was a most encouraging couplet. Mark did not suppose that in theevent of a great emergency--he thanked Mrs. Ewing for that long anddescriptive word--the sufferers would be able to do much for him; butthe consciousness that all round him in the great city they were lyingawake at this moment was most helpful. At this point he once morewaited five seconds for sleep to arrive. The next couplet was lessencouraging, and he would have been glad to miss it out. 

 _Those who plan some evil_ _From their sin restrain. _

Yes, but prayers were not always answered immediately. For instance hewas still awake. He hurried on to murmur aloud in fervour:

 _Through the long night watches_ _May Thine Angels spread_ _Their white wings above me, _ _Watching round my bed. _

A delicious idea, and even more delicious was the picture contained inthe next verse. 

 _When the morning wakens, _ _Then may I arise_ _Pure, and fresh, and sinless_ _In Thy Holy Eyes. _

 _Glory to the Father, _ _Glory to the Son, _ _And to thee, blest Spirit, _ _Whilst all ages run. Amen. _

Mark murmured the last verse with special reverence in the hope that bydoing so he should obtain a speedy granting of the various requests inthe earlier part of the hymn. 

In the morning his mother put out Sunday clothes for him. 

"The Bishop is coming to-day, " she explained. 

"But it isn't going to be like Sunday?" Mark inquired anxiously. Anextra Sunday on top of such a night would have been hard to bear. 

"No, but I want you to look nice. "

"I can play with my soldiers?"

"Oh, yes, you can play with your soldiers. "

"I won't bang, I'll only have them marching. "

"No, dearest, don't bang. And when the Bishop comes to lunch I want younot to ask questions. Will you promise me that?"

"Don't bishops like to be asked questions?"

"No, darling. They don't. "

Mark registered this episcopal distaste in his memory beside other factssuch as that cats object to having their tails pulled. 

CHAPTER II

THE LIMA STREET MISSION

In the year 1875, when the strife of ecclesiastical parties was bitterand continuous, the Reverend James Lidderdale came as curate to thelarge parish of St. Simon's, Notting Hill, which at that period waslooked upon as one of the chief expositions of what Disraeli called"man-millinery. " Inasmuch as the coiner of the phrase was a Jew, thepriests and people of St. Simon's paid no attention to it, and wereproud to consider themselves an outpost of the Catholic Movement in theChurch of England. James Lidderdale was given the charge of the LimaStreet Mission, a tabernacle of corrugated iron dedicated to St. Wilfred; and Thurston, the Vicar of St. Simon's, who was a wise, generous and single-hearted priest, was quick to recognize that hismissioner was capable of being left to convert the Notting Dale slum inhis own way. 

"If St. Simon's is an outpost of the Movement, Lidderdale must be one ofthe vedettes, " he used to declare with a grin. 

The Missioner was a tall hatchet-faced hollow-eyed ascetic, harsh andbigoted in the company of his equals whether clerical or lay, but withhis flock tender and comprehending and patient. The only indulgence heaccorded to his senses was in the forms and ceremonies of his ritual, the vestments and furniture of his church. His vicar was able to givehim a free hand in the obscure squalor of Lima Street; theecclesiastical battles he himself had to fight with bishops who werepained or with retired military men who were disgusted by his ownconduct of the services at St. Simon's were not waged within the hearingof Lima Street. There, year in, year out for six years, James Lidderdaledenied himself nothing in religion, in life everything. He used topreach in the parish church during the penitential seasons, and withsuch effect upon the pockets of his congregation that the Lima StreetMission was rich for a long while afterward. Yet few of the worshippersin the parish church visited the object of their charity, and those thatdid venture seldom came twice. Lidderdale did not consider that it waspart of the Lima Street religion to be polite to well-dressed explorersof the slum; in fact he rather encouraged Lima Street to suppose thecontrary. 

"I don't like these dressed up women in my church, " he used to tell hisvicar. "They distract my people's attention from the altar. "

"Oh, I quite see your point, " Thurston would agree. 

"And I don't like these churchy young fools who come simpering down intop-hats, with rosaries hanging out of their pockets. Lima Streetdoesn't like them either. Lima Street is provoked to obscene comment, and that just before Mass. It's no good, Vicar. My people are savages, and I like them to remain savages so long as they go to their duties, which Almighty God be thanked they do. "

On one occasion the Archdeacon, who had been paying an official visit toSt. Simon's, expressed a desire to see the Lima Street Mission. 

"Of which I have heard great things, great things, Mr. Thurston, " heboomed condescendingly. 

The Vicar was doubtful of the impression that the Archdeacon's gaiterswould make on Lima Street, and he was also doubtful of the impressionthat the images and prickets of St. Wilfred's would make on theArchdeacon. The Vicar need not have worried. Long before Lima Street wasreached, indeed, halfway down Strugwell Terrace, which was the main roadout of respectable Notting Hill into the Mission area, the comments uponthe Archdeacon's appearance became so embarrassing that the dignitarylooked at his watch and remarked that after all he feared he should notbe able to spare the time that afternoon. 

"But I am surprised, " he observed when his guide had brought him safelyback into Notting Hill. "I am surprised that the people are still souncouth. I had always understood that a great work of purification hadbeen effected, that in fact--er--they were quite--er--cleaned up. "

"In body or soul?" Thurston inquired. 

"The whole district, " said the Archdeacon vaguely. "I was referring tothe general tone, Mr. Thurston. One might be pardoned for supposing thatthey had never seen a clergyman before. Of course one is loath--veryloath indeed--to criticize sincere effort of any kind, but I think thatperhaps almost the chief value of the missions we have established inthese poverty-stricken areas lies in their capacity for civilizing thepoor people who inhabit them. One is so anxious to bring into their drablives a little light, a little air. I am a great believer in education. Oh, yes, Mr. Thurston, I have great hopes of popular education. However, as I say, I should not dream of criticizing your work at St. Wilfred's. "

"It is not my work. It is the work of one of my curates. And, " said theVicar to Lidderdale, when he was giving him an account of the projectedvisitation, "I believe the pompous ass thought I was ashamed of it. "

Thurston died soon after this, and, his death occurring at a moment whenparty strife in the Church was fiercer than ever, it was consideredexpedient by the Lord Chancellor, in whose gift the living was, toappoint a more moderate man than the late vicar. Majendie, the new man, when he was sure of his audience, claimed to be just as advanced asThurston; but he was ambitious of preferment, or as he himself put it, he felt that, when a member of the Catholic party had with the exerciseof prudence and tact an opportunity of enhancing the prestige of hisparty in a higher ecclesiastical sphere, he should be wrong to neglectit. Majendie's aim therefore was to avoid controversy with hisecclesiastical superiors, and at a time when, as he told Lidderdale, hewas stepping back in order to jump farther, he was anxious that hismissioner should step back with him. 

"I'm not suggesting, my dear fellow, that you should bring St. Wilfred'sactually into line with the parish church. But the Asperges, you know. Ican't countenance that. And the Adoration of the Cross on Good Friday. I really think that kind of thing creates unnecessary friction. "

Lidderdale's impulse was to resign at once, for he was a man who foundrestraint galling where so much passion went to his belief in the truthof his teaching. When, however, he pondered how little he had done andhow much he had vowed to do, he gave way and agreed to step back withhis vicar. He was never convinced that he had taken the right course atthis crisis, and he spent hours in praying for an answer by God to aquestion already answered by himself. The added strain of these hours ofprayer, which were not robbed from his work in the Mission, but from thealready short enough time he allowed himself for sleep, told upon hishealth, and he was ordered by the doctor to take a holiday to avoid acomplete breakdown of health. He stayed for two months in Cornwall, andcame back with a wife, the daughter of a Cornish parson called Trehawke. Lidderdale had been a fierce upholder of celibacy, and the news of hismarriage astonished all who knew him. 

Grace Lidderdale with her slanting sombre eyes and full upcurving lipsmade the pink and white Madonnas of the little mission church lookinsipid, and her husband was horrified when he found himself criticizingthe images whose ability to lure the people of Lima Street to worship inthe way he believed to be best for their souls he had never doubted. Yet, for all her air of having _trafficked for strange webs with Easternmerchants_, Mrs. Lidderdale was only outwardly Phoenician or Iberian orwhatever other dimly imagined race is chosen for the strange types thatin Cornwall more than elsewhere so often occur. Actually she was asimple and devout soul, loving husband and child and the poor peoplewith whom they lived. Doubtless she had looked more appropriate to hersurroundings in the tangled garden of her father's vicarage than in thebleak Mission House of Lima Street; but inasmuch as she never thoughtabout her appearance it would have been a waste of time for anybody totry to romanticize her. The civilizing effect of her presence in theslum was quickly felt; and though Lidderdale continued to scoff at theadvantages of civilization, he finally learnt to give a grudgingwelcome to her various schemes for making the bodies of the flock ascomfortable as her husband tried to make their souls. 

When Mark was born, his father became once more the prey of gloomydoubt. The guardianship of a soul which he was responsible for bringinginto the world was a ceaseless care, and in his anxiety to dedicate hisson to God he became a harsh and unsympathetic parent. Out of thatdesire to justify himself for having been so inconsistent as to take awife and beget a son Lidderdale redoubled his efforts to put the LimaStreet Mission on a permanent basis. The civilization of the slum, whichwas attributed by pious visitors to regular attendance at Mass ratherthan to Mrs. Lidderdale's gentleness and charm, made it much easier foroutsiders to explore St. Simon's parish as far as Lima Street. Money forthe great church he designed to build on a site adjoining the oldtabernacle began to flow in; and five years after his marriageLidderdale had enough money subscribed to begin to build. Therubbish-strewn waste-ground overlooked by the back-windows of theMission House was thronged with workmen; day by day the walls of the newSt. Wilfred's rose higher. Fifteen years after Lidderdale took charge ofthe Lima Street Mission, it was decided to ask for St. Wilfred's, Notting Dale, to be created a separate parish. The Reverend AylmerMajendie had become a canon residentiary of Chichester and had beensucceeded as vicar by the Reverend L. M. Astill, a man more of the typeof Thurston and only too anxious to help his senior curate to become avicar, and what is more cut £200 a year off his own net income in doingso. 

But when the question arose of consecrating the new St. Wilfred's inorder to the creation of a new parish, the Bishop asked many questionsthat were never asked about the Lima Street Mission. There were Stationsof the Cross reported to be of an unusually idolatrous nature. There wasa second chapel apparently for the express purpose of worshipping theVirgin Mary. 

"He writes to me as if he suspected me of trying to carry on anintrigue with the Mother of God, " cried Lidderdale passionately to hisvicar. 

"Steady, steady, dear man, " said Astill. "You'll ruin your case by suchill-considered exaggeration. "

"But, Vicar, these cursed bishops of the Establishment who would rathera whole parish went to Hell than give up one jot or one tittle of theirprejudice!" Lidderdale ejaculated in wrath. 

Furthermore, the Bishop wanted to know if the report that on Good Fridaywas held a Roman Catholic Service called the Mass of the Pre-Sanctifiedfollowed by the ceremony of Creeping to the Cross was true. WhenMajendie departed, the Lima Street Missioner jumped a long way forwardin one leap. There were many other practices which he (the Bishop) couldonly characterize as highly objectionable and quite contrary to thespirit of the Church of England, and would Mr. Lidderdale pay him avisit at Fulham Palace as soon as possible. Lidderdale went, and heargued with the Bishop until the Chaplain thought his Lordship had heardenough, after which the argument was resumed by letter. Then Lidderdalewas invited to lunch at Fulham Palace and to argue the whole questionover again in person. In the end the Bishop was sufficiently impressedby the Missioner's sincerity and zeal to agree to withhold his decisionuntil the Lord Bishop Suffragan of Devizes had paid a visit to theproposed new parish. This was the visit that was expected on the dayafter Mark Lidderdale woke from a nightmare and dreamed that London wasbeing swallowed up by an earthquake. 

CHAPTER III

RELIGIOUS EDUCATION

When Mark was grown up and looked back at his early childhood--he wasseven years old in the year in which his father was able to see the newSt. Wilfred's an edifice complete except for consecration--it seemed tohim that his education had centered in the prevention of his acquiring aCockney accent. This was his mother's dread and for this reason he wasnot allowed to play more than Christian equality demanded with the boysof Lima Street. Had his mother had her way, he would never have beenallowed to play with them at all; but his father would sometimes breakout into fierce tirades against snobbery and hustle him out of the houseto amuse himself with half-a-dozen little girls looking after a dozenbabies in dilapidated perambulators, and countless smaller boys andgirls ragged and grubby and mischievous. 

"You leave that kebbidge-stalk be, Elfie!"

"Ethel! Jew hear your ma calling you, you naughty girl?"

"Stanlee! will you give over fishing in that puddle, this sminute. I'llgive you such a slepping, you see if I don't. "

"Come here, Maybel, and let me blow your nose. Daisy Hawkins, lend usyour henkerchif, there's a love! Our Maybel wants to blow her nose. Oo, she is a sight! Come here, Maybel, do, and leave off sucking that orangepeel. There's the Father's little boy looking at you. Hold your head up, do. "

Mark would stand gravely to attention while Mabel Williams' toilet wasadjusted, and as gravely follow the shrill raucous procession to watchpavement games like Hop Scotch or to help in gathering together enoughsickly greenery from the site of the new church to make the summergrotto, which in Lima Street was a labour of love, since few of thepassers by in that neighbourhood could afford to remember St. James'grotto with a careless penny. 

The fact that all the other little boys and girls called the MissionerFather made it hard for Mark to understand his own more particularrelationship to him, and Lidderdale was so much afraid of showing anymore affection to one child of his flock than to another that he wasless genial with his own son than with any of the other children. It wasnatural that in these circumstances Mark should be even more dependentthan most solitary children upon his mother, and no doubt it was throughhis passion to gratify her that he managed to avoid that Cockney accent. His father wanted his first religious instruction to be of the communalkind that he provided in the Sunday School. One might have thought thathe distrusted his wife's orthodoxy, so strongly did he disapprove of herteaching Mark by himself in the nursery. 

"It's the curse of the day, " he used to assert, "this pampering ofchildren with an individual religion. They get into the habit ofthinking God is their special property and when they get older and findhe isn't, as often as not they give up religion altogether, because itdoesn't happen to fit in with the spoilt notions they got hold of asinfants. "

Mark's bringing up was the only thing in which Mrs. Lidderdale did notgive way to her husband. She was determined that he should not have aCockney accent, and without irritating her husband any more than wasinevitable she was determined that he should not gobble down hisreligion as a solid indigestible whole. On this point she even went sofar as directly to contradict the boy's father and argue that anintelligent boy like Mark was likely to vomit up such an indigestiblewhole later on, although she did not make use of such a coarseexpression. 

"All mothers think their sons are the cleverest in the world. "

"But, James, he _is_ an exceptionally clever little boy. Most observant, with a splendid memory and plenty of imagination. "

"Too much imagination. His nights are one long circus. "

"But, James, you yourself have insisted so often on the personal Devil;you can't expect a little boy of Mark's sensitiveness not to beimpressed by your picture. "

"He has nothing to fear from the Devil, if he behaves himself. Haven't Imade that clear?"

Mrs. Lidderdale sighed. 

"But, James dear, a child's mind is so literal, and though I know youinsist just as much on the reality of the Saints and Angels, a child'smind is always most impressed by the things that have power to frightenit. "

"I want him to be frightened by Evil, " declared James. "But go your ownway. Soften down everything in our Holy Religion that is ugly anddifficult. Sentimentalize the whole business. That's our modern methodin everything. "

This was one of many arguments between husband and wife about thereligious education of their son. 

Luckily for Mark his father had too many children, real children andgrown up children, in the Mission to be able to spend much time with hisson; and the teaching of Sunday morning, the clear-cut uncompromisingstatement of hard religious facts in which the Missioner delighted, wasconsiderably toned down by his wife's gentle commentary. 

Mark's mother taught him that the desire of a bad boy to be a good boyis a better thing than the goodness of a Jack Horner. She taught himthat God was not merely a crotchety old gentleman reclining in a bluedressing-gown on a mattress of cumulus, but that He was an Eye, anall-seeing Eye, an Eye capable indeed of flashing with rage, yet sorarely that whenever her little boy should imagine that Eye he mightbehold it wet with tears. 

"But can God cry?" asked Mark incredulously. 

"Oh, darling. God can do everything. "

"But fancy crying! If I could do everything I shouldn't cry. "

Mrs. Lidderdale perceived that her picture of the wise and compassionateEye would require elaboration. 

"But do you only cry, Mark dear, when you can't do what you want? Thoseare not nice tears. Don't you ever cry because you're sorry you've beendisobedient?"

"I don't think so, Mother, " Mark decided after a pause. "No, I don'tthink I cry because I'm sorry except when you're sorry, and thatsometimes makes me cry. Not always, though. Sometimes I'm glad you'resorry. I feel so angry that I like to see you sad. "

"But you don't often feel like that?"

"No, not often, " he admitted. 

"But suppose you saw somebody being ill-treated, some poor dog or catbeing teased, wouldn't you feel inclined to cry?"

"Oh, no, " Mark declared. "I get quite red inside of me, and I want tokick the people who is doing it. "

"Well, now you can understand why God sometimes gets angry. But even ifHe gets angry, " Mrs. Lidderdale went on, for she was rather afraid ofher son's capacity for logic, "God never lets His anger get the betterof Him. He is not only sorry for the poor dog, but He is also sorry forthe poor person who is ill-treating the dog. He knows that the poorperson has perhaps never been taught better, and then the Eye fills withtears again. "

"I think I like Jesus better than God, " said Mark, going off at atangent. He felt that there were too many points of resemblance betweenhis own father and God to make it prudent to persevere with thediscussion. On the subject of his father he always found his motherstrangely uncomprehending, and the only times she was really angry withhim was when he refused out of his basic honesty to admit that he lovedhis father. 

"But Our Lord _is_ God, " Mrs. Lidderdale protested. 

Mark wrinkled his face in an effort to confront once more this eternalpuzzle. 

"Don't you remember, darling, three Persons and one God?"

Mark sighed. 

"You haven't forgotten that clover-leaf we picked one day in KensingtonGardens?"

"When we fed the ducks on the Round Pond?"

"Yes, darling, but don't think about ducks just now. I want you to thinkabout the Holy Trinity. "

"But I can't understand the Holy Trinity, Mother, " he protested. 

"Nobody can understand the Holy Trinity. It is a great mystery. "

"Mystery, " echoed Mark, taking pleasure in the word. It always thrilledhim, that word, ever since he first heard it used by Dora the servantwhen she could not find her rolling-pin. 

"Well, where that rolling-pin's got to is a mystery, " she had declared. 

Then he had seen the word in print. The Coram Street Mystery. All abouta dead body. He had pronounced it "micetery" at first, until he had beencorrected and was able to identify the word as the one used by Doraabout her rolling-pin. History stood for the hard dull fact, and mysterystood for all that history was not. There were no dates in "mystery:"Mark even at seven years, such was the fate of intelligent precocity, had already had to grapple with a few conspicuous dates in the immensetale of humanity. He knew for instance that William the Conqueror landedin 1066, and that St. Augustine landed in 596, and that Julius Cæsarlanded, but he could never remember exactly when. The last time he wasasked that date, he had countered with a request to know when Noah hadlanded. 

"The Holy Trinity is a mystery. "

It belonged to the category of vanished rolling-pins and dead bodieshuddled up in dustbins: it had no date. 

But what Mark liked better than speculations upon the nature of God werethe tales that were told like fairy tales without its seeming to matterwhether you remembered them or not, and which just because it did notmatter you were able to remember so much more easily. He could havelistened for ever to the story of the lupinseeds that rattled in theirpods when the donkey was trotting with the boy Christ and His mother andSt. Joseph far away from cruel Herod into Egypt and how the noise of therattling seeds nearly betrayed their flight and how the plant was cursedfor evermore and made as hungry as a wolf. And the story of how therobin tried to loosen one of the cruel nails so that the blood from thepoor Saviour drenched his breast and stained it red for evermore, and ofthat other bird, the crossbill, who pecked at the nails until his beakbecame crossed. He could listen for ever to the tale of St. Cuthbert whowas fed by ravens, of St. Martin who cut off his cloak and gave it to abeggar, of St. Anthony who preached to the fishes, of St. Raymond whoput up his cowl and floated from Spain to Africa like a nautilus, of St. Nicolas who raised three boys from the dead after they had been killedand cut up and salted in a tub by a cruel man that wanted to eat them, and of that strange insect called a Praying Mantis which alighted uponSt. Francis' sleeve and sang the _Nunc Dimittis_ before it flew away. 

These were all stories that made bedtime sweet, stories to remember andbrood upon gratefully in the darkness of the night when he lay awake andwhen, alas, other stories less pleasant to recall would obtrudethemselves. 

Mark was not brought up luxuriously in the Lima Street Mission House, and the scarcity of toys stimulated his imagination. All his toys wereold and broken, because he was only allowed to have the toys left overat the annual Christmas Tree in the Mission Hall; and since even thebest of toys on that tree were the cast-offs of rich little childrenwhose parents performed a vicarious act of charity in presenting them tothe poor, it may be understood that Mark's share of these was notcalculated to spoil him. His most conspicuous toy was a box of mutilatedgrenadiers, whose stands had been melted by their former owner in thefirst rapture of discovering that lead melts in fire and who inconsequence were only able to stand up uncertainly when stuck intosliced corks. 

Luckily Mark had better armies of his own in the coloured lines thatcrossed the blankets of his bed. There marched the crimson army of St. George, the blue army of St. Andrew, the green army of St. Patrick, theyellow army of St. David, the rich sunset-hued army of St. Denis, thestriped armies of St. Anthony and St. James. When he lay awake in thegolden light of the morning, as golden in Lima Street as anywhere else, he felt ineffably protected by the Seven Champions of Christendom; andsometimes even at night he was able to think that with their brightbattalions they were still marching past. He used to lie awake, listening to the sparrows and wondering what the country was like andmost of all the sea. His father would not let him go into the countryuntil he was considered old enough to go with one of the annual schooltreats. His mother told him that the country in Cornwall was infinitelymore beautiful than Kensington Gardens, and that compared with the seathe Serpentine was nothing at all. The sea! He had heard it once in aprickly shell, and it had sounded beautiful. As for the country he hadread a story by Mrs. Ewing called _Our Field_, and if the country wasthe tiniest part as wonderful as that, well . . . Meanwhile Dora broughthim back from the greengrocer's a pot of musk, which Mark used to sniffso enthusiastically that Dora said he would sniff it right away if hewasn't careful. Later on when Lima Street was fetid in the August sun hegave this pot of musk to a little girl with a broken leg, and when shedied in September her mother put it on her grave. 

CHAPTER IV

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Mark was impressed by the appearance of the Bishop of Devizes; a portlycourtly man, he brought to the dingy little Mission House in Lima Streetthat very sense of richness and grandeur which Mark had anticipated. TheBishop's pink plump hands of which he made such use contrasted with thelean, scratched, and grimy hands of his father; the Bishop's hair whiteand glossy made his father's bristly, badly cut hair look more bristlyand worse cut than ever, and the Bishop's voice ripe and unctuous grewmore and more mellow as his father's became harsher and more assertive. Mark found himself thinking of some lines in _The Jackdaw of Rheims_about a cake of soap worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. The Popewould have hands like the Bishop's, and Mark who had heard a great dealabout the Pope looked at the Bishop of Devizes with added interest. 

"While we are at lunch, Mr. Lidderdale, you will I am sure pardon me forreferring again to our conversation of this morning from another pointof view--the point of view, if I may use so crude an expression, thepoint of view of--er--expediency. Is it wise?"

"I'm not a wise man, my lord. "

"Pardon me, my dear Mr. Lidderdale, but I have not completed myquestion. Is it right? Is it right when you have an opportunity toconsolidate your great work . . . I use the adjective advisedly and withno intention to flatter you, for when I had the privilege this morningof accompanying you round the beautiful edifice that has been by yourefforts, by your self-sacrifice, by your eloquence, and by your devotionerected to the glory of God . . . I repeat, Mr. Lidderdale, is it rightto fling all this away for the sake of a few--you will notmisunderstand me--if I call them a few excrescences?"

The Bishop helped himself to the cauliflower and paused to give hisrhetoric time to work. 

"What you regard, my lord, as excrescences I regard as fundamentals ofour Holy Religion. "

"Come, come, Mr. Lidderdale, " the Bishop protested. "I do not think thatyou expect to convince me that a ceremony like the--er--Asperges is afundamental of Christianity. "

"I have taught my people that it is, " said the Missioner. "In these dayswhen Bishops are found who will explain away the Incarnation, theAtonement, the Resurrection of the Body, I hope you'll forgive a humbleparish priest who will explain away nothing and who would rather resign, as I told you this morning, than surrender a single one of theseexcrescences. "

"I do not admit your indictment, your almost wholesale indictment of theAnglican episcopate; but even were I to admit at lunch that some of mybrethren have been in their anxiety to keep the Man in the Street fromstraying too far from the Church, have been as I was saying a little tooready to tolerate a certain latitude of belief, even as I said just nowwere that so, I do not think that you have any cause to suspect me ofwhat I should repudiate as gross infidelity. It was precisely becausethe Bishop of London supposed that I should be more sympathetic withyour ideals that he asked me to represent him in this perfectlyinformal--er--"

"Inquest, " the Missioner supplied with a fierce smile. 

The Bishop encouraged by the first sign of humour he had observed in thebigoted priest hastened to smile back. 

"Well, let us call it an inquest, but not, I hope, I sincerely anddevoutly hope, Mr. Lidderdale, not an inquest upon a dead body. " Thenhurriedly he went on. "I may smile with the lips, but believe me, mydear fellow labourer in the vineyard of Our Lord Jesus Christ, believeme that my heart is sore at the prospect of your resignation. And theBishop of London, if I have to go back to him with such news, will bepained, bitterly grievously pained. He admires your work, Mr. Lidderdale, as much as I do, and I have no doubt that if it were notfor the unhappy controversies that are tearing asunder our NationalChurch, I say I do not doubt that he would give you a free hand. But howcan he give you a free hand when his own hands are tied by thenecessities of the situation? May I venture to observe that some of youworking priests are too ready to criticize men like myself who from nodesire of our own have been called by God to occupy a loftier seat inthe eyes of the world than many men infinitely more worthy. But toreturn to the question immediately before us, let me, my dear Mr. Lidderdale, do let me make to you a personal appeal for moderation. Ifyou will only consent to abandon one or two--I will not say excrescencessince you object to the word--but if you will only abandon one or twopurely ceremonial additions that cannot possibly be defended by anyrubric in the Book of Common Prayer, if you will only consent to do thisthe Bishop of London will, I can guarantee, permit you a discretionarylatitude that he would scarcely be prepared to allow to any other priestin his diocese. When I was called to be Bishop Suffragan of Devizes, Mr. Lidderdale, do you suppose that I did not give up something? Do yousuppose that I was anxious to abandon some of the riches to which by myreading of the Ornaments Rubric we are entitled? But I felt that I coulddo something to help the position of my fellow priests strugglingagainst the prejudice of ignorance and the prey of political moves. Intwenty years from now, Mr. Lidderdale, you will be glad you took myadvice. Ceremonies that to-day are the privilege of the few will then bethe privilege of the many. Do not forget that by what I might almostdescribe as the exorbitance of your demands you have gained more freedomthan any other priest in England. Be moderate. Do not resign. You willbe inhibited in every diocese; you will have the millstone of an unpaiddebt round your neck; you are a married man. "

"That has nothing . . . " Lidderdale interrupted angrily. 

"Pray let me finish. You are a married man, and if you should seekconsolation, where several of your fellow priests have lately sought it, in the Church of Rome, you will have to seek it as a layman. I do notpretend to know your private affairs, and I should consider itimpertinent if I tried to pry into them at such a moment. But I do knowyour worth as a priest, and I have no hesitation in begging you oncemore with a heart almost too full for words to pause, Mr. Lidderdale, topause and reflect before you take the irreparable step that you arecontemplating. I have already talked too much, and I see that your goodwife is looking anxiously at my plate. No more cauliflower, thank you, Mrs. Lidderdale, no more of anything, thank you. Ah, there is a puddingon the way? Dear me, that sounds very tempting, I'm afraid. "

The Bishop now turned his attention entirely to Mrs. Lidderdale at theother end of the table; the Missioner sat biting his nails; and Markwondered what all this conversation was about. 

While the Bishop was waiting for his cab, which, he explained to hishosts, was not so much a luxury as a necessity owing to his having toaddress at three o'clock precisely a committee of ladies who weremeeting in Portman Square to discuss the dreadful condition of theLondon streets, he laid a fatherly arm on the Missioner's threadbarecassock. 

"Take two or three days to decide, my dear Mr. Lidderdale. The Bishop ofLondon, who is always consideration personified, insisted that you wereto take two or three days to decide. Once more, for I hear mycab-wheels, once more let me beg you to yield on the following points. Let me just refer to my notes to be sure that I have not omittedanything of importance. Oh, yes, the following points: no Asperges, nounusual Good Friday services, except of course the Three Hours. _Is_ notthat enough?"

"The Three Hours I _would_ give up. It's a modern invention of theJesuits. The Adoration of the Cross goes back. . . . "

"Please, please, Mr. Lidderdale, my cab is at the door. We must notembark on controversy. No celebrations without communicants. No directinvocation of the Blessed Virgin Mary or the Saints. Oh, yes, and onthis the Bishop is particularly firm: no juggling with the _Gloria inExcelsis_. Good-bye, Mr. Lidderdale, good-bye, Mrs. Lidderdale. Manythanks for your delicious luncheon. Good-bye, young man. I had a littleboy like you once, but he is grown up now, and I am glad to say asoldier. "

The Bishop waved his umbrella, which looked much like a pastoral staff, and lightly mounted the step of his cab. 

"Was the Bishop cross with Father?" Mark inquired afterward; he couldfind no other theory that would explain so much talking to his father, so little talking by his father. 

"Dearest, I'd rather you didn't ask questions about the Bishop, " hismother replied, and discerning that she was on the verge of one of thoseheadaches that while they lasted obliterated the world for Mark, he wassilent. Later in the afternoon Mr. Astill, the Vicar, came round to seethe Missioner and they had a long talk together, the murmur of which nowsofter now louder was audible in Mark's nursery where he was playing byhimself with the cork-bottomed grenadiers. His instinct was to play aquiet game, partly on account of his mother's onrushing headache, whichhad already driven her to her room, partly because he knew that when hisfather was closeted like this it was essential not to make the leastnoise. So he tiptoed about the room and disposed the cork-bottomedgrenadiers as sentinels before the coal-scuttle, the washstand, andother similar strongholds. Then he took his gun, the barrel of which, broken before it was given to him, had been replaced by a thin bamboocurtain-rod, and his finger on the trigger (a wooden match) he waitedfor an invader. After ten minutes of statuesque silence Mark began tothink that this was a dull game, and he wished that his mother had notgone to her room with a headache, because if she had been with him shecould have undoubtedly invented, so clever was she, a method of invadingthe nursery without either the attackers or the defenders making anynoise about it. In her gentle voice she would have whispered of thehordes that were stealthily creeping up the mountain side until Mark andhis vigilant cork-bottomed grenadiers would have been in a state ofsuppressed exultation ready to die in defence of the nursery, to diestolidly and silently at their posts with nobody else in the house awareof their heroism. 

"Rorke's Drift, " said Mark to himself, trying to fancy that he heard inthe distance a Zulu _impi_ and whispering to his cork-bottomedgrenadiers to keep a good look-out. One of them who was guarding theplay-cupboard fell over on his face, and in the stillness the noisesounded so loud that Mark did not dare cross the room to put him upagain, but had to assume that he had been shot where he stood. It was nouse. The game was a failure; Mark decided to look at _Battles of theBritish Army_. He knew the pictures in every detail, and he could haverecited without a mistake the few lines of explanation at the bottom ofeach page; but the book still possessed a capacity to thrill, and heturned over the pages not pausing over Crecy or Poitiers or Blenheim orDettingen; but enjoying the storming of Badajoz with soldiers impaled on_chevaux de frise_ and lingering over the rich uniforms and plumedhelmets in the picture of Joseph Bonaparte's flight at Vittoria. Therewas too a grim picture of the Guards at Inkerman fighting in theirgreatcoats with clubbed muskets against thousands of sinister dark greenRussians looming in the snow; and there was an attractive picture of aregiment crossing the Alma and eating the grapes as they clambered upthe banks where they grew. Finally there was the Redan, a mysteriouswall, apparently of wickerwork, with bombs bursting and brokenscaling-ladders and dead English soldiers in the open space before it. 

Mark did not feel that he wanted to look through the book again, and heput it away, wondering how long that murmur of voices rising and fallingfrom his father's study below would continue. He wondered whether Dorawould be annoyed if he went down to the kitchen. She had beendiscouraging on the last two or three occasions he had visited her, butthat had been because he could not keep his fingers out of the currants. Fancy having a large red jar crammed full of currants on the floor ofthe larder and never wanting to eat one! The thought of those currantsproduced in Mark's mouth a craving for something sweet, and as quietlyas possible he stole off downstairs to quench this craving somehow orother if it were only with a lump of sugar. But when he reached thekitchen he found Dora in earnest talk with two women in bonnets, whowere nodding away and clicking their tongues with pleasure. 

"Now whatever do you want down here?" Dora demanded ungraciously. 

"I wanted, " Mark paused. He longed to say "some currants, " but he hadfailed before, and he substituted "a lump of sugar. " The two women inbonnets looked at him and nodded their heads and clicked their tongues. 

"Did you ever?" said one. 

"Fancy! A lump of sugar! Goodness gracious!"

"What a sweet tooth!" commented the first. 

The sugar happened to be close to Dora's hand on the kitchen-table, andshe gave him two lumps with the command to "sugar off back upstairs asfast as you like. " The craving for sweetness was allayed; but when Markhad crunched up the two lumps on the dark kitchen-stairs, he was aslonely as he had been before he left the nursery. He wished now that hehad not eaten up the sugar so fast, that he had taken it back with himto the nursery and eked it out to wile away this endless afternoon. Theprospect of going back to the nursery depressed him; and he turned asideto linger in the dining-room whence there was a view of Lima Street, down which a dirty frayed man was wheeling a barrow and shouting forhousewives to bring out their old rags and bottles and bones. Mark feltthe thrill of trade and traffick, and he longed to be big enough to openthe window and call out that he had several rags and bottles and bonesto sell; but instead he had to be content with watching twoself-important little girls chaffer on behalf of their mothers, and gooff counting their pennies. The voice of the rag-and-bone man, grewfainter and fainter round corners out of sight; Lima Street became asempty and uninteresting as the nursery. Mark wished that a knife-grinderwould come along and that he would stop under the dining-room window sothat he could watch the sparks flying from the grindstone. Or that agipsy would sit down on the steps and begin to mend the seat of a chair. Whenever he had seen those gipsy chair-menders at work, he had been outof doors and afraid to linger watching them in case he should be stolenand his face stained with walnut juice and all his clothes taken awayfrom him. But from the security of the dining-room of the Mission Househe should enjoy watching them. However, no gipsy came, nor anybody elseexcept women with men's caps pinned to their skimpy hair and littlegirls with wrinkled stockings carrying jugs to and from the publichouses that stood at every corner. 

Mark turned away from the window and tried to think of some game thatcould be played in the dining-room. But it was not a room that fosteredthe imagination. The carpet was so much worn that the pattern was nowscarcely visible and, looked one at it never so long and intently, itwas impossible to give it an inner life of its own that graduallyrevealed itself to the fanciful observer. The sideboard had nothing onit except a dirty cloth, a bottle of harvest burgundy, and half a dozenforks and spoons. The cupboards on either side contained nothing edibleexcept salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar, and oil. There was a plain dealtable without a drawer and without any interesting screws and levers tomake it grow smaller or larger at the will of the creature who satbeneath it. The eight chairs were just chairs; the wallpaper was likethe inside of the bath, but alas, without the water; of the twopictures, the one over the mantelpiece was a steel-engraving of the GoodShepherd and the one over the sideboard was an oleograph of the SacredHeart. Mark knew every fly speck on their glasses, every discolorationof their margins. While he was sighing over the sterility of the room, he heard the door of his father's study open, and his father and Mr. Astill do down the passage, both of them still talking unceasingly. Presently the front door slammed, and Mark watched them walk away in thedirection of the new church. Here was an opportunity to go into hisfather's study and look at some of the books. Mark never went in whenhis father was there, because once his mother had said to his father:

"Why don't you have Mark to sit with you?"

And his father had answered doubtfully:

"Mark? Oh yes, he can come. But I hope he'll keep quiet, because Ishall be rather busy. "

Mark had felt a kind of hostility in his father's manner which hadchilled him; and after that, whenever his mother used to suggest hisgoing to sit quietly in the study, he had always made some excuse not togo. But if his father was out he used to like going in, because therewere always books lying about that were interesting to look at, and thesmell of tobacco smoke and leather bindings was grateful to the senses. The room smelt even more strongly than usual of tobacco smoke thisafternoon, and Mark inhaled the air with relish while he debated whichof the many volumes he should pore over. There was a large Bible withpictures of palm-trees and camels and long-bearded patriarchs surroundedby flocks of sheep, pictures of women with handkerchiefs over theirmouths drawing water from wells, of Daniel in the den of lions and ofShadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace. The frontispiecewas a coloured picture of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden surroundedby amiable lions, benevolent tigers, ingratiating bears and leopards andwolves. But more interesting than the pictures were some pages at thebeginning on which, in oval spaces framed in leaves and flowers, werewritten the names of his grandfather and grandmother, of his father andof his father's brother and sister, with the dates on which they wereborn and baptized and confirmed. What a long time ago his father wasborn! 1840. He asked his mother once about this Uncle Henry and AuntHelen; but she told him they had quarrelled with his father, and she hadsaid nothing more about them. Mark had been struck by the notion thatgrown-up people could quarrel: he had supposed quarrelling to bepeculiar to childhood. Further, he noticed that Henry Lidderdale hadmarried somebody called Ada Prewbody who had died the same year; butnothing was said in the oval that enshrined his father about his havingmarried anyone. He asked his mother the reason of this, and sheexplained to him that the Bible had belonged to his grandfather who hadkept the entries up to date until he died, when the Bible came to hiseldest son who was Mark's father. 

"Does it worry you, darling, that I'm not entered?" his mother had askedwith a smile. 

"Well, it does rather, " Mark had replied, and then to his great delightshe took a pen and wrote that James Lidderdale had married Grace AletheaTrehawke on June 28th, 1880, at St. Tugdual's Church, Nancepean, Cornwall, and to his even greater delight that on April 25th, 1881, MarkLidderdale had been born at 142 Lima Street, Notting Dale, London, W. , and baptized on May 21st, 1881, at St. Wilfred's Mission Church, LimaStreet. 

"Happy now?" she had asked. 

Mark had nodded, and from that moment, if he went into his father'sstudy, he always opened the Family Bible and examined solemnly his ownshort history wreathed in forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley. 

This afternoon, after looking as usual at the entry of his birth andbaptism written in his mother's pretty pointed handwriting, he searchedfor Dante's _Inferno_ illustrated by Gustave Doré, a large copy of whichhad recently been presented to his father by the Servers and Choir ofSt. Wilfred's. The last time he had been looking at this volume he hadcaught a glimpse of a lot of people buried in the ground with only theirheads sticking out, a most attractive picture which he had only justdiscovered when he had heard his father's footsteps and had closed thebook in a hurry. 

Mark tried to find this picture, but the volume was large and thepictures on the way of such fascination that it was long before he foundit. When he did, he thought it even more satisfying at a second glance, although he wished he knew what they were all doing buried in the groundlike that. Mark was not satisfied with horrors even after he had goneright through the Dante; in fact, his appetite was only whetted, and heturned with relish to a large folio of Chinese tortures, in the colouredprints of which a feature was made of blood profusely outpoured andrichly tinted. One picture of a Chinaman apparently impervious to thepain of being slowly sawn in two held him entranced for five minutes. It was growing dusk by now, and as it needed the light of the window tobring out the full quality of the blood, Mark carried over the bigvolume, propped it up in a chair behind the curtains, and knelt down togloat over these remote oriental barbarities without pausing to rememberthat his father might come back at any moment, and that although he hadnever actually been forbidden to look at this book, the thrill ofsomething unlawful always brooded over it. Suddenly the door of thestudy opened and Mark sat transfixed by terror as completely as theChinaman on the page before him was transfixed by a sharpened bamboo;then he heard his mother's voice, and before he could discover himself aconversation between her and his father had begun of which Markunderstood enough to know that both of them would be equally angry ifthey knew that he was listening. Mark was not old enough to escapetactfully from such a difficult situation, and the only thing he couldthink of doing was to stay absolutely still in the hope that they wouldpresently go out of the room and never know that he had been behind thecurtain while they were talking. 

"I didn't mean you to dress yourself and come downstairs, " his fatherwas saying ungraciously. 

"My dear, I should have come down to tea in any case, and I was anxiousto hear the result of your conversation with Mr. Astill. "

"You can guess, can't you?" said the husband. 

Mark had heard his father speak angrily before; but he had never heardhis voice sound like a growl. He shrank farther back in affright behindthe curtains. 

"You're going to give way to the Bishop?" the wife asked gently. 

"Ah, you've guessed, have you? You've guessed by my manner? You'verealized, I hope, what this resolution has cost me and what it's goingto cost me in the future. I'm a coward. I'm a traitor. _Before the cockcrow twice, thou shalt deny me thrice. _ A coward and a traitor. "

"Neither, James--at any rate to me. "

"To you, " the husband scoffed. "I should hope not to you, consideringthat it is on your account I am surrendering. Do you suppose that if Iwere free, as to serve God I ought to be free, do you suppose then thatI should give up my principles like this? Never! But because I'm amarried priest, because I've a wife and family to support, my hands aretied. Oh, yes, Astill was very tactful. He kept insisting on my duty tothe parish; but did he once fail to rub in the position in which Ishould find myself if I did resign? No bishop would license me; I shouldbe inhibited in every diocese--in other words I should starve. Thebeliefs I hold most dear, the beliefs I've fought for all these yearssurrendered for bread and butter! _Woman, what have I to do with thee?_Our Blessed Lord could speak thus even to His Blessed Mother. But I! _Hethat loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. And hethat taketh not his cross, and followeth after me, is not worthy ofme. _"

The Missioner threw himself into his worn armchair and stared into theunlighted grate. His wife came behind him and laid a white hand upon hisforehead; but her touch seemed to madden him, and he sprang away fromher. 

"No more of that, " he cried. "If I was weak when I married you I willnever be weak again. You have your child. Let that be enough for yourtenderness. I want none of it myself. Do you hear? I wish to devotemyself henceforth to my parish. My parish! The parish of a coward and atraitor. "

Mark heard his mother now speaking in a voice that was strange to him, in a voice that did not belong to her, but that seemed to come from faraway, as if she were lost in a snowstorm and calling for help. 

"James, if you feel this hatred for me and for poor little Mark, it isbetter that we leave you. We can go to my father in Cornwall, and youwill not feel hampered by the responsibility of having to provide forus. After what you have said to me, after the way you have looked at me, I could never live with you as your wife again. "

"That sounds a splendid scheme, " said the Missioner bitterly. "But doyou think I have so little logic that I should be able to escape from myresponsibilities by planting them on the shoulders of another? No, Isinned when I married you. I did not believe and I do not believe that apriest ought to marry; but having done so I must face the situation anddo my duty to my family, so that I may also do my duty to God. "

"Do you think that God will accept duty offered in that spirit? If hedoes, he is not the God in Whom I believe. He is a devil that can bepropitiated with burnt offerings, " exclaimed the woman passionately. 

"Do not blaspheme, " the priest commanded. 

"Blaspheme!" she echoed. "It is you, James, who have blasphemed naturethis afternoon. You have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, andmay you be forgiven by your God. I can never forgive you. "

"You're becoming hysterical. "

"How dare you say that? How dare you? I have loved you, James, with allthe love that I could give you. I have suffered in silence when I sawhow you regarded family life, how unkind you were to Mark, how utterlywrapped up in the outward forms of religion. You are a Pharisee, James, you should have lived before Our Lord came down to earth. But I will notsuffer any longer. You need not worry about the evasion of yourresponsibilities. You cannot make me stay with you. You will not darekeep Mark. Save your own soul in your own way; but Mark's soul is asmuch mine as yours to save. "

During this storm of words Mark had been thinking how wicked it was ofhis father to upset his mother like that when she had a headache. He hadthought also how terrible it was that he should apparently be the causeof this frightening quarrel. Often in Lima Street he had heard tales ofwives who were beaten by their husbands and now he supposed that his ownmother was going to be beaten. Suddenly he heard her crying. This wastoo much for him; he sprang from his hiding place and ran to put hisarms round her in protection. 

"Mother, mother, don't cry. You are bad, you are bad, " he told hisfather. "You are wicked and bad to make her cry. "

"Have you been in the room all this time?" his father asked. 

Mark did not even bother to nod his head, so intent was he uponconsoling his mother. She checked her emotion when her son put his armsround her neck, and whispered to him not to speak. It was almost dark inthe study now, and what little light was still filtering in at thewindow from the grey nightfall was obscured by the figure of theMissioner gazing out at the lantern spire of his new church. There was atap at the door, and Mrs. Lidderdale snatched up the volume that Markhad let fall upon the floor when he emerged from the curtains, so thatwhen Dora came in to light the gas and say that tea was ready, nothingof the stress of the last few minutes was visible. The Missioner waslooking out of the window at his new church; his wife and son werecontemplating the picture of an impervious Chinaman suspended in a cagewhere he could neither stand nor sit nor lie. 

CHAPTER V

PALM SUNDAY

Mark's dream from which he woke to wonder if the end of the world was athand had been a shadow cast by coming events. So far as the world ofLima Street was concerned, it was the end of it. The night after thatscene in his father's study, which made a deeper impression on him thananything before that date in his short life, his mother came to sleep inthe nursery with him, to keep him company so that he should not befrightened any more, she offered as the explanation of her arrival. ButMark, although of course he never said so to her, was sure that she hadcome to him to be protected against his father. 

Mark did not overhear any more discussions between his parents, and hewas taken by surprise when one day a week after his mother had come tosleep in his room, she asked him how he should like to go and live inthe country. To Mark the country was as remote as Paradise, and at firsthe was inclined to regard the question as rhetorical to which aconventional reply was expected. If anybody had asked him how he shouldlike to go to Heaven, he would have answered that he should like to goto Heaven very much. Cows, sheep, saints, angels, they were all equallyunreal outside a picture book. 

"I would like to go to the country very much, " he said. "And I wouldlike to go to the Zoological Gardens very much. Perhaps we can go theresoon, can we, mother?"

"We can't go there if we're in the country. "

Mark stared at her. 

"But really go in the country?"

"Yes, darling, really go. "

"Oh, mother, " and immediately he checked his enthusiasm with a sceptical"when?"

"Next Monday. "

"And shall I see cows?"

"Yes. "

"And donkeys? And horses? And pigs? And goats?"

To every question she nodded. 

"Oh, mother, I will be good, " he promised of his own accord. "And can Itake my grenadiers?"

"You can take everything you have, darling. "

"Will Dora come?" He did not inquire about his father. 

"No. "

"Just you and me?"

She nodded, and Mark flung his arms round her neck to press upon herlips a long fragrant kiss, such a kiss as only a child can give. 

On Sunday morning, the last Sunday morning he would worship in thelittle tin mission church, the last Sunday morning indeed that any ofthe children of Lima Street would worship there, Mark sat close besidehis mother at the children's Mass. His father looking as he alwayslooked, took off his chasuble, and in his alb walked up and down theaisle preaching his short sermon interspersed with questions. 

"What is this Sunday called?"

There was a silence until a well-informed little girl breathed throughher nose that it was called Passion Sunday. 

"Quite right. And next Sunday?"

"Palm Sunday, " all the children shouted with alacrity, for they lookedforward to it almost more than to any Sunday in the year. 

"Next Sunday, dear children, I had hoped to give you the blessed palmsin our beautiful new church, but God has willed otherwise, and anotherpriest will come in my place. I hope you will listen to him asattentively as you have listened to me, and I hope you will try toencourage him by your behaviour both in and out of the church, by yourpunctuality and regular attendance at Mass, and by your example to otherchildren who have not had the advantage of learning all about ourglorious Catholic faith. I shall think about you all when I am gone andI shall never cease to ask our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ to guard youand keep you safe for Him. And I want you to pray to Our Blessed Ladyand to our great patron Saint Wilfred that they will intercede for youand me. Will you all do this?"

There was a unanimous and sibilant "Yes, father, " from the assembledchildren, and then one little girl after being prodded by her companionson either side of her spoke up and asked the Missioner why he was going. 

"Ah, that is a very difficult question to answer; but I will try toexplain it to you by a parable. What is a parable?"

"Something that isn't true, " sang out a too ready boy from the back ofthe church. 

"No, no, Arthur Williams. Surely some other boy or girl can correctArthur Williams? How many times have we had that word explained to us! Aparable is a story with a hidden meaning. Now please, every boy andgirl, repeat that answer after me. A parable is a story with a hiddenmeaning. "

And all the children baa'd in unison:

"A parable is a story with a hidden meaning. "

"That's better, " said the Missioner. "And now I will tell you myparable. Once upon a time there was a little boy or a little girl, itdoesn't matter which, whose father put him in charge of a baby. He wastold not to let anybody take it away from him and he was told to lookafter it and wheel it about in the perambulator, which was a very oldone, and not only very old but very small for the baby, who was growingbigger and bigger every day. Well, a lot of kind people clubbed togetherand bought a new perambulator, bigger than the other and morecomfortable. They told him to take this perambulator home to his fatherand show him what a beautiful present they had made. Well, the boywheeled it home and his father was very pleased with it. But when theboy took the baby out again, the nursemaid told him that the baby hadtoo many clothes on and said that he must either take some of theclothes off or else she must take away the new perambulator. Well, thelittle boy had promised his father, who had gone far away on a journey, that nobody should touch the baby, and so he said he would not take offany of the clothes. And when the nurse took away the perambulator thelittle boy wrote to his father to ask what he should do and his fatherwrote to him that he would put one of his brothers in charge who wouldknow how to do what the nurse wanted. " The Missioner paused to see theeffect of his story. "Now, children, let us see if you can understand myparable. Who is the little boy?"

A concordance of opinion cried "God. "

"No. Now think. The father surely was God. And now once more, who wasthe little boy?"

Several children said "Jesus Christ, " and one little boy who evidentlythought that any connexion between babies and religion must havesomething to do with the Holy Innocents confidently called out "Herod. "

"No, no, no, " said the Missioner. "Surely the little boy is myself. Andwhat is the baby?"

Without hesitation the boys and girls all together shouted "JesusChrist. "

"No, no. The baby is our Holy Catholic Faith. For which we are ready ifnecessary to--?"

There was no answer. 

"To do what?"

"To be baptized, " one boy hazarded. 

"To die, " said the Missioner reproachfully. 

"To die, " the class complacently echoed. 

"And now what is the perambulator?"

This was a puzzle, but at last somebody tried:

"The Body and Blood of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. "

"No, no. The perambulator is our Mission here in Lima Street. The oldperambulator is the Church where we are sitting at Mass and the newperambulator is--"

"The new church, " two children answered simultaneously. 

"Quite right. And now, who is the nursemaid? The nursemaid is the Bishopof London. You remember that last Sunday we talked about bishops. Whatis a bishop?"

"A high-priest. "

"Well, that is not a bad answer, but don't you remember we said thatbishop meant 'overseer, ' and you all know what an overseer is. Any ofyour fathers who go out to work will tell you that. So the Bishop likethe nursemaid in my parable thought he knew better what clothes the babyought to wear in the new perambulator, that is to say what services weought to have in the new St. Wilfred's. And as God is far away and wecan only speak to Him by prayer, I have asked Him what I ought to do, and He has told me that I ought to go away and that He will put abrother in charge of the baby in the new perambulator. Who then is thebrother?"

"Jesus Christ, " said the class, convinced that this time it must be He. 

"No, no. The brother is the priest who will come to take charge of thenew St. Wilfred's. He will be called the Vicar, and St. Wilfred's, instead of being called the Lima Street Mission, will become a parish. And now, dear children, there is no time to say any more words to you. My heart is sore at leaving you, but in my sorrow I shall be comfortedif I can have the certainty that you are growing up to be good and loyalCatholics, loving Our Blessed Lord and His dear Mother, honouring theHoly Saints and Martyrs, hating the Evil One and all his Spirits andobeying God with whose voice the Church speaks. Now, for the last timechildren, let me hear you sing _We are but little children weak_. "

They all sang more loudly than usual to express a vague and troubledsympathy:

 _There's not a child so small and weak_ _But has his little cross to take, _ _His little work of love and praise_ _That he may do for Jesus' sake. _

And they bleated a most canorous _Amen_. 

Mark noticed that his mother clutched his hand tightly while his fatherwas speaking, and when once he looked up at her to show how loudly hetoo was singing, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. 

The next morning was Monday. 

"Good-bye, Mark, be a good boy and obedient to your mother, " said hisfather on the platform at Paddington. 

"Who is that man?" Mark whispered when the guard locked them in. 

His mother explained, and Mark looked at him with as much awe as if hewere St. Peter with the keys of Heaven at his girdle. He waved hishandkerchief from the window while the train rushed on through tunnelsand between gloomy banks until suddenly the world became green, andthere was the sun in a great blue and white sky. Mark looked at hismother and saw that again there were tears in her eyes, but that theysparkled like diamonds. 

CHAPTER VI

NANCEPEAN

The Rhos or, as it is popularly written and pronounced, the Rose is atract of land in the south-west of the Duchy of Cornwall, ten miles longand six at its greatest breadth, which on account of its remoteness fromthe railway, its unusual geological formation, and its peninsular shapepossesses both in the character of its inhabitants and in the peculiaraspects of the natural scene all the limitations and advantages of anisland. The main road running south to Rose Head from Rosemarket cutsthe peninsula into two unequal portions, the eastern and by far thelarger of which consists of a flat tableland two or three hundred feetabove the sea covered with a bushy heath, which flourishes in themagnesian soil and which when in bloom is of such a clear rosy pink, with nothing to break the level monochrome except scattered drifts ofcotton grass, pools of silver water and a few stunted pines, thatignorant observers have often supposed that the colour gave its name tothe whole peninsula. The ancient town of Rosemarket, which serves as theonly channel of communication with the rest of Cornwall, lies in theextreme north-west of the peninsula between a wide creek of the Rosefordriver and the Rose Pool, an irregular heart-shaped water about fourmiles in circumference which on the west is only separated from theAtlantic by a bar of fine shingle fifty yards across. 

The parish of Nancepean, of which Mark's grandfather the ReverendCharles Elphinstone Trehawke had been vicar for nearly thirty years, ransouthward from the Rose Pool between the main road and the sea for threemiles. It was a country of green valleys unfolding to the ocean, and ofsmall farms fertile enough when they were sheltered from the prevailingwind; but on the southern confines of the parish the soil becameshallow and stony, the arable fields degenerated into a rough openpasturage full of gorse and foxgloves and gradually widening patches ofheather, until finally the level monochrome of the Rhos absorbed thelast vestiges of cultivation, and the parish came to an end. 

The actual village of Nancepean, set in a hollow about a quarter of amile from the sea, consisted of a smithy, a grocer's shop, a parish halland some two dozen white cottages with steep thatched roofs lying intheir own gardens on either side of the unfrequented road that branchedfrom the main road to follow the line of the coast. Where this road madethe turn south a track strewn with grey shingle ran down between thecliffs, at this point not much more than grassy hummocks, to Nancepeanbeach which extended northward in a wide curve until it disappeared twomiles away in the wooded heights above the Rose Pool. The metalled coastroad continued past the Hanover Inn, an isolated house standing at thehead of a small cove, to make the long ascent of Pendhu Cliff threehundred and fifty feet high, from the brow of which it descended betweenbanks of fern past St. Tugdual's Church to the sands of Church Cove, whence it emerged to climb in a steep zigzag the next headland, beyondwhich it turned inland again to Lanyon and rejoined the main road toRose Head. The church itself had no architectural distinction; but thesolitary position, the churchyard walls sometimes washed by high springtides, the squat tower built into the rounded grassy cliff thatprotected it from the direct attack of the sea, and its impressiveantiquity combined to give it more than the finest architecture couldgive. Nowhere in the surrounding landscape was there a sign of humanhabitation, neither on the road down from Pendhu nor on the road uptoward Lanyon, not on the bare towans sweeping from the beach to the skyin undulating waves of sandy grass, nor in the valley between the towansand Pendhu, a wide green valley watered by a small stream that flowedinto the cove, where it formed a miniature estuary, the configuration ofwhose effluence changed with every tide. 

The Vicarage was not so far from the church as the church was from thevillage, but it was some way from both. It was reached from Nancepean bya road or rather by a gated cart-track down one of the numerous valleysof the parish, and it was reached from the church by another cart-trackalong the valley between Pendhu and the towans. Probably it was anancient farmhouse, and it must have been a desolate and austere placeuntil, as at the date when Mark first came there, it was graced by theperfume and gold of acacias, by wistaria and jasmine and honeysuckle, bythe ivory goblets of magnolias, by crimson fuchsias, and where formerlyits grey walls grew mossy north and east by pink and white camelias andthe waxen bells of lapagerias. The garden was a wilderness of scarletrhododendrons from the thickets of which innumerable blackbirds andthrushes preyed upon the peas. The lawns were like meadows; the lilyponds were marbled with weeds; the stables were hardly to be reached onaccount of the tangle of roses and briers that filled the abandonedyard. The front drive was bordered by evergreen oaks, underneath theshade of which blue hydrangeas flowered sparsely with a profusion ofpale-green foliage and lanky stems. 

Mark when he looked out of his window on the morning after his arrivalthought that he was in fairyland. He looked at the rhododendrons; helooked at the raindrops of the night sparkling in the morning sun; helooked at the birds, and the blue sky, and across the valley to ahillside yellow with gorse. He hardly knew how to restrain himself fromwaking his mother with news of the wonderful sights and sounds of thisfirst vision of the country; but when he saw a clump of daffodilsnodding in the grass below, it was no longer possible to be considerate. Creeping to his mother's door, he gently opened it and listened. Hemeant only to whisper "Mother, " but in his excitement he shouted, andshe suddenly roused from sleep by his voice sat up in alarm. 

"Mother, there are seven daffodils growing wild under my window. "

"My darling, you frightened me so. I thought you'd hurt yourself. "

"I don't know how my voice came big like that, " said Markapologetically. "I only meant it to be a whisper. But you weren'tdreadfully frightened? Or were you?"

His mother smiled. 

"No, not dreadfully frightened. "

"Well, do you think I might dress myself and go in the garden?"

"You mustn't disturb grandfather. "

"Oh, mother, of course not. "

"All right, darling. But it's only six o'clock. Very early. And you mustremember that grandfather may be tired. He had to wait an hour for us atRosemarket last night. "

"He's very nice, isn't he?"

Mark did not ask this tentatively; he really did think that hisgrandfather was very nice, although he had been puzzled and not a littlefrightened by his bushy black eyebrows slanting up to a profusion ofwhite hair. Mark had never seen such eyebrows, and he wondered whatevergrandfather's moustache would be like if it were allowed to grow. 

"He's a dear, " said Mrs. Lidderdale fervidly. "And now, sweetheart, ifyou really intend to dress yourself run along, because Mother wants tosleep a little longer if she can. "

The only difficulty Mark had was with his flannel front, because one ofthe tapes vanished like a worm into its hole, and nothing in his armourywas at once long enough and pointed enough to hook it out again. Finallyhe decided that at such an early hour of the morning it would not matterif he went out exposing his vest, and soon he was wandering in thatenchanted shrubbery of rhododendrons, alternating between imagining itto be the cave of Aladdin or the beach where Sinbad found all thepebbles to be precious stones. He wandered down hill through thethicket, listening with a sense of satisfaction to the increasingsquelchiness of the peaty soil and feeling when the blackbirds fled athis approach with shrill quack and flapping wings much more like ahunter than he ever felt in the nursery at Lima Street. He resolved tobring his gun with him next time. This was just the place to find ahippopotamus, or even a crocodile. Mark had reached the bottom of theslope and discovered a dark sluggish stream full of decayed vegetablematter which was slowly oozing on its course. Or even a crocodile, hethought again; and he looked carefully at a half-submerged log. Or evena crocodile . . . Yes, but people had often thought before that logswere not crocodiles and had not discovered their mistake until they werehalf way down the crocodile's throat. It had been amusing to fancy theexistence of crocodiles when he was still close to the Vicarage, butsuppose after all that there really were crocodiles living down here?Feeling a little ashamed of his cowardice, but glossing it over with anassumption of filial piety, Mark turned to go back through therhododendrons so as not to be late for breakfast. He would find out ifany crocodiles had been seen about here lately, and if they had not, hewould bring out his gun and . . . Suddenly Mark was turned inside out byterror, for not twenty yards away there was without any possibility ofself-deception a wild beast something between an ant-eater and alaughing hyena that with nose to the ground was evidently pursuing him, and what was worse was between him and home. There flashed throughMark's mind the memories of what other hunters had done in suchsituations, what ruses they had adopted if unarmed, what method ofdefence if armed; but in the very instant of the panoramic flash Markdid what countless uncelebrated hunters must have done, he ran in theopposition direction from his enemy. In this case it meant jumping overthe stream, crocodile or not, and tearing his away through snowberriesand brambles until he emerged on the moors at the bottom of the valley. 

It was not until he had put half a dozen small streams between himselfand the unknown beast that Mark paused to look round. Behind him thevalley was lost in a green curve; before him another curve shut out theultimate view. On his left the slope of the valley rose to the sky intiers of blazing yellow gorse; to his right he could see the thicketsthrough which he had emerged upon this verdant solitude. But beyond thethickets there was no sign of the Vicarage. There was not a living thingin sight; there was nothing except the song of larks high up andimperceptible against the steady morning sun that shed a benign warmthupon the world, and particularly upon the back of Mark's neck when hedecided that his safest course was to walk in the direction of thevalley's gradual widening and to put as many more streams as he couldbetween him and the beast. Having once wetted himself to the knees, hebegan to take a pleasure in splashing through the vivid wet greenery. Hewondered what he should behold at the next curve of the valley; withoutknowing it he began to walk more slowly, for the beauty of the day wasdrowsing his fears; the spell of earth was upon him. He walked moreslowly, because he was passing through a bed of forget-me-nots, and hecould not bear to blind one of those myriad blue eyes. He chose mostcarefully the destination of each step, and walking thus he did notnotice that the valley would curve no more, but was opening at last. Helooked up in a sudden consciousness of added space, and there serene asthe sky above was spread the sea. Yesterday from the train Mark had hadwhat was actually his first view of the sea; but the rain had taken allthe colour out of it, and he had been thrilled rather by the word thanby the fact. Now the word was nothing, the fact was everything. There itwas within reach of him, blue as the pictures always made it. Thestreams of the valley had gathered into one, and Mark caring no morewhat happened to the forget-me-nots ran along the bank. This morningwhen the stream reached the shore it broke into twenty limpid rivulets, each one of which ploughed a separate silver furrow across theglistening sand until all were merged in ocean, mighty father of streamsand men. Mark ran with the rivulets until he stood by the waves' edge. All was here of which he had read, shells and seaweed, rocks and cliffsand sand; he felt like Robinson Crusoe when he looked round him and sawnothing to break the solitude. Every point of the compass invitedexploration and promised adventure. That white road running northwardand rising with the cliffs, whither did it lead, what view was outspreadwhere it dipped over the brow of the high table-land and disappearedinto the naked sky beyond? The billowy towans sweeping up from the beachappeared to him like an illimitable prairie on which buffaloes andbison might roam. Whither led the sandy track, the summit of whose longdiagonal was lost in the brightness of the morning sky? And surely thathuddled grey building against an isolated green cliff must begrandfather's church of which his mother had often told him. Mark walkedround the stone walls that held up the little churchyard and, enteringby a gate on the farther side, he looked at the headstones and admiredthe feathery tamarisks that waved over the tombs. He was reading aninscription more legible than most on a headstone of highly polishedgranite, when he heard a voice behind him say:

"You mind what you're doing with that grave. That's my granfa's grave, that is, and if you touch it, I'll knock 'ee down. "

Mark looked round and beheld a boy of about his own age and size in apair of worn corduroy knickerbockers and a guernsey, who was regardinghim from fierce blue eyes under a shock of curly yellow hair. 

"I'm not touching it, " Mark explained. Then something warned him that hemust assert himself, if he wished to hold his own with this boy, and headded:

"But if I want to touch it, I will. "

"Will 'ee? I say you won't do no such a thing then. "

Mark seized the top of the headstone as firmly as his small hands wouldallow him and invited the boy to look what he was doing. 

"Lev go, " the boy commanded. 

"I won't, " said Mark. 

"I'll make 'ee lev go. "

"All right, make me. "

The boy punched Mark's shoulder, and Mark punched blindly back, hittinghis antagonist such a little way above the belt as to lay himself underthe imputation of a foul blow. The boy responded by smacking Mark's facewith his open palm; a moment later they were locked in a close struggle, heaving and panting and pushing until both of them tripped on the lowrailing of a grave and rolled over into a carefully tended bed ofprimroses, whence they were suddenly jerked to their feet, separated, and held at arm's length by an old man with a grey beard and a smallround hole in the left temple. 

"I'll learn you to scat up my tombs, " said the old man shaking themviolently. "'Tisn't the first time I've spoken to you, Cass Dale, andwho's this? Who's this boy?"

"Oh, my gosh, look behind 'ee, Mr. Timbury. The bullocks is coming intothe churchyard. "

Mr. Timbury loosed his hold on the two boys as he turned, and Cass Dalecatching hold of Mark's hand shouted:

"Come on, run, or he'll have us again. "

They were too quick for the old man's wooden leg, and scrambling overthe wall by the south porch of the church they were soon out of dangeron the beach below. 

"My gosh, I never heard him coming. If I hadn't have thought to sing outabout the bullocks coming, he'd have laid that stick round us sureenough. He don't care where he hits anybody, old man Timbury don't. Ibelong to hear him tap-tapping along with his old wooden stump, but darn'ee I never heard 'un coming this time. "

The old man was leaning over the churchyard wall, shaking his stick andabusing them with violent words. 

"That's fine language for a sexton, " commented Cass Dale. "I'd beashamed to swear like that, I would. You wouldn't hear my father swearlike that. My father's a local preacher. "

"So's mine, " said Mark. 

"Is he? Where to?"

"London. "

"A minister, is he?"

"No, he's a priest. "

"Does he kiss the Pope's toe? My gosh, if the Pope asked me to kiss histoe, I'd soon tell him to kiss something else, I would. "

"My father doesn't kiss the Pope's toe, " said Mark. 

"I reckon he does then, " Cass replied. "Passon Trehawke don't though. Passon Trehawke's some fine old chap. My father said he'd lev me gochurch of a morning sometimes if I'd a mind. My father belongs to comehimself to the Harvest Home, but my granfa never came to church at allso long as he was alive. 'Time enough when I'm dead for that' he used tosay. He was a big man down to the Chapel, my granfa was. Mostly when hedid preach the maids would start screeching, so I've heard tell. But hewere too old for preaching when I knawed 'un. "

"My grandfather is the priest here, " said Mark. 

"There isn't no priest to Nancepean. Only Passon Trehawke. "

"My grandfather's name is Trehawke. "

"Is it, by gosh? Well, why for do 'ee call him a priest? He isn't apriest. "

"Yes, he is. "

"I say he isn't then. A parson isn't a priest. When I'm grown up I'mgoing to be a minister. What are you going to be?"

Mark had for some time past intended to be a keeper at the ZoologicalGardens, but after his adventure with the wild beast in the thicket andthis encounter with the self-confident Cass Dale he decided that hewould not be a keeper but a parson. He informed Cass of his intention. 

"Well, if you're a parson and I'm a minister, " said Cass, "I'll beteveryone comes to listen to me preaching and none of 'em don't go tohear you. "

"I wouldn't care if they didn't, " Mark affirmed. 

"You wouldn't care if you had to preach to a parcel of empty chairs andbenches?" exclaimed Cass. 

"St. Francis preached to the trees, " said Mark. "And St. Anthonypreached to the fishes. "

"They must have been a couple of loonies. "

"They were saints, " Mark insisted. 

"Saints, were they? Well, my father doesn't think much of saints. Myfather says he reckons saints is the same as other people, only a bitworse if anything. Are you saved?"

"What from?" Mark asked. 

"Why, from Hell of course. What else would you be saved from?"

"You might be saved from a wild beast, " Mark pointed out. "I saw a wildbeast this morning. A wild beast with a long nose and a sort of greycolour. "

"That wasn't a wild beast. That was an old badger. "

"Well, isn't a badger a wild beast?"

Cass Dale laughed scornfully. 

"My gosh, if that isn't a good one! I suppose you'd say a fox was a wildbeast?"

"No, I shouldn't, " said Mark, repressing an inclination to cry, so muchmortified was he by Cass Dale's contemptuous tone. 

"All the same, " Cass went on. "It don't do to play around with badgers. There was a chap over to Lanbaddern who was chased right across the Roseone evening by seven badgers. He was in a muck of sweat when he gothome. But one old badger isn't nothing. "

Mark had been counting on his adventure with the wild beast to justifyhis long absence should he be reproached by his mother on his return tothe Vicarage. The way it had been disposed of by Cass Dale as an oldbadger made him wonder if after all it would be accepted as such a goodexcuse. 

"I ought to be going home, " he said. "But I don't think I remember theway. "

"To Passon Trehawke's?"

Mark nodded. 

"I'll show 'ee, " Cass volunteered, and he led the way past the mouth ofthe stream to the track half way up the slope of the valley. 

"Ever eat furze flowers?" asked Cass, offering Mark some that he hadpulled off in passing. "Kind of nutty taste they've got, I reckon. Ibelong to eat them most days. "

Mark acquired the habit and agreed with Cass that the blossoms weredelicious. 

"Only you don't want to go eating everything you see, " Cass warned him. "I reckon you'd better always ask me before you eat anything. But furzeflowers is all right. I've eaten thousands. Next Friday's Good Friday. "

"I know, " said Mark reverently. 

"We belong to get limpets every Good Friday. Are you coming with me?"

"Won't I be in church?" Mark inquired with memories of Good Friday inLima Street. 

"Yes, I suppose they'll have some sort of a meeting down Church, " saidCass. "But you can come afterward. I'll wait for 'ee in Dollar Cove. That's the next cove to Church Cove on the other side of the CastleCliff, and there's some handsome cave there. Years ago my granfa knaweda chap who saw a mermaid combing out her hair in Dollar Cove. Butthere's no mermaids been seen lately round these parts. My father sayshe reckons since they scat up the apple orchards and give over drinkingcider they won't see no more mermaids to Nancepean. Have you signed thepledge?"

"What's that?" Mark asked. 

"My gosh, don't you know what the pledge is? Why, that's when you put ablue ribbon in your buttonhole and swear you won't drink nothing allyour days. "

"But you'd die, " Mark objected. "People must drink. "

"Water, yes, but there's no call for any one to drink anything onlywater. My father says he reckons more folk have gone to hell from drinkthan anything. You ought to hear him preach about drink. Why, when itgets known in the village that Sam Dale's going to preach on drink thereisn't a seat down Chapel. Well, I tell 'ee he frightened me last time Isat under him. That's why old man Timbury has it in for me whenever hegets the chance. "

Mark looked puzzled. 

"Old man Timbury keeps the Hanover Inn. And he reckons my pa's preachingspoils his trade for a week. That's why he's sexton to the church. 'Tisthe only way he can get even with the chapel folk. He used to be in theNavy, and he lost his leg and got that hole in his head in a war withthe Rooshians. You'll hear him talking big about the Rooshianssometimes. My father says anybody listening to old Steve Timbury wouldthink he'd fought with the Devil, instead of a lot of poor learyRooshians. "

Mark was so much impressed by the older boy's confident chatter thatwhen he arrived back at the Vicarage and found his mother at breakfasthe tried the effect of an imitation of it upon her. 

"Darling boy, you mustn't excite yourself too much, " she warned him. "Dotry to eat a little more and talk a little less. "

"But I can go out again with Cass Dale, can't I, mother, as soon as I'vefinished my breakfast? He said he'd wait for me and he's going to showme where we might find some silver dollars. He says they're five timesas big as a shilling and he's going to show me where there's a fox'shole on the cliffs and he's . . . "

"But, Mark dear, don't forget, " interrupted his mother who was feelingfaintly jealous of this absorbing new friend, "don't forget that I canshow you lots of the interesting things to see round here. I was alittle girl here myself and used to play with Cass Dale's father when hewas a little boy no bigger than Cass. "

Just then grandfather came into the room and Mark was instantly dumb; hehad never been encouraged to talk much at breakfast in Lima Street. Hedid, however, eye his grandfather from over the top of his cup, and hefound him less alarming in the morning than he had supposed him to belast night. Parson Trehawke kept reaching across the table for thevarious things he wanted until his daughter jumped up and putting herarms round his neck said:

"Dearest father, why don't you ask Mark or me to pass you what youwant?"

"So long alone. So long alone, " murmured Parson Trehawke with anembarrassed smile and Mark observed with a thrill that when he smiled helooked exactly like his mother, and had Mark but known it exactly likehimself. 

"And it's so wonderful to be back here, " went on Mrs. Lidderdale, "witheverything looking just the same. As for Mark, he's so happy that--Mark, do tell grandfather how much you're enjoying yourself. "

Mark gulped several times, and finally managed to mutter a confirmationof his mother's statement. 

"And he's already made friends with Cass Dale. "

"He's intelligent but like his father he thinks he knows more than hedoes, " commented Parson Trehawke. "However, he'll make quite a goodcompanion for this young gentleman. "

As soon as breakfast was over Mark rushed out to join Cass Dale, whositting crosslegged under an ilex-tree was peeling a pithy twig for awhistle. 

CHAPTER VII

LIFE AT NANCEPEAN

For six years Mark lived with his mother and his grandfather atNancepean, hearing nothing of his father except that he had gone out asa missionary to the diocese of some place in Africa he could neverremember, so little interested was he in his father. His education wasshared between his two guardians, or rather his academic education; thereal education came either from what he read for himself in hisgrandfather's ancient library of from what he learnt of Cass Dale, whowas much more than merely informative in the manner of a sixpennyencyclopædia. The Vicar, who made himself responsible for the Latin andlater on for the Greek, began with Horace, his own favourite author, from the rapid translation aloud of whose Odes and Epodes one afteranother he derived great pleasure, though it is doubtful if his grandsonwould have learnt much Latin if Mrs. Lidderdale had not supplementedHorace with the Primer and Henry's Exercises. However, if Mark did notacquire a vocabulary, he greatly enjoyed listening to his grandfather'smelodious voice chanting forth that sonorous topography of Horace, whilethe green windows of the study winked every other minute from the flightpast of birds in the garden. His grandfather would stop and ask whatbird it was, because he loved birds even better than he loved Horace. And if Mark was tired of Latin he used to say that he wasn't sure, butthat he thought it was a lesser-spotted woodpecker or a shrike or anyone of the birds that experience taught him would always distract hisgrandfather's attention from anything that he was doing in order that hemight confirm or contradict the rumour. People who are much interestedin birds are less sociable than other naturalists. Their hobby demands asilent and solitary pursuit of knowledge, and the presence of humanbeings is prejudicial to their success. Parson Trehawke found thatMark's company was not so much of a handicap as he would have supposed;on the contrary he began to find it an advantage, because his grandson'seyes were sharp and his observation if he chose accurate: ParsonTrehawke, who was growing old, began to rely upon his help. It was onlywhen Mark was tired of listening to the translation of Horace that hecalled thrushes shrikes: when he was wandering over the cliffs ortramping beside his grandfather across the Rhos, he was severelysceptical of any rarity and used to make short work of the oldgentleman's Dartford warblers and fire-crested wrens. 

It was usually over birds if ever Parson Trehawke quarrelled with hisparishioners. Few of them attended his services, but they spoke well ofhim personally, and they reckoned that he was a fine old boy was Parson. They would not however abandon their beastly habit of snaring wildfowlin winter with fish-hooks, and many a time had Mark seen his grandfatherstand on the top of Pendhu Cliff, a favourite place to bait the hooks, cursing the scattered white houses of the village below as if it wereone of the cities of the plain. 

Although the people of Nancepean except for a very few never attendedthe services in their church they liked to be baptized and marriedwithin its walls, and not for anything would they have been buriedoutside the little churchyard by the sea. About three years after Mark'sarrival his grandfather had a great fight over a burial. The blacksmith, a certain William Day, died, and although he had never been inside St. Tugdual's Church since he was married, his relations set great store byhis being buried there and by Parson Trehawke's celebrating the lastrites. 

"Never, " vowed the Parson. "Never while I live will I lay thatblackguard in my churchyard. "

The elders of the village remonstrated with him, pointing out thatalthough the late Mr. Day was a pillar of the Chapel it had ever beenthe custom in Nancepean to let the bones of the most obstinate Wesleyanrest beside his forefathers. 

"Wesleyan!" shouted the Parson. "Who cares if he was a Jew? I won't havemy churchyard defiled by that blackguard's corpse. Only a week before hedied, I saw him with my own eyes fling two or three pieces of white-hotmetal to some ducks that were looking for worms in the ditch outside hissmithy, and the wretched birds gobbled them down and died in agony. Icursed him where he stood, and the judgment of God has struck him low, and never shall he rest in holy ground if I can keep him out of it. "

The elders of the village expressed their astonishment at Mr. Trehawke'sunreasonableness. William Day had been a God-fearing and upright man allhis life with no scandal upon his reputation unless it were the rumourthat he had got with child a half lunatic servant in his house, and thatwas never proved. Was a man to be refused Christian burial because hehad once played a joke on some ducks? And what would Parson Trehawkehave said to Jesus Christ about the joke he played on the Gadareneswine?

There is nothing that irritates a Kelt so much as the leastconsideration for any animal, and there was not a man in the whole ofthe Rhos peninsula who did not sympathize with the corpse of WilliamDay. In the end the dispute was settled by a neighbouring parson'scoming over and reading the burial service over the blacksmith's grave. Mark apprehended that his grandfather resented bitterly the compromiseas his fellow parson called it, the surrender as he himself called it. This was the second time that Mark had witnessed the defeat of asuperior being whom he had been taught to regard as invincible, and itslightly clouded that perfect serenity of being grown up to which, likemost children, he looked forward as the end of life's difficulties. Heargued the justification of his grandfather's action with Cass Dale, andhe found himself confronted by the workings of a mind naturallynonconformist with its rebellion against authority, its contempt oftradition, its blend of self-respect and self-importance. When Markfound himself in danger of being beaten in argument, he took to hisfists, at which method of settling a dispute Cass Dale proved equallyhis match; and the end of it was that Mark found himself upside down ina furze bush with nothing to console him but an unalterable convictionthat he was right and, although tears of pain and mortification werestreaming down his cheeks, a fixed resolve to renew the argument as soonas he was the right way up again, and if necessary the struggle as well. 

Luckily for the friendship between Mark and Cass, a friendship that wasawarded a mystical significance by their two surnames, Lidderdale andDale, Parson Trehawke, soon after the burial episode, came forward asthe champion of the Nancepean Fishing Company in a quarrel with thosepirates from Lanyon, the next village down the coast. Inasmuch as apilchard catch worth £800 was in dispute, feeling ran high between theNancepean Daws and the Lanyon Gulls. All the inhabitants of the Rhosparishes were called after various birds or animals that were supposedto indicate their character; and when Parson Trehawke's championship ofhis own won the day, his parishioners came to church in a body on thefollowing Sunday and put one pound five shillings and tenpence halfpennyin the plate. The reconciliation between the two boys took place withsolemn preliminary handshakes followed by linking of arms as of oldafter Cass reckoned audibly to Mark who was standing close by thatParson Trehawke was a grand old chap, the grandest old chap fromRosemarket to Rose Head. That afternoon Mark went back to tea with CassDale, and over honey with Cornish cream they were brothers again. SamuelDale, the father of Cass, was a typical farmer of that part of thecountry with his fifty or sixty acres of land, the capital to work whichhad come from fish in the fat pilchard years. Cass was his only son, andhe had an ambition to turn him into a full-fledged minister. He had losthis wife when Cass was a baby, and it pleased him to think that inplanning such a position for the boy he was carrying out the wishes ofthe mother whom outwardly he so much resembled. For housekeeper SamuelDale had an unmarried sister whom her neighbours accused of putting ontoo much gentility before her nephew's advancement warranted such airs. Mark liked Aunt Keran and accepted her hospitality as a tribute tohimself rather than to his position as the grandson of the Vicar. MissDale had been a schoolmistress before she came to keep house for herbrother, and she worked hard to supplement what learning Cass could getfrom the village school before, some three years after Mark came toNancepean, he was sent to Rosemarket Grammar School. 

Mark was anxious to attend the Grammar School with Cass; but Mrs. Lidderdale's dread nowadays was that her son would acquire a Westcountry burr, and it was considered more prudent, economically andotherwise, to let him go on learning with his grandfather and herself. Mark missed Cass when he went to school in Rosemarket, because there wasno such thing as playing truant there, and it was so far away that Cassdid not come home for the midday meal. But in summertime, Mark used towait for him outside the town, where a lane branched from the main roadinto the unfrequented country behind the Rose Pool and took them thelongest way home along the banks on the Nancepean side, which were lowand rushy unlike those on the Rosemarket side, which were steep anddensely wooded. The great water, though usually described asheart-shaped, was really more like a pair of Gothic arches, the greencusp between which was crowned by a lonely farmhouse, El Dorado of Markand his friend, and the base of which was the bar of shingle that keptout the sea. There was much to beguile the boys on the way home, whetherit was the sight of strange wildfowl among the reeds, or the explorationof a ruined cottage set in an ancient cherry-orchard, or the sailing ofpaper boats, or even the mere delight of lying on the grass andlistening above the murmur of insects to the water nagging at the sedge. So much indeed was there to beguile them that, if after sunset the Poolhad not been a haunted place, they would have lingered there tillnightfall. Sometimes indeed they did miscalculate the distance they hadcome and finding themselves likely to be caught by twilight they wouldhurry with eyes averted from the grey water lest the kelpie should riseout of the depths and drown them. There were men and women now alive inNancepean who could tell of this happening to belated wayfarers, and itwas Mark who discovered that such a beast was called a kelpie. Moreover, the bar where earlier in the evening it was pleasant to lie and pluckthe yellow sea-poppies, listening to tales of wrecks and buried treasureand bygone smuggling, was no place at all in the chill of twilight;moreover, when the bar had been left behind and before the coastguards'cottages came into sight there was a two-mile stretch of lonely cliffthat was a famous haunt of ghosts. Drowned light dragoons whose bodieswere tossed ashore here a hundred years ago, wreckers revisiting thescene of their crimes, murdered excisemen . . . It was not surprisingthat the boys hurried along the narrow path, whistling to keep up theirspirits and almost ready to cry for help if nothing more dangerous thana moth fanned their pale cheeks in passing. And after this Mark had toundo alone the nine gates between the Vicarage and Nancepean, thoughCass would go with him as far along his road as the last light of thevillage could be seen, and what was more stay there whistling for aslong as Mark could hear the heartening sound. 

But if these adventures demanded the companionship of Cass, theinspiration of them was Mark's mother. Just as in the nursery games ofLima Street it had always been she who had made it worth while to playwith his grenadiers, which by the way had perished in a troopship liketheir predecessors the light dragoons a century before, sinking one byone and leaving nothing behind except their cork-stands bobbing on thewaves. 

Mrs. Lidderdale knew every legend of the coast, so that it was thrillingto sit beside her and turn over the musty pages of the church registers, following from equinox to equinox in the entries of the burials thewrecks since the year 1702:

 The bodies of fifteen seamen from the brigantine _Ann Pink_ wrecked in Church Cove, on the afternoon of Dec. 19, 1757. 

 The body of a child washed into Pendhu Cove from the high seas during the night of Jan. 24, 1760. 

 The body of an unknown sailor, the breast tattooed with a heart and the initials M. V. Found in Hanover Cove on the morning of March 3, 1801. 

Such were the inscriptions below the wintry dates of two hundred years, and for each one Mark's mother had a moving legend of fortune's malice. She had tales too of treasure, from the golden doubloons of a Spanishgalleon wrecked on the Rose Bar in the sixteenth century to the silverdollars of Portugal, a million of them, lost in the narrow cove on theother side of the Castle Cliff in the lee of which was built St. Tugdual's Church. At low spring tides it was possible to climb down andsift the wet sand through one's fingers on the chance of finding adollar, and when the tide began to rise it was jolly to climb back tothe top of the cliff and listen to tales of mermaids while a gentle windblew the perfume of the sea-campion along the grassy slopes. It was herethat Mark first heard the story of the two princesses who were wreckedin what was now called Church Cove and of how they were washed up on thecliff and vowed to build a church in gratitude to God and St. Tugdual onthe very spot where they escaped from the sea, of how they quarrelledabout the site because each sister wished to commemorate the exact spotwhere she was saved, and of how finally one built the tower on her spotand the other built the church on hers, which was the reason why thechurch and the tower were not joined to this day. When Mark went homethat afternoon, he searched among his grandfather's books until he foundthe story of St. Tugdual who, it seemed, was a holy man in Brittany, soholy that he was summoned to be Pope of Rome. When he had been Pope fora few months, an angel appeared to him and said that he must come backat once to Brittany, because since he went to Rome all the women werebecome barren. 

"But how am I to go back all the way from Rome to Brittany?" St. Tugdualasked. 

"I have a white horse waiting for you, " the angel replied. 

And sure enough there was a beautiful white horse with wings, whichcarried St. Tugdual back to Brittany in a few minutes. 

"What does it mean when a woman becomes barren?" Mark inquired of hismother. 

"It means when she does not have any more children, darling, " said Mrs. Lidderdale, who did not believe in telling lies about anything. 

And because she answered her son simply, her son did not perplex himselfwith shameful speculations, but was glad that St. Tugdual went back homeso that the women of Brittany were able to have children again. 

Everything was simple at Nancepean except the parishioners; but Mark wasstill too young and too simple himself to apprehend their complicacy. The simplest thing of all was the Vicar's religion, and at an age whenfor most children religion means being dressed up to go into thedrawing-room and say how d'you do to God, Mark was allowed to go tochurch in his ordinary clothes and after church to play at whatever hewanted to play, so that he learned to regard the assemblage of humanbeings to worship God as nothing more remarkable than the song of birds. He was too young to have experienced yet a personal need of religion;but he had already been touched by that grace of fellowship which isconferred upon a small congregation, the individual members of which arein church to please themselves rather than to impress others. This wasalways the case in the church of Nancepean, which had to contend notmerely with the popularity of methodism, but also with the situation ofthe Chapel in the middle of the village. On the dark December eveningsthere would be perhaps not more than half a dozen worshippers, each oneof whom would have brought his own candle and stuck it on the shelf ofthe pew. The organist would have two candles for the harmonium; thechoir of three little boys and one little girl would have two betweenthem; the altar would have two; the Vicar would have two. But when allthe candle-light was put together, it left most of the church in shadow;indeed, it scarcely even illuminated the space between the worshippers, so that each one seemed wrapped in a golden aura of prayer, most of allwhen at Evensong the people knelt in silence for a minute while thesound of the sea without rose and fell and the noise of the windscuttling through the ivy on the walls was audible. When thecongregation had gone out and the Vicar was standing at the churchyardgate saying "good night, " Mark used to think that they must all befeeling happy to go home together up the long hill to Pendhu and downinto twinkling Nancepean. And it did not matter whether it was a nightof clear or clouded moonshine or a night of windy stars or a night ofdarkness; for when it was dark he could always look back from the valleyroad and see a company of lanthorns moving homeward; and that more thananything shed upon his young spirit the grace of human fellowship andthe love of mankind. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE WRECK

One wild night in late October of the year before he would be thirteen, Mark was lying awake hoping, as on such nights he always hoped, to hearsomebody shout "A wreck! A wreck!" A different Mark from that one whoused to lie trembling in Lima Street lest he should hear a shout of"Fire! or Thieves!"

And then it happened! It happened as a hundred times he had imagined itshappening, so exactly that he could hardly believe for a moment he wasnot dreaming. There was the flash of a lanthorn on the ceiling, athunderous, knocking on the Vicarage door. Mark leapt out of bed;flinging open his window through which the wind rushed in like a flightof angry birds, he heard voices below in the garden shouting "Parson!Parson! Parson Trehawke! There's a brig driving in fast toward ChurchCove. " He did not wait to hear more, but dashed along the passage torouse first his grandfather, then his mother, and then Emma, the Vicar'sold cook. 

"And you must get soup ready, " he cried, standing over the old woman inhis flannel pyjamas and waving his arms excitedly, while downstairs thecuckoo popped in and out of his door in the clock twelve times. Emmablinked at him in terror, and Mark pulled off all the bedclothes toconvince the old woman that he was not playing a practical joke. Then herushed back to his own room and began to dress for dear life. 

"Mother, " he shouted, while he was dressing, "the Captain can sleep inmy bed, if he isn't drowned, can't he?"

"Darling, do you really want to go down to the sea on such a night?"

"Oh, mother, " he gasped, "I'm practically dressed. And you will seethat Emma has lots of hot soup ready, won't you? Because it'll be muchbetter to bring all the crew back here. I don't think they'd want towalk all that way over Pendhu to Nancepean after they'd been wrecked, doyou?"

"Well, you must ask grandfather first before you make arrangements forhis house. "

"Grandfather's simply tearing into his clothes; Ernie Hockin and JoeDunstan have both got lanthorns, and I'll carry ours, so if one blowsout we shall be all right. Oh, mother, the wind's simply shriekingthrough the trees. Can you hear it?"

"Yes, dearest, I certainly can. I think you'd better shut your windows. It's blowing everything about in your room most uncomfortably. "

Mark's soul expanded in gratitude to God when he found himself neitherin a dream nor in a story, but actually, and without any possibility ofself-deception hurrying down the drive toward the sea beside Ernie andJoe, who had come from the village to warn the Vicar of the wreck andwere wearing oilskins and sou'westers, thus striking the keynote as itwere of the night's adventure. At first in the shelter of the holm-oaksthe storm seemed far away overhead; but when they turned the corner andtook the road along the valley, the wind caught them full in the faceand Mark was blown back violently against the swinging gate of thedrive. The light of the lanthorns shining on a rut in the road showed afield-mouse hurrying inland before the rushing gale. Mark bent double toforce himself to keep up with the others, lest somebody should think, byhis inability to maintain an equal pace that he ought to follow thefield-mouse back home. After they had struggled on for a while a bend ofthe valley gave them a few minutes of easy progress and Mark listenedwhile Ernie Hockin explained to the Vicar what had happened:

"Just before dark Eddowes the coastguard said he reckoned there was abrig making very heavy weather of it and he shouldn't be surprised ifshe come ashore tonight. Couldn't seem to beat out of the bay noways, hesaid. And afterwards about nine o'clock when me and Joe here and someof the chaps were in the bar to the Hanover, Eddowes come in again andsaid she was in a bad way by the looks of her last thing he saw, and hetelephoned along to Lanyon to ask if they'd seen her down to thelifeboat house. They reckoned she was all right to the lifeboat, and oldman Timbury who do always go against anything Eddowes do say shoutedthat of course she was all right because he'd taken a look at herthrough his glass before it grew dark. Of course she was all right. 'She's on a lee shore, ' said Eddowes. 'It don't take a coastguard totell that, ' said old man Timbury. And then they got to talking oneagainst the other the same as they belong, and they'd soon got back tothe same old talk whether Jackie Fisher was the finest admiral who everlived or no use at all. 'What's the good in your talking to me?' old manTimbury was saying. 'Why afore you was born I've seen' . . . And we allstarted in to shout 'ships o' the line, frigates, and cavattes, ' becausewe belong to mock him like that, when somebody called 'Hark, listen, wasn't that a rocket?' That fetched us all outside into the road wherewe stood listening. The wind was blowing harder than ever, and there wasa parcel of sea rising. You could hear it against Shag Rock over thewind. Eddowes, he were a bit upset to think he should have been talkingand not a-heard the rocket. But there wasn't a light in the sky, andwhen we went home along about half past nine we saw Eddowes again and hesaid he'd been so far as Church Cove and should walk up along to theBar. No mistake, Mr. Trehawke, he's a handy chap is Eddowes for thecoastguard job. And then about eleven o'clock he saw two rockets closein to Church Cove and he come running back and telephoned to Lanyon, butthey said no one couldn't launch a boat to-night, and Eddowes he comebanging on the doors and windows shouting 'A Wreck' and some of us tookropes along with Eddowes, and me and Joe here come and fetched youalong. Eddowes said he's afeard she'll strike in Dollar Cove unlessshe's lucky and come ashore in Church Cove. "

"How's the tide?" asked the Vicar. 

"About an hour of the ebb, " said Ernie Hockin. "And the moon's been upthis hour and more. "

Just then the road turned the corner, and the world became a waste ofwind and spindrift driving inland. The noise of the gale made itimpossible for anybody to talk, and Mark was left wondering whether theship had actually struck or not. The wind drummed in his ears, theflying grit and gravel and spray stung his face; but he struggled onhoping that this midnight walk would not come to an abrupt end by hisgrandfather's declining to go any farther. Above the drumming of thewind the roar of the sea became more audible every moment; the spume wasthicker; the end of the valley, ordinarily the meeting-place of sand andgrass and small streams with their yellow flags and forget-me-nots, wasa desolation of white foam beyond which against the cliffs showing blackin the nebulous moonlight the breakers leapt high with frothy tongues. Mark thought that they resembled immense ghosts clawing up to reach thesummit of the cliff. It was incredible that this hell-broth was ChurchCove. 

"Hullo!" yelled Ernie Hockin. "Here's the bridge. "

It was true. One wave at the moment of high tide had swept snarling overthe stream and carried the bridge into the meadow beyond. 

"We'll have to get round by the road, " shouted the Vicar. 

They turned to the right across a ploughed field and after scramblingthrough the hedge emerged in the comparative shelter of the road downfrom Pendhu. 

"I hope the churchyard wall is all right, " said the Vicar. "I neverremember such a night since I came to Nancepean. "

"Sure 'nough, 'tis blowing very fierce, " Joe Dunstan agreed. "But don'tyou worry about the wall, Mr. Trehawke. The worst of the water is brokenby the Castle and only comes in sideways, as you might say. "

When they drew near the gate of the churchyard, the rain of sand andsmall pebbles was agonizing, as it swept across up the low sandstonecliffs on that side of the Castle. Two or three excited figures shoutedfor them to hurry because she was going to strike in Dollar Cove, andeverybody began to scramble up the grassy slope, clutching at thetuffets of thrift to aid their progress. It was calm here in the lee;and Mark panting up the face thought of those two princesses who werewrecked here ages ago, and he understood now why one of them hadinsisted on planting the tower deep in the foundation of this greenfortress against the wind and weather. While he was thinking this, hishead came above the sky line, his breath left him at the assault of thewind, and he had to crawl on all fours toward the sea. He reached theedge of the cliff just as something like the wings of a gigantic batflapped across the dim wet moonlight, and before he realized that thiswas the brig he heard the crashing of her spars. The watchers stood upagainst the wind, battling with it to fling lines in the vain hope ofsaving some sailor who was being churned to death in that dreadfulcreaming of the sea below. Yes, and there were forms of men visible onboard; two had climbed the mainmast, which crashed before they couldclutch at the ropes that were being flung to them from land, crashed andcarried them down shrieking into the surge. Mark found it hard tobelieve that last summer he had spent many sunlit hours dabbling in thesand for silver dollars of Portugal lost perhaps on such a night as thisa hundred years ago, exactly where these two poor mariners were lost. Afew minutes after the mainmast the hull went also; but in the nebulousmoonlight nothing could be seen of any bodies alive or dead, nothingexcept wreckage tossing upon the surge. The watchers on the cliff turnedaway from the wind to gather new breath and give their cheeks a restfrom the stinging fragments of rock and earth. Away up over the towansthey could see the bobbing lanthorns of men hurrying down from Chypiewhere news of the wreck had reached; and on the road from Lanyon theycould see lanthorns on the other side of Church Cove waiting until thetide had ebbed far enough to let them cross the beach. 

Suddenly the Vicar shouted:

"I can see a poor fellow hanging on to a ledge of rock. Bring a rope!Bring a rope!"

Eddowes the coastguard took charge of the operation, and Mark withbeating pulses watched the end of the rope touch the huddled form below. But either from exhaustion or because he feared to let go of theslippery ledge for one moment the sailor made no attempt to grasp therope. The men above shouted to him, begged him to make an effort; but heremained there inert. 

"Somebody must go down with the rope and get a slip knot under hisarms, " the Vicar shouted. 

Nobody seemed to pay attention to this proposal, and Mark wondered if hewas the only one who had heard it. However, when the Vicar repeated hissuggestion, Eddowes came forward, knelt down by the edge of the cliff, shook himself like a bather who is going to plunge into what he knowswill be very cold water, and then vanished down the rope. Everybodycrawled on hand and knees to see what would happen. Mark prayed thatEddowes, who was a great friend of his, would not come to any harm, butthat he would rescue the sailor and be given the Albert medal for savinglife. It was Eddowes who had made him medal wise. The coastguardstruggled to slip the loop under the man's shoulders along his legs; butit must have been impossible, for presently he made a signal to beraised. 

"I can't do it alone, " he shouted. "He's got a hold like a limpet. "

Nobody seemed anxious to suppose that the addition of another rescuerwould be any more successful. 

"If there was two of us, " Eddowes went on, "we might do something. "

The people on the cliff shook their heads doubtfully. 

"Isn't anybody coming down along with me to have a try?" the coastguarddemanded at the top of his voice. 

Mark did not hear his grandfather's reply; he only saw him go over thecliff's edge at the end of one rope while Eddowes went down on another. A minute later the slipknot came untied (or that was how the accidentwas explained) and the Vicar went to join the drowned mariners, dislodging as he fell the man whom he had tried to save, so that of thecrew of the brig _Happy Return_ not one ever came to port. 

It would be difficult to exaggerate the effect upon Mark Lidderdale ofthat night. He was twelve years old at the time; but the years inCornwall had retarded that precocious development to which he seemeddestined by the surroundings of his early childhood in Lima Street, andin many ways he was hardly any older than he was when he left London. Inafter years he looked back with gratitude upon the shock he receivedfrom what was as it were an experience of the material impact of death, because it made him think about death, not morbidly as so many childrenand young people will, but with the apprehension of something thatreally does come in a moment and for which it is necessary for everyhuman being to prepare his soul. The platitudes of age may often be foryouth divine revelations, and there is nothing so stimulating as theunaided apprehension of a great commonplace of existence. The awe withwhich Mark was filled that night was too vast to evaporate in sentiment, and when two days after this there came news from Africa that his fatherhad died of black-water fever that awe was crystallized indeed. Marklooking round at his small world perceived that nobody was safe. To-morrow his mother might die; to-morrow he might die himself. In anycase the death of his grandfather would have meant a profound change inthe future of his mother's life and his own; the living of Nancepeanwould fall to some other priest and with it the house in which theylived. Parson Trehawke had left nothing of any value except Gould's_Birds of Great Britain_ and a few other works of ornithology. Thefurniture of the Vicarage was rich neither in quality nor in quantity. Three or four hundred pounds was the most his daughter could inherit. She had spoken to Mark of their poverty, because in her dismay for thefuture of her son she had no heart to pretend that the dead man's moneywas of little importance. 

"I must write and ask your father what we ought to do. " . . . Shestopped in painful awareness of the possessive pronoun. Mark wasunresponsive, until there came the news from Africa, which made himthrow his arms about his mother's neck while she was still alive. Mrs. Lidderdale, whatever bitterness she may once have felt for the ruin ofher married life, shed fresh tears of sorrow for her husband, andsupposing that Mark's embrace was the expression of his sympathy weptmore, as people will when others are sorry for them, and then still morebecause the future for Mark seemed hopeless. How was she to educate him?How clothe him? How feed him even? At her age where and how could sheearn money? She reproached herself with having been too ready out ofsensitiveness to sacrifice Mark to her own pride. She had had no rightto leave her husband and live in the country like this. She should haverepressed her own emotion and thought only of the family life, to themaintenance of which by her marriage she had committed herself. At firstit had seemed the best thing for Mark; but she should have rememberedthat her father could not live for ever and that one day she would haveto face the problem of life without his help and his hospitality. Shebegan to imagine that the disaster of that stormy night had beencontrived by God to punish her, and she prayed to Him that herchastisement should not be increased, that at least her son might bespared to her. 

Mrs. Lidderdale was able to stay on at the Vicarage for several weeks, because the new Vicar of Nancepean was not able to take over his chargeimmediately. This delay gave her time to hold a sale of her father'sfurniture, at which the desire of the neighbours to be generous foughtwith their native avarice, so that in the end the furniture fetchedneither more nor less than had been expected, which was little enough. She kept back enough to establish herself and Mark in rooms, should shebe successful in finding some unfurnished rooms sufficiently cheap toallow her to take them, although how she was going to live for more thantwo years on what she had was a riddle of which after a month ofsleepless nights she had not found the solution. 

In the end, and as Mrs. Lidderdale supposed in answer to her prayers, the solution was provided unexpectedly in the following letter:

 Haverton House, Elmhurst Road, Slowbridge. 

 November 29th. 

 Dear Grace, I have just received a letter from James written when he was at the point of death in Africa. It appears that in his zeal to convert the heathen to Popery he omitted to make any provision for his wife and child, so that in the event of his death, unless either your relatives or his relatives came forward to support you I was given to understand that you would be destitute. I recently read in the daily paper an account of the way in which your father Mr. Trehawke lost his life, and I caused inquiries to be made in Rosemarket about your prospects. These my informant tells me are not any too bright. You will, I am sure, pardon my having made these inquiries without reference to you, but I did not feel justified in offering you and my nephew a home with my sister Helen and myself unless I had first assured myself that some such offer was necessary. You are probably aware that for many years my brother James and myself have not been on the best of terms. I on my side found his religious teaching so eccentric as to repel me; he on his side was so bigoted that he could not tolerate my tacit disapproval. Not being a Ritualist but an Evangelical, I can perhaps bring myself more easily to forgive my brother's faults and at the same time indulge my theories of duty, as opposed to forms and ceremonies, theories that if carried out by everybody would soon transform our modern Christianity. You are no doubt a Ritualist, and your son has no doubt been educated in the same school. Let me hasten to give you my word that I shall not make the least attempt to interfere either with your religious practices or with his. The quarrel between myself and James was due almost entirely to James' inability to let me and my opinions alone. 

 I am far from being a rich man, in fact I may say at once that I am scarcely even "comfortably off" as the phrase goes. It would therefore be outside my capacity to undertake the expense of any elaborate education for your son; but my own school, which while it does not pretend to compete with some of the fashionable establishments of the time is I venture to assert a first class school and well able to send your son into the world at the age of sixteen as well equipped, and better equipped than he would be if he went to one of the famous public schools. I possess some influence with a firm of solicitors, and I have no doubt that when my nephew, who is I believe now twelve years old, has had the necessary schooling I shall be able to secure him a position as an articled clerk, from which if he is honest and industrious he may be able to rise to the position of a junior partner. If you have saved anything from the sale of your father's effects I should advise you to invest the sum. However small it is, you will find the extra money useful, for as I remarked before I shall not be able to afford to do more than lodge and feed you both, educate your son, find him in clothes, and start him in a career on the lines I have already indicated. My local informant tells me that you have kept back a certain amount of your father's furniture in order to take lodgings elsewhere. As this will now be unnecessary I hope that you will sell the rest. Haverton House is sufficiently furnished, and we should not be able to find room for any more furniture. I suggest your coming to us next Friday. It will be easiest for you to take the fast train up to Paddington when you will be able to catch the 6. 45 to Slowbridge arriving at 7. 15. We usually dine at 7. 30, but on Friday dinner will be at 8 p. M. In order to give you plenty of time. Helen sends her love. She would have written also, but I assured her that one letter was enough, and that a very long one. 

 Your affectionate brother-in-law, Henry Lidderdale. 

Mrs. Lidderdale would no doubt have criticized this letter more sharplyif she had not regarded it as inspired, almost actually written by thehand of God. Whatever in it was displeasing to her she accepted as theDivine decree, and if anybody had pointed out the inconsistency of someof the opinions therein expressed with its Divine authorship, she wouldhave dismissed the objection as made by somebody who was incapable ofcomprehending the mysterious action of God. 

"Mark, " she called to her son. "What do you think has happened? YourUncle Henry has offered us a home. I want you to write to him like adear boy and thank him for his kindness. " She explained in detail whatUncle Henry intended to do for them; but Mark would not be enthusiastic. He on his side had been praying to God to put it into the mind of SamuelDale to offer him a job on his farm; Slowbridge was a poor substitutefor that. 

"Where is Slowbridge?" he asked in a gloomy voice. 

"It's a fairly large place near London, " his mother told him. "It's nearEton and Windsor and Stoke Poges where Gray wrote his Elegy, which welearned last summer. You remember, don't you?" she asked anxiously, forshe wanted Mark to cut a figure with his uncle. 

"Wolfe liked it, " said Mark. "And I like it too, " he added ungraciously. He wished that he could have said he hated it; but Mark always found itdifficult to tell a lie about his personal feelings, or about any factsthat involved him in a false position. 

"And now before you go down to tea with Cass Dale, you will write toyour uncle, won't you, and show me the letter?"

Mark groaned. 

"It's so difficult to thank people. It makes me feel silly. "

"Well, darling, mother wants you to. So sit down like a dear boy and getit done. "

"I think my nib is crossed. "

"Is it? You'll find another in my desk. "

"But, mother, yours are so thick. "

"Please, Mark, don't make any more excuses. Don't you want to doeverything you can to help me just now?"

"Yes, of course, " said Mark penitently, and sitting down in the windowhe stared out at the yellow November sky, and at the magpies flyingbusily from one side of the valley to the other. 

 The Vicarage, Nancepean, South Cornwall. 

 My dear Uncle Henry, Thank you very much for your kind invitation to come and live with you. We should enjoy it very much. I am going to tea with a friend of mine called Cass Dale who lives in Nancepean, and so I must stop now. With love, I remain, Your loving nephew, Mark. 

And then the pen must needs go and drop a blot like a balloon right overhis name, so that the whole letter had to be copied out again before hismother would say that she was satisfied, by which time the yellow skywas dun and the magpies were gone to rest. 

Mark left the Dales about half past six, and was accompanied by Cass tothe brow of Pendhu. At this point Cass declined to go any farther inspite of Mark's reminder that this would be one of the last walks theywould take together, if it were not absolutely the very last. 

"No, " said Cass. "I wouldn't come up from Church Cove myself not foranything. "

"But I'm going down by myself, " Mark argued. "If I hadn't thought you'dcome all the way with me, I'd have gone home by the fields. What are youafraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of nothing, but I don't want to walk so far by myself. I've come up the hill with 'ee. Now 'tis all down hill for both of us, and that's fair. "

"Oh, all right, " said Mark, turning away in resentment at his friend'sdesertion. 

Both boys ran off in opposite directions, Cass past the splash of lightthrown across the road by the windows of the Hanover Inn, and on towardthe scattered lights of Nancepean, Mark into the gloom of the deep lanedown to Church Cove. It was a warm and humid evening that brought outthe smell of the ferns and earth in the high banks on either side, andpresently at the bottom of the hill the smell of the seaweed heaped upin Church Cove by weeks of gales. The moon, about three days from thefull, was already up, shedding her aqueous lustre over the towans ofChypie, which slowly penetrated the black gulfs of shadow in thecountryside until Mark could perceive the ghost of a familiar landscape. There came over him, whose emotion had already been sprung by theinsensibility of Cass, an overwhelming awareness of parting, and hegave to the landscape the expression of sentiment he had yearned to givehis friend. His fear of seeing the spirits of the drowned sailors, or ashe passed the churchyard gate of perceiving behind that tamarisk thetall spectre of his grandfather, which on the way down from Pendhu hadseemed impossible to combat, had died away; and in his despair at losingthis beloved scene he wandered on past the church until he stood at theedge of the tide. On this humid autumnal night the oily sea collapsedupon the beach as if it, like everything else in nature, was overcome bythe prevailing heaviness. Mark sat down upon some tufts of samphire andwatched the Stag Light occulting out across St. Levan's Bay, distantforty miles and more, and while he sat he perceived a glow-worm at hisfeet creeping along a sprig of samphire that marked the limit of thetide's advance. How did the samphire know that it was safe to grow whereit did, and how did the glow-worm know that the samphire was safe?

Mark was suddenly conscious of the protection of God, for might not heexpect as much as the glow-worm and the samphire? The ache of separationfrom Nancepean was assuaged. That dread of the future, with which theimpact of death had filled him, was allayed. 

"Good-night, sister glow-worm, " he said aloud in imitation of St. Francis. "Good-night, brother samphire. "

A drift of distant fog had obliterated the Stag Light; but of hersamphire the glow-worm had made a moonlit forest, so brightly was sheshining, yes, a green world of interlacing, lucid boughs. 

_Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. _

And Mark, aspiring to thank God Who had made manifest His protection, left Nancepean three days later with the determination to become alighthouse-keeper, to polish well his lamp and tend it with care, sothat men passing by in ships should rejoice at his good works and callhim brother lighthouse-keeper, and glorify God their Father when theywalked again upon the grass, harking to the pleasant song of birds andthe hum of bees. 

CHAPTER IX

SLOWBRIDGE

When Mark came to live with Uncle Henry Lidderdale at Slowbridge, he waslarge for his age, or at any rate he was so loosely jointed as to appearlarge; a swart complexion, prominent cheek-bones, and straight lank hairgave him a melancholic aspect, the impression of which remained with theobserver until he heard the boy laugh in a paroxysm of merriment thatleft his dark blue eyes dancing long after the outrageous noise had dieddown. If Mark had occasion to relate some episode that appealed to him, his laughter would accompany the narrative like a pack of hounds in fullcry, would as it were pursue the tale to its death, and communicate itszest to the listener, who would think what a sense of humour Mark had, whereas it was more truly the gusto of life. 

Uncle Henry found this laughter boisterous and irritating; if his nephewhad been a canary in a cage, he would have covered him with atable-cloth. Aunt Helen, if she was caught up in one of Mark'snarratives, would twitch until it was finished, when she would rub herforehead with an acorn of menthol and wrap herself more closely in ashawl of soft Shetland wool. The antipathy that formerly existed betweenMark and his father was much sharper between Mark and his uncle. It wasborn in the instant of their first meeting, when Uncle Henry bent over, his trunk at right angles to his legs, so that one could fancy thepelvic bones to be clicking like the wooden joints of a monkey on astick, and offered his nephew an acrid whisker to be saluted. 

"And what is Mark going to be?" Uncle Henry inquired. 

"A lighthouse-keeper. "

"Ah, we all have suchlike ambitions when we are young. I remember thatfor nearly a year I intended to be a muffin-man, " said Uncle Henryseverely. 

Mark hated his uncle from that moment, and he fixed upon the throbbingpulse of his scraped-out temples as the feature upon which that dislikeshould henceforth be concentrated. Uncle Henry's pulse seemed to expressall the vitality that was left to him; Mark thought that Our Lord musthave felt about the barren fig-tree much as he felt about Uncle Henry. 

Aunt Helen annoyed Mark in the way that one is annoyed by a cushion inan easy chair. It is soft and apparently comfortable, but after a minuteor two one realizes that it is superfluous, and it is pushed over thearm to the floor. Unfortunately Aunt Helen could not be treated like acushion; and there she was soft and comfortable in appearance, butforever in Mark's way. Aunt Helen was the incarnation of her owndrawing-room. Her face was round and stupid like a clock's; she worebrocaded gowns and carpet slippers; her shawls resembled antimacassars;her hair was like the stuff that is put in grates during the summer; hercaps were like lace curtains tied back with velvet ribbons; cameos leantagainst her bosom as if they were upon a mantelpiece. Mark neverovercame his dislike of kissing Aunt Helen, for it gave him a sensationevery time that a bit of her might stick to his lips. He lacked thatsolemn sense of relationship with which most children are imbued, andthe compulsory intimacy offended him, particularly when his auntreferred to little boys generically as if they were beetles or mice. Herinability to appreciate that he was Mark outraged his young sense ofpersonality which was further dishonoured by the manner in which shespoke of herself as Aunt Helen, thus seeming to imply that he was onlyhuman at all in so far as he was her nephew. She continually shocked hisdignity by prescribing medicine for him without regard to the presenceof servants or visitors; and nothing gave her more obvious pleasure thanto get Mark into the drawing-room on afternoons when dreary mothers ofpupils came to call, so that she might bully him under the appearance ofteaching good manners, and impress the parents with the advantages of aHaverton House education. 

As long as his mother remained alive, Mark tried to make her happy bypretending that he enjoyed living at Haverton House, that he enjoyed hisuncle's Preparatory School for the Sons of Gentlemen, that he enjoyedSlowbridge with its fogs and laburnums, its perambulators andtradesmen's carts and noise of whistling trains; but a year after theyleft Nancepean Mrs. Lidderdale died of pneumonia, and Mark was leftalone with his uncle and aunt. 

"He doesn't realize what death means, " said Aunt Helen, when Mark on thevery afternoon of the funeral without even waiting to change out of hisbest clothes began to play with soldiers instead of occupying himselfwith the preparation of lessons that must begin again on the morrow. 

"I wonder if you will play with soldiers when Aunt Helen dies?" shepressed. 

"No, " said Mark quickly, "I shall work at my lessons when you die. "

His uncle and aunt looked at him suspiciously. They could find no faultwith the answer; yet something in the boy's tone, some dreadfulsuppressed exultation made them feel that they ought to find severefault with the answer. 

"Wouldn't it be kinder to your poor mother's memory, " Aunt Helensuggested, "wouldn't it be more becoming now to work harder at yourlessons when your mother is watching you from above?"

Mark would not condescend to explain why he was playing with soldiers, nor with what passionate sorrow he was recalling every fleetingexpression on his mother's face, every slight intonation of her voicewhen she was able to share in his game; he hated his uncle and aunt soprofoundly that he revelled in their incapacity to understand him, andhe would have accounted it a desecration of her memory to share hisgrief with them. 

Haverton House School was a depressing establishment; in after yearswhen Mark looked back at it he used to wonder how it had managed tosurvive so long, for when he came to live at Slowbridge it had actuallybeen in existence for twenty years, and his uncle was beginning to lookforward to the time when Old Havertonians, as he called them, would bebringing their sons to be educated at the old place. There were aboutfifty pupils, most of them the sons of local tradesmen, who left whenthey were about fourteen, though a certain number lingered on until theywere as much as sixteen in what was called the Modern Class, where theywere supposed to receive at least as practical an education as theywould have received behind the counter, and certainly a more genteelone. Fine fellows those were in the Modern Class at Haverton House, stalwart heroes who made up the cricket and football teams and strodeabout the playing fields of Haverton House with as keen a sense of theirown importance as Etonians of comparable status in their playing fieldsnot more than two miles away. Mark when everything else in his schoollife should be obliterated by time would remember their names andprowess. . . . Borrow, Tull, Yarde, Corke, Vincent, Macdougal, Skinner, they would keep throughout his life some of that magic which clings toDiomed and Deiphobus, to Hector and Achilles. 

Apart from these heroic names the atmosphere of Haverton House was notinspiring. It reduced the world to the size and quality of one of thosescratched globes with which Uncle Henry demonstrated geography. Everysubject at Haverton House, no matter how interesting it promised to be, was ruined from an educative point of view by its impedimenta of dates, imports, exports, capitals, capes, and Kings of Israel and Judah. Neither Uncle Henry nor his assistants Mr. Spaull and Mr. Palmerbelieved in departing from the book. Whatever books were chosen for theterm's curriculum were regarded as something for which money had beenpaid and from which the last drop of information must be squeezed tojustify in the eyes of parents the expenditure. The teachers consideredthe notes more important than the text; genealogical tables were exaltedabove anything on the same page. Some books of history were adorned withillustrations; but no use was made of them by the masters, and for thepupils they merely served as outlines to which, were they the outlinesof human beings, inky beards and moustaches had to be affixed, or werethey landscapes, flights of birds. 

Mr. Spaull was a fat flabby young man with a heavy fair moustache, whowas reading for Holy Orders; Mr. Palmer was a stocky bow-legged youngman in knickerbockers, who was good at football and used to lament thegentle birth that prevented his becoming a professional. The boys calledhim Gentleman Joe; but they were careful not to let Mr. Palmer hearthem, for he had a punch and did not believe in cuddling the young. Heused to jeer openly at his colleague, Mr. Spaull, who never playedfootball, never did anything in the way of exercise except wrestleflirtatiously with the boys, while Mr. Palmer was bellowing up and downthe field of play and charging his pupils with additional vigour tocounteract the feebleness of Mr. Spaull. Poor Mr. Spaull, he wasordained about three years after Mark came to Slowbridge, and a weeklater he was run over by a brewer's dray and killed. 

CHAPTER X

WHIT-SUNDAY

Mark at the age of fifteen was a bitter, lonely, and unattractive boy. Three years of Haverton House, three years of Uncle Henry's desiccatedreligion, three years of Mr. Palmer's athletic education and Mr. Spaull's milksop morality, three years of wearing clothes that were toosmall for him, three years of Haverton House cooking, three years ofwarts and bad haircutting, of ink and Aunt Helen's confident purging haddestroyed that gusto for life which when Mark first came to Slowbridgeused to express itself in such loud laughter. Uncle Henry probablysupposed that the cure of his nephew's irritating laugh was thefoundation stone of that successful career, which it would soon be timeto discuss in detail. The few months between now and Mark's sixteenthbirthday would soon pass, however dreary the restrictions of HavertonHouse, and then it would be time to go and talk to Mr. Hitchcock aboutthat articled clerkship toward the fees for which the small sum left byhis mother would contribute. Mark was so anxious to be finished withHaverton House that he would have welcomed a prospect even lessattractive than Mr. Hitchcock's office in Finsbury Square; it neveroccurred to him that the money left by his mother could be spent togreater advantage for himself. By now it was over £500, and Uncle Henryon Sunday evenings when he was feeling comfortably replete with theday's devotion would sometimes allude to his having left the interest toaccumulate and would urge Mark to be up and doing in order to show hisgratitude for all that he and Aunt Helen had conferred upon him. Markfelt no gratitude; in fact at this period he felt nothing except a kindof surly listlessness. He was like somebody who through the carelessnessof his nurse or guardian has been crippled in youth, and who ispreparing to enter the world with a suppressed resentment againsteverybody and everything. 

"Not still hankering after a lighthouse?" Uncle Henry asked, and oneseemed to hear his words snapping like dry twigs beneath the heavy treadof his mind. 

"I'm not hankering after anything, " Mark replied sullenly. 

"But you're looking forward to Mr. Hitchcock's office?" his uncleproceeded. 

Mark grunted an assent in order to be left alone, and the entrance ofMr. Palmer who always had supper with his headmaster and employer onSunday evening, brought the conversation to a close. 

At supper Mr. Palmer asked suddenly if the headmaster wanted Mark to gointo the Confirmation Class this term. 

"No thanks, " said Mark. 

Uncle Henry raised his eyebrows. 

"I fancy that is for me to decide. "

"Neither my father nor my mother nor my grandfather would have wanted meto be confirmed against my will, " Mark declared. He was angry withoutknowing his reasons, angry in response to some impulse of the existenceof which he had been unaware until he began to speak. He only knew thatif he surrendered on this point he should never be able to act forhimself again. 

"Are you suggesting that you should never be confirmed?" his unclerequired. 

"I'm not suggesting anything, " said Mark. "But I can remember myfather's saying once that boys ought to be confirmed before they arethirteen. My mother just before she died wanted me to be confirmed, butit couldn't be arranged, and now I don't intend to be confirmed till Ifeel I want to be confirmed. I don't want to be prepared forconfirmation as if it was a football match. If you force me to go to theconfirmation I'll refuse to answer the Bishop's questions. You can'tmake me answer against my will. "

"Mark dear, " said Aunt Helen, "I think you'd better take some Eno'sFruit Salts to-morrow morning. " In her nephew's present mood she did notdare to prescribe anything stronger. 

"I'm not going to take anything to-morrow morning, " said Mark angrily. 

"Do you want me to thrash you?" Uncle Henry demanded. 

Mr. Palmer's eyes glittered with the zeal of muscular Christianity. 

"You'll be sorry for it if you do, " said Mark. "You can of course, ifyou get Mr. Palmer to help you, but you'll be sorry if you do. "

Mr. Palmer looked at his chief as a terrier looks at his master when arabbit is hiding in a bush. But the headmaster's vanity would not allowhim to summon help to punish his own nephew, and he weakly contentedhimself with ordering Mark to be silent. 

"It strikes me that Spaull is responsible for this sort of thing, " saidMr. Palmer. "He always resented my having any hand in the religiousteaching. "

"That poor worm!" Mark scoffed. 

"Mark, he's dead, " Aunt Helen gasped. "You mustn't speak of him likethat. "

"Get out of the room and go to bed, " Uncle Henry shouted. 

Mark retired with offensive alacrity, and while he was undressing hewondered drearily why he had made himself so conspicuous on this Sundayevening out of so many Sunday evenings. What did it matter whether hewere confirmed or not? What did anything matter except to get throughthe next year and be finished with Haverton House?

He was more sullen than ever during the week, but on Saturday he had thesatisfaction of bowling Mr. Palmer in the first innings of a match andin the second innings of hitting him on the jaw with a rising ball. 

The next day he rose at five o'clock on a glorious morning in early Juneand walked rapidly away from Slowbridge. By ten o'clock he had reached acountry of rolling beech-woods, and turning aside from the high road hewandered over the bare nutbrown soil that gave the glossy leaves highabove a green unparagoned, a green so lambent that the glimpses of thesky beyond seemed opaque as turquoises amongst it. In quick successionMark saw a squirrel, a woodpecker, and a jay, creatures so perfectlyexpressive of the place, that they appeared to him more like visionsthan natural objects; and when they were gone he stood with beatingheart in silence as if in a moment the trees should fly likewoodpeckers, the sky flash and flutter its blue like a jay's wing, andthe very earth leap like a squirrel for his amazement. Presently he cameto an open space where the young bracken was springing round a pool. Heflung himself down in the frondage, and the spice of it in his nostrilswas as if he were feeding upon summer. He was happy until he caughtsight of his own reflection in the pool, and then he could not bear tostay any longer in this wood, because unlike the squirrel and thewoodpecker and the jay he was an ugly intruder here, a scarecrow inill-fitting clothes, round the ribbon of whose hat like a chain ran theyellow zigzag of Haverton House. He became afraid of the wood, perceiving nothing round him now except an assemblage of menacingtrunks, a slow gathering of angry and forbidding branches. The silenceof the day was dreadful in this wood, and Mark fled from it until heemerged upon a brimming clover-ley full of drunken bees, a merryclover-ley dancing in the sun, across which the sound of church bellswas being blown upon a honeyed wind. Mark welcomed the prospect ofseeing ugly people again after the humiliation inflicted upon him by thewood; and he followed a footpath at the far end of the ley acrossseveral stiles, until he stood beneath the limes that overhung thechurchyard gate and wondered if he should go inside to the service. Thebells were clanging an agitated final appeal to the worshippers; andMark, unable to resist, allowed himself to flow toward the cool dimnesswithin. There with a thrill he recognized the visible signs of hischildhood's religion, and now after so many years he perceived with neweyes an unfamiliar beauty in the crossings and genuflexions, in thepictures and images. The world which had lately seemed so jejune wascrowded like a dream, a dream moreover that did not elude therecollection of it in the moment of waking, but that stayed with himfor the rest of his life as the evidence of things not seen, which isFaith. 

It was during the Gospel that Mark began to realize that what was beingsaid and done at the Altar demanded not merely his attention but alsohis partaking. All the services he had attended since he came toSlowbridge had demanded nothing from him, and even when he was atNancepean he had always been outside the sacred mysteries. But now onthis Whit-sunday morning he heard in the Gospel:

_Hereafter I will not talk much with you: for the prince of this worldcometh and hath nothing in me. _

And while he listened it seemed that Jesus Christ was departing fromhim, and that unless he were quick to offer himself he should be left tothe prince of this world; so black was Mark's world in those days thatthe Prince of it meant most unmistakably the Prince of Darkness, and theprophecy made him shiver with affright. With conviction he said theNicene Creed, and when the celebrating priest, a tall fair man, with agentle voice and of a mild and benignant aspect, went up into the pulpitand announced that there would be a confirmation in his church on theFeast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Mark felt in thisnewly found assurance of being commanded by God to follow Him thatsomehow he must be confirmed in this church and prepared by this kindlypriest. The sermon was about the coming of the Holy Ghost and of ourbodies which are His temple. Any other Sunday Mark would have sat in astupor, while his mind would occasionally have taken flights ofactivity, counting the lines of a prayer-book's page or following thetributaries in the grain of the pew in front; but on this Sunday he satalert, finding every word of the discourse applicable to himself. 

On other Sundays the first sentence of the Offertory would have passedunheeded in the familiarity of its repetition, but this morning it tookhim back to that night in Church Cove when he saw the glow-worm by theedge of the tide and made up his mind to be a lighthouse-keeper. 

_Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven. _

"I will be a priest, " Mark vowed to himself. 

_Give grace, O heavenly Father, to all Bishops and Curates that they mayboth by their life and doctrines set forth thy true and lively word, andrightly and duly administer thy holy Sacraments. _

"I will, I will, " he vowed. 

_Hear what comfortable words our Saviour Christ saith unto all thattruly turn to him. Come unto me all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you. _

Mark prayed that with such words he might when he was a priest bringconsolation. 

_Through Jesus Christ our Lord; according to whose most true promise, the Holy Ghost came down as at this time from heaven with a sudden greatsound, as it had been a mighty wind, in the likeness of fiery tongues, lighting upon the Apostles, to teach them and to lead them to alltruth;_

The red chasuble of the priest glowed with Pentecostal light. 

_giving them both the gift of divers languages, and also boldness withfervent seal constantly to preach the Gospel unto all nations; wherebywe have been brought out of darkness and error into the clear light andtrue knowledge of thee, and of thy Son Jesus Christ. _

And when after this proper preface of Whit-sunday, which seemed to Markto be telling him what was expected of his priesthood by God, the quiresang the Sanctus, _Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with allthe company of heaven, we laud and magnify thy glorious Name; evermorepraising thee, and saying, Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts, heavenand earth are full of thy glory: Glory be to thee, O Lord most High. Amen_, that sublime proclamation spoke the fullness of his aspiringheart. 

Mark came out of church with the rest of the congregation, and walkeddown the road toward the roofs of the little village, on the outskirtsof which he could not help stopping to admire a small garden full ofpinks in front of two thatched cottages that had evidently been madeinto one house. While he was standing there looking over the trimquickset hedge, an old lady with silvery hair came slowly down the road, paused a moment by the gate before she went in, and then asked Mark ifshe had not seen him in church. Mark felt embarrassed at beingdiscovered looking over a hedge into somebody's garden; but he managedto murmur an affirmative and turned to go away. 

"Stop, " said the old lady waving at him her ebony crook, "do not runaway, young gentleman. I see that you admire my garden. Pray step insideand look more closely at it. "

Mark thought at first by her manner of speech that she was laughing athim; but soon perceiving that she was in earnest he followed her inside, and walked behind her along the narrow winding paths, nodding with anappearance of profound interest when she poked at some starry clump andinvited his admiration. As they drew nearer the house, the smell of thepinks was merged in the smell of hot roast beef, and Mark discoveredthat he was hungry, so hungry indeed that he felt he could not stay anylonger to be tantalized by the odours of the Sunday dinner, but must gooff and find an inn where he could obtain bread and cheese as quickly aspossible. He was preparing an excuse to get away, when the garden wicketclicked, and looking up he saw the fair priest coming down the pathtoward them accompanied by two ladies, one of whom resembled him soclosely that Mark was sure she was his sister. The other, who lookedwindblown in spite of the serene June weather, had a nervous energy thatcontrasted with the demeanour of the other two, whose deliberate paceseemed to worry her so that she was continually two yards ahead andturning round as if to urge them to walk more quickly. 

The old lady must have guessed Mark's intention, for raising her stickshe forbade him to move, and before he had time to mumble an apology andflee she was introducing the newcomers to him. 

"This is my daughter Miriam, " she said pointing to one who resembled herbrother. "And this is my daughter Esther. And this is my son, the Vicar. What is your name?"

Mark told her, and he should have liked to ask what hers was, but hefelt too shy. 

"You're going to stay and have lunch with us, I hope?" asked the Vicar. 

Mark had no idea how to reply. He was much afraid that if he accepted heshould be seeming to have hung about by the Vicarage gate in order to beinvited. On the other hand he did not know how to refuse. It would beabsurd to say that he had to get home, because they would ask him wherehe lived, and at this hour of the morning he could scarcely pretend thathe expected to be back in time for lunch twelve miles and more fromwhere he was. 

"Of course he's going to stay, " said the old lady. 

And of course Mark did stay; a delightful lunch it was too, on chairscovered with blue holland in a green shadowed room that smelt of drynessand ancientry. After lunch Mark sat for a while with the Vicar in hisstudy, which was small and intimate with its two armchairs andbookshelves reaching to the ceiling all round. He had not yet managed tofind out his name, and as it was obviously too late to ask as this stageof their acquaintanceship he supposed that he should have to wait untilhe left the Vicarage and could ask somebody in the village, of which bythe way he also did not know the name. 

"Lidderdale, " the Vicar was saying meditatively, "Lidderdale. I wonderif you were a relative of the famous Lidderdale of St. Wilfred's?"

Mark flushed with a mixture of self-consciousness and pleasure to hearhis father spoken of as famous, and when he explained who he was heflushed still more deeply to hear his father's work praised with suchenthusiasm. 

"And do you hope to be a priest yourself?"

"Why, yes I do rather, " said Mark. 

"Splendid! Capital!" cried the Vicar, his kindly blue eye beaming withapproval of Mark's intention. 

Presently Mark was talking to him as though he had known him for years. 

"There's no reason why you shouldn't be confirmed here, " the Vicar said. "No reason at all. I'll mention it to the Bishop, and if you like I'llwrite to your uncle. I shall feel justified in interfering on account ofyour father's opinions. We all look upon him as one of the greatpioneers of the Movement. You must come over and lunch with us againnext Sunday. My mother will be delighted to see you. She's a dear oldthing, isn't she? I'm going to hand you over to her now and my youngestsister. My other sister and I have got Sunday schools to deal with. Haveanother cigarette? No. Quite right. You oughtn't to smoke too much atyour age. Only just fifteen, eh? By Jove, I suppose you oughtn't to havesmoked at all. But what rot. You'd only smoke all the more if it wasabsolutely forbidden. Wisdom! Wisdom! Wisdom with the young! You don'tmind being called young? I've known boys who hated the epithet. "

Mark was determined to show his new friend that he did not object tobeing called young, and he could think of no better way to do it than byasking him his name, thus proving that he did not mind if such aquestion did make him look ridiculous. 

"Ogilvie--Stephen Ogilvie. My dear boy, it's we who ought to be ashamedof ourselves for not having had the gumption to enlighten you. How onearth were you to know without asking? Now, look here, I must run. Iexpect you'll be wanting to get home, or I'd suggest your staying untilI get back, but I must lie low after tea and think out my sermon. Lookhere, come over to lunch on Saturday, haven't you a bicycle? You couldget over from Slowbridge by one o'clock, and after lunch we'll have agood tramp in the woods. Splendid!"

Then chanting the _Dies Irae_ in a cheerful tenor the Reverend StephenOgilvie hurried off to his Sunday School. Mark said good-bye to Mrs. Ogilvie with an assured politeness that was typical of his new foundease; and when he started on his long walk back to Slowbridge he feltinclined to leap in the air and wake with shouts the slumberous Sabbathafternoon, proclaiming the glory of life, the joy of living. 

Mark had not expected his uncle to welcome his friendship with the Vicarof Meade Cantorum; but he had supposed that after a few familiar sneershe should be allowed to go his own way with nothing worse than silentdisapproval brooding over his perverse choice. He was surprised by thevehemence of his uncle's opposition, and it must be added that hethoroughly enjoyed it. The experience of that Whit-sunday had been toorich not to be of enduring importance to his development in any case;but the behaviour of Uncle Henry made it more important, because allthis criticism helped Mark to put his opinions into shape, consolidatedthe position he had taken up, sharpened his determination to advancealong the path he had discovered for himself, and gave him an immediatetarget for arrows that might otherwise have been shot into the air untilhis quiver was empty. 

"Mr. Ogilvie knew my father. "

"That has nothing to do with the case, " said Uncle Henry. 

"I think it has. "

"Do not be insolent, Mark. I've noticed lately a most unpleasant note inyour voice, an objectionably defiant note which I simply will nottolerate. "

"But do you really mean that I'm not to go and see Mr. Ogilvie?"

"It would have been more courteous if Mr. Ogilvie had given himself thetrouble of writing to me, your guardian, before inviting you out tolunch and I don't know what not besides. "

"He said he would write to you. "

"I don't want to embark on a correspondence with him, " Uncle Henryexclaimed petulantly. "I know the man by reputation. A bigotedRitualist. A Romanizer of the worst type. He'll only fill your head witha lot of effeminate nonsense, and that at a time when it's particularlynecessary for you to concentrate upon your work. Don't forget that thisis your last year of school. I advise you to make the most of it. "

"I've asked Mr. Ogilvie to prepare me for confirmation, " said Mark, whowas determined to goad his uncle into losing his temper. 

"Then you deserve to be thrashed. "

"Look here, Uncle Henry, " Mark began; and while he was speaking he wasaware that he was stronger than his uncle now and looking across at hisaunt he perceived that she was just a ball of badly wound wool lying ina chair. "Look here, Uncle Henry, it's quite useless for you to try tostop my going to Meade Cantorum, because I'm going there whenever I'masked and I'm going to be confirmed there, because you promised Motheryou wouldn't interfere with my religion. "

"Your religion!" broke in Mr. Lidderdale, scornful both of the pronounand the substantive. 

"It's no use your losing your temper or arguing with me or doinganything except letting me go my own way, because that's what I intendto do. "

Aunt Helen half rose in her chair upon an impulse to protect her brotheragainst Mark's violence. 

"And you can't cure me with Gregory Powder, " he said. "Nor with Sennanor with Licorice nor even with Cascara. "

"Your behaviour, my boy, is revolting, " said Mr. Lidderdale. "A youngMohawk would not talk to his guardians as you are talking to me. "

"Well, I don't want you to think I'm going to obey you if you forbid meto go to Meade Cantorum, " said Mark. "I'm sorry I was rude, Aunt Helen. I oughtn't to have spoken to you like that. And I'm sorry, Uncle Henry, to seem ungrateful after what you've done for me. " And then lest hisuncle should think that he was surrendering he quickly added: "But I'mgoing to Meade Cantorum on Saturday. " And like most people who knowtheir own minds Mark had his own way. 

CHAPTER XI

MEADE CANTORUM

Mark did not suffer from "churchiness" during this period. His interestin religion, although it resembled the familiar conversions ofadolescence, was a real resurrection of emotions which had been stifledby these years at Haverton House following upon the paralyzing grief ofhis mother's death. Had he been in contact during that time with aninfluence like the Vicar of Meade Cantorum, he would probably haveescaped those ashen years, but as Mr. Ogilvie pointed out to him, hewould also never have received such evidence of God's loving kindness aswas shown to him upon that Whit-sunday morning. 

"If in the future, my dear boy, you are ever tempted to doubt the wisdomof Almighty God, remember what was vouchsafed to you at a moment whenyou seemed to have no reason for any longer existing, so black was yourworld. Remember how you caught sight of yourself in that pool and shrankaway in horror from the vision. I envy you, Mark. I have never beengranted such a revelation of myself. "

"You were never so ugly, " said Mark. 

"My dear boy, we are all as ugly as the demons of Hell if we are allowedto see ourselves as we really are. But God only grants that to a fewbrave spirits whom he consecrates to his service and whom he fortifiesafterwards by proving to them that, no matter how great the horror oftheir self-recognition, the Holy Ghost is within them to comfort them. Idon't suppose that many human beings are granted such an experience asyours. I myself tremble at the thought of it, knowing that God considersme too weak a subject for such a test. "

"Oh, Mr. Ogilvie, " Mark expostulated. 

"I'm not talking to you as Mark Lidderdale, but as the recipient of thegrace of God, to one who before my own unworthy eyes has been lightenedby celestial fire. _Mine eyes have seen thy salvation, O Lord. _ As foryourself, my dear boy, I pray always that you may sustain your part, that you will never allow the memory of this Whitsuntide to be obscuredby the fogs of this world and that you will always bear in mind thathaving been given more talents by God a sharper account will be taken ofthe use you make of them. Don't think I'm doubting your steadfastness, old man, I believe in it. Do you hear? I believe in it absolutely. ButCatholic doctrine, which is the sum of humanity's knowledge of God andthan which nothing more can be known of God until we see Him face toface, insists upon good works, demanding as it were a practicaldemonstration to the rest of the world of the grace of God within you. You remember St. Paul? _Faith, Hope, and Love. But the greatest of theseis Love. _ The greatest because the least individual. Faith will movemountains, but so will Love. That's the trouble with so many godlyProtestants. They are inclined to stay satisfied with their owngodliness, although the best of them like the Quakers are examples thatought to make most of us Catholics ashamed of ourselves. And one thingmore, old man, before we get off this subject, don't forget that yourexperience is a mercy accorded to you by the death of our Lord JesusChrist. You owe to His infinite Love your new life. What was granted toyou was the visible apprehension of the fact of Holy Baptism, and don'tforget St. John the Baptist's words: _I indeed baptize you with waterunto repentance, but he that cometh after me is mightier than I. Heshall baptise you with the Holy Ghost, and with fire: whose fan is inhis hand, and he will thoroughly purge his floor, and gather his wheatinto the garner; but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire. _Those are great words for you to think of now, and during this longTrinitytide which is symbolical of what one might call the humdrum ofreligious life, the day in day out sticking to it, make a resolutionnever to say mechanically _The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and thelove of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us allevermore. Amen. _ If you always remember to say those wonderful wordsfrom the heart and not merely with the lips, you will each time you saythem marvel more and more at the great condescension of Almighty God infavouring you, as He has favoured you, by teaching you the meaning ofthese words Himself in a way that no poor mortal priest, howevereloquent, could teach you it. On that night when you watched beside theglow-worm at the sea's edge the grace of our Lord gave you anapprehension, child as you were, of the love of God, and now once morethe grace of our Lord gives you the realization of the fellowship of theHoly Ghost. I don't want to spoil your wonderful experience with myparsonic discoursing; but, Mark, don't look back from the plough. "

Uncle Henry found it hard to dispose of words like these when hedeplored his nephew's collapse into ritualism. 

"You really needn't bother about the incense and the vestments, " Markassured him. "I like incense and vestments; but I don't think they'rethe most important things in religion. You couldn't find anybody moreevangelical than Mr. Ogilvie, though he doesn't call himselfevangelical, or his party the Evangelical party. It's no use your tryingto argue me out of what I believe. I know I'm believing what it's rightfor me to believe. When I'm older I shall try to make everybody elsebelieve in my way, because I should like everybody else to feel as happyas I do. Your religion doesn't make you feel happy, Uncle Henry!"

"Leave the room, " was Mr. Lidderdale's reply. "I won't stand this kindof talk from a boy of your age. "

Although Mark had only claimed from his uncle the right to believe whatit was right for him to believe, the richness of his belief presentlybegan to seem too much for one. His nature was generous in everything, and he felt that he must share this happiness with somebody else. Heregretted the death of poor Mr. Spaull, for he was sure that he couldhave persuaded poor Mr. Spaull to cut off his yellow moustache andbecome a Catholic. Mr. Palmer was of course hopeless: Saint Augustine ofHippo, St. Paul himself even, would have found it hard to deal with Mr. Palmer; as for the new master, Mr. Blumey, with his long nose and longchin and long frock coat and long boots, he was obviously absorbed bythe problems of mathematics and required nothing more. 

Term came to an end, and during the holidays Mark was able to spend mostof his time at Meade Cantorum. He had always been a favourite of Mrs. Ogilvie since that Whit-sunday nearly two months ago when she saw himlooking at her garden and invited him in, and every time he revisitedthe Vicarage he had devoted some of his time to helping her weed orprune or do whatever she wanted to do in her garden. He was also onfriendly terms with Miriam, the elder of Mr. Ogilvie's two sisters, whowas very like her brother in appearance and who gave to the house thedecorous loving care he gave to the church. And however enthralling herdomestic ministrations, she had always time to attend every service;while, so well ordered was her manner of life, her religious dutiesnever involved the household in discomfort. She never gave theimpression that so many religious women give of going to church in afever of self-gratification, to which everything and everybody aroundher must be subordinated. The practice of her religion was woven intoher life like the strand of wool on which all the others depend, butwhich itself is no more conspicuous than any of the other strands. Withso many women religion is a substitute for something else; with MiriamOgilvie everything else was made as nearly and as beautifully as itcould be made a substitute for religion. Mark was intensely aware of herholiness, but he was equally aware of her capable well-tended hands andof her chatelaine glittering in and out of a lawn apron. One tress ofher abundant hair was grey, which stood out against the dark backgroundof the rest and gave her a serene purity, an austere strength, but yetlike a nun's coif seemed to make the face beneath more youthful, andlike a cavalier's plume more debonair. She could not have been overthirty-five when Mark first knew her, perhaps not so much; but hethought of her as ageless in the way a child thinks of its mother, andif any woman should ever be able to be to him something of what hismother had been, Mark thought that Miss Ogilvie might. 

Esther Ogilvie the other sister was twenty-five. She told Mark thiswhen he imitated the villagers by addressing her as Miss Essie and sheordered him to call her Esther. He might have supposed from this thatshe intended to confer upon him a measure of friendliness, even ofsisterly affection; but on the contrary she either ignored himaltogether or gave him the impression that she considered his frequentvisits to Meade Cantorum a nuisance. Mark was sorry that she felt likethat toward him, because she seemed unhappy, and in his desire foreverybody to be happy he would have liked to proclaim how suddenly andunexpectedly happiness may come. As a sister of the Vicar of the parish, she went to church regularly, but Mark did not think that she was thereexcept in body. He once looked across at her open prayer book during the_Magnificat_, and noticed that she was reading the Tables of Kindred andAffinity. Now, Mark knew from personal experience that when one isreduced to reading the Tables of Kindred and Affinity it argues a minduntouched by the reality of worship. In his own case, when he sat besidehis uncle and aunt in the dreary Slowbridge church of their choice, ithad been nothing more than a sign of his own inward dreariness to readthe Tables of Kindred and Affinity or speculate upon the Paschal fullmoons from the year 2200 to the year 2299 inclusive. But St. Margaret's, Meade Cantorum, was a different church from St. Jude's, Slowbridge, andfor Esther Ogilvie to ignore the joyfulness of worshipping there inorder to ponder idly the complexities of Golden Numbers and DominicalLetters could not be ascribed to inward dreariness. Besides, she wasn'tdreary. Once Mark saw her coming down a woodland glade and almost turnedaside to avoid meeting her, because she looked so fay with her wild blueeyes and her windblown hair, the colour of last year's bracken afterrain. She seemed at once the pursued and the pursuer, and Mark felt thatwhichever she was he would be in the way. 

"Taking a quick walk by myself, " she called out to him as they passed. 

No, she was certainly not dreary. But what was she?

Mark abandoned the problem of Esther in the pleasure of meeting theReverend Oliver Dorward, who arrived one afternoon at the Vicarage witha large turbot for Mrs. Ogilvie, and six Flemish candlesticks for theVicar, announcing that he wanted to stay a week before being inducted tothe living of Green Lanes in the County of Southampton, to which he hadrecently been presented by Lord Chatsea. Mark liked him from the firstmoment he saw him pacing the Vicarage garden in a soutane, buckledshoes, and beaver hat, and he could not understand why Mr. Ogilvie, whohad often laughed about Dorward's eccentricity, should now that he hadan opportunity of enjoying it once more be so cross about his friend'sarrival and so ready to hand him over to Mark to be entertained. 

"Just like Ogilvie, " said Dorward confidentially, when he and Mark wentfor a walk on the afternoon of his arrival. "He wants spiking up. Theyget very slack and selfish, these country clergy. Time he gave up MeadeCantorum. He's been here nearly ten years. Too long, nine years toolong. Hasn't been to his duties since Easter. Scandalous, you know. Iasked him, as soon as I'd explained to the cook about the turbot, whenhe went last, and he was bored. Nice old pussy cat, the mother. Hullo, is that the _Angelus_? Damn, I knelt on a thistle. "

"It isn't the _Angelus_, " said Mark quietly. "It's the bell on thatcow. "

But Mr. Dorward had finished his devotion before he answered. 

"I was half way through before you told me. You should have spokensooner. "

"Well, I spoke as soon as I could. "

"Very cunning of Satan, " said Dorward meditatively. "Induced a cow tosimulate the _Angelus_, and planted a thistle just where I was bound tokneel. Cunning. Cunning. Very cunning. I must go back now and confess toOgilvie. Good example. Wait a minute, I'll confess to-morrow beforeMorning Prayer. Very good for Ogilvie's congregation. They're stuffy, very stuffy. It'll shake them. It'll shake Ogilvie too. Are you stayinghere to-night?"

"No, I shall bicycle back to Slowbridge and bicycle over to Massto-morrow. "

"Ridiculous. Stay the night. Didn't Ogilvie invite you?"

Mark shook his head. 

"Scandalous lack of hospitality. They're all alike these country clergy. I'm tired of this walk. Let's go back and look after the turbot. Are youa good cook?"

"I can boil eggs and that sort of thing, " said Mark. 

"What sort of things? An egg is unique. There's nothing like an egg. Will you serve my Mass on Monday? Saying Mass for Napoleon on Monday. "

"For whom?" Mark exclaimed. 

"Napoleon, with a special intention for the conversion of the presentgovernment in France. Last Monday I said a Mass for Shakespeare, with aspecial intention for an improvement in contemporary verse. "

Mark supposed that Mr. Dorward must be joking, and his expression musthave told as much to the priest, who murmured:

"Nothing to laugh at. Nothing to laugh at. "

"No, of course not, " said Mark feeling abashed. "But I'm afraid Ishouldn't be able to serve you. I've never had any practice. "

"Perfectly easy. Perfectly easy. I'll give you a book when we get back. "

Mark bicycled home that afternoon with a tall thin volume called _RitualNotes_, so tall that when it was in his pocket he could feel it digginghim in the ribs every time he was riding up the least slope. That nightin his bedroom he practised with the help of the wash-stand and itsaccessories the technique of serving at Low Mass, and in his enthusiasmhe bicycled over to Meade Cantorum in time to attend both the Low Massat seven said by Mr. Dorward and the Low Mass at eight said by Mr. Ogilvie. He was able to detect mistakes that were made by the villageboys who served that Sunday morning, and he vowed to himself that theMonday Mass for the Emperor Napoleon should not be disfigured by suchinaccuracy or clumsiness. He declined the usual invitation to stay tosupper after Evening Prayer that he might have time to make perfectionmore perfect in the seclusion of his own room, and when he set out aboutsix o'clock of a sun-drowsed morning in early August, apart from a faintanxiety about the _Lavabo_, he felt secure of his accomplishment. It wasonly when he reached the church that he remembered he had made noarrangement about borrowing a cassock or a cotta, an omission that inthe mood of grand seriousness in which he had undertaken hisresponsibility seemed nothing less than abominable. He did not like togo to the Vicarage and worry Mr. Ogilvie who could scarcely fail to beamused, even contemptuously amused at such an ineffective beginning. Besides, ever since Mr. Dorward's arrival the Vicar had been slightlyirritable. 

While Mark was wondering what was the best thing to do, Miss Hatchett, apious old maid who spent her nights in patience and sleep, her days inworship and weeding, came hurrying down the churchyard path. 

"I am not late, am I?" she exclaimed. "I never heard the bell. I was soengrossed in pulling out one of those dreadful sow-thistles that when mymaid came running out and said 'Oh, Miss Hatchett, it's gone the fiveto, you'll be late, ' I just ran, and now I've brought my trowel and leftmy prayer book on the path. . . . "

"I'm just going to ring the bell now, " said Mark, in whom the horror ofanother omission had been rapidly succeeded by an almost unnaturalcomposure. 

"Oh, what a relief, " Miss Hatchett sighed. "Are you sure I shall havetime to get my breath, for I know Mr. Ogilvie would dislike to hear mepanting in church?"

"Mr. Ogilvie isn't saying Mass this morning. "

"Not saying Mass?" repeated the old maid in such a dejected tone ofvoice that, when a small cloud passed over the face of the sun, itseemed as if the natural scene desired to accord with the chill castupon her spirit by Mark's announcement. 

"Mr. Dorward is saying Mass, " he told her, and poor Miss Hatchett mustpretend with a forced smile that her blank look had been caused by theprospect of being deprived of Mass when really. . . . 

But Mark was not paying any more attention to Miss Hatchett. He wasstanding under the bell, gazing up at the long rope and wondering whatmanner of sound he should evoke. He took a breath and pulled; the ropequivered with such an effect of life that he recoiled from the new forcehe had conjured into being, afraid of his handiwork, timid of theclamour that would resound. No louder noise ensued than might have beengiven forth by a can kicked into the gutter. Mark pulled again morestrongly, and the bell began to chime, irregularly at first withalternations of sonorous and feeble note; at last, however, when therhythm was established with such command and such insistence that theringer, looking over his shoulder to the south door, half expected tosee a stream of perturbed Christians hurrying to obey its summons. Butthere was only poor Miss Hatchett sitting in the porch and fanningherself with a handkerchief. 

Mark went on ringing. . . . 

Clang--clang--clang! All the holy Virgins were waving their palms. Clang--clang--clang! All the blessed Doctors and Confessors weretwanging their harps to the clanging. Clang--clang--clang! All the holySaints and Martyrs were tossing their haloes in the air as schoolboystoss their caps. Clang--clang--clang! Angels, Archangels, andPrincipalities with faces that shone like brass and with forms thatquivered like flames thronged the noise. Clang--clang--clang! Virtues, Powers, and Dominations bade the morning stars sing to the ringing. Clang--clang--clang! The ringing reached up to the green-winged Throneswho sustain the seat of the Most High. Clang--clang--clang! The azureCherubs heard the bells within their contemplation: the scarlet Seraphsfelt them within their love. Clang--clang--clang! The lidless Eye of Godlooked down, and Miss Hatchett supposing it to be the sun crossed overto the other side of the porch. 

Clang--clang--clang--clang--clang--clang--clang--clang. . . . 

"Hasn't Dorward come in yet? It's five past eight already. Go onringing for a little while. I'll go and see how long he'll be. "

Mark in the absorption of ringing the bell had not noticed the Vicar'sapproach, and he was gone again before he remembered that he wanted toborrow a cassock and a cotta. Had he been rude? Would Mr. Ogilvie thinkit cheek to ring the bell without asking his permission first? Butbefore these unanswered questions had had time to spoil the rhythm ofhis ringing, the Vicar came back with Mr. Dorward, and the congregation, that is to say Miss Hatchett and Miss Ogilvie, was already kneeling inits place. 

Mark in a cassock that was much too long for him and in a cotta that wasin the same ratio as much too short preceded Mr. Dorward from thesacristy to the altar. A fear seized him that in spite of all hispractice he was kneeling on the wrong side of the priest; he forgot thefirst responses; he was sure the Sanctus-bell was too far away; hewished that Mr. Dorward would not mutter quite so inaudibly. Gradually, however, the meetness of the gestures prescribed for him by the ancientritual cured his self-consciousness and included him in its pattern, sothat now for the first time he was aware of the significance of thepreface to the Sanctus: _It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty, that we should at all times, and in all places, give thanks unto thee, OLord, Holy Father, Almighty Everlasting God. _

Twenty minutes ago when he was ringing the church bell Mark hadexperienced the rapture of creative noise, the sense of individualtriumph over time and space; and the sound of his ringing came back tohim from the vaulted roof of the church with such exultation as themissal thrush may know when he sits high above the fretted boughs of anoak and his music plunges forth upon the January wind. Now when Mark wasringing the Sanctus-bell, it was with a sense of his place in the schemeof worship. If one listens to the twitter of a single linnet in opencountry or to the buzz of a solitary fly upon a window pane, howincredible it is that myriads of them twittering and buzzing togethershould be the song of April, the murmur of June. And this Sanctus-bellthat tinkled so inadequately, almost so frivolously when sounded by aserver in Meade Cantorum church, was yet part of an unimaginable volumeof worship that swelled in unison with Angels and Archangels lauding andmagnifying the Holy Name. The importance of ceremony was as deeplyimpressed upon Mark that morning as if he had been formally initiated togreat mysteries. His coming confirmation, which had been postponed fromJuly 2nd to September 8th seemed much more momentous now than it seemedyesterday. It was no longer a step to Communion, but was apprehended asa Sacrament itself, and though Mr. Ogilvie was inclined to regret theritualistic development of his catechumen, Mark derived much strengthfrom what was really the awakening in him of a sense of form, which morethan anything makes emotion durable. Perhaps Ogilvie may have been alittle jealous of Dorward's influence; he also was really alarmed at theprospect, as he said, of so much fire being wasted upon poker-work. Inthe end what between Dorward's encouragement of Mark's ritualistictendencies and the "spiking up" process to which he was himself beingsubjected, Ogilvie was glad when a fortnight later Dorward took himselfoff to his own living, and he expressed a hope that Mark would perceiveDorward in his true proportions as a dear good fellow, perfectlysincere, but just a little, well, not exactly mad, but so eccentric assometimes to do more harm than good to the Movement. Mark was shrewdenough to notice that however much he grumbled about his friend's visitMr. Ogilvie was sufficiently influenced by that visit to put intopractice much of the advice to which he had taken exception. Theinfluence of Dorward upon Mark did not stop with his begetting in him anappreciation of the value of form in worship. When Mark told Mr. Ogilviethat he intended to become a priest, Mr. Ogilvie was impressed by themanifestation of the Divine Grace, but he did not offer many practicalsuggestions for Mark's immediate future. Dorward on the contraryattached as much importance to the manner in which he was to become apriest. 

"Oxford, " Mr. Dorward pronounced. "And then Glastonbury. "

"Glastonbury?"

"Glastonbury Theological College. "

Now to Mark Oxford was a legendary place to which before he met Mr. Dorward he would never have aspired. Oxford at Haverton House was merelyan abstraction to which a certain number of people offered an illogicalallegiance in order to create an excuse for argument and strife. Sometimes Mark had gazed at Eton and wondered vaguely about existencethere; sometimes he had gazed at the towers of Windsor and wondered whatthe Queen ate for breakfast. Oxford was far more remote than either ofthese, and yet when Mr. Dorward said that he must go there his heartleapt as if to some recognized ambition long ago buried and now abruptlyresuscitated. 

"I've always been Oxford, " he admitted. 

When Mr. Dorward had gone, Mark asked Mr. Ogilvie what he thought aboutOxford. 

"If you can afford to go there, my dear boy, of course you ought to go. "

"Well, I'm pretty sure I can't afford to. I don't think I've got anymoney at all. My mother left some money, but my uncle says that thatwill come in useful when I'm articled to this solicitor, Mr. Hitchcock. Oh, but if I become a priest I can't become a solicitor, and perhaps Icould have that money. I don't know how much it is . . . I think fivehundred pounds. Would that be enough?"

"With care and economy, " said Mr. Ogilvie. "And you might win ascholarship. "

"But I'm leaving school at the end of this year. "

Mr. Ogilvie thought that it would be wiser not to say anything to hisuncle until after Mark had been confirmed. He advised him to work hardmeanwhile and to keep in mind the possibility of having to win ascholarship. 

The confirmation was held on the feast of the Nativity of the BlessedVirgin. Mark made his first Confession on the vigil, his first Communionon the following Sunday. 

CHAPTER XII

THE POMEROY AFFAIR

Mark was so much elated to find himself a fully equipped member of theChurch Militant that he looked about him again to find somebody whom hecould make as happy as himself. He even considered the possibility ofconverting his uncle, and spent the Sunday evening before term began inframing inexpugnable arguments to be preceded by unanswerable questions;but always when he was on the point of speaking he was deterred by thelifelessness of his uncle. No eloquence could irrigate his arid creedand make that desert blossom now. And yet, Mark thought, he ought toremember that in the eyes of the world he owed his uncle everything. What did he owe him in the sight of God? Gratitude? Gratitude for what?Gratitude for spending a certain amount of money on him. Once more Markopened his mouth to repay his debt by offering Uncle Henry Eternal Life. But Uncle Henry fancied himself already in possession of Eternal Life. He definitely labelled himself Evangelical. And again Mark prepared oneof his unanswerable questions. 

"Mark, " said Mr. Lidderdale. "If you can't keep from yawning you'dbetter get off to bed. Don't forget school begins to-morrow, and youmust make the most of your last term. "

Mark abandoned for ever the task of converting Uncle Henry, and ponderedhis chance of doing something with Aunt Helen. There instead ofexsiccation he was confronted by a dreadful humidity, an infertile oozethat seemed almost less susceptible to cultivation than the other. 

"And I really don't owe _her_ anything, " he thought. "Besides, it isn'tthat I want to save people from damnation. I want people to be happy. And it isn't quite that even. I want them to understand how happy I am. I want people to feel fond of their pillows when they turn over to go tosleep, because next morning is going to be what? Well, sort ofexciting. "

Mark suddenly imagined how splendid it would be to give some of hishappiness to Esther Ogilvie; but a moment later he decided that it wouldbe rather cheek, and he abandoned the idea of converting Esther Ogilvie. He fell back on wishing again that Mr. Spaull had not died; in him hereally would have had an ideal subject. 

In the end Mark fixed upon a boy of his own age, one of the many sons ofa Papuan missionary called Pomeroy who was glad to have found in Mr. Lidderdale a cheap and evangelical schoolmaster. Cyril Pomeroy was ablushful, girlish youth, clever at the routine of school work, but inother ways so much undeveloped as to give an impression of stupidity. The notion of pointing out to him the beauty and utility of the Catholicreligion would probably never have occurred to Mark if the boy himselfhad not approached him with a direct complaint of the dreariness of homelife. Mark had never had any intimate friends at Haverton House; therewas something in its atmosphere that was hostile to intimacy. CyrilPomeroy appealed to that idea of romantic protection which is the commonappendage of adolescence, and is the cause of half the extravagantaffection at which maturity is wont to laugh. In the company of Cyril, Mark felt ineffably old than which upon the threshold of sixteen thereis no sensation more grateful; and while the intercourse flattered hisown sense of superiority he did feel that he had much to offer hisfriend. Mark regarded Cyril's case as curable if the right treatmentwere followed, and every evening after school during the veiled summerof a fine October he paced the Slowbridge streets with his willingproselyte, debating the gravest issues of religious practice, thesubtlest varieties of theological opinion. He also lent Cyril suitablebooks, and finally he demanded from him as a double tribute to piety andfriendship that he should prove his metal by going to Confession. Cyril, who was incapable of refusing whatever Mark demanded, bicycledtimorously behind him to Meade Cantorum one Saturday afternoon, where hegulped out the table of his sins to Mr. Ogilvie, whom Mark had fetchedfrom the Vicarage with the urgency of one who fetches a midwife. Nor washe at all abashed when Mr. Ogilvie was angry for not having been toldthat Cyril's father would have disapproved of his son's confession. Heargued that the priest was applying social standards to religiousprinciples, and in the end he enjoyed the triumph of hearing Mr. Ogilvieadmit that perhaps he was right. 

"I know I'm right. Come on, Cyril. You'd better get back home now. Oh, and I say, Mr. Ogilvie, can I borrow for Cyril some of the books youlent me?"

The priest was amused that Mark did not ask him to lend the books to hisfriend, but to himself. However, when he found that the neophyte seemedto flourish under Mark's assiduous priming, and that the fundamentalweakness of his character was likely to be strengthened by what, thoughit was at present nothing more than an interest in religion, might lateron develop into a profound conviction of the truths of Christianity, Ogilvie overlooked his scruples about deceiving parents and encouragedthe boy as much as he could. 

"But I hope your manipulation of the plastic Cyril isn't going to turn_you_ into too much of a ritualist, " he said to Mark. "It's splendid ofcourse that you should have an opportunity so young of proving yourability to get round people in the right way. But let it be the rightway, old man. At the beginning you were full of the happiness, thesecret of which you burnt to impart to others. That happiness was therevelation of the Holy Spirit dwelling in you as He dwells in allChristian souls. I am sure that the eloquent exposition I latelyoverheard of the propriety of fiddle-backed chasubles and theimpropriety of Gothic ones doesn't mean that you are in any real dangerof supposing chasubles to be anything more important relatively than, say, the uniform of a soldier compared with his valour and obedienceand selflessness. Now don't overwhelm me for a minute or two. I haven'tfinished what I want to say. I wasn't speaking sarcastically when I saidthat, and I wasn't criticizing you. But you are not Cyril. By God'sgrace you have been kept from the temptations of the flesh. Yes, I knowthe subject is distasteful to you. But you are old enough to understandthat your fastidiousness, if it isn't to be priggish, must besafeguarded by your humility. I didn't mean to sandwich a sermon to youbetween my remarks on Cyril, but your disdainful upper lip compelledthat testimony. Let us leave you and your virtues alone. Cyril is weak. He's the weak pink type that may fall to women or drink or anything infact where an opportunity is given him of being influenced by a strongercharacter than his own. At the moment he's being influenced by you to goto Confession, and say his rosary, and hear Mass, and enjoy all theother treats that our holy religion gives us. In addition to that he'senjoying them like the proverbial stolen fruit. You were very severewith me when I demurred at hearing his confession without authority fromhis father; but I don't like stolen fruit, and I'm not sure even now ifI was right in yielding on that point. I shouldn't have yielded if Ihadn't felt that Cyril might be hurt in the future by my scruples. Nowlook here, Mark, you've got to see that I don't regret my surrender. Ifthat youth doesn't get from religion what I hope and pray he will get. . . But let that point alone. My scruples are my own affair. Yourconvictions are your own affair. But Cyril is our joint affair. He'syour convert, but he's my penitent; and Mark, don't overdecorate yourbuilding until you're sure the foundations are well and truly laid. "

Mark was never given an opportunity of proving the excellence of hismethods by the excellence of Cyril's life, because on the morning afterthis conversation, which took place one wet Sunday evening in Advent hewas sent for by his uncle, who demanded to know the meaning of This. This was a letter from the Reverend Eustace Pomeroy. 

 The Limes, 38, Cranborne Road, Slowbridge. 

 December 9. 

 Dear Mr. Lidderdale, My son Cyril will not attend school for the rest of this term. Yesterday evening, being confined to the house by fever, I went up to his bedroom to verify a reference in a book I had recently lent him to assist his divinity studies under you. When I took down the book from the shelf I noticed several books hidden away behind, and my curiosity being aroused I examined them, in case they should be works of an unpleasant nature. To my horror and disgust, I found that they were all works of an extremely Popish character, most of them belonging to a clergyman in this neighbourhood called Ogilvie, whose illegal practices have for several years been a scandal to this diocese. These I am sending to the Bishop that he may see with his own eyes the kind of propaganda that is going on. Two of the books, inscribed Mark Lidderdale, are evidently the property of your nephew to whom I suppose my son is indebted for this wholesale corruption. On questioning my son I found him already so sunk in the mire of the pernicious doctrines he has imbibed that he actually defied his own father. I thrashed him severely in spite of my fever, and he is now under lock and key in his bedroom where he will remain until he sails with me to Sydney next week whither I am summoned to the conference of Australasian missionaries. During the voyage I shall wrestle with the demon that has entered into my son and endeavour to persuade him that Jesus only is necessary for salvation. And when I have done so, I shall leave him in Australia to earn his own living remote from the scene of his corruption. In the circumstances I assume that you will deduct a proportion of his school fees for this term. I know that you will be as much horrified and disgusted as I was by your nephew's conduct, and I trust that you will be able to wrestle with him in the Lord and prove to him that Jesus only is necessary to salvation. 

 Yours very truly, Eustace Pomeroy. 

 P. S. I suggest that instead of £6 6s. 0d. I should pay £5 5s. 0d. For this term, plus, of course, the usual extras. 

The pulse in Mr. Lidderdale's temple had never throbbed so remarkablyas while Mark was reading this letter. 

"A fine thing, " he ranted, "if this story gets about in Slowbridge. Afine reward for all my kindness if you ruin my school. As for this manOgilvie, I'll sue him for damages. Don't look at me with that expressionof bestial defiance. Do you hear? What prevents my thrashing you as youdeserve? What prevents me, I say?"

But Mark was not paying any attention to his uncle's fury; he wasthinking about the unfortunate martyr under lock and key in The Limes, Cranborne Road, Slowbridge. He was wondering what would be the effect ofthis violent removal to the Antipodes and how that fundamental weaknessof character would fare if Cyril were left to himself at his age. 

"I think Mr. Pomeroy is a ruffian, " said Mark. "Don't you, Uncle Henry?If he writes to the Bishop about Mr. Ogilvie, I shall write to theBishop about him. I hate Protestants. I hate them. "

"There's your father to the life. You'd like to burn them, wouldn'tyou?"

"Yes, I would, " Mark declared. 

"You'd like to burn me, I suppose?"

"Not you in particular. "

"Will you listen to him, Helen, " he shouted to his sister. "Come hereand listen to him. Listen to the boy we took in and educated and clothedand fed, listen to him saying he'd like to burn his uncle. Into Mr. Hitchcock's office you go at once. No more education if this is what itleads to. Read that letter, Helen, look at that book, Helen. _CatholicPrayers for Church of England People by the Reverend A. H. Stanton. _ Lookat this book, Helen. _The Catholic Religion by Vernon Staley. _ No wonderyou hate Protestants, you ungrateful boy. No wonder you're longing toburn your uncle and aunt. It'll be in the _Slowbridge Herald_ to-morrow. Headlines! Ruin! They'll think I'm a Jesuit in disguise. I ought to havegot a very handsome sum of money for the good-will. Go back to yourclass-room, and if you have a spark of affection in your nature, don'tbrag about this to the other boys. "

Mark, pondering all the morning the best thing to do for Cyril, remembered that a boy called Hacking lived at The Laurels, 36, CranborneRoad. He did not like Hacking, but wishing to utilize his back gardenfor the purpose of communicating with the prisoner he made himselfagreeable to him in the interval between first and second school. 

"Hullo, Hacking, " he began. "I say, do you want a cricket bat? I shan'tbe here next summer, so you may as well have mine. "

Hacking looked at Mark suspicious of some hidden catch that would makehim appear a fool. 

"No, really I'm not ragging, " said Mark. "I'll bring it round to youafter dinner. I'll be at your place about a quarter to two. Wait for me, won't you?"

Hacking puzzled his brains to account for this generous whim, and atlast decided that Mark must be "gone" on his sister Edith. He supposedthat he ought to warn Edith to be about when Mark called; if the bat wasnot forthcoming he could easily prevent a meeting. The bat howeverturned out to be much better than he expected, and Hacking was on thepoint of presenting Cressida to Troilus when Troilus said:

"That's your garden at the back, isn't it?"

Hacking admitted that it was. 

"It looks rather decent. "

Hacking allowed modestly that it wasn't bad. 

"My father's rather dead nuts on gardening. So's my kiddy sister, " headded. 

"I vote we go out there, " Mark suggested. 

"Shall I give a yell to my kiddy sister?" asked Pandarus. 

"Good lord, no, " Mark exclaimed. "Don't the Pomeroys live next door toyou? Look here, Hacking, I want to speak to Cyril Pomeroy. "

"He was absent this morning. "

Mark considered Hacking as a possible adjutant to the enterprise he wasplotting. That he finally decided to admit Hacking to his confidence wasdue less to the favourable result of the scrutiny than to the fact thatunless he confided in Hacking he would find it difficult to communicatewith Cyril and impossible to manage his escape. Mark aimed as high asthis. His first impulse had been to approach the Vicar of MeadeCantorum, but on second thoughts he had rejected him in favour of Mr. Dorward, who was not so likely to suffer from respect for paternalauthority. 

"Look here, Hacking, will you swear not to say a word about what I'mgoing to tell you?"

"Of course, " said Hacking, who scenting a scandal would have promisedmuch more than this to obtain the details of it. 

"What will you swear by?"

"Oh, anything, " Hacking offered, without the least hesitation. "I don'tmind what it is. "

"Well, what do you consider the most sacred thing in the world?"

If Hacking had known himself, he would have said food; not knowinghimself, he suggested the Bible. 

"I suppose you know that if you swear something on the Bible and breakyour oath you can be put in prison?" Mark demanded sternly. 

"Yes, of course. "

The oath was administered, and Hacking waited goggle-eyed for therevelation. 

"Is that all?" he asked when Mark stopped. 

"Well, it's enough, isn't it? And now you've got to help him to escape. "

"But I didn't swear I'd do that, " argued Hacking. 

"All right then. Don't. I thought you'd enjoy it. "

"We should get into a row. There'd be an awful shine. "

"Who's to know it's us? I've got a friend in the country. And I shalltelegraph to him and ask if he'll hide Pomeroy. "

Mark was not sufficiently sure of Hacking's discretion or loyalty tomention Dorward's name. After all this business wasn't just a rag. 

"The first thing is for you to go out in the garden and attractPomeroy's attention. He's locked in his bedroom. "

"But I don't know which is his bedroom, " Hacking objected. 

"Well, you don't suppose the whole family are locked in their bedrooms, do you?" asked Mark scornfully. 

"But how do you know his bedroom is on this side of the house?"

"I don't, " said Mark. "That's what I want to find out. If it's in thefront of the house, I shan't want your help, especially as you're sofunky. "

Hacking went out into the garden, and presently he came back with thenews that Pomeroy was waiting outside to talk to Mark over the wall. 

"Waiting outside?" Mark repeated. "What do you mean, waiting outside?How can he be waiting outside when he's locked in his bedroom?"

"But he's not, " said Hacking. 

Sure enough, when Mark went out he found Cyril astride the party wallbetween the two gardens waiting for him. 

"You can't let your father drag you off to Australia like this, " Markargued. "You'll go all to pieces there. You'll lose your faith, and taketo drink, and--you must refuse to go. "

Cyril smiled weakly and explained to Mark that when once his father hadmade up his mind to do something it was impossible to stop him. 

Thereupon Mark explained his scheme. 

"I'll get an answer from Dorward to-night and you must escape to-morrowafternoon as soon as it's dark. Have you got a rope ladder?"

Cyril smiled more feebly than ever. 

"No, I suppose you haven't. Then what you must do is tear up your sheetsand let yourself down into the garden. Hacking will whistle three timesif all's clear, and then you must climb over into his garden and run ashard as you can to the corner of the road where I'll be waiting for youin a cab. I'll go up to London with you and see you off from Waterloo, which is the station for Green Lanes where Father Dorward lives. Youtake a ticket to Galton, and I expect he'll meet you, or if he doesn't, it's only a seven mile walk. I don't know the way, but you can ask whenyou get to Galton. Only if you could find your way without asking itwould be better, because if you're pursued and you're seen asking theway you'll be caught more easily. Now I must rush off and borrow somemoney from Mr. Ogilvie. No, perhaps it would rouse suspicions if I wereabsent from afternoon school. My uncle would be sure to guess, and--though I don't think he would--he might try to lock me up in myroom. But I say, " Mark suddenly exclaimed in indignation, "how on earthdid you manage to come and talk to me out here?"

Cyril explained that he had only been locked in his bedroom last nightwhen his father was so angry. He had freedom to move about in the houseand garden, and, he added to Mark's annoyance, there would be no needfor him to use rope ladders or sheets to escape. If Mark would tell himwhat time to be at the corner of the road and would wait for him alittle while in case his father saw him going out and prevented him, hewould easily be able to escape. 

"Then I needn't have told Hacking, " said Mark. "However, now I have toldhim, he must do something, or else he's sure to let out what he knows. Iwish I knew where to get the money for the fare. "

"I've got a pound in my money box. "

"Have you?" said Mark, a little mortified, but at the same time relievedthat he could keep Mr. Ogilvie from being involved. "Well, that ought tobe enough. I've got enough to send a telegram to Dorward. As soon as Iget his answer I'll send you word by Hacking. Now don't hang about inthe garden all the afternoon or your people will begin to thinksomething's up. If you could, it would be a good thing for you to beheard praying and groaning in your room. "

Cyril smiled his feeble smile, and Mark felt inclined to abandon him tohis fate; but he decided on reflection that the importance ofvindicating the claims of the Church to a persecuted son was moreimportant than the foolishness and the feebleness of the son. 

"Do you want me to do anything more?" Hacking asked. 

Mark suggested that Hacking's name and address should be given for Mr. Dorward's answer, but this Hacking refused. 

"If a telegram came to our house, everybody would want to read it. Whycan't it be sent to you?"

Mark sighed for his fellow-conspirator's stupidity. To this useless clodhe had presented a valuable bat. 

"All right, " he said impatiently, "you needn't do anything more excepttell Pomeroy what time he's to be at the corner of the road to-morrow. "

"I'll do that, Lidderdale. "

"I should think you jolly well would, " Mark exclaimed scornfully. 

Mark spent a long time over the telegram to Dorward; in the end hedecided that it would be safer to assume that the priest would shelterand hide Cyril rather than take the risk of getting an answer. The finaldraft was as follows:--

 Dorward Green Lanes Medworth Hants

 Am sending persecuted Catholic boy by 7. 30 from Waterloo Tuesday please send conveyance Mark Lidderdale. 

Mark only had eightpence, and this message would cost tenpence. He tookout the _am_, changed _by 7. 30 from Waterloo_ to _arriving 9. 35_ and_send conveyance_ to _meet_. If he had only borrowed Cyril's sovereign, he could have been more explicit. However, he flattered himself that hewas getting full value for his eightpence. He then worked out the costof Cyril's escape. 

 s. D. Third Class single to Paddington 1 6Third Class return to Paddington (for self) 2 6Third Class single Waterloo to Galton 3 11Cab from Paddington to Waterloo 3 6?Cab from Waterloo to Paddington (for self) 3 6?Sandwiches for Cyril and Self 1 0Ginger-beer for Cyril and Self (4 bottles) 8 ________Total 16 7

The cab of course might cost more, and he must take back the eightpenceout of it for himself. But Cyril would have at least one and sixpencein his pocket when he arrived, which he could put in the offertory atthe Mass of thanksgiving for his escape that he would attend on thefollowing morning. Cyril would be useful to old Dorward, and he (Mark)would give him some tips on serving if they had an empty compartmentfrom Slowbridge to Paddington. Mark's original intention had been towait at the corner of Cranborne Road in a closed cab like the proverbialpostchaise of elopements, but he discarded this idea for reasons ofeconomy. He hoped that Cyril would not get frightened on the way to thestation and turn back. Perhaps after all it would be wiser to order acab and give up the ginger-beer, or pay for the ginger-beer with themoney for the telegram. Once inside a cab Cyril was bound to go on. Hacking might be committed more completely to the enterprise by waitinginside until he arrived with Cyril. It was a pity that Cyril was notlocked in his room, and yet when it came to it he would probably havefunked letting himself down from the window by knotted sheets. Markwalked home with Hacking after school, to give his final instructionsfor the following day. 

"I'm telling you now, " he said, "because we oughtn't to be seen togetherat all to-morrow, in case of arousing suspicion. You must get hold ofPomeroy and tell him to run to the corner of the road at half-past-five, and jump straight into the fly that'll be waiting there with youinside. "

"But where will you be?"

"I shall be waiting outside the ticket barrier with the tickets. "

"Supposing he won't?"

"I'll risk seeing him once more. Go and ask if you can speak to him aminute, and tell him to come out in the garden presently. Say you'veknocked a ball over or something and will Master Cyril throw it back. Isay, we might really put a message inside a ball and throw it over. Thatwas the way the Duc de Beaufort escaped in _Twenty Years After_. "

Hacking looked blankly at Mark. 

"But it's dark and wet, " he objected. "I shouldn't knock a ball over ona wet evening like this. "

"Well, the skivvy won't think of that, and Pomeroy will guess thatwe're trying to communicate with him. "

Mark thought how odd it was that Hacking should be so utterly blind tothe romance of the enterprise. After a few more objections which weredisposed of by Mark, Hacking agreed to go next door and try to get theprisoner into the garden. He succeeded in this, and Mark rated Cyril fornot having given him the sovereign yesterday. 

"However, bunk in and get it now, because I shan't see you again tillto-morrow at the station, and I must have some money to buy thetickets. "

He explained the details of the escape and exacted from Cyril a promisenot to back out at the last moment. 

"You've got nothing to do. It's as simple as A B C. It's too simple, really, to be much of a rag. However, as it isn't a rag, but serious, Isuppose we oughtn't to grumble. Now, you are coming, aren't you?"

Cyril promised that nothing but physical force should prevent him. 

"If you funk, don't forget that you'll have betrayed your faith and. . . "

At this moment Mark in his enthusiasm slipped off the wall, and afteruttering one more solemn injunction against backing out at the lastminute he left Cyril to the protection of Angels for the nexttwenty-four hours. 

Although he would never have admitted as much, Mark was ratherastonished when Cyril actually did present himself at Slowbridge stationin time to catch the 5. 47 train up to town. Their compartment was notempty, so that Mark was unable to give Cyril that lesson in serving atthe altar which he had intended to give him. Instead, as Cyril seemed inhis reaction to the excitement of the escape likely to burst into tearsat any moment, he drew for him a vivid picture of the enjoyable life towhich the train was taking him. 

"Father Dorward says that the country round Green Lanes is ripping. Andhis church is Norman. I expect he'll make you his ceremonarius. You'rean awfully lucky chap, you know. He says that next Corpus Christi, he'sgoing to have Mass on the village green. Nobody will know where youare, and I daresay later on you can become a hermit. You might become asaint. The last English saint to be canonized was St. Thomas Cantilupeof Hereford. But of course Charles the First ought to have been properlycanonized. By the time you die I should think we should have got backcanonization in the English Church, and if I'm alive then I'll proposeyour canonization. St. Cyril Pomeroy you'd be. "

Such were the bright colours in which Mark painted Cyril's future; whenhe had watched him wave his farewells from the window of the departingtrain at Waterloo, he felt as if he were watching the bodily assumptionof a saint. 

"Where have you been all the evening?" asked Uncle Henry, when Mark cameback about nine o'clock. 

"In London, " said Mark. 

"Your insolence is becoming insupportable. Get away to your room. "

It never struck Mr. Lidderdale that his nephew was telling the truth. 

The hue and cry for Cyril Pomeroy began at once, and though Markmaintained at first that the discovery of Cyril's hiding-place was dueto nothing else except the cowardice of Hacking, who when confronted bya detective burst into tears and revealed all he knew, he was bound toadmit afterward that, if Mr. Ogilvie had been questioned much more, hewould have had to reveal the secret himself. Mark was hurt that hisefforts to help a son of Holy Church should not be better appreciated byMr. Ogilvie; but he forgave his friend in view of the nuisance that itundoubtedly must have been to have Meade Cantorum beleaguered by half adozen corpulent detectives. The only person in the Vicarage who seemedto approve of what he had done was Esther; she who had always seemed toignore him, even sometimes in a sensitive mood to despise him, was fullof congratulations. 

"How did you manage it, Mark?"

"Oh, I took a cab, " said Mark modestly. "One from the corner ofCranborne Road to Slowbridge, and another from Paddington to Waterloo. We had some sandwiches, and a good deal of ginger-beer at Paddingtonbecause we thought we mightn't be able to get any at Waterloo, but atWaterloo we had some more ginger-beer. I wish I hadn't told Hacking. IfI hadn't, we should probably have pulled it off. Old Dorward was up toanything. But Hacking is a hopeless ass. "

"What does your uncle say?"

"He's rather sick, " Mark admitted. "He refused to let me go to schoolany more, which as you may imagine doesn't upset me very much, and I'mto go into Hitchcock's office after Christmas. As far as I can make outI shall be a kind of servant. "

"Have you talked to Stephen about it?"

"Well, he's a bit annoyed with me about this kidnapping. I'm afraid Ihave rather let him in for it. He says he doesn't mind so much if it'skept out of the papers. "

"Anyway, I think it was a sporting effort by you, " said Esther. "Iwasn't particularly keen on you until you brought this off. I hate piousboys. I wish you'd told me beforehand. I'd have loved to help. "

"Would you? I say, I am sorry. I never thought of you, " said Mark muchdisappointed at the lost opportunity. "You'd have been much better thanthat ass Hacking. If you and I had been the only people in it, I'll betthe detectives would never have found him. "

"And what's going to happen to the youth now?"

"Oh, his father's going to take him to Australia as he arranged. Theysail to-morrow. There's one thing, " Mark added with a kind of gloomyrelish. "He's bound to go to the bad, and perhaps that'll be a lesson tohis father. "

The hope of the Vicar of Meade Cantorum and equally it may be added thehope of Mr. Lidderdale that the affair would be kept out of the paperswas not fulfilled. The day after Mr. Pomeroy and his son sailed fromTilbury the following communication appeared in _The Times_:

 Sir, --The accompanying letter was handed to me by my friend the Reverend Eustace Pomeroy to be used as I thought fit and subject to only one stipulation--that it should not be published until he and his son were out of England. As President of the Society for the Protection of the English Church against Romish Aggression I feel that it is my duty to lay the facts before the country. I need scarcely add that I have been at pains to verify the surprising and alarming accusations made by a clergyman against two other clergymen, and I earnestly request the publicity of your columns for what I venture to believe is positive proof of the dangerous conspiracy existing in our very midst to romanize the Established Church of England. I shall be happy to produce for any of your readers who find Mr. Pomeroy's story incredible at the close of the nineteenth century the signed statements of witnesses and other documentary evidence. 

 I am, Sir, Your obedient servant, Danvers. 

 The Right Honble. The Lord Danvers, P. C. 

 President of the Society for the Protection of the English Church against Romish Aggression. 

 My Lord, I have to bring to your notice as President of the S. P. E. C. R. A. What I venture to assert is one of the most daring plots to subvert home and family life in the interests of priestcraft that has ever been discovered. In taking this step I am fully conscious of its seriousness, and if I ask your lordship to delay taking any measures for publicity until the unhappy principal is upon the high seas in the guardianship of his even more unhappy father, I do so for the sake of the wretched boy whose future has been nearly blasted by the Jesuitical behaviour of two so-called Protestant clergymen. 

 Four years ago, my lord, I retired from a lifelong career as a missionary in New Guinea to give my children the advantages of English education and English climate, and it is surely hard that I should live to curse the day on which I did so. My third son Cyril was sent to school at Haverton House, Slowbridge, to an educational establishment kept by a Mr. Henry Lidderdale, reputed to be a strong Evangelical and I believe I am justified in saying rightly so reputed. At the same time I regret that Mr. Lidderdale, whose brother was a notorious Romanizer I have since discovered, should not have exercised more care in the supervision of his nephew, a fellow scholar with my own son at Haverton House. It appears that Mr. Lidderdale was so lax as to permit his nephew to frequent the services of the Reverend Stephen Ogilvie at Meade Cantorum, where every excess such as incense, lighted candles, mariolatry and creeping to the cross is openly practised. The Revd. S. Ogilvie I may add is a member of the S. S. C. , that notorious secret society whose machinations have been so often exposed and the originators of that filthy book "The Priest in Absolution. " He is also a member of the Guild of All Souls which has for its avowed object the restoration of the Romish doctrine of Purgatory with all its attendant horrors, and finally I need scarcely add he is a member of the Confraternity of the "Blessed Sacrament" which seeks openly to popularize the idolatrous and blasphemous cult of the Mass. 

 Young Lidderdale presumably under the influence of this disloyal Protestant clergyman sought to corrupt my son, and was actually so far successful as to lure him to attend the idolatrous services at Meade Cantorum church, which of course he was only able to do by inventing lies and excuses to his father to account for his absence from the simple worship to which all his life he had been accustomed. Not content with this my unhappy son was actually persuaded to confess his sins to this self-styled "priest"! I wonder if he confessed the sin of deceiving his own father to "Father" Ogilvie who supplied him with numerous Mass books, several of which I enclose for your lordship's inspection. You will be amused if you are not too much horrified by these puerile and degraded works, and in one of them, impudently entitled "Catholic Prayers for Church of England People" you will actually see in cold print a prayer for the "Pope of Rome. " This work emanates from that hotbed of sacerdotal disloyalty, St. Alban's, Holborn. 

 These vile books I discovered by accident carefully hidden away in my son's bedroom. "Facilis descensus Averni!" You will easily imagine the humiliation of a parent who, having devoted his life to bring the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the heathen, finds that his own son has fallen as low as the lowest savage. As soon as I made my discovery, I removed him from Haverton House, and warned the proprietor of the risk he was running by not taking better care of his pupils. Having been summoned to a conference of missionaries in Sydney, N. S. W. , I determined to take my son with me in the hope that a long voyage in the company of a loving parent, eager to help him back to the path of Truth and Salvation from which he had strayed, might cure him of his idolatrous fancies, and restore him to Jesus. 

 What followed is, as I write this, scarcely credible to myself; but however incredible, it is true. Young Lidderdale, acting no doubt at the instigation of "Father" Ogilvie (as my son actually called him to my face, not realizing the blasphemy of according to a mortal clergyman the title that belongs to God alone), entered into a conspiracy with another Romanizing clergyman, the Reverend Oliver Dorward, Vicar of Green Lanes, Hants, to abduct my son from his own father's house, with what ultimate intention I dare not think. Incredible as it must sound to modern ears, they were so far successful that for a whole week I was in ignorance of his whereabouts, while detectives were hunting for him up and down England. The abduction was carried out by young Lidderdale, with the assistance of a youth called Hacking, so coolly and skilfully as to indicate that the abettors behind the scenes are USED TO SUCH ABDUCTIONS. This, my lord, points to a very grave state of affairs in our midst. If the son of a Protestant clergyman like myself can be spirited away from a populous but nevertheless comparatively small town like Slowbridge, what must be going on in great cities like London? Moreover, everything is done to make it attractive for the unhappy youth who is thus lured away from his father's hearth. My own son is even now still impenitent, and I have the greatest fears for his moral and religious future, so rapid has been the corruption set up by evil companionship. 

 These, my lord, are the facts set out as shortly as possible and written on the eve of my departure in circumstances that militate against elegance of expression. I am, to tell the truth, still staggered by this affair, and if I make public my sorrow and my shame I do so in the hope that the Society of which your lordship is President, may see its way to take some kind of action that will make a repetition of such an outrage upon family life for ever impossible. 

 Believe me to be, Your lordship's obedient servant, Eustace Pomeroy. 

The publication of this letter stirred England. _The Times_ in a leadingarticle demanded a full inquiry into the alleged circumstances. _TheEnglish Churchman_ said that nothing like it had happened since the daysof Bloody Mary. Questions were asked in the House of Commons, andfinally when it became known that Lord Danvers would ask a question inthe House of Lords, Mr. Ogilvie took Mark to see Lord Hull who wished tobe in possession of the facts before he rose to correct somemisapprehensions of Lord Danvers. Mark also had to interview twoBishops, an Archdeacon, and a Rural Dean. He did not realize that for afew weeks he was a central figure in what was called THE CHURCH CRISIS. He was indignant at Mr. Pomeroy's exaggeration and perversions of fact, and he was so evidently speaking the truth that everybody from Lord Hullto a reporter of _The Sun_ was impressed by his account of the affair, so that in the end the Pomeroy Abduction was decided to be lessrevolutionary than the Gunpowder Plot. 

Mr. Lidderdale, however, believed that his nephew had deliberately triedto ruin him out of malice, and when two parents seized the opportunityof such a scandal to remove their sons from Haverton House withoutpaying the terminal fees, Mr. Lidderdale told Mark that he should recouphimself for the loss out of the money left by his mother. 

"How much did she leave?" his nephew asked. 

"Don't ask impertinent questions. "

"But it's my money, isn't it?"

"It will be your money in another six years, if you behave yourself. Meanwhile half of it will be devoted to paying your premium at theoffice of my friend Mr. Hitchcock. "

"But I don't want to be a solicitor. I want to be a priest, " said Mark. 

Uncle Henry produced a number of cogent reasons that would make hisnephew's ambition unattainable. 

"Very well, if I can't be a priest, I don't want the money, and you cankeep it yourself, " said Mark. "But I'm not going to be a solicitor. "

"And what are you going to be, may I inquire?" asked Uncle Henry. 

"In the end I probably _shall_ be a priest, " Mark prophesied. "But Ihaven't quite decided yet how. I warn you that I shall run away. "

"Run away, " his uncle echoed in amazement. "Good heavens, boy, haven'tyou had enough of running away over this deplorable Pomeroy affair?Where are you going to run to?"

"I couldn't tell you, could I, even if I knew?" Mark asked as tactfullyas he was able. "But as a matter of fact, I don't know. I only know thatI won't go into Mr. Hitchcock's office. If you try to force me, I shallwrite to _The Times_ about it. "

Such a threat would have sounded absurd in the mouth of a schoolboybefore the Pomeroy business; but now Mr. Lidderdale took it seriouslyand began to wonder if Haverton House would survive any more of suchpublicity. When a few days later Mr. Ogilvie, whom Mark had consultedabout his future, wrote to propose that Mark should live with him andwork under his superintendence with the idea of winning a scholarship atOxford, Mr. Lidderdale was inclined to treat his suggestion as asolution of the problem, and he replied encouragingly:

 Haverton House, Slowbridge. 

 Jan. 15. 

 Dear Sir, Am I to understand from your letter that you are offering to make yourself responsible for my nephew's future, for I must warn you that I could not accept your suggestion unless such were the case? I do not approve of what I assume will be the trend of your education, and I should have to disclaim any further responsibility in the matter of my nephew's future. I may inform you that I hold in trust for him until he comes of age the sum of £522 8s. 7d. Which was left by his mother. The annual interest upon this I have used until now as a slight contribution to the expense to which I have been put on his account; but I have not thought it right to use any of the capital sum. This I am proposing to transfer to you. His mother did not execute any legal document and I have nothing more binding than a moral obligation. If you undertake the responsibility of looking after him until such time as he is able to earn his own living, I consider that you are entitled to use this money in any way you think right. I hope that the boy will reward your confidence more amply than he has rewarded mine. I need not allude to the Pomeroy business to you, for notwithstanding your public denials I cannot but consider that you were as deeply implicated in that disgraceful affair as he was. I note what you say about the admiration you had for my brother. I wish I could honestly say that I shared that admiration. But my brother and I were not on good terms, for which state of affairs he was entirely responsible. I am more ready to surrender to you all my authority over Mark because I am only too well aware how during the last year you have consistently undermined that authority and encouraged my nephew's rebellious spirit. I have had a great experience of boys during thirty-five years of schoolmastering, and I can assure you that I have never had to deal with a boy so utterly insensible to kindness as my nephew. His conduct toward his aunt I can only characterize as callous. Of his conduct towards me I prefer to say no more. I came forward at a moment when he was likely to be sunk in the most abject poverty, and my reward has been ingratitude. I pray that his dark and stubborn temperament may not turn to vice and folly as he grows older, but I have little hope of its not doing so. I confess that to me his future seems dismally black. You may have acquired some kind of influence over his emotions, if he has any emotions, but I am not inclined to suppose that it will endure. 

 On hearing from you that you persist in your offer to assume complete responsibility for my nephew, I will hand him over to your care at once. I cannot pretend that I shall be sorry to see the last of him, for I am not a hypocrite. I may add that his clothes are in rather a sorry state. I had intended to equip him upon his entering the office of my old friend Mr. Hitchcock and with that intention I have been letting him wear out what he has. This, I may say, he has done most effectually. 

 I am, Sir, Yours faithfully, Henry Lidderdale. 

To which Mr. Ogilvie replied:

 The Vicarage, Meade Cantorum, Bucks. 

 Jan. 16. 

 Dear Mr. Lidderdale, I accept full responsibility for Mark and for Mark's money. Send both of them along whenever you like. I'm not going to embark on another controversy about the "rights" of boys. I've exhausted every argument on this subject since Mark involved me in his drastic measures of a month ago. But please let me assure you that I will do my best for him and that I am convinced he will do his best for me. 

 Yours truly, Stephen Ogilvie. 

CHAPTER XIII

WYCH-ON-THE-WOLD

Mark rarely visited his uncle and aunt after he went to live at MeadeCantorum; and the break was made complete soon afterward when the livingof Wych-on-the-Wold was accepted by Mr. Ogilvie, so complete indeed thathe never saw his relations again. Uncle Henry died five years later;Aunt Helen went to live at St. Leonard's, where she took up palmistryand became indispensable to the success of charitable bazaars in EastSussex. 

Wych, a large village on a spur of the Cotswold hills, was actually inOxfordshire, although by so bare a margin that all the windows lookeddown into Gloucestershire, except those in the Rectory; they looked outacross a flat country of elms and willow-bordered streams to a flashingspire in Northamptonshire reputed to be fifty miles away. It was a highwindy place, seeming higher and windier on account of the numbers ofpigeons that were always circling round the church tower. There washardly a house in Wych that did not have its pigeon-cote, from the greatround columbary in the Rectory garden to the few holes in a gable-end ofsome steep-roofed cottage. Wych was architecturally as perfect as mostCotswold villages, and if it lacked the variety of Wychford in the valebelow, that was because the exposed position had kept its successivebuilders too intent on solidity to indulge their fancy. The result wasan austere uniformity of design that accorded fittingly with a landscapewhose beauty was all of line and whose colour like the lichen on an oldwall did not flauntingly reveal its gradations of tint to the transientobserver. The bleak upland airs had taught the builders to be sparingwith their windows; the result of such solicitude for the comfort of theinmates was a succession of blank spaces of freestone that delightedthe eye with an effect of strength and leisure, of cleanliness andtranquillity. 

The Rectory, dating from the reign of Charles II, did not arrogate toitself the right to retire behind trees from the long line of the singlevillage street; but being taller than the other houses it brought thestreet to a dignified conclusion, and it was not unworthy of the noblechurch which stood apart from the village, a landmark for miles, uponthe brow of the rolling wold. There was little traffic on the road thatclimbed up from Wychford in the valley of the swift Greenrush five milesaway, and there was less traffic on the road beyond, which for eightmiles sent branch after branch to remote farms and hamlets until itselfbecame no more than a sheep track and faded out upon a hilly pasturage. Yet even this unfrequented road only bisected the village at the end ofits wide street, where in the morning when the children were at schooland the labourers at work in the fields the silence was cloistral, whereone could stand listening to the larks high overhead, and where thelightest footstep aroused curiosity, so that one turned the head to peepand peer for the cause of so strange a sound. 

Mr. Ogilvie's parish had a large superficial area; but his parishionerswere not many outside the village, and in that country of wide pasturesthe whole of his cure did not include half-a-dozen farms. There was nodoctor and no squire, unless Will Starling of Rushbrooke Grange could becounted as the squire. 

Halfway to Wychford and close to the boundary of the two parishes aninfirm signpost managed with the aid of a stunted hawthorn to keepitself partially upright and direct the wayfarer to Wych Maries. Withoutthe signpost nobody would have suspected that the grassgrown track thusindicated led anywhere except over the top of the wold. 

"You must go and explore Wych Maries, " the Rector had said to Mark soonafter they arrived. "You'll find it rather attractive. There's a disusedchapel dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin and St. Mary Magdalene. Mypredecessor took me there when we drove round the parish on my firstvisit; but I haven't yet had time to go again. And you ought to have alook at the gardens of Rushbrooke Grange. The present squire is away. Inthe South Seas, I believe. But the housekeeper, Mrs. Honeybone, willshow you round. "

It was in response to this advice that Mark and Esther set out on agolden May evening to explore Wych Maries. Esther had continued to befriendly with Mark after the Pomeroy affair; and when he came to live atMeade Cantorum she had expressed her pleasure at the prospect of havinghim for a brother. 

"But you'll keep off religion, won't you?" she had demanded. 

Mark promised that he would, wondering why she should suppose that hewas incapable of perceiving who was and who was not interested in it. 

"I suppose you've guessed my fear?" she had continued. "Haven't you?Haven't you guessed that I'm frightened to death of becoming religious?"

The reassuring contradiction that one naturally gives to anybody whovoices a dread of being overtaken by some misfortune might perhaps havesounded inappropriate, and Mark had held his tongue. 

"My father was very religious. My mother is more or less religious. Stephen is religious. Miriam is religious. Oh, Mark, and I sometimesfeel that I too must fall on my knees and surrender. But I won't. Because it spoils life. I shall be beaten in the end of course, and I'llprobably get religious mania when I am beaten. But until then--" She didnot finish her sentence; only her blue eyes glittered at the challengeof life. 

That was the last time religion was mentioned between Mark and Esther, and since both of them enjoyed the country they became friends. On thisMay evening they stood by the signpost and looked across the shimmeringgrass to where the sun hung in his web of golden haze above the edge ofthe wold. 

"If we take the road to Wych Maries, " said Mark, "we shall be walkingright into the sun. "

Esther did not reply, but Mark understood that she assented to histruism, and they walked on as silent as the long shadows that followedthem. A quarter of a mile from the high road the path reached the edgeof the wold and dipped over into a wood which was sparse just below thebrow, but which grew denser down the slope with many dark evergreensinterspersed, and in the valley below became a jungle. After the bareupland country this volume of May verdure seemed indescribably rich andthe valley beyond, where the Greenrush flowed through kingcups towardthe sun, indescribably alluring. Esther and Mark forgot that they wereexploring Wych Maries and thinking only of reaching that wide valleythey ran down through the wood, rejoicing in the airy green of theash-trees above them and shouting as they ran. But presently cypressesand sombre yews rose on either side of the path, and the road to WychMaries was soft and silent, and the serene sun was lost, and theirwhispering footsteps forbade them to shout any more. At the bottom ofthe hill the trees increased in number and variety; the sun shonethrough pale oak-leaves and the warm green of sycamores. Nevertheless asadness haunted the wood, where the red campions made only a mist ofcolour with no reality of life and flowers behind. 

"This wood's awfully jolly, isn't it?" said Mark, hoping to gain fromEsther's agreement the dispersal of his gloom. 

"I don't care for it much, " she replied. "There doesn't seem to be anylife in it. "

"I heard a cuckoo just now, " said Mark. 

"Yes, out of tune already. "

"Mm, rather out of tune. Mind those nettles, " he warned her. 

"I thought Stephen said he drove here. "

"Perhaps we've come the wrong way. I believe the road forked by the ashwood above. Anyway if we go toward the sun we shall come out in thevalley, and we can walk back along the banks of the river to Wychford. "

"We can always go back through the wood, " said Esther. 

"Yes, if you don't mind going back the way you came. "

"Come on, " she snapped. She was not going to be laughed at by Mark, andshe dared him to deny that he was not as much aware as herself of aneeriness in the atmosphere. 

"Only because it seems dark in here after that dazzling sunlight on thewold. Hark! I hear the sound of water. "

They struggled through the undergrowth toward the sound; soon from asteep wooded bank they were gazing down into a millpool, the surface ofwhich reflected with a gloomy deepening of their hue the colour but notthe form of the trees above. Water was flowing through a rotten sluicegate down from the level of the stream upon a slimy water-wheel thatmust have been out of action for many years. 

"The dark tarn of Auber in the misty mid region of Weir!" Markexclaimed. "Don't you love _Ulalume_? I think it's about my favouritepoem. "

"Never heard of it, " Esther replied indifferently. He might have takenadvantage of this confession to give her a lecture on poetry, if themillpool and the melancholy wood had not been so affecting as to makethe least attempt at literary exposition impertinent. 

"And there's the chapel, " Mark exclaimed, pointing to a ruined edificeof stone, the walls of which were stained with the damp of years risingfrom the pool. "But how shall we reach it? We must have come the wrongway. "

"Let's go back! Let's go back!" Esther exclaimed, surrendering to thecommand of an intuition that overcame her pride. "This place isunlucky. "

Mark looking at her wild eyes, wilder in the dark that came so early inthis overshadowed place, was half inclined to turn round at her behest;but at that moment he perceived a possible path through the nettles andbriers at the farther end of the pool and unwilling to go back to theRectory without having visited the ruined chapel of Wych Maries hecalled on her to follow him. This she did fearfully at first; butgradually regaining her composure she emerged on the other side as cooland scornful as the Esther with whom he was familiar. 

"What frightened you?" he asked, when they were standing on a grassgrownroad that wound through a rank pasturage browsed on by a solitary blackcow and turned the corner by a clump of cedars toward a large building, the presence of which was felt rather than seen beyond the trees. 

"I was bored by the brambles, " Esther offered for explanation. 

"This must be the driving road, " Mark proclaimed. "I say, this chapel israther ripping, isn't it?"

But Esther had wandered away across the rank meadow, where hermeditative form made the solitary black cow look lonelier than ever. Mark turned aside to examine the chapel. He had been warned by theRector to look at the images of St. Mary the Virgin and St. MaryMagdalene that had survived the ruin of the holy place of which theywere tutelary and to which they had given their name. The history of thechapel was difficult to trace. It was so small as to suggest that it wasa chantry; but there was no historical justification for linking itsfortunes with the Starlings who owned Rushbrooke Grange, and there wasno record of any lost hamlet here. That it was called Wych Maries mightshow a connexion either with Wychford or with Wych-on-the-Wold; it layabout midway between the two, and in days gone by there had beencontroversy on this point between the two parishes. The question hadbeen settled by a squire of Rushbrooke's buying it in the eighteenthcentury, since when a legend had arisen that it was built and endowed bysome crusading Starling of the thirteenth century. There was recordneither of its glory nor of its decline, nor of what manner of folkworshipped there, nor of those who destroyed it. The roofless haunt ofbats and owls, preserved from complete collapse by the ancient ivy thatcovered its walls, the mortar between its stones the prey of briers, itsfloor a nettle bed, the chapel remained a mystery. Yet over the arch ofthe west door the two Maries gazed heavenward as they had gazed for sixhundred years. The curiosity of the few antiquarians who visited theplace and speculated upon its past had kept the images clear of the ivythat covered the rest of the fabric. Mark did not put this to the creditof the antiquarians; but now perceiving for the first time these twoaustere shapes of divine women under conditions of atmosphere thatenhanced their austerity and unearthliness he ascribed their freedomfrom decay to the interposition of God. To Mark's imagination, fixedupon the images while Esther wandered solitary in the field beyond thechapel, there was granted another of those moments of vision whichmarked like milestones his spiritual progress. He became suddenlyassured that he would neither marry nor beget children. He wasastonished to find himself in the grip of this thought, for his mind hadnever until this evening occupied itself with marriage or children, noreven with love. Yet here he was obsessed by the conviction of his finitepurpose in the scheme of the world. He could not, he said to himself, beconsidered credulous if he sought for the explanation of his state ofmind in the images of the two Maries. He looked at them resolved toilluminate with reason's eye the fluttering shadows of dusk that gave tothe stone an illusion of life's bloom. 

"Did their lips really move?" he asked aloud, and from the field beyondthe black cow lowed a melancholy negative. Whether the stone had spokenor not, Mark accepted the revelation of his future as a Divine favour, and thenceforth he regarded the ruined chapel of Wych Maries as theplace where the vow he made on that Whit-sunday was accepted by God. 

"Aren't you ever coming?" the voice of Esther called across the field, and Mark hurried away to rejoin her on the grassgrown drive that ledround the cedar grove to Rushbrooke Grange. 

"It's too late now to go inside, " he objected. 

They were standing before the house. 

"It's not too late at all, " she contradicted eagerly. "Down here itseems later than it really is. "

Rushbrooke Grange lacked the architectural perfection of the averageCotswold manor. Being a one-storied building it occupied a largesuperficial area, and its tumbling irregular roofs of freestone, theoutlines of which were blurred by the encroaching mist of vegetationthat overhung them, gave the effect of water, as if the atmosphere ofthis dank valley had wrought upon the substance of the building and asif the architects themselves had been confused by the rivalry of thetrees by which it was surrounded. The owners of Rushbrooke Grange hadnever occupied a prominent position in the county, and their estates hadgrown smaller with each succeeding generation. There was no conspicuousauthor of their decay, no outstanding gamester or libertine from whoseownership the family's ruin could be dated. There was indeed nothing ofinterest in their annals except an attack upon the Grange by a party ofarmed burglars in the disorderly times at the beginning of thenineteenth century, when the squire's wife and two little girls weremurdered while the squire and his sons were drinking deep in the StagInn at Wychford four miles away. Mark did not feel much inclined toblunt his impression of the chapel by perambulating Rushbrooke Grangeunder the guidance of Mrs. Honeybone, the old housekeeper; but Estherperversely insisted upon seeing the garden at any rate, giving as herexcuse that the Rector would like them to pay the visit. By now it was apink and green May dusk; the air was plumy with moths' wings, heavy withthe scent of apple blossom. 

"Well, you must explain who we are, " said Mark while the echoes of thebell died away on the silence within the house and they waited for thefootsteps that should answer their summons. The answer came from awindow above the porch where Mrs. Honeybone's face, wreathed inwistaria, looked down and demanded in accents that were harsh with alarmwho was there. 

"I am the Rector's sister, Mrs. Honeybone, " Esther explained. 

"I don't care who you are, " said Mrs. Honeybone. "You have no businessto go ringing the bell at this time of the evening. It frightened me todeath. "

"The Rector asked me to call on you, " she pressed. 

Mark had already been surprised by Esther's using her brother as anexcuse to visit the house and he was still more surprised by hearing herspeak so politely, so ingratiatingly, it seemed, to this grim womanembowered in wistaria. 

"We lost our way, " Esther explained, "and that's why we're so late. TheRector told me about the water-lily pool, and I should so much like tosee it. "

Mrs. Honeybone debated with herself for a moment, until at last with agrunt of disapproval she came downstairs and opened the front door. Thelily pool, now a lily pool only in name, for it was covered with anintegument of duckweed which in twilight took on the texture of velvet, was an attractive place set in an enclosure of grass between high greywalls. 

"That's all there is to see, " said Mrs. Honeybone. 

"Mr. Starling is abroad?" Esther asked. 

The housekeeper nodded. 

"And when is he coming back?" she went on. 

"That's for him to say, " said the housekeeper disagreeably. "He mightcome back to-night for all I know. "

Almost before the sentence was out of her mouth the hall bell jangled, and a distant voice shouted:

"Nanny, Nanny, hurry up and open the door!"

Mrs. Honeybone could not have looked more startled if the voice had beenthat of a ghost. Mark began to talk of going until Esther cut him short. 

"I don't think Mr. Starling will mind our being here so much as that, "she said. 

Mrs. Honeybone had already hurried off to greet her master; and when shewas gone Mark looked at Esther, saw that her face was strangely flushed, and in an instant of divination apprehended either that she had alreadymet the squire of Rushbrooke Grange or that she expected to meet himhere to-night; so that, when presently a tall man of about thirty-fivewith brick-dust cheeks came into the close, he was not taken aback whenEsther greeted him by name with the assurance of old friendship. Nor washe astonished that even in the wan light those brick-dust cheeks shoulddeepen to terra-cotta, those hard blue eyes glitter with recognition, and the small thin-lipped mouth lose for a moment its immobility andgape, yes, gape, in the amazement of meeting somebody whom he nevercould have expected to meet at such an hour in such a place. 

"You, " he exclaimed. "You here!"

By the way he quickly looked behind him as if to intercept a pryingglance Mark knew that, whatever the relationship between Esther and thesquire had been in the past, it had been a relationship in whichsecrecy had played a part. In that moment between him and Will Starlingthere was enmity. 

"You couldn't have expected him to make a great fuss about a boy, " saidEsther brutally on their way back to the Rectory. 

"I suppose you think that's the reason why I don't like him, " said Mark. "I don't want him to take any notice of me, but I think it's very oddthat you shouldn't have said a word about knowing him even to hishousekeeper. "

"It was a whim of mine, " she murmured. "Besides, I don't know him verywell. We met at Eastbourne once when I was staying there with Mother. "

"Well, why didn't he say 'How do you do, Miss Ogilvie?' instead ofbreathing out 'you' like that?"

Esther turned furiously upon Mark. 

"What has it got to do with you?"

"Nothing whatever to do with me, " he said deliberately. "But if youthink you're going to make a fool of me, you're not. Are you going totell your brother you knew him?"

Esther would not answer, and separated by several yards they walkedsullenly back to the Rectory. 

CHAPTER XIV

ST. MARK'S DAY

Mark tried next day to make up his difference with Esther; but sherepulsed his advances, and the friendship that had blossomed after thePomeroy affair faded and died. There was no apparent dislike on eitherside, nothing more than a coolness as of people too well used to eachother's company. In a way this was an advantage for Mark, who was havingto apply himself earnestly to the amount of study necessary to win ascholarship at Oxford. Companionship with Esther would have meantconsiderable disturbance of his work, for she was a woman who dependedon the inspiration of the moment for her pastimes and pleasures, who wasimpatient of any postponement and always avowedly contemptuous of Mark'sserious side. His classical education at Haverton House had made littleof the material bequeathed to him by his grandfather's tuition atNancepean. None of his masters had been enough of a scholar or enough ofa gentleman (and to teach Latin and Greek well one must be one or theother) to educate his taste. The result was an assortment of grammaticalfacts to which he was incapable of giving life. If the Rector ofWych-on-the-Wold was not a great scholar, he was at least able to repairthe neglect of, more than the neglect of, the positive damage done toMark's education by the meanness of Haverton House; moreover, after Markhad been reading with him six months he did find a really first-classscholar in Mr. Ford, the Vicar of Little Fairfield. Mark workedsteadily, and existence in Oxfordshire went by without any greatadventures of mind, body, or spirit. Life at the Rectory had a kind ofgraceful austerity like the well-proportioned Rectory itself. If Markhad bothered to analyze the cause of this graceful austerity, he mighthave found it in the personality of the Rector's elder sister Miriam. Even at Meade Cantorum, when he was younger, Mark had been fullyconscious of her qualities; but here they found a background againstwhich they could display themselves more perfectly. When they moved fromBuckinghamshire and the new rector was seeing how much Miriamappreciated the new surroundings, he sold out some stock and presentedher with enough ready money to express herself in the outward beauty ofthe Rectory's refurbishing. He was luckily not called upon to spend agreat deal on the church, both his predecessors having maintained thefabric with care, and the fabric itself being sound enough andmagnificent enough to want no more than that. Miriam, though shaking oneof those capable and well-tended fingers at her beloved brother'sextravagance, accepted the gift with an almost childish determination togive full value of beauty in return, so that there should not be aservant's bedroom nor a cupboard nor a corridor that did not display theevidence of her appreciation in loving care. The garden was handed overto Mrs. Ogilvie, who as soon as May warmed its high enclosures bloomedthere like one of her own favourite peonies, rosy of face and fragrant, ample of girth, golden-hearted. 

Outside the Rectory Mark spent most of his time with Richard Ford, theson of the Vicar of Little Fairfield, with whom he went to work in theautumn after his arrival in Oxfordshire. Here again Mark was lucky, forRichard, who was a year or two older than himself and a student atCooper's Hill whence he would emerge as a civil engineer bound forIndia, was one of those entirely admirable young men who succeed inbeing saintly without any rapture or righteousness. 

Mark said one day:

"Rector, you know, Richard Ford really is a saint; only for goodness'sake don't tell him I said so, because he'd be furious. "

The Rector stopped humming a joyful _Miserere_ to give Mark an assuranceof his discretion. But Mark having said so much in praise of Richardcould say no more, and indeed he would have found it hard to express inwords what he felt about his friend. 

Mark accompanied Richard on his visits to Wychford Rectory where inthis fortunate corner of England existed a third perfect family. Richardwas deeply in love with Margaret Grey, the second daughter, and if Markhad ever been intended to fall in love he would certainly have fallen inlove with Pauline, the youngest daughter, who was fourteen. 

"I could look at her for ever, " he confided in Richard. "Walking downthe road from Wych-on-the-Wold this morning I saw two blue butterflieson a wild rose, and they were like Pauline's eyes and the rose was likeher cheek. "

"She's a decent kid, " Richard agreed fervently. 

Mark had had such a limited experience of the world that the amenitiesof the society in which he found himself incorporated did not strike hisimagination as remarkable. It was in truth one of those eclectic, somewhat exquisite, even slightly rarefied coteries which are producedpartly by chance, partly by interests shared in common, but most of all, it would seem, by the very genius of the place. The genius of Cotswoldsimparts to those who come beneath his influence the art of existingappropriately in the houses that were built at his inspiration. They donot boast of their privilege like the people of Sussex. They are notliving up to a landscape so much as to an architecture, and their voiceslowered harmoniously with the sigh of the wind through willows andaspens have not to compete with the sea-gales or the sea. 

Mark accepted the manners of the society in which good fortune had sethim as the natural expression of an inward orderliness, a traditionalrespect for beauty like the ritual of Christian worship. That the threedaughters of the Rector of Wychford should be critical of those whofailed to conform to their inherited refinement of life did not strikehim as priggish, because it never struck him for a moment that any otherstandard than theirs existed. He felt the same about people who objectedto Catholic ceremonies; their dislike of them did not present itself tohim as arising out of a different religious experience from his own; butit appeared as a propensity toward unmannerly behaviour, as a kind ofwanton disregard of decency and good taste. He was indeed still at theage when externals possess not so much an undue importance, but whenthey affect a boy as a mould through which the plastic experience of hisyouth is passed and whence it emerges to harden slowly to the ultimateform of the individual. In the case of Mark there was the revulsion fromthe arid ugliness of Haverton House and the ambition to make up forthose years of beauty withheld, both of which urged him on to take theutmost advantage of this opportunity to expose the blank surface ofthose years to the fine etching of the present. Miriam at home, theGreys at Wychford, and in some ways most of all Richard Ford atFairfield gave him in a few months the poise he would have received moregradually from a public school education. 

So Mark read Greek with the Vicar of Little Fairfield and Latin with theRector of Wych-on-the-Wold, who, amiable and holy man, had to worknearly twice as hard as his pupil to maintain his reserve ofinstruction. Mark took long walks with Richard Ford when Richard washome in his vacations, and long walks by himself when Richard was atCooper's Hill. He often went to Wychford Rectory, where he learnt toenjoy Schumann and Beethoven and Bach and Brahms. 

"You're like three Saint Cecilias, " he told them. "Monica is by Luiniand Margaret is by Perugino and Pauline. . . . "

"Oh, who am I by?" Pauline exclaimed, clapping her hands. 

"I give it up. You're just Saint Cecilia herself at fourteen. "

"Isn't Mark foolish?" Pauline laughed. 

"It's my birthday to-morrow, " said Mark, "so I'm allowed to be foolish. "

"It's my birthday in a week, " said Pauline. "And as I'm two yearsyounger than you I can be two years more foolish. "

Mark looked at her, and he was filled with wonder at the sanctity of hermaidenhood. Thenceforth meditating upon the Annunciation he shouldalways clothe Pauline in a robe of white samite and set her in hismind's eye for that other maid of Jewry, even as painters found holymaids in Florence or Perugia for their bright mysteries. 

While Mark was walking back to Wych and when on the brow of the firstrise of the road he stood looking down at Wychford in the valley below, a chill lisping wind from the east made him shiver and he thought of thelines in Keats' _Eve of St. Mark_:

 _The chilly sunset faintly told_ _Of unmatured green vallies cold, _ _Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, _ _Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, _ _Of primroses by shelter'd rills, _ _And daisies on the aguish hills. _

The sky in the west was an unmatured green valley tonight, where Venusbloomed like a solitary primrose; and on the dark hills of Heaven thestars were like daisies. He turned his back on the little town and setoff up the hill again, while the wind slipped through the hedge besidehim in and out of the blackthorn boughs, lisping, whispering, snuffling, sniffing, like a small inquisitive animal. He thought of Monica, Margaret, and Pauline playing in their warm, candle-lit room behind him, and he thought of Miriam reading in her tall-back chair before dinner, for Evensong would be over by now. Yes, Evensong would be over, heremembered penitently, and he ought to have gone this evening, which wasthe vigil of St. Mark and of his birthday. At this moment he caughtsight of the Wych Maries signpost black against that cold green sky. Hegave a momentary start, because seen thus the signpost had a human look;and when his heart beat normally it was roused again, this time by thesight of a human form indeed, the form of Esther, the wind blowing herskirts before her, hurrying along the road to which the signpost socrookedly pointed. Mark who had been climbing higher and higher now feltthe power of that wind full on his cheeks. It was as if it had foundwhat it wanted, for it no longer whispered and lisped among the boughsof the blackthorn, but blew fiercely over the wide pastures, drivingEsther before it, cutting through Mark like a sword. By the time he hadreached the signpost she had disappeared in the wood. 

Mark asked himself why she was going to Rushbrooke Grange. 

"To Rushbrooke Grange, " he said aloud. "Why should I think she is goingto Rushbrooke Grange?"

Though even in this desolate place he would not say it aloud, the answercame back from this very afternoon when somebody had mentioned casuallythat the Squire was come home again. Mark half turned to follow Esther, but in the moment of turning he set his face resolutely in the directionof home. If Esther were really on her way to meet Will Starling, hewould do more harm than good by appearing to pry. 

Esther was the flaw in Mark's crystal clear world. When a year ago theyhad quarrelled over his avowed dislike of Will Starling, she had goneback to her solitary walks and he conscious, painfully conscious, thatshe regarded him as a young prig, had with that foolish pride of youthresolved to be so far as she was concerned what she supposed him to be. His admiration for the Greys and the Fords had driven her into jeeringat them; throughout the year Mark and she had been scarcely polite toeach other even in public. The Rector and Miriam probably excused Mark'srudeness whenever he let himself give way to it, because their sisterdid not spare either of them, and they were made aware with exasperatinginsistence of the dullness of the country and of the dreariness ofeverybody who lived in the neighbourhood. Yet, Mark could never achievethat indifference to her attitude either toward himself or toward otherpeople that he wished to achieve. It was odd that this evening he shouldhave beheld her in that relation to the wind, because in his thoughtsabout her she always appeared to him like the wind, restlessly sighingand fluttering round a comfortable house. However steady thecandle-light, however bright the fire, however absorbing the book, however secure one may feel by the fireside, the wind is always there;and throughout these tranquil months Esther had always been mostunmistakably there. 

In the morning Mark went to Mass and made his Communion. It was astrangely calm morning; through the unstained windows of the clerestorythe sun sloped quivering ladders of golden light. He looked round withhalf a hope that Esther was in the church; but she was absent, andthroughout the service that brief vision of her dark transit across thecold green sky of yester eve kept recurring to his imagination, so thatfor all the rich peace of this interior he was troubled in spirit, andthe intention to make this Mass upon his seventeenth birthday anotherspiritual experience was frustrated. In fact, he was worshippingmechanically, and it was only when Mass was over and he was kneeling tomake an act of gratitude for his Communion that he began to apprehendhow he was asking fresh favours from God without having moved a stepforward to deserve them. 

"I think I'm too pleased with myself, " he decided, "I think I'msuffering from spiritual pride. I think. . . . "

He paused, wondering if it was blasphemous to have an intuition that Godwas about to play some horrible trick on him. Mark discussed with theRector the theological aspects of this intuition. 

"The only thing I feel, " said Mr. Ogilvie, "is that perhaps you areleading too sheltered a life here and that the explanation of yourintuition is your soul's perception of this. Indeed, once or twicelately I have been on the point of warning you that you must not getinto the habit of supposing you will always find the onset of the worldso gentle as here. "

"But naturally I don't expect to, " said Mark. "I was quite long enoughat Haverton House to appreciate what it means to be here. "

"Yes, " the Rector went on, "but even at Haverton House it was a passiveugliness, just as here it is a passive beauty. After our Lord had fastedforty days in the desert, accumulating reserves of spiritual energy, just as we in our poor human fashion try to accumulate in Lent reservesof spiritual energy that will enable us to celebrate Easter worthily, Hewas assailed by the Tempter more fiercely than ever during His life onearth. The history of all the early Egyptian monks, the history indeedof any life lived without losing sight of the way of spiritualperfection displays the same phenomena. In the action and reaction ofexperience, in the rise and fall of the tides, in the very breathing ofthe human lungs, you may perceive analogies of the divine rhythm. No, Ifancy your intuition of this morning is nothing more than one of thosemovements which warn us that the sleeper will soon wake. "

Mark went away from this conversation with the Rector dissatisfied. Hewanted something more than analogies taken from the experience ofspiritual giants, Titans of holiness whose mighty conquests of the fleshseemed as remote from him as the achievements of Alexander might appearto a captain of the local volunteers. What he had gone to ask the Rectorwas whether it was blasphemous to suppose that God was going to play ahorrible trick on him. He had not wanted a theological discussion, anacademic question and reply. Anything could be answered like that, probably himself in another twenty years, when he had preached somehundreds of sermons, would talk like that. Moreover, when he was aloneMark understood that he had not really wanted to talk about his owntroubles to the Rector at all, but that his real preoccupation had beenand still was Esther. He wondered, oh, how much he wondered, if herbrother had the least suspicion of her friendship with Will Starling, orif Miriam had had the least inkling that Esther had not come in tillnine o'clock last night because she had been to Wych Maries? Mark, remembering those wild eyes and that windblown hair when she stood for amoment framed in the doorway of the Rector's library, could not believethat none of her family had guessed that something more than the whim towander over the hills had taken her out on such a night. Did Mrs. Ogilvie, promenading so placidly along her garden borders, ever pause inperplexity at her daughter's behaviour? Calling them all to mind, theirattitudes, the expressions of their faces, the words upon their lips, Mark was sure that none of them had any idea what Esther was doing. Hedebated now the notion of warning Miriam in veiled language about hersister; but such an idea would strike Miriam as monstrous, as a mad andhorrible nightmare. Mark shivered at the mere fancy of the chill thatwould come over her and of the disdain in her eyes. Besides, what righthad he on the little he knew to involve Esther with her family?Superficially he might count himself her younger brother; but if hepresumed too far, with what a deadly retort might she not annihilate hisclaim. Most certainly he was not entitled to intervene unless heintervened bravely and directly. Mark shook his head at the prospect ofdoing that. He could not imagine anybody's tackling Esther directly onsuch a subject. Seventeen to-day! He looked out of the window and feltthat he was bearing upon his shoulders the whole of that green worldoutspread before him. 

The serene morning ripened to a splendid noontide, and Mark who hadintended to celebrate his birthday by enjoying every moment of it hadallowed the best of the hours to slip away in a stupor of indecision. More and more the vision of Esther last night haunted him, and he feltthat he could not go and see the Greys as he had intended. He could notbear the contemplation of the three girls with the weight of Esther onhis mind. He decided to walk over to Little Fairfield and persuadeRichard to make a journey of exploration up the Greenrush in a canoe. Hewould ask Richard his opinion of Will Starling. What a foolish notion!He knew perfectly well Richard's opinion of the Squire, and to lure himinto a restatement of it would be the merest self-indulgence. 

"Well, I must go somewhere to-day, " Mark shouted at himself. He secureda packet of sandwiches from the Rectory cook and set out to walk awayhis worries. 

"Why shouldn't I go down to Wych Maries? I needn't meet that chap. Andif I see him I needn't speak to him. He's always been only too jollyglad to be offensive to me. "

Mark turned aside from the high road by the crooked signpost and tookthe same path down under the ash-trees as he had taken with Esther forthe first time nearly a year ago. Spring was much more like Spring inthese wooded hollows; the noise of bees in the blossom of the elms wasmurmurous as limes in June. Mark congratulated himself on the spot inwhich he had chosen to celebrate this fine birthday, a day robbed fromtime like the day of a dream. He ate his lunch by the old mill dam, feeding the roach with crumbs until an elderly pike came up from thedeeps and frightened the smaller fish away. He searched for abullfinch's nest; but he did not find one, though he saw several of thebirds singing in the snowberry bushes; round and ruddy as October applesthey looked. At last he went to the ruined chapel, where afterspeculating idly for a little while upon its former state he fell as heusually did when he visited Wych Maries into a contemplation of the twoimages of the Blessed Virgin and St. Mary Magdalene. While he sat on ahummock of grass before the old West doorway he received an impressionthat since he last visited these forms of stone they had ceased to bemere relics of ancient worship unaccountably preserved from ruin, butthat they had somehow regained their importance. It was not that hediscerned in them any miraculous quality of living, still less ofwinking or sweating as images are reputed to wink and sweat for thefaithful. No, it was not that, he decided, although by regarding themthus entranced as he was he could easily have brought himself to thepoint of believing in a supernatural manifestation. He was too wellaware of this tendency to surrender to it; so, rousing himself from therapt contemplation of them and forsaking the hummock of grass, heclimbed up into the branches of a yew-tree that stood beside the chapel, that there and from that elevation, viewing the images and yet unviewedby them directly, he could be immune from the magic of fancy anddiscover why they should give him this impression of having regainedtheir utility, yes, that was the word, utility, not importance. Theywere revitalized not from within, but from without; and even as his mindleapt at this explanation he perceived in the sunlight, beyond theshadowy yew-tree in which he was perched, Esther sitting upon thathummock of grass where but a moment ago he had himself been sitting. 

For a moment, as if to contradict a reasonable explanation of thestrange impression the images had made upon him, Mark supposed that shewas come there for a tryst. This vanished almost at once in theconviction that Esther's soul waited there either in question or appeal. He restrained an impulse to declare his presence, for although he feltthat he was intruding upon a privacy of the soul, he feared to destroythe fruits of that privacy by breaking in. He knew that Esther's pridewould be so deeply outraged at having been discovered in a moment ofweakness thus upon her knees, for she had by now fallen upon her kneesin prayer, that it might easily happen she would never in all her lifepray more. There was no escape for Mark without disturbing her, and hesat breathless in the yew-tree, thinking that soon she must perceive hisglittering eye in the depths of the dark foliage as in passing ahedgerow one may perceive the eye of a nested bird. From his position hecould see the images, and out of the spiritual agony of Esther kneelingthere, the force of which was communicated to himself, he watched themclose, scarcely able to believe that they would not stoop from theirpedestals and console the suppliant woman with benediction of thosestone hands now clasped aspiringly to God, themselves for centuriessuppliant like the woman at their feet. Mark could think of nothingbetter to do than to turn his face from Esther's face and to say for hermany _Paternosters_ and _Aves_. At first he thought that he was prayingin a silence of nature; but presently the awkwardness of his positionbegan to affect his concentration, and he found that he was saying thewords mechanically, listening the while to the voices of birds. Hecompelled his attention to the prayers; but the birds were too loud. The_Paternosters_ and the _Aves_ were absorbed in their singing andchirping and twittering, so that Mark gave up to them and wished for arosary to help his feeble attention. Yet could he have used a rosarywithout falling out of the yew-tree? He took his hands from the boughfor a moment and nearly overbalanced. _Make not your rosary of yewberries_, he found himself saying. Who wrote that? _Make not your rosaryof yew berries. _ Why, of course, it was Keats. It was the first line ofthe _Ode to Melancholy_. Esther was still kneeling out there in thesunlight. And how did the poem continue? _Make not your rosary of yewberries. _ What was the second line? It was ridiculous to sit astride abough and say _Paternosters_ and _Aves_. He could not sit there muchlonger. And then just as he was on the point of letting go he saw thatEsther had risen from her knees and that Will Starling was standing inthe doorway of the chapel looking at her, not speaking but waiting forher to speak, while he wound a strand of ivy round his fingers andunwound it again, and wound it round again until it broke and he wassaying:

"I thought we agreed after your last display here that you'd give thiscursed chapel the go by?"

"I can't escape from it, " Esther cried. "You don't understand, Will, what it means. You never have understood. "

"Dearest Essie, I understand only too well. I've paid pretty handsomelyin having to listen to reproaches, in having to dry your tears and stopyour sighs with kisses. Your damned religion is a joke. Can't you graspthat? It's not my fault we can't get married. If I were really thescoundrel you torment yourself into thinking I am, I would have marriedand taken the risk of my strumpet of a wife turning up. But I've treatedyou honestly, Essie. I can't help loving you. I went away once. I wentaway again. And a third time I went just to relieve your soul of the sinof loving me. But I'm sick of suffering for the sake of a myth, asuperstition. "

Esther had moved close to him, and now she put a hand upon his arm. 

"To you, Will. Not to me. "

"Look here, Essie, " said her lover. "If you knew that you were liable tothese dreadful attacks of remorse and penitence, why did you everencourage me?"

"How dare you say I encouraged you?"

"Now don't let your religion make you dishonest, " he stabbed. "No manseduces a woman of your character without as much goodwill as deservesto be called encouragement, and by God _is_ encouragement, " he went onfuriously. "Let's cut away some of the cant before we begin arguingagain about religion. "

"You don't know what a hell you're making for me when you talk likethat, " she gasped. "If I did encourage you, then my sin is a thousandtimes blacker. "

"Oh, don't exaggerate, my dear girl, " he said wearily. "It isn't a sinfor two people to love each other. "

"I've tried my best to think as you do, but I can't. I've avoided goingto church. I've tried to hate religion, I've mocked at God . . . " shebroke off in despair of explaining the force of grace, against the giftof which she had contended in vain. 

"I always thought you were brave, Essie. But you're a real coward. Thereason for all this is your fear of being pitchforked into a big bonfireby a pantomime demon with horns and a long tail. " He laughed bitterly. "To think that you, my adored Essie, should really have the soul of aSunday school teacher. You, a Bacchante of passion, to be puling aboutyour sins. You! You! Girl, you're mad! I tell you there is no such thingas damnation. It's a bogey invented by priests to enchain mankind. Butif there is and if that muddle-headed old gentleman you call God reallyexists and if he's a just God, why then let him damn me and let him giveyou your harp and your halo while I burn for both. Essie, my mad foolishfrightened Essie, can't you understand that if you give me up for thisGod of yours you'll drive me to murder. If I must marry you to hold you, why then I'll kill that cursed wife of mine. . . . "

It was his turn now to break off in despair of being able to express hiswill to keep Esther for his own, and because argument seemed so hopelesshe tried to take her in his arms, whereupon Mark who was aching with theeffort to maintain himself unobserved upon the bough of the yew-treesaid his _Paternosters_ and _Aves_ faster than ever, that she might havethe strength to resist that scoundrel of Rushbrooke Grange. He longed tohave the eloquence to make some wonderful prayer to the Blessed Virginand St. Mary Magdalene so that a miracle might happen and their imagespoint accusing hands at the blasphemer below. 

And then it seemed as if a miracle did happen, for out of the jangle ofrecriminations and appeals that now signified no more than the noise oftrees in a storm he heard the voice of Esther gradually gain its rightto be heard, gradually win from its rival silence until the tale wastold. 

"I know that I am overcome by the saving grace of God, " she was saying. "And I know that I owe it to them. " She pointed to the holy women abovethe door. The squire shook his fist; but he still kept silence. "I haverun away from God since I knew you, Will. I have loved you as much asthat. I have gone to church only when I had to go for my brother's sake, but I have actually stuffed my ears with cotton wool so that no wordthere spoken might shake my faith in my right to love you. But it wasall to no purpose. You know that it was you who told me always to cometo our meetings through the wood and past the chapel. And however fast Iwent and however tight I shut myself up in thoughts of you and your loveand my love I have always felt that these images spoke to mereproachfully in passing. It's not mere imagination, Will. Why, beforewe came to Wych-on-the-Wold when you went away to the Pacific that Imight have peace of mind, I used always to be haunted by the idea thatGod was calling me back to Him, and I would run, yes, actually runthrough the woods until my legs have been torn by brambles. "

"Madness! Madness!" cried Starling. 

"Let it be madness. If God chooses to pursue a human soul with madness, the pursuit is not less swift and relentless for that. And I shook Himoff. I escaped from religion; I prayed to the Devil to keep me wicked, so utterly did I love you. Then when my brother was offeredWych-on-the-Wold I felt that the Devil had heard my prayer and hadindeed made me his own. That frightened me for a moment. When I wrote toyou and said we were coming here and you hurried back, I can't describeto you the fear that overcame me when I first entered this hollow whereyou lived. Several times I'd tried to come down before you arrived here, but I'd always been afraid, and that was why the first night I broughtMark with me. "

"That long-legged prig and puppy, " grunted the squire. 

Mark could have shouted for joy when he heard this, shouted because hewas helping with his _Paternosters_ and his _Aves_ to drive thisruffian out of Esther's life for ever, shouted because his long legswere strong enough to hold on to this yew-tree bough. 

"He's neither a prig nor a puppy, " Esther said. "I've treated him badlyever since he came to live with us, and I treated him badly on youraccount, because whenever I was with him I found it harder to resist thepursuit of God. Now let's leave Mark out of this. Everything was in yourfavour, I tell you. I was sure that the Devil. . . . "

"The Devil!" Starling interrupted. "Your Devil, dear Essie, is asridiculous as your God. It's only your poor old God with his facepainted black like the bogey man of childhood. "

"I was sure that the Devil, " Esther repeated without seeming to hear theblasphemy, "had taken me for his own and given us to each other. You tome. Me to you, my darling. I didn't care. I was ready to burn in Hellfor you. So, don't call me coward, for mad though you think me I wasready to be damned for you, and _I_ believe in damnation. You don't. Yetthe first time I passed by this chapel on my way to meet you again afterthat endless horrible parting I had to run away from the holy influence. I remember that there was a black cow in the field near the gates of theGrange, and I waited there while Mark poked about in this chapel, waitedin the twilight afraid to go back and tell him to hurry in case I shouldbe recaptured by God and meet you only to meet you never more. "

"I suppose you thought my old Kerry cow was the Devil, eh?" he sneered. 

She paid no attention, but continued enthralled by the passion of herspiritual adventure. 

"It was no use. I couldn't come by here every day and not go back. Why, once I opened the Bible at hazard just to show my defiance and I read_Her sins which are many are forgiven for she loved much. _ This must bethe end of our love, my lover, for I can't go on. Those two stone Marieshave brought me back to God. No more with you, my own beloved. No more, my darling, no more. And yet if even now with one kiss you could give mestrength to sin I should rejoice. But they have made my lips as cold astheir own, and my arms that once knew how to clasp you to my heart theyhave lifted up to Heaven like their own. I am going into a convent atonce, where until I die I shall pray for you, my own love. "

The birds no longer sang nor twittered nor cheeped in the thicketsaround, but all passion throbbed in the voice of Esther when she spokethese words. She stood there with her hair in disarray transfigured likea tree in autumn on which the sunlight shines when the gale has died, but from which the leaves will soon fall because winter is at hand. Yether lover was so little moved by her ordeal that he went back tomouthing his blasphemies. 

"Go then, " he shouted. "But these two stone dolls shall not have powerto drive my next mistress into folly. Wasn't Mary Magdalene a sinner?Didn't she fall in love with Christ? Of course, she did! And I'll makean example of her just as Christians make an example of all women wholove much. "

The squire pulled himself up by the ivy and struck the image of St. MaryMagdalene on the face. 

"When you pray for me, dear Essie, in your convent of greensick women, don't forget that your patron saint was kicked from her pedestal by yourlover. "

Starling was as good as his word; but the effort he made to overthrowthe saint carried him with it; his foot catching in the ivy fell headdownward and striking upon a stone was killed. 

Mark hesitated before he jumped down from his bough, because he dreadedto add to Esther's despair the thought of his having overheard all thatwent before. But seeing her in the sunlight now filled again with thevoices of birds, seeing her blue eyes staring in horror and the nervoustwitching of her hands he felt that the shock of his irruption mightsave her reason and in a moment he was standing beside her looking downat the dead man. 

"Let me die too, " she cried. 

Mark found himself answering in a kind of inspiration:

"No, Esther, you must live to pray for his soul. "

"He was struck dead for his blasphemy. He is in Hell. Of what use topray for his soul?"

"But Esther while he was falling, even in that second, he had time torepent. Live, Esther. Live to pray for him. "

Mark was overcome with a desire to laugh at the stilted way in which hewas talking, and, from the suppression of the desire, to laugh wildly ateverything in the scene, and not least at the comic death of WillStarling, even at the corpse itself lying with a broken neck at hisfeet. By an effort of will he regained control of his muscles, and thetension of the last half hour finding no relief in bodily relaxation wasstamped ineffaceably upon his mind to take its place with that afternoonin his father's study at the Lima Street Mission which first inspiredhim with dread of the sexual relation of man to woman, a dread that wasnow made permanent by what he had endured on the bough of that yew-tree. 

Thanks to Mark's intervention the business was explained withoutscandal; nobody doubted that the squire of Rushbrooke Grange died amartyr to his dislike of ivy's encroaching upon ancient images. Esther'sstormy soul took refuge in a convent, and there it seemed at peace. 

CHAPTER XV

THE SCHOLARSHIP

The encounter between Esther and Will Starling had the effect ofstrengthening Mark's intention to be celibate. He never imagined himselfas a possible protagonist in such a scene; but the impression of thatearlier encounter between his mother and father which gave him a horrorof human love was now renewed. It was renewed, moreover, with the lightof a miracle to throw it into high relief. And this miracle could not beexplained away as a coincidence, but was an old-fashioned miracle thatrequired no psychical buttressing, a hard and fast miracle able towithstand any criticism. It was a pity that out of regard for Esther hecould not publish it for the encouragement of the faithful and theconfusion of the unbelievers. 

The miracle of St. Mary Magdalene's intervention on his seventeenthbirthday was the last violent impression of Mark's boyhood. Thenceforward life moved placidly through the changing weeks of acountry calendar until the date of the scholarship examination held bythe group of colleges that contained St. Mary's, the college he aspiredto enter, but for which he failed to win even an exhibition. Mr. Ogilviewas rather glad, for he had been worried how Mark was going to supporthimself for three or four years at an expensive college like St. Mary's. But when Mark was no more successful with another group of colleges, histutors began to be alarmed, wondering if their method of teaching Latinand Greek lacked the tradition of the public school necessary tosuccess. 

"Oh, no, it's obviously my fault, " said Mark. "I expect I go to piecesin examinations, or perhaps I'm not intended to go to Oxford. "

"I beg you, my dear boy, " said the Rector a little irritably, "not toapply such a loose fatalism to your career. What will you do if youdon't go to the University?"

"It's not absolutely essential for a priest to have been to theUniversity, " Mark argued. 

"No, but in your case I think it's highly advisable. You haven't had apublic school education, and inasmuch as I stand to you _in locoparentis_ I should consider myself most culpable if I didn't doeverything possible to give you a fair start. You haven't got a verylarge sum of money to launch yourself upon the world, and I want you tospend what you have to the best advantage. Of course, if you can't get ascholarship, you can't and that's the end of it. But, rather than thatyou should miss the University I will supplement from my own savingsenough to carry you through three years as a commoner. "

Tears stood in Mark's eyes. 

"You've already been far too generous, " he said. "You shan't spend anymore on me. I'm sorry I talked in that foolish way. It was really only akind of affectation of indifference. I'm feeling pretty sore with myselffor being such a failure; but I'll have another shot and I hope I shalldo better. "

Mark as a last chance tried for a close scholarship at St. Osmund's Hallfor the sons of clergymen. 

"It's a tiny place of course, " said the Rector. "But it's authenticOxford, and in some ways perhaps you would be happier at a very smallcollege. Certainly you'd find your money went much further. "

The examination was held in the Easter vacation, and when Mark arrivedat the college he found only one other candidate besides himself. St. Osmund's Hall with its miniature quadrangle, miniature hall, miniaturechapel, empty of undergraduates and with only the Principal and a coupleof tutors in residence, was more like an ancient almshouse than anOxford college. Mark and his rival, a raw-boned youth called Emmett whowas afflicted with paroxysms of stammering, moved about the precinctsupon tiptoe like people trespassing from a high road. 

On their first evening the two candidates were invited to dine with thePrincipal, who read second-hand book catalogues all through dinner, onlypausing from their perusal to ask occasionally in a courtly tone if Mr. Lidderdale or Mr. Emmett would not take another glass of wine. Afterdinner they sat in his library where the Principal addressed himself tothe evidently uncongenial task of estimating the comparative fitness ofhis two guests to receive Mr. Tweedle's bounty. The Reverend ThomasTweedle was a benevolent parson of the eighteenth century who by hiswill had provided the money to educate the son of one indigent clergymanfor four years. Mark was shy enough under the Principal's courtlyinquisition, but poor Emmett had a paroxysm each time he was asked thesimplest question about his tastes or his ambitions. His tongueappearing like a disturbed mollusc waved its tip slowly round in anagonized endeavour to give utterance to such familiar words as "yes" or"no. " Several times Mark feared that he would never get it back at alland that Emmett would either have to spend the rest of his life with itprotruding before him or submit it to amputation and become a mute. Whenthe ordeal with the Principal was over and the two guests were strollingback across the quadrangle to their rooms, Emmett talked normally andwithout a single paroxysm about the effect his stammer must have hadupon the Principal. Mark did his best to reassure poor Emmett. 

"Really, " he said, "it was scarcely noticeable to anybody else. Younoticed it, because you felt your tongue getting wedged like thatbetween your teeth; but other people would hardly have noticed it atall. When the Principal asked you if you were going to take Holy Ordersyourself, I'm sure he only thought you hadn't quite made up your mindyet. "

"But I'm sure he did notice something, " poor Emmett bewailed. "Becausehe began to hum. "

"Well, but he was always humming, " said Mark. "He hummed all throughdinner while he was reading those book catalogues. "

"It's very kind of you, Lidderdale, " said Emmett, "to make the best ofit for me, but I'm not such a fool as I look, and the Principalcertainly hummed six times as loud whenever he asked me a question ashe did over those catalogues. I know what I look like when I get intoone of those states. I once caught sight of myself in a glass byaccident, and now whenever my tongue gets caught up like that I'mwondering all the time why everybody doesn't get up and run out of theroom. "

"But I assure you, " Mark persisted, "that little things like that--"

"Little things like that!" Emmett interrupted furiously. "It's all verywell for you, Lidderdale, to talk about little things like that. If youhad a tongue like mine which seems to get bigger instead of smallerevery year, you'd feel very differently. "

"But people always grow out of stammering, " Mark pointed out. 

"Thanks very much, " said Emmett bitterly, "but where shall I be by thetime I've grown out of it? You don't suppose I shall win thisscholarship, do you, after they've seen me gibbering and mouthing atthem like that? But if only I could manage somehow to get to Oxford Ishould have a chance of being ordained, and--" he broke off, perhapsunwilling to embarrass his rival by any more lamentations. 

"Do forget about this evening, " Mark begged, "and come up to my room andhave a talk before you turn in. "

"No, thanks very much, " said Emmett. "I must sit up and do some work. We've got that general knowledge paper to-morrow morning. "

"But you won't be able to acquire much more general knowledge in oneevening, " Mark protested. 

"I might, " said Emmett darkly. "I noticed a Whitaker's almanack in therooms I have. My only chance to get this scholarship is to do reallywell in my papers; and though I know it's no good and that this is mylast chance, I'm not going to neglect anything that could possibly help. I've got a splendid memory for statistics, and if they'll only ask a fewstatistics in the general knowledge paper I may have some luckto-morrow. Good-night, Lidderdale, I'm sorry to have inflicted myself onyou like this. "

Emmett hurried away up the staircase leading to his room and left hisrival standing on the moonlit grass of the quadrangle. Mark was turningtoward his own staircase when he heard a window open above and Emmett'svoice:

"I've found another Whitaker of the year before, " it proclaimed. "I'llread that, and you'd better read this year's. If by any chance I did winthis scholarship, I shouldn't like to think I'd taken an unfairadvantage of you, Lidderdale. "

"Thanks very much, Emmett, " said Mark. "But I think I'll have a shot atgetting to bed early. "

"Ah, you're not worrying, " said Emmett gloomily, retiring from thewindow. 

When Mark was sitting by the fire in his room and thinking over thedinner with the Principal and poor Emmett's stammering and poor Emmett'swords in the quad afterwards, he began to imagine what it would mean topoor Emmett if he failed to win the scholarship. Mark had not been sosuccessful himself in these examinations as to justify a grandself-confidence; but he could not regard Emmett as a dangerouscompetitor. Had he the right in view of Emmett's handicap to accept thisscholarship at his expense? To be sure, he might urge on his own behalfthat without it he should himself be debarred from Oxford. What wouldthe loss of it mean? It would mean, first of all, that Mr. Ogilvie wouldmake the financial effort to maintain him for three years as a commoner, an effort which he could ill afford to make and which Mark had not theslightest intention of allowing him to make. It would mean, next, thathe should have to occupy himself during the years before his ordinationwith some kind of work among people. He obviously could not go onreading theology at Wych-on-the-Wold until he went to Glastonbury. Suchan existence, however attractive, was no preparation for the active lifeof a priest. It would mean, thirdly, a great disappointment to hisfriend and patron, and considering the social claims of the Church ofEngland it would mean a handicap for himself. There was everything to besaid for winning this scholarship, nothing to be said against it on thegrounds of expediency. On the grounds of expediency, no, but on othergrounds? Should he not be playing the better part if he allowed Emmettto win? No doubt all that was implied in the necessity for him to win ascholarship was equally implied in the necessity for Emmett to win one. It was obvious that Emmett was no better off than himself; it wasobvious that Emmett was competing in a kind of despair. Mark rememberedhow a few minutes ago his rival had offered him this year's Whitaker, keeping for himself last year's almanack. Looked at from the point ofview of Emmett who really believed that something might be gained atthis eleventh hour from a study of the more recent volume, it had been afine piece of self-denial. It showed that Emmett had Christian talentswhich surely ought not to be wasted because he was handicapped by astammer. 

The spell that Oxford had already cast on Mark, the glamour of thefirelight on the walls and raftered ceiling of this room haunted bycenturies of youthful hope, did not persuade him how foolish it was tosurrender all this. On the contrary, this prospect of Oxford sobeautiful in the firelight within, so fair in the moonlight without, impelled him to renounce it, and the very strength of his temptation toenjoy all this by winning the scholarship helped him to make up his mindto lose it. But how? The obvious course was to send in idiotic answersfor the rest of his papers. Yet examinations were so mysterious thatwhen he thought he was being most idiotic he might actually be gaininghis best marks. Moreover, the examiners might ascribe his answers to illhealth, to some sudden attack of nerves, especially if his papers to-dayhad been tolerably good. Looking back at the Principal's attitude afterdinner that night, Mark could not help feeling that there had beensomething in his manner which had clearly shown a determination not toaward the scholarship to poor Emmett if it could possibly be avoided. The safest way would be to escape to-morrow morning, put up at somecountry inn for the next two days, and go back to Wych-on-the-Wold; butif he did that, the college authorities might write to Mr. Ogilvie todemand the reason for such extraordinary behaviour. And how should heexplain it? If he really intended to deny himself, he must take carethat nobody knew he was doing so. It would give him an air ofunbearable condescension, should it transpire that he had deliberatelysurrendered his scholarship to Emmett. Moreover, poor Emmett would be sodreadfully mortified if he found out. No, he must complete his papers, do them as badly as he possibly could, and leave the result to thewisdom of God. If God wished Emmett to stammer forth His praises andstutter His precepts from the pulpit, God would know how to manage thatseemingly so intractable Principal. Or God might hear his prayers andcure poor Emmett of his impediment. Mark wondered to what saint wasentrusted the patronage of stammerers; but he could not remember. Theman in whose rooms he was lodging possessed very few books, and thosefew were mostly detective stories. 

It amused Mark to make a fool of himself next morning in the generalknowledge paper. He flattered himself that no candidate for ascholarship at St. Osmund's Hall had ever shown such black ignorance ofthe facts of every-day life. Had he been dropped from Mars two daysbefore, he could scarcely have shown less knowledge of the Earth. Marktried to convey an impression that he had been injudiciously crammedwith Latin and Greek, and in the afternoon he produced a Latin prosethat would have revolted the easy conscience of a fourth form boy. Finally, on the third day, in an unseen passage set from the Georgics hetranslated _tonsisque ferunt mantelia villis_ by _having pulled down thevillas (i. E. Literally shaved) they carry off the mantelpieces_ whichhe followed up with translating _Maeonii carchesia Bacchi_ as the _leesof Maeonian wine (i. E. Literally carcases of Maeonian Bacchus)_. 

"I say, Lidderdale, " said Emmett, when they came out of the lecture roomwhere the examination was being held. "I had a tremendous piece of luckthis afternoon. "

"Did you?"

"Yes, I've just been reading the fourth Georgics last term, and I don'tthink I made a single mistake in that unseen. "

"Good work, " said Mark. 

"I wonder when they'll let us know who's got the scholarship, " saidEmmett. "But of course you've won, " he added with a sigh. 

"I did very badly both yesterday and to-day. "

"Oh, you're only saying that to encourage me, " Emmett sighed. "It soundsa dreadful thing to say and I ought not to say it because it'll make youuncomfortable, but if I don't succeed, I really think I shall killmyself. "

"All right, that's a bargain, " Mark laughed; and when his rival shookhands with him at parting he felt that poor Emmett was going home toRutland convinced that Mark was just as hard-hearted as the rest of theworld and just as ready to laugh at his misfortune. 

It was Saturday when the examination was finished, and Mark wished hecould be granted the privilege of staying over Sunday in college. He hadno regrets for what he had done; he was content to let this experiencebe all that he should ever intimately gain of Oxford; but he should liketo have the courage to accost one of the tutors and to tell him thatbeing convinced he should never come to Oxford again he desired theprivilege of remaining until Monday morning, so that he mightcrystallize in that short space of time an impression which, had he beensuccessful in gaining the scholarship, would have been spread over fouryears. Mark was not indulging in sentiment; he really felt that by theintensity of the emotion with which he would live those twenty-fourhours he should be able to achieve for himself as much as he shouldachieve in four years. So far as the world was concerned, thisexperience would be valueless; for himself it would be beyond price. Sofar as the world was concerned, he would never have been to Oxford; butcould he be granted this privilege, Oxford would live for ever in hisheart, a refuge and a meditation until the grave. Yet this covetedexperience must be granted from without to make it a perfect experience. To ask and to be refused leave to stay till Monday would destroy for himthe value of what he had already experienced in three days' residence;even to ask and to be granted the privilege would spoil it inretrospect. He went down the stairs from his room and stood in thelittle quadrangle, telling himself that at any rate he might postponehis departure until twilight and walk the seven miles from Shipcot toWych-on-the-Wold. While he was on his way to notify the porter of thetime of his departure he met the Principal, who stopped him and askedhow he had got on with his papers. Mark wondered if the Principal hadbeen told about his lamentable performance and was making inquiries onhis own account to find out if the unsuccessful candidate really was alunatic. 

"Rather badly, I'm afraid, sir. "

"Well, I shall see you at dinner to-night, " said the Principaldismissing Mark with a gesture before he had time even to looksurprised. This was a new perplexity, for Mark divined from thePrincipal's manner that he had entirely forgotten that the scholarshipexamination was over and that the candidates had already dined with him. He went into the lodge and asked the porter's advice. 

"The Principal's a most absent-minded gentleman, " said the porter. "Mostabsent-minded, he is. He's the talk of Oxford sometimes is thePrincipal. What do you think he went and did only last term. Why, he washaving some of the senior men to tea and was going to put some coal onthe fire with the tongs and some sugar in his cup. Bothered if he didn'tput the sugar in the fire and a lump of coal in his cup. It didn't somuch matter him putting sugar in the fire. That's all according, as theysay. But fancy--well, I tell you we had a good laugh over it in thelodge when the gentlemen came out and told me. "

"Ought I to explain that I've already dined with him?" Mark asked. 

"Are you in any what you might call immediate hurry to get away?" theporter asked judicially. 

"I'm in no hurry at all. I'd like to stay a bit longer. "

"Then you'd better go to dinner with him again to-night and stay incollege over the Sunday. I'll take it upon myself to explain to the Deanwhy you're still here. If it had been tea I should have said 'don'tbother about it, ' but dinner's another matter, isn't it? And he alwayshas dinner laid for two or more in case he's asked anybody andforgotten. "

Thus it came about that for the second time Mark dined with thePrincipal, who disconcerted him by saying when he arrived:

"I remember now that you dined with me the night before last. You shouldhave told me. I forget these things. But never mind, you'd better staynow you're here. "

The Principal read second-hand book catalogues all through dinner justas he had done two nights ago, and he only interrupted his perusal toinquire in courtly tones if Mark would take another glass of wine. Theonly difference between now and the former occasion was the absence ofpoor Emmett and his paroxysms. After dinner with some misgivings if heought not to leave his host to himself Mark followed him upstairs to thelibrary. The principal was one of those scholars who live in anatmosphere of their own given off by old calf-bound volumes and whoapparently can only inhale the air of the world in which ordinary menmove when they are smoking their battered old pipes. Mark sittingopposite to him by the fireside was tempted to pour out the history ofhimself and Emmett, to explain how he had come to make such a mess ofthe examination. Perhaps if the Principal had alluded to his papers Markwould have found the courage to talk about himself; but the Principalwas apparently unaware that his guest had any ambitions to enter St. Osmund's Hall, and whatever questions he asked related to the ancientfolios and quartos he took down in turn from his shelves. A clock struckten in the moonlight without, and Mark rose to go. He felt a pang as hewalked from the cloudy room and looked for the last time at that tallremote scholar, who had forgotten his guest's existence at the moment heceased to shake his hand and who by the time he had reached the doorwaywas lost again in the deeps of the crabbed volume resting upon hisknees. Mark sighed as he closed the library door behind him, for he knewthat he was shutting out a world. But when he stood in the small silverquadrangle Mark was glad that he had not given way to the temptation ofconfiding in the Principal. It would have been a feeble end to his firstdenial of self. He was sure that he had done right in surrendering hisplace to Emmett, for was not the unexpected opportunity to spend thesefew more hours in Oxford a sign of God's approval? _Bright as theglimpses of eternity to saints accorded in their mortal hour. _ Such wasOxford to-night. 

Mark sat for a long while at the open window of his room until the moonhad passed on her way and the quadrangle was in shadow; and while he satthere he was conscious of how many people had inhabited this smallquadrangle and of how they too had passed on their way like the moon, leaving behind them no more than he should leave behind from this onehour of rapture, no more than the moon had left of her silver upon thedim grass below. 

Mark was not given to gazing at himself in mirrors, but he looked athimself that night in the mirror of the tiny bedroom, into which theApril air came up sweet and frore from the watermeadows of the Cherwellclose at hand. 

"What will you do now?" he asked his reflection. "Yet, you have such adark ecclesiastical face that I'm sure you'll be a priest whether you goto Oxford or not. "

Mark was right in supposing his countenance to be ecclesiastical. But itwas something more than that: it was religious. Even already, when hewas barely eighteen, the high cheekbones and deepset burning eyes gavehim an ascetic look, while the habit of prayer and meditation had addedto his expression a steadfast purpose that is rarely seen in people asyoung as him. What his face lacked were those contours that come fromassociation with humanity; the ripeness that is bestowed by longtolerance of folly, the mellowness that has survived the icy winds ofdisillusion. It was the absence of these contours that made Mark thinkhis face so ecclesiastical; however, if at eighteen he had possessedcontours and soft curves, they would have been nothing but the contoursand soft curves of that rose, youth; and this ecclesiastical bonynesswould not fade and fall as swiftly as that. 

Mark turned from the glass in sudden irritation at his selfishness inspeculating about his appearance and his future, when in a short time heshould have to break the news to his guardian that he had thrown awayfor a kindly impulse the fruit of so many months of diligence and care. 

"What am I going to say to Ogilvie?" he exclaimed. "I can't go back toWych and live there in pleasant idleness until it's time to go toGlastonbury. I must have some scheme for the immediate future. "

In bed when the light was out and darkness made the most fantasticproject appear practical, Mark had an inspiration to take the habit of apreaching friar. Why should he not persuade Dorward to join him?Together they would tramp the English country, compelling even thedullest yokels to hear the word of God . . . Discalced . . . Over hill, down dale . . . Telling stories of the saints and martyrs in remote inns. . . Deep lanes . . . The butterflies and the birds . . . Dorwardshould say Mass in the heart of great woods . . . Over hill, down dale. . . Discalced . . . Preaching to men of Christ. . . . 

Mark fell asleep. 

In the morning Mark heard Mass at the church of the Cowley Fathers, astrengthening experience, because the Gregorian there so strictly and soausterely chanted without any consideration for sentimental humanitypossessed that very effect of liberating and purifying spirit held inthe bonds of flesh which is conveyed by the wind blowing through a groveof pines or by waves quiring below a rocky shore. 

If Mark had had the least inclination to be sorry for himself andindulge in the flattery of regret, it vanished in this music. Rollingdown through time on the billows of the mighty Gregorian it were asgrotesque to pity oneself as it were for an Arctic explorer to build asnowman for company at the North Pole. 

Mark came out of St. John's, Cowley, into the suburban prettiness ofIffley Road, where men and women in their Sunday best tripped along inthe April sunlight, tripped along in their Sunday best like newlyhatched butterflies and beetles. Mark went in and out of colleges allday long, forgetting about the problem of his immediate future just ashe forgot that the people in the sunny streets were not reallybutterflies and beetles. At twilight he decided to attend Evensong atSt. Barnabas'. Perhaps the folk in the sunny April streets had turnedhis thoughts unconsciously toward the simple aspirations of simplehuman nature. He felt when he came into the warm candle-lit church likeone who has voyaged far and is glad to be at home again. How everybodysang together that night, and how pleasant Mark found thiscongregational outburst. It was all so jolly that if the organist hadsuddenly turned round like an Italian organ-grinder and kissed hisfingers to the congregation, his action would have seemed perfectlyappropriate. Even during the _Magnificat_, when the altar was beingcensed, the tinkling of the thurible reminded Mark of a tambourine; andthe lighting and extinction of the candles was done with as muchsuppressed excitement as if the candles were going to shoot red andgreen stars or go leaping and cracking all round the chancel. 

It happened this evening that the preacher was Father Rowley, thatfamous priest of the Silchester College Mission in the great naval portof Chatsea. Father Rowley was a very corpulent man with a voice of suchcompassion and with an eloquence so simple that when he ascended intothe pulpit, closed his eyes, and began to speak, his listenersinvoluntarily closed their eyes and followed that voice whithersoever itled them. He neither changed the expression of his face nor made use ofdramatic gestures; he scarcely varied his tone, yet he could keep acongregation breathlessly attentive for an hour. Although he seemed tobe speaking in a kind of trance, it was evident that he was unusuallyconscious of his hearers, for if by chance some pious woman coughed orturned the pages of a prayer-book he would hold up the thread of hissermon and without any change of tone reprove her. It was strange towatch him at such a moment, his eyes still tightly shut and yet givingthe impression of looking directly at the offending member of thecongregation. This evening he was preaching about a naval disaster whichhad lately occurred, the sinking of a great battleship by another greatbattleship through a wrong signal. He was describing the scene when thenews reached Chatsea, telling of the sweethearts and wives of the lostbluejackets who waited hoping against hope to hear that their loved oneshad escaped death and hearing nearly always the worst news. 

"So many of our own dear bluejackets and marines, some of whom onlylast Christmas had been eating their plum duff at our Christmas dinner, so many of my own dear boys whom I prepared for Confirmation, whosefirst Confession I had heard, and to whom I had given for the first timethe Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ. "

He spoke too of what it meant in the future of material suffering on topof their mental agony. He asked for money to help these womenimmediately, and he spoke fiercely of the Admiralty red tape and of theobstruction of the official commission appointed to administer therelief fund. 

The preacher went on to tell stories from the lives of these boys, finding in each of them some illustration of a Christian virtue andconveying to his listeners a sense of the extraordinary preciousness ofhuman life, so that there was no one who heard him but was fain to weepfor those young bluejackets and marines taken in their prime. Heinspired in Mark a sense of shame that he had ever thought of people inthe aggregate, that he had ever walked along a crowded street withoutperceiving the importance of every single human being that helped tocompose its variety. While he sat there listening to the Missioner andwatching the large tears roll slowly down his cheeks from beneath theclosed lids, Mark wondered how he could have dared to suppose last nightthat he was qualified to become a friar and preach the Gospel to thepoor. While Father Rowley was speaking, he began to apprehend thatbefore he could aspire to do that he must himself first of all learnabout Christ from those very poor whom he had planned to convert. 

This sermon was another milestone in Mark's religious life. Itdiscovered in him a hidden treasure of humility, and it taught him tobuild upon the rock of human nature. He divined the true meaning of OurLord's words to St. Peter: _Thou art Peter and on this rock I will buildmy church and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. _ John wasthe disciple whom Jesus loved, but he chose Peter with all his failingsand all his follies, with his weakness and his cowardice and his vanity. He chose Peter, the bedrock of human nature, and to him he gave the keysof Heaven. 

Mark knew that somehow he must pluck up courage to ask Father Rowley tolet him come and work under him at Chatsea. He was sure that if he couldonly make him grasp the spirit in which he would offer himself, thespirit of complete humility devoid of any kind of thought that he waslikely to be of the least use to the Mission, Father Rowley might accepthis oblation. He would have liked to wait behind after Evensong andapproach the Missioner directly, so that before speaking to Mr. Ogilviehe might know what chance the offer had of being accepted; but hedecided against this course, because he felt that Father Rowley'scompassion might be embarrassed if he had to refuse his request, a pointof view that was characteristic of the mood roused in him by the sermon. He went back to sleep for the last time in an Oxford college, profoundlyreassured of the rightness of his action in giving up the scholarship toEmmett, although, which was characteristic of his new mood, he had bythis time begun to tell himself that he had really done nothing at alland that probably in any case Emmett would have been the chosen scholar. 

If Mark had still any doubts of his behaviour, they would have vanishedwhen on getting into the train for Shipcot he found himself in anotherwise empty third-class smoking carriage opposite Father Rowleyhimself, who with a small black bag beside him, so small that Markwondered how it could possibly contain the night attire of so fat a man, was sitting back in the corner with a large pipe in his mouth. He waswearing one of those square felt hats sometimes seen on the heads offarmers, and if one had only seen his head and hat without the grubbyclerical attire beneath one might have guessed him to be a farmer. Marknoticed now that his eyes of a limpid blue were like a child's, and herealized that in his voice while he was preaching there had been thesame sweet gravity of childhood. Just at this moment Father Rowleycaught sight of someone he knew on the platform and shouting from thewindow of the compartment he attracted the attention of a young manwearing an Old Siltonian tie. 

"My dear man, " he cried, "how are you? I've just made a most idioticmistake. I got it into my head that I should be preaching here on thefirst Sunday in term and was looking forward to seeing so manySilchester men. I can't think how I came to make such a muddle. "

Father Rowley's shoulders filled up all the space of the window, so thatMark only heard scattered fragments of the conversation, which wasmostly about Silchester and the Siltonians he had hoped to see atOxford. 

"Good-bye, my dear man, good-bye, " the Missioner shouted, as the trainmoved out of the station. "Come down and see us soon at Chatsea. Themore of you men who come, the more we shall be pleased. "

Mark's heart leapt at these words, which seemed of good omen to his ownsuit. When Father Rowley was ensconced in his corner and once morepuffing away at his pipe, Mark thought how ridiculous it would sound tosay that he had heard him preach last night at St. Barnabas' and that, having been much moved by the sermon, he was anxious to be taken on atSt. Agnes' as a lay helper. He wished that Father Rowley would make someremark to him that would lead up to his request, but all that FatherRowley said was:

"This is a slow train to Birmingham, isn't it?"

This led to a long conversation about trains, and slow though this onemight be it was going much too fast for Mark, who would be at Shipcot inanother twenty minutes without having taken any advantage of his luckyencounter. 

"Are you up at Oxford?" the priest at last inquired. 

It was now or never; and Mark took the opportunity given him by that onequestion to tell Father Rowley twenty disjointed facts about his life, which ended with a request to be allowed to come and work at Chatsea. 

"You can come and see us whenever you like, " said the Missioner. 

"But I don't want just to come and pay a visit, " said Mark. "I really dowant to be given something to do, and I shan't be any expense. I onlywant to keep enough money to go to Glastonbury in four years' time. Ifyou'd only see how I got on for a month. I don't pretend I can be of anyhelp to you. I don't suppose I can. But I do so tremendously want youto help me. "

"Who did you say your father was?"

"Lidderdale, James Lidderdale. He was priest-in-charge of the LimaStreet Mission, which belonged to St. Simon's, Notting Hill, in thosedays. St. Wilfred's, Notting Dale, it is now. "

"Lidderdale, " Father Rowley echoed. "I knew him. I knew him well. LimaStreet. Viner's there now, a dear good fellow. So you're Lidderdale'sson?"

"I say, here's my station, " Mark exclaimed in despair, "and you haven'tsaid whether I can come or not. "

"Come down on Tuesday week, " said Father Rowley. "Hurry up, or you'llget carried on to the next station. "

Mark waved his farewell, and he knew, as he drove back on the omnibusover the rolling wold to Wych that he had this morning won somethingmuch better than a scholarship at St. Osmund's Hall. 

CHAPTER XVI

CHATSEA

When Mark had been exactly a week at Chatsea he celebrated hiseighteenth birthday by writing a long letter to the Rector of Wych:

 St. Agnes' House, Keppel Street, Chatsea. 

 St. Mark's Day. 

 My dear Rector, Thank you very much for sending me the money. I've handed it over to a splendid fellow called Gurney who keeps all the accounts (private or otherwise) in the Mission House. Poor chap, he's desperately ill with asthma, and nobody thinks he can live much longer. He suffers tortures, particularly at night, and as I sleep in the next room I can hear him. 

 You mustn't think me inconsiderate because I haven't written sooner, but I wanted to wait until I had seen a bit of this place before I wrote to you so that you might have some idea what I was doing and be able to realize that it is the one and only place where I ought to be at the moment. 

 But first of all before I say anything about Chatsea I want to try to express a little of what your kindness has meant to me during the last two years. I look back at myself just before my sixteenth birthday when I was feeling that I should have to run away to sea or do something mad in order to escape that solicitor's office, and I simply gasp! What and where should I be now if it hadn't been for you? You have always made light of the burden I must have been, and though I have tried to show you my gratitude I'm afraid it hasn't been very successful. I'm not being very successful now in putting it into words. I know my failure to gain a scholarship at Oxford has been a great disappointment to you, especially after you had worked so hard yourself to coach me. Please don't be anxious about my letting my books go to the wall here. I had a talk about this with Father Rowley, who insisted that anything I am allowed to do in the district must only be done when I have a good morning's work with my books behind me. I quite realize the importance of a priest's education. One of the assistant priests here, a man called Snaith, took a good degree at Cambridge both in classics and theology, so I shall have somebody to keep me on the lines. If I stay here three years and then have two years at Glastonbury I don't honestly think that I shall start off much handicapped by having missed both public school and university. I expect you're smiling to read after one week of my staying here three years! But I assure you that the moment I sat down to supper on the evening of my arrival I felt at home. I think at first they all thought I was an eager young Ritualist, but when they found that they didn't get any rises out of ragging me, they shut up. 

 This house is a most extraordinary place. It is an old Congregational chapel with a gallery all round which has been made into cubicles, scarcely one of which is ever empty or ever likely to be empty so far as I can see! I should think it must be rather like what the guest house of a monastery used to be like in the old days before the Reformation. The ground floor of the chapel has been turned into a gymnasium, and twice a week the apparatus is cleared away and we have a dance. Every other evening it's used furiously by Father Rowley's "boys. " They're such a jolly lot, and most of them splendid gymnasts. Quite a few have become professional acrobats since they opened the gymnasium. The first morning after my arrival I asked Father Rowley if he'd got anything special for me to do and he told me to catalogue the books in his library. Everybody laughed at this, and I thought at first that some joke was intended, but when I got to his room I found it really was in utter confusion with masses of books lying about everywhere. So I set to work pretty hard and after about three days I got them catalogued and in good order. When I told him I had finished he looked very surprised, and a solemn visit of inspection was ordered. As the room was looking quite tidy at last, I didn't mind. I've realized since that Father Rowley always sets people the task of cataloguing and arranging his books when he doubts if they are really worth their salt, and now he complains that I have spoilt one of his best ordeals for slackers. I said to him that he needn't be afraid because from what I could see of the way he treated books they would be just as untidy as ever in another week. Everybody laughed, though I was afraid at first they might consider it rather cheek my talking like this, but you've got to stand up for yourself here because there never was such a place for turning a man inside out. It's a real discipline, and I think if I manage to deserve to stay here three years I shall have the right to feel I've had the finest training for Holy Orders anybody could possibly have. 

 You know enough about Father Rowley yourself to understand how impossible it would be for me to give any impression of his personality in a letter. I have never felt so strongly the absolute goodness of anybody. I suppose that some of the great mediæval saints like St. Francis and St. Anthony of Padua must have been like that. One reads about them and what they did, but the facts one reads don't really tell anything. I always feel that what we really depend on is a kind of tradition of their absolute saintliness handed on from the people who experienced it. I suppose in a way the same applies to Our Lord. I always feel it wouldn't matter a bit to me if the four Gospels were proved to be forgeries to-morrow, because I should still be convinced that Our Lord was God. I know this is a platitude, but I don't think until I met Father Rowley that I ever realized the force and power that goes with exceptional goodness. There are so many people who are good because they were born good. Richard Ford, for example, he couldn't have ever been anything else but good, but I always feel that people like him remain practically out of reach of the ordinary person and that the goodness is all their own and dies with them just as it was born with them. What I feel about a man like Father Rowley is that he probably had a tremendous fight to be good. Of course, I may be perfectly wrong and he may have had no fight at all. I know one of the people at the Mission House told me that, though there is nobody who likes smoking better than he or more enjoys a pint of beer with his dinner, he has given up both at St. Agnes merely to set an example to weak people. I feel that his goodness was with such energy fought for that it now exists as a kind of complete thing and will go on existing when Father Rowley himself is dead. I begin to understand the doctrine of the treasury of merit. I remember you once told me how grateful I ought to be to God because I had apparently escaped the temptations that attack most boys. I am grateful; but at the same time I can't claim any merit for it! The only time in my life when I might have acquired any merit was when I was at Haverton House. Instead of doing that, I just dried up, and if I hadn't had that wonderful experience at Whitsuntide in Meade Cantorum church nearly three years ago I should be spiritually dead by now. 

 This is a very long letter, and I don't seem to have left myself any time to tell you about St. Agnes' Church. It reminds me of my father's mission church in Lima Street, and oddly enough a new church is being built almost next door just as one was being built in Lima Street. I went to the children's Mass last Sunday, and I seemed to see him walking up and down the aisle in his alb, and I thought to myself that I had never once asked you to say Mass for his soul. Will you do so now next time you say a black Mass? This is a wretched letter, and it doesn't succeed in the least in expressing what I owe to you and what I already owe to Father Rowley. I used to think that the Sacred Heart was a rather material device for attracting the multitude, but I'm beginning to realize in the atmosphere of St. Agnes' that it is a gloriously simple devotion and that it is human nature's attempt to express the inexpressible. I'll write to you again next week. Please give my love to everybody at the Rectory. 

 Always your most affectionate

 Mark. 

Father Rowley had been at St. Agnes' seven or eight years when Markfound himself attached to the Mission, in which time he had transformedthe district completely. It was a small parish (actually of course itwas not a parish at all, although it was fast qualifying to become one)of something over a thousand small houses, few of which were less than acentury old. The streets were narrow and crooked, mostly named afterbygone admirals or forgotten sea-fights; the romantic and picturesquequarter of a great naval port to the casual glance of a passer-by, butheartbreaking to any except the most courageous resident on account ofits overcrowded and tumbledown condition. Yet it lacked the drearinessof an East End slum, for the sea winds blew down the narrowest streetsand alleys, sailors and soldiers were always in view, and the windows ofthe pawnbrokers were filled with the relics of long voyages, with idolsand large shells, with savage weapons and the handiwork of remoteislands. 

When Mark came to live in Keppel Street, most of the brothels and manyof the public houses had been eliminated from the district, and in theirplace flourished various clubs and guilds. The services in the churchwere crowded: there was a long roll of communicants; the civilization ofthe city of God was visible in this Chatsea slum. One or two of the layhelpers used to horrify Mark with stories of early days there, and whenhe seemed inclined to regret that he had arrived so late upon the scene, they used to tease him about his missionary spirit. 

"If he can't reform the people, " said Cartwright, one of the layhelpers, a tall thin young man with a long nose and a pleasant smile, "he still has us to reform. "

"Come along, Mark Anthony, " said Warrender, another lay helper, whoafter working for seven years among the poor had at last been charilyaccepted by the Bishop for ordination. "Come along. Why don't you tryyour hand on us?"

"You people seem to think, " said Mark, "that I've got a mania forreforming. I don't mean that I should like to see St. Agnes' where itwas merely for my own personal amusement. The only thing I'm sorry aboutis that I didn't actually see the work being done. "

Father Rowley came in at this moment, and everybody shouted that Markwas going to preach a sermon. 

"Splendid, " said the Missioner whose voice when not moved by emotion wasrich in a natural unction that encouraged everyone round to suppose hewas being successfully humorous, such a savour did it add to the mostinnutritious chaff. Those who were privileged to share his ordinary lifenever ceased to wonder how in the pulpit or in the confessional or atprayer this unction was replaced by a remote beauty of tone, a plangentand thrilling compassion that played upon the hearts of all who heardhim. 

"Now really, Father Rowley, " Mark protested. "Do I preach a great deal?I'm always being chaffed by Cartwright and Warrender about an allegedmania for reforming people, which only exists in their imagination. "

Indeed Mark had long ago grown out of the desire to reform or to convertanybody, although had he wished to keep his hand in, he could have hadplenty of practice among the guests of the Mission House. Nobody hadever succeeded in laying down the exact number of casual visitors thatcould be accommodated therein. However full it appeared, there wasalways room for one more. Taking an average, day in, day out through theyear, one might fairly say that there were always eight or nine casualguests in addition to the eight or nine permanent residents, of whomMark was soon glad to be able to count himself one. The company wassufficiently mixed to have been offered as a proof to the sceptical thatthere was something after all in simple Christianity. There wouldusually be a couple of prefects from Silchester, one or two 'Varsitymen, two or three bluejackets or marines, an odd soldier or so, a navalofficer perhaps, a stray priest sometimes, an earnest seeker afterChristian example often, and often a drunkard who had been dumped downat the door of St. Agnes' Mission House in the hope that where everybodyelse had failed Father Rowley might succeed. Then there were the tramps, some who had heard of a comfortable night's lodging, some who camewhining and cringing with a pretence of religion. This last class wasdiscouraged as much as possible, for one of the first rules of theMission House was to show no favour to any man who claimed to bereligious, it being Father Rowley's chief dread to make anybody'sreligion a paying concern. Sometimes a jailbird just released fromprison would find in the Mission House an opportunity to recover hisself-respect. But whoever the guest was, soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, apothecary, ploughboy, or thief, he was judged at the MissionHouse as a man. Some of the visitors repaid their host by theft orfraud; but when they did, nobody uttered proverbs or platitudes aboutmistaken kindness. If one lame dog bit the hand that was helping himover the stile, the next dog that came limping along was helped overjust as freely. 

"What right has one miserable mortal to be disillusioned by anothermiserable mortal?" Father Rowley demanded. "Our dear Lord when he wasnailed to the cross said 'Father, forgive them, for they know not whatthey do. ' He did not say, 'I am fed up with these people I have comedown from Heaven to save. I've had enough of it. Send an angel with apair of pincers to pull out these nails. '"

If the Missioner's patience ever failed, it was when he had to deal withHigh Church young men who made pilgrimages to St. Agnes' because theyhad heard that this or that service was conducted there with a finerrelish of Romanism than anywhere else at the moment in England. On oneoccasion a pietistic young creature, who brought with him his own lacecotta but forgot to bring his nightshirt, begged to be allowed the joyof serving Father Rowley at early Mass next morning. When they came backand were sitting round the breakfast table, this young man simpered in aladylike voice:

"Oh, Father, couldn't you keep your fingers closed when you give the_Dominus vobiscum_?"

"Et cum spiritu tuo, " shouted Father Rowley. "I can keep my fingersclosed when I box your ears. "

And he proved it. 

It was a real box on the ears, so hard a blow that the ladylike youngman burst into tears to the great indignation of a Chief Petty Officerstaying in the Mission House, who declared that he was half in a mind tocatch the young swab such a snitch on the conk as really would give himsomething to blubber about. Father Rowley evidently had no remorse forhis violence, and the young man went away that afternoon saying howsorry he was that the legend of the good work being done at St. Agnes'had been so much exaggerated. 

Mark wrote an account of this incident, which had given him intensepleasure, to Mr. Ogilvie. Perhaps the Rector was afraid that Mark in hisambition to avoid "churchiness" was inclining toward the oppositeextreme; or perhaps, charitable and saintly man though he was, he felt apang of jealousy at Mark's unbounded admiration of his new friend; orperhaps it was merely that the east wind was blowing more sharply thanusual that morning over the wold into the Rectory garden. Whatever thecause, his answering letter made Mark feel that the Rector did notappreciate Father Rowley as thoroughly as he ought. 

 The Rectory, Wych-on-the-Wold. 

 Oxon. 

 Dec. 1. 

 My dear Mark, I was glad to get your long and amusing letter of last week. I am delighted to think that as the months go by you are finding work among the poor more and more congenial. I would not for the world suggest your coming back here for Christmas after what you tell me of the amount of extra work it will entail for everybody in the Mission House; at the same time it would be useless to pretend that we shan't all be disappointed not to see you until the New Year. 

 On reading through your last letter again I feel just a little worried lest, in the pleasure you derive from Father Rowley's treatment of what was no doubt a very irritating young man, you may be inclined to go to the opposite extreme and be too ready to laugh at real piety when it is not accompanied by geniality and good fellowship, or by an obvious zeal for good works. I know you will acquit me of any desire to defend extreme "churchiness, " and I have no doubt you will remember one or two occasions in the past when I was rather afraid that you were tending that way yourself. I am not in the least criticizing Father Rowley's method of dealing with it, but I am a trifle uneasy at the inordinate delight it seems to have afforded you. Of course, it is intolerable for any young man serving a priest at Mass to watch his fingers all the time, but I don't think you have any right to assume because on this occasion the young man showed himself so sensitive to mere externals that he is always aware only of externals. Unfortunately a very great deal of true and fervid piety exists under this apparent passion for externals. Remember that the ordinary criticism by the man in the street of Catholic ceremonies and of Catholic methods of worship involves us all in this condemnation. I suppose that you would consider yourself justified, should the circumstances permit (which in this case of course they do not), in protesting against a priest's not taking the Eastward Position when he said Mass. I was talking to Colonel Fraser the other day, and he was telling me how much he had enjoyed the ministrations of the Reverend Archibald Tait, the Leicestershire cricketer, who throughout the "second service" never once turned his back on the congregation, and, so far as I could gather from the Colonel's description, conducted this "second service" very much as a conjuror performs his tricks. When I ventured to argue with the Colonel, he said to me: "That is the worst of you High Churchmen, you make the ritual more important than the Communion itself. " All human judgments, my dear Mark, are relative, and I have no doubt that this unpleasant young man (who, as I have already said, was no doubt justly punished by Father Rowley) may have felt the same kind of feeling in a different degree that I should feel if I assisted at the jugglery of the Reverend Archibald Tait. At any rate you, my dear boy, are bound to credit this young man with as much sincerity as yourself, otherwise you commit a sin against charity. You must acquire at least as much toleration for the Ritualist as I am glad to notice you are acquiring for the thief. When you are a priest yourself, and in a comparatively short time you will be a priest, I do hope you won't, without his experience, try to imitate Father Rowley too closely in his summary treatment of what I have already I hope made myself quite clear in believing to be in this case a most insufferable young man. Don't misunderstand this letter. I have such great hopes of you in the stormy days to come, and the stormy days are coming, that I should feel I was wrong if I didn't warn you of your attitude towards the merest trifles, for I shall always judge you and your conduct by standards that I should be very cautious of setting for most of my penitents. 

 Your ever affectionate, Stephen Ogilvie. 

 My mother and Miriam send you much love. We miss you greatly at Wych. Esther seems happy in her convent and will soon be clothed as a novice. 

When Mark read this letter, he was prompt to admit himself in thewrong; but he could not bear the least implied criticism of FatherRowley. 

 St. Agnes' House, Keppel Street, Chatsea. 

 Dec. 3. 

 My dear Mr. Ogilvie, I'm afraid I must have expressed myself very badly in my last letter if I gave you the least idea that Father Rowley was not always charity personified. He had probably come to the conclusion that the young man was not much good and no doubt he deliberately made it impossible for him to stay on at the Mission House. We do get an awful lot of mere loafers here; I don't suppose that anybody who keeps open house can avoid getting them. After all, if the young man had been worth anything he would have realized that he had made a fool of himself and by the way he took his snubbing have re-established himself. What he actually did was to sulk and clear out with a sneer at the work done here. I'm sorry I gave you the impression that I was triumphing so tremendously over his discomfiture. By writing about it I probably made the incident appear much more important than it really was. I've no doubt I did triumph a little, and I'm afraid I shall never be able not to feel rather glad when a fellow like that is put in his place. I am not for a moment going to try to argue that you can carry Christian charity too far. The more one meditates on the words, and actions of Our Lord, the more one grasps how impossible it is to carry charity too far. All the same, one owes as much charity to Father Rowley as to the young man. This sounds now I have written it down as if I were getting in a hit at you, and that is the worst of writing letters to justify oneself. What I am trying to say is that if I were to have taken up arms for the young man and supposed him to be ill-used or misjudged I should be criticizing Father Rowley. I think that perhaps you don't quite realize what a saint he is in every way. This is my fault, no doubt, because in my letters to you I have always emphasized anything that would bring into relief his personality. I expect that I've been too much concerned to draw a picture of him as a man, in doing which I've perhaps been unsuccessful in giving you a picture of him as a priest. It's always difficult to talk or write about one's intimate religious feelings, and you've been the only person to whom I ever have been able to talk about them. However much I admire and revere Father Rowley I doubt if I could talk or write to him about myself as I do to you. 

 Until I came here I don't think I ever quite realized all that the Blessed Sacrament means. I had accepted the Sacrifice of the Mass as one accepts so much in our creed, without grasping its full implication. If anybody were to have put me through a catechism about the dogma I should have answered with theological exactitude, without any appearance of misapprehending the meaning of it; but it was not until I came here that its practical reality--I don't know if I'm expressing myself properly or not, I'm pretty sure I'm not; I don't mean practical application and I don't mean any kind of addition to my faith; perhaps what I mean is that I've learnt to grasp the mystery of the Mass outside myself, outside that is to say my own devotion, my own awe, as a practical fact alive to these people here. Sometimes when I go to Mass I feel as people who watched Our Lord with His disciples and followers must have felt. I feel like one of those people who ran after Him and asked Him what they could do to be saved. I feel when I look at what has been done here as if I must go to each of these poor people in turn and beg them to bring me to the feet of Christ, just as I suppose on the shores of the sea of Galilee people must have begged St. Peter or St. Andrew or St. James or St. John to introduce them, if one can use such a word for such an occasion. This seems to me the great work that Father Rowley has effected in this parish. I have only had one rather shy talk with him about religion, and in the course of it I said something in praise of what his personality had effected. 

 "My personality has effected nothing, " he answered. "Everything here is effected by the Blessed Sacrament. "

 That is why he surely has the right without any consideration for the dignity of churchy young men to box their ears if they question his outward respect for the Blessed Sacrament. Even Our Lord found it necessary at least on one occasion to chase the buyers and sellers out of the Temple, and though it is not recorded that He boxed the ears of any Pharisee, it seems to me quite permissible to believe that He did! He lashed them with scorn anyway. 

 To come back to Father Rowley, you know the great cry of the so-called Evangelical party "Jesus only"? Well, Father Rowley has really managed to make out of what was becoming a sort of ecclesiastical party cry something that really is evangelical and at the same time Catholic. These people are taught to make the Blessed Sacrament the central fact of their lives in a way that I venture to say no Welsh revivalist or Salvation Army captain has ever made Our Lord the central fact in the lives of his converts, because with the Blessed Sacrament continually before them, Which is Our Lord Jesus Christ, their conversion endures. I could fill a book with stories of the wonderful behaviour of these poor souls. The temptation is to say of a man like Father Rowley that he has such a natural spring of human charity flowing from his heart that by offering to the world a Christlike example he converts his flock. Certainly he does give a Christlike example and undoubtedly that must have a great influence on his people; but he does not believe, and I don't believe, that a Christlike example is of any use without Christ, and he gives them Christ. Even the Bishop of Silchester had to admit the other day that Vespers of the Blessed Sacrament as held at St. Agnes' is a perfectly scriptural service. Father Rowley makes of the Blessed Sacrament Christ Himself, so that the poor people may flock round Him. He does not go round arguing with them, persuading them, but in the crises of their lives, as the answer to every question, as the solution of every difficulty and doubt, as the consolation in every sorrow, he offers them the Blessed Sacrament. All his prayers (and he makes a great use of extempore prayer, much to the annoyance of the Bishop, who considers it ungrammatical), all his sermons, all his actions revolve round that one great fact. "Jesus Christ is what you need, " he says, "and Jesus Christ is here in your church, here upon your altar. "

 You can't go into the little church without finding fifty people praying before the Blessed Sacrament. The other day when the "King Harry" was sunk by the "Trafalgar, " the people here subscribed I forget how many pounds for the widows and children of the bluejackets and marines of the Mission who were drowned, and when it was finished and the subscription list was closed, they subscribed all over again to erect an altar at which to say Masses for the dead. And the old women living in Father Rowley's free houses that were once brothels gave up their summer outing so that the money spent on them might be added to the fund. When the Bishop of Silchester came here last week for Confirmation he asked Father Rowley what that altar was. 

 "That is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, " he said. But when Father Rowley told him about the poor people and the old women who had no money of their own, he said: "That is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. "

 I am beginning to write as if it was necessary to convince you of the necessity of making the Blessed Sacrament the central feature of the religious life to-day and for ever until the end of the world. But, I know you won't think I'm doing anything of the kind, for really I am only trying to show you how much my faith has been strengthened and how much my outlook has deepened and how much more than ever I long to be a priest to be able to give poor people Jesus Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. 

 Your ever affectionate

 Mark. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE DRUNKEN PRIEST

Gradually, Mark found to his pleasure and his pride that he wasbecoming, if not indispensable to Father Rowley (the Missioner found nohuman being indispensable) at any rate quite evidently useful. PerhapsFather Rowley though that in allowing himself to rely considerably uponMark's secretarial talent he was indulging himself in a luxury to whichhe was not entitled. That was Father Rowley's way. The moment hediscovered himself enjoying anything too much, whether it was a cigar ora secretary, he cut himself off from it, and this not in any spirit ofmortification for mortification's sake, but because he dreaded thepossibility of putting the slightest drag upon his freedom to criticizeothers. He had no doubt at all in his own mind that he was perfectlyjustified in making use of Mark's intelligence and energy. But in aplace like the Mission House, where everybody from lay helper to casualguest was supposed to stand on his own feet, the Missioner himself feltthat he must offer an example of independence. 

"You're spoiling me, Mark Anthony, " he said one day. "There's nothingfor me to do this evening. "

"I know, " Mark agreed contentedly. "I want to give you a rest for once. "

"Rest?" the priest echoed. "You don't seriously expect a fat man like meto sit down in an armchair and rest, do you? Besides, you've got yourown reading to do, and you didn't come to Chatsea as my punkah walla. "

Mark insisted that he was getting along in his own way quite fastenough, and that he had plenty of time on his hands to keep FatherRowley's correspondence in some kind of order. 

"All these other people have any amount to do, " said Mark. "Cartwrighthas his boys every evening and Warrender has his men. "

"And Mark Anthony has nothing but a fat, poverty-stricken, slothfulmission priest, " Father Rowley gurgled. 

"Yes, and you're more trouble than all the rest put together. Look here, I've written to the Bishop's chaplain about that confirmation; Iexplained why we wanted to hold a special confirmation for these twoboys we are emigrating, and he has written back to say that the Bishophas no objection to a special confirmation's being held by the Bishop ofMatabeleland when he comes to stay here next week. At the same time, hesays the Bishop doesn't want it to become a precedent. "

"No. I can quite understand that, " Father Rowley chuckled. "Bishops arehaunted by the creation of precedents. A precedent in the life of abishop is like an illegitimate child in the life of a respectablechurchwarden. No, the only thing I fear is that if I devour all yourspare time you won't get quite what you wanted to get by coming to livewith us. "

He laid a fat hand on Mark's shoulder. 

"Please don't bother about me, " said Mark. "I get all I want and morethan I expected if I can be of the least use to you. I know I'm ratherdisappointing you by not behaving like half the people who come downhere and want to get up a concert on Monday, a dance on Tuesday, aconjuring entertainment on Wednesday, a street procession on Thursday, aday of intercession on Friday, and an amateur dramatic entertainment onSaturday, not to mention acting as ceremonarius on Sunday. I know you'dlike me to propose all sorts of energetic diversions, so that you couldhave the pleasure of assuring me that I was only proposing them togratify my own vanity, which of course would be perfectly true. LuckilyI'm of a retiring disposition, and I don't want to do anything to helpthe ten thousand benighted parishioners of Saint Agnes', exceptindirectly by striving to help in my own feeble way the man who reallyis helping them. Now don't throw that inkpot at me, because the room'squite dirty enough already, and as I've made you sit still for fiveminutes I've achieved something this evening that mighty few peoplehave achieved in Keppel Street. I believe the only time you really restis in the confessional box. "

"Mark Anthony, Mark Anthony, " said the priest, "you talk a great dealtoo much. Come along now, it's bedtime. "

One of the rules of the Mission House was that every inmate should be inbed by ten o'clock and all lights out by a quarter past. The day beganwith Mass at seven o'clock at which everybody was expected to bepresent; and from that time onward everybody was so fully occupied thatit was essential to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Guests who came downfor a night or two were often apt to forget how much the regular workershad to do and what a tax it put upon the willing servants to manage ahouse of which nobody could say ten minutes before a meal how many wouldsit down to it, nor even until lights out for how many people beds mustbe made. In case any guest should forget this rule by coming back afterten o'clock, Father Rowley made a point of having the front door bell toring in his bedroom, so that he might get out of bed at any hour of thenight and admit the loiterer. Guests were warned what would be theeffect of their lack of consideration, and it was seldom that FatherRowley was disturbed. 

Among the guests there was one class of which a representative wasusually to be found at the Mission House. This was the drunkenclergyman, which sounds as if there was at this date a high proportionof drunken clergymen in the Church of England; but which means that whenone did come to St. Agnes' he usually stayed for a long time, because hewould in most cases have been sent there when everybody else haddespaired of him to see what Father Rowley could effect. 

About the time when Mark was beginning to be recognized as FatherRowley's personal vassal, it happened that the Reverend George EdwardMousley who had been handed on from diocese to diocese during the lastfive years had lately reached the Mission House. For more than twomonths now he had spent his time inconspicuously reading in his ownroom, and so well had he behaved, so humbly had he presented himself tothe notice of his fellow guests, that Father Rowley was moved oneafternoon to dictate a letter about him to Mark, who felt that theMissioner by taking him so far into his confidence had surrendered tohis pertinacity and that thenceforth he might consider himselfestablished as his private secretary. 

"The letter is to the Lord Bishop Suffragan of Warwick, St. Peter'sRectory, Warwick, " Father Rowley began. "My dear Bishop of Warwick, Ihave now had poor Mousley here for two months. It is not a long time inwhich to effect a lasting reformation of one who has fallen so often andso grievously, but I think you know me well enough not to accuse me ofbeing too sanguine about drunken priests. I have had too many of themhere for that. In his case however I do feel justified in asking you toagree with me in letting him have an opportunity to regain the respectdue to himself and the reverence due to his priesthood by being allowedonce more to the altar. I should not dream of allowing him to officiatewithout your permission, because his sad history has been so much apersonal burden to yourself. I'm afraid that after the manydisappointments he has inflicted upon you, you will be doubtful of myjudgment. Yet I do think that the critical moment has arrived when bysurprising him thus we might clinch the matter of his future behaviouronce and for all. His conduct here has been so humble and patient and inevery way exemplary that my heart bleeds for him. Therefore, my dearBishop of Warwick, I hope you will agree to what I firmly trust will bethe completion of his spiritual cure. I am writing to you quiteimpersonally and informally, as you see, so that in replying to me youwill not be involving yourself in the affairs of another diocese. Youwill, of course, put me down as much a Jesuit as ever in writing to youlike this, but you will equally, I know, believe me to be, Yours everaffectionately in Our Blessed Lord. 

"And I'll sign it as soon as you can type it out, " Father Rowley woundup. 

"Oh, I do hope he will agree, " Mark exclaimed. 

"He will, " the Missioner prophesied. "He will because he is a wise andtender and godly man and therefore will never be more than a BishopSuffragan as long as he lives. Mark!"

Mark looked up at the severity of the tone. 

"Mark! Correct me when I fall into the habit of sneering at theepiscopate. "

That night Father Rowley was attending a large temperance demonstrationin the Town Hall for the purpose of securing if possible a smallerproportion of public houses than one for every eighty of the population, which was the average for Chatsea. The meeting lasted until nearly teno'clock; and it had already struck the hour when Father Rowley with Markand two or three others got back to Keppel Street. There was nothingFather Rowley disliked so much as arriving home himself after ten, andhe hurried up to his room without inquiring if everybody was in. 

Mark's window looked out on Keppel Street; and the May night being warmand his head aching from the effects of the meeting, he sat for nearlyan hour at the open window gazing down at the passers by. There was notmuch to see, nothing more indeed than couples wandering home, abluejacket or two, an occasional cat, and a few women carrying jugs ofbeer. By eleven o'clock even this slight traffic had ceased, and therewas nothing down the silent street except a salt wind from the harbourthat roused a memory of the beach at Nancepean years ago when he had satthere watching the glow-worm and decided to be a lighthouse-keeperkeeping his lamps bright for mariners homeward bound. It was of streetslike Keppel Street that they would have dreamed, with the Stag Lightwinking to port, and the west wind blowing strong astern. What alighthouse-keeper Father Rowley was! How except by the grace of Godcould one explain such goodness as his? Fashions in saintliness mightchange, but there was one kind of saint that always and for every creedspoke plainly of God's existence, such saints as St. Francis of Assisior St. Anthony of Padua, who were manifestly the heirs of Christ. Withwhat a tender cynicism Our Lord had called St. Peter to be thefoundation stone of His Church, with what a sorrowful foreboding of thefailure of Christianity. Such a choice appeared as the expression ofGod's will not to be let down again as He was let down by Adam. JesusChrist, conscious at the moment of what He must shortly suffer at thehands of mankind, must have been equally conscious of the failure ofChristianity two thousand years beyond His Agony and Bloody Sweat andCrucifixion. Why, within a short time after His life on earth it wasnecessary for that light from heaven to shine round about Saul on theDamascus road, because already scoffers, while the disciples were stillalive, may have been talking about the failure of Christianity. It musthave been another of God's self-imposed limitations that He did not giveto St. John that capacity of St. Paul for organization which might havemade practicable the Christianity of the master Who loved him. _Woman, behold thy son! Behold thy mother!_ That dying charge showed that OurLord considered John the most Christlike of His disciples, and heremained the most Christlike man until twelve hundred years later St. Francis was born at Assisi. St. Paul, St. Augustine, St. Dominic, ifChristianity could only produce mighty individualists of Faith likethem, it could scarcely have endured as it had endured. _And now abidethfaith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these ischarity. _ There was something almost wistful in those words coming fromthe mouth of St. Paul. It was scarcely conceivable that St. John or St. Francis could ever have said that; it would scarcely have struck eitherthat the three virtues were separable. 

Keppel Street was empty now. Mark's headache had been blown away by thenight wind with his memories and the incoherent thoughts which hadgathered round the contemplation of Father Rowley's character. He wasjust going to draw away from the window and undress when he caught sightof a figure tacking from one pavement to the other up Keppel Street. Mark watched its progress, amused at the extraordinary amount of troubleit was giving itself, until one tack was brought to a sharp conclusionby a lamp-post to which the figure clung long enough to be recognized asthat of the Reverend George Edward Mousley, who had been tacking likethis to make the harbour of the Mission House. Mark, remembering theletter which had been written to the Bishop of Warwick, wondered if hecould not at any rate for to-night spare Father Rowley thedisappointment of knowing that his plea for re-instatement was alreadyanswered by the drunken priest himself. He must make up his mindquickly, because even with the zigzag course Mousley was taking he wouldsoon be ringing the bell of the Mission House, which meant that FatherRowley would be woken up and go down to let him in. Of course, he wouldhave to know all about it in the morning, but to-night when he had goneto bed tired and full of hope for temperance in general and thereformation of Mousley in particular it was surely right to let himsleep in ignorance. Mark decided to take it upon himself to break therules of the house, to open the door to Mousley, and if possible to gethim upstairs to bed quietly. He went down with a lighted candle, creptacross the gymnasium, and opened the door. Mousley was still tackingfrom pavement to pavement and making very little headway against astrong current of drink. Mark thought he had better go out and offer hisservices as pilot, because Mousley was beginning to sing anextraordinary song in which the tune and the words of _Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you_, had got mixed up with _O happy band of pilgrims_. 

"Look here, Mr. Mousley, you mustn't sing now, " said Mark taking hold ofthe arm with which the drunkard was trying to beat time. "It's aftereleven o'clock, and you're just outside the Mission House. "

"I've been just outside the Mission House for an hour and threequarters, old chap, " said Mr. Mousley solemnly. "Most incompatible thingI've ever known. I got back here at a quarter past nine, and I was justgoing to walk in when the house took two paces to the rear, and I'vebeen walking after it the whole evening. Most incompatible thing I'veever known. Most incompatible thing that's ever happened to me in mylife, Lidderdale. If I were a superstitious man, which I'm not, I shouldsay the house was bewitched. If I had a moment to spare, I should sitdown at once and write an account of my most incompatible experience tothe Society of Psychical Research, if I were a superstitious man, whichI'm not. Yes. . . . "

Mr. Mousley tried to focus his glassy eyes upon the arcana ofspiritualism, rocking ambiguously the while upon the kerb. Mark murmuredsomething more about the need for going in quietly. 

"It's very kind of you to come out and talk to me like this, " thedrunken priest went on. "But what you ought to have done was to havekept hold of the house for a minute or two so as to give me time to getin quietly. Now we shall probably both be out here all night trying toget in quietly. It's impossible to keep warm by this lamp-post. Mostinadequate heating arrangement. It is a lamp-post, isn't it? Yes, Ithought it was. I had a fleeting impression that it was my bedroomcandle, but I see now that I was mistaken, I see now perfectly clearlythat it is a lamp-post, if not two. Of course, that may account for mynot being able to get into the Mission House. I was trying to decidewhich front door I should go in by, and while I was waiting I think Imust have gone in by the wrong one, for I hit my nose a most severe blowon the nose. One has to remember to be very careful with front doors. Ofcourse, if it was my own house I should have used a latch-key instanter;for I inevitably, I mean invariably, carry a latch-key about with me andwhen it won't open my front door I use it to wind my watch. You know, it's one of those small keys you can wind up watches with, if you knowthe kind of key I mean. I'd draw you a picture of it if I had a pencil, but I haven't got a pencil. "

"Now don't stay talking here, " Mark urged. "Come along back, and do tryto come quietly. I keep telling you it's after eleven o'clock, and youknow Father Rowley likes everybody to be in by ten. "

"That's what I've been saying to myself the whole evening, " said Mr. Mousley. "Only what happened, you see, was that I met the son of a manwho used to know my father, a very nice fellow indeed, a veryintellectual fellow. I never remember spending a more intellectualevening in my life. A feast of reason and a flowing bowl, I mean soul, s-o-u-l, not b-o-u-l. Did I say bowl? Soul. . . . Soul. . . . "

"All right, " said Mark. "But if you've had such a jolly evening, come innow and don't make a noise. "

"I'll come in whenever you like, " Mr. Mousley offered. "I'm at yourdisposition entirely. The only request I have to make is that you willguarantee that the house stays where it was built. It's all very finefor an ordinary house to behave like this, but when a mission housebehaves like this I call it disgraceful. I don't know what I've done tothe house that it should conceive such a dislike to me. I say, Lidderdale, have they been taking up the drains or something in thisstreet? Because I distinctly had an impression just then that I put myfoot into a hole. "

"The street's perfectly all right, " said Mark. "Nothing has been done toit. "

"There's no reason why they shouldn't take up the drains if they wantto, I'm not complaining. Drains have to be taken up and I should be thelast man to complain; but I merely asked a question, and I'm convincedthat they have been taking up the drains. Yes, I've had a veryintellectual evening. My head's whirling with philosophy. We've talkedabout everything. My friend talked a good deal about Buddhism. And Imade rather a good joke about Confucius being so confusing, at which Ilaughed inordinately. Inordinately, Lidderdale. I've had a very keensense of humour ever since I was a baby. I say, Lidderdale, youcertainly know your way about this street. I'm very much obliged to mefor meeting you. I shall get to know the street in time. You see, myobject was to get beyond the house, because I said to myself 'the houseis in Keppel Street, it can dodge about _in_ Keppel Street, but it can'tbe in any other street, ' so I thought that if I could dodge it into thecorner of Keppel Street--you follow what I mean? I may be talking a bitabove your head, we've been talking philosophy all the evening, but ifyou concentrate you'll follow my meaning. "

"Here we are, " said Mark, for by this time he had persuaded Mr. Mousleyto put his foot upon the step of the front door. 

"You managed the house very well, " said the clergyman. "It'sextraordinary how a house will take to some people and not to others. Now I can do anything I like with dogs, and you can do anything you likewith houses. But it's no good patting or stroking a house. You've got tomanage a house quite differently to that. You've got to keep a house'saccounts. You haven't got to keep a dog's accounts. "

They were in the gymnasium by now, which by the light of Mark's smallcandle loomed as vast as a church. 

"Don't talk as you go upstairs, " Mark admonished. 

"Isn't that a dog I see there?"

"No, no, no, " said Mark. "It's the horse. Come along. "

"A horse?" Mousley echoed. "Well, I can manage horses too. Come here, Dobbin. If I'd known we were going to meet a horse I should have broughtback some sugar with me. I suppose it's too late to go back and buy somesugar now?"

"Yes, yes, " said Mark impatiently. "Much too late. Come along. "

"If I had a piece of sugar he'd follow us upstairs. You'll find a horsewill go anywhere after a piece of sugar. It is a horse, isn't it? Not adonkey? Because if it was a donkey he would want a thistle, and I don'tknow where I can get a thistle at this time of night. I say, did youprod me in the stomach then with anything?" asked Mr. Mousley severely. 

"No, no, " said Mark. "Come along, it was the parallel bars. "

"I've not been near any bars to-night, and if you are suggesting thatI've been in bars you're making an insinuation which I very much resent, an insinuation which I resent most bitterly, an insinuation which Ishould not allow anybody to make without first pointing out that it wasan insinuation. "

"Do come down off that ladder, " Mark said. 

"I beg your pardon, Lidderdale. I was under the impression for themoment that I was going upstairs. I have really been so confused byConfucius and by the extraordinary behaviour of the house to-night, recoiling from me as it did, that for the moment I was under theimpression that I was going upstairs. "

At this moment Mr. Mousley fell from the ladder, luckily on one of thegymnasium mats. 

"I do think it's a most ridiculous habit, " he said, "not to place adoormat in what I might describe as a suitable cavity. The number oftimes in my life that I've fallen over doormats simply because peoplewill not take the trouble to make the necessary depression in the floorwith which to contain such a useful domestic receptacle you wouldscarcely believe. I must have fallen over thousands of doormats in mylife, " he shouted at the top of his voice. 

"You'll wake everybody up in the house, " Mark exclaimed in an agony. "For heaven's sake keep quiet. "

"Oh, we are in the house, are we?" said Mr. Mousley. "I'm very muchrelieved to hear you say that, Lidderdale. For a brief moment, I don'tknow why, I was almost as confused as Confucius as to where we were. "

At this moment, candle in hand, and in a white flannel nightgown lookinglarger than ever, Father Rowley appeared in the gallery above andleaning over demanded who was there. 

"Is that Father Rowley?" Mr. Mousley inquired with intense courtesy. "Ordo my eyes deceive me? You'll excuse me from replying to your apparentlysimple question, Father Rowley, but I have met such a number of peopleto-night including the son of a man who used to know my father that Ireally don't know who _is_ there, although I'm inclined to think that_I_ am here. But I've had a series of such a remarkable series ofadventures to-night that I should like your advice about them. I've beenspending a very intellectual evening, Father Rowley. "

"Go to bed, " said the mission priest severely. "I'll speak to you in themorning. "

"Father Rowley isn't annoyed with me, is he?" Mr. Mousley asked. 

"I think he's rather annoyed at your being so late, " said Mark. 

"Late for what?"

"Is that you, Mark, down there?" asked the Missioner. 

"I'm lighting Mr. Mousley across the gymnasium, " Mark explained. "Ithink I'd better take him up to his room. "

"If your young friend is as clever at managing rooms as he is atmanaging houses we shall get on splendidly, Father Rowley. I haveperfect confidence in his manner with rooms. He soothed this house inthe most remarkable way. It was jumping about like a pea in a pod tillhe caught hold of the reins. "

"Mark, go to bed. I will see Mr. Mousley to his room. "

"Several years ago, " said the drunken priest. "I went with an old friendto see Miss Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth. The resemblance between FatherRowley and Miss Ellen Terry is very remarkable. Good-night, Lidderdale, I am perfectly comfortable on this mat. Good-night. "

In the gallery above Mark, who had not dared to disobey Father Rowley'sorders, asked him what was to be done to get Mr. Mousley to bed. 

"Go and wake Cartwright and Warrender to help me to get him upstairs, "the Missioner commanded. 

"I can help you. . . . " Mark began. 

"Do what I say, " said the Missioner curtly. 

In the morning Father Rowley sent for Mark to give his account of whathad happened the night before, and when Mark had finished his tale, thepriest sat for a while in silence. 

"Are you going to send him away?" Mark asked. 

"Send him away?" Father Rowley repeated. "Where would I send him? If hecan't keep off drink in this house and in these surroundings where elsewill he keep off drink? No, I'm only amused at my optimism. "

There was a knock on the door. 

"I expect that is Mr. Mousley, " said Mark. "I'll leave you with him. "

"No, don't go away, " said the Missioner. "If Mousley didn't mind yourseeing him as he was last night, there's no reason why this morning heshould mind your hearing my comments upon his behaviour. "

The tap on the door was repeated. 

"Come in, come in, Mousley, and take a seat. "

Mr. Mousley walked timidly across the room and sat on the very edge ofthe chair offered him by Father Rowley. He was a quiet, rather drablittle man, the kind of little man who always loses his seat in arailway carriage and who always gets pushed further up in an omnibus, one of life's pawns. The presence of Mark did not seem to affect him, for no sooner was he seated than he began to apologize with suspiciousrapidity, as if by now his apologies had been reduced to a formula. 

"I really must apologize, Father Rowley, for my lateness last night andfor coming in, I fear, slightly the worse for liquor. The fact is I hada little headache and went to the chemist for a pick-me-up, on top ofwhich I met an old college friend, and though I don't think I had morethan two glasses of beer I may have had three. They didn't seem to govery well with the pick-me-up. I assure you--"

"Stop, " said Father Rowley. "The only assurance of any value to me willbe your behaviour in the future. "

"Oh, then I'm not to leave this morning?" Mr. Mousley gasped with openmouth. 

"Where would you go if you left here?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, " Mr. Mousley admitted, "I have been ratherworried over that little problem ever since I woke up this morning. Iscarcely expected that you would tolerate my presence any longer in thishouse. You will excuse me, Father Rowley, but I am rather overwhelmedfor the moment by your kindness. I scarcely know how to express what Ifeel. I have usually found people so very impatient of my weakness. Doyou seriously mean I needn't go away this morning?"

"You have already been sufficiently punished, I hope, " said theMissioner, "by the humiliations you have inflicted on yourself bothoutside and inside this house. "

"My thoughts are always humiliating, " said Mr. Mousley. "I think perhapsthat nowadays these humiliating thoughts are my chief temptation todrink. Since I have been here and shared in your hospitality I have feltmore sharply than ever my disgrace. I have several times been on thepoint of asking you to let me be given some kind of work, but I havealways been too much ashamed when it came to the point to express myaspirations in words. "

"Only yesterday afternoon, " said Father Rowley, "I wrote to the Bishopof Warwick, who has continued to interest himself in you notwithstandingthe many occasions you have disappointed him, yes, I wrote to the Bishopof Warwick to say that since you came to St. Agnes' your behaviour hadjustified my suggesting that you should once again be allowed to sayMass. "

"You wrote that yesterday afternoon?" Mr. Mousley exclaimed. "And theinstant afterwards I went out and got drunk?"

"You mean you took a pick-me-up and two glasses of beer, " correctedFather Rowley. 

"No, no, no, it wasn't a pick-me-up. I went out and got drunk on brandyquite deliberately. "

Father Rowley looked quickly across at Mark, who hastily left the twopriests together. He divined from the Missioner's quick glance that hewas going to hear Mr. Mousley's confession. A week later Mr. Mousleyasked Mark if he would serve at Mass the next morning. 

"It may seem an odd request, " he said, "but inasmuch as you have seenthe depths to which I can sink, I want you equally to see the heights towhich Father Rowley has raised me. "

CHAPTER XVIII

SILCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION

It was never allowed to be forgotten at St. Agnes' that the Mission wasthe Silchester College Mission; and there were few days in the year onwhich it was possible to visit the Mission House without finding theresome member of the College past or present. Every Sunday during term twoor three prefects would sit down to dinner; masters turned up during theholidays; even the mighty Provost himself paid occasional visits, duringwhich he put off most of his majesty and became as nearly human as afacetious judge. Nor did Father Rowley allow Silchester to forget thatit had a Mission. He was not at all content with issuing a half yearlyreport of progress and expenses, and he had no intention of letting St. Agnes' exist as a subject for an occasional school sermon or a religioustax levied on parents. From the first moment he had put foot in Chatseahe had done everything he could to make St. Agnes' be what it wassupposed to be--the Silchester College Mission. He was particularlyanxious that the new church should be built and beautified with moneyfrom Silchester sources, even if he also accepted money for this purposefrom outside. Soon after Mark had become recognized as Father Rowley'sconfidential secretary, he visited Silchester for the first time in hiscompany. 

It was the custom during the summer for the various guilds and clubsconnected with the parish to be entertained in turn at the College. Ithad never happened that Mark had accompanied any of these outings, whichin the early days of St. Agnes' had been regarded with dread by theCollege authorities, so many flowers were picked, so much fruit wasstolen, but which now were as orderly and respectable excursions as youcould wish to see. Mark's first visit to Silchester was on the occasionof Father Rowley's terminal sermon in the June after he was nineteen. Hefound the experience intimidating, because he was not yet old enough tohave learnt self-confidence and he had never passed through the ordealeither of a first term at a public school or of a first term at theUniversity. Boys are always critical, and at Silchester with thetradition of six hundred years to give them a corporate self-confidence, the judgment of outsiders is more severe than anywhere in the world, unless it might be in the New Hebrides. Added to their critical regardwas a chilling politeness which would have made downright insolenceappear cordial in comparison. Mark felt like Gulliver in the presence ofthe Houyhnms. These noble animals, so graceful, so clean, socondescending, appalled him. Yet he had found the Silchester men whocame to visit the Mission easy enough to get on with. No doubt they, without their background were themselves a little shy, although theirshyness never mastered them so far as to make them ill at ease. Here, however, they seemed as imperturbable and unbending as the stone saints, row upon row on the great West front of the Cathedral. Mark apprehendedmore clearly than ever the powerful personality of Father Rowley when hefound that these noble young animals accorded to him the same quality ofrespect that they gave to a popular master or even to a popular athlete. The Missioner seemed able to understand their intimate and allusiveconversation, so characteristic of a small and highly developed society;he seemed able to chaff them at the right moment; to take them seriouslywhen they ought to be taken seriously; in a word to have grasped withoutbeing a Siltonian the secret of Silchester. He and Mark were staying ata house which possessed super-imposed upon the Silchester tradition atradition of its own extending over the forty years during which theReverend William Jex Monkton had been a house master. It was difficultfor Mark, who had nothing but the traditions of Haverton House for astandard to understand how with perfect respect the boys could addresstheir master by his second name without prejudice to discipline. Yeteverybody in Jex's house called him Jex; and when you looked at thatdelightful old gentleman himself with his criss-cross white tie andcurly white hair, you realized how impossible it was for him to becalled anything else except Jex. 

For the first time since Mark, brooding upon the moonlit quadrangle ofSt. Osmund's Hall, bade farewell to Oxford, he regretted for a while hissurrender of the scholarship to Emmett. What was Emmett doing now? Hadhis stammer improved in the confidence that his success must surely havebrought him? Mark made an excuse to forsake the company of the four orfive men in whose charge he had been left. He was tired of beingcontinually rescued from drowning in their conversation. Theirintentional courtesy galled him. He felt like a negro chief being shownthe sights of England by a tired equerry. It was a fine summer day, andhe went down to the playing fields to watch the cricket match. He satdown in the shade of an oak tree on the unfrequented side, unable in themood he was in to ask against whom the College was playing or which sidewas in. Players and spectators alike appeared unreal, a mirage of thesunlight; the very landscape ceased to be anything more substantial thana landscape perceived by dreamers in the clouds. The trees and towers ofSilchester, the bald hills of Berkshire on the horizon, the cattle inthe meadows, the birds in the air exasperated Mark with his inability toput himself in the picture. The grass beneath the oak was scattered witha treasury of small suns minted by the leaves above, trembling patensand silver disks that Mark set himself to count. 

"Trying not to yearn and trying not to yawn, " he muttered. "Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six. "

"You're ten out, " said a voice. "We want fifty-six to tie, fifty-sevento win. "

Mark looked up and saw that a Silchester man whom he remembered seeingonce at the Mission was preparing to sit down beside him. He was a tallyouth, fair and freckled and clear cut, perfectly self-possessed, butlacking any hint of condescension in his manner. 

"Didn't you come over with Rowley?" he inquired. 

Mark was going to explain that he was working at the Mission when itstruck him that a Silchester man might have the right to resent that, and he gave no more than a simple affirmative. 

"I remember seeing you at the Mission, " he went on. "My name's Hathorne. Oh, well hit, sir, well hit!"

Hathorne's approbation of the batsman made the match appear even moreremote. It was like the comment of a passer-by upon a well-designedfigure in a tapestry. It was an expression of his own æsthetic pleasure, and bore no relation to the player he applauded. 

"I've only been down to the Mission once, " he continued, turning toMark. "I felt rather up against it there. "

"Well, I feel much more up against it in Silchester, " replied Mark. 

"Yes, I can understand that, " Hathorne nodded. "But you're only upagainst form: I was up against matter. It struck me when I was downthere what awful cheek it was for me to be calmly going down to Chatseaand supposing that I had a right to go there, because I had contributeda certain amount of money belonging to my father, to help spiritually alot of people who probably need spiritual help much less than I domyself. Of course, with anybody else except Rowley in charge the effectwould be damnable. As it is, he manages to keep us from feeling as ifwe'd paid to go and look at the Zoo. You're a lucky chap to be workingthere without the uncomfortable feeling that you're just being toleratedbecause you're a Siltonian. "

"I was thinking, " said Mark, "that I was only being tolerated herebecause I happened to come with Rowley. It's impossible to visit a placelike this and not regret that one must remain an outsider. "

"It depends on what you want to do, " said Hathorne. "I want to be aparson. I'm going up to the Varsity in October, and I am beginning towonder what on earth good I shall be at the end of it all. "

He gave Mark an opportunity to comment on this announcement; but Markdid not know what to say and remained silent. 

"I see you're not in the mood to be communicative, " Hathorne went onwith a smile. "I don't blame you. It's impossible to be communicative inthis place; but some time, when I'm down at the Mission again, I'd liketo have what is called a heart-to-heart talk. That was a good boundary. We shall win quite comfortably. So long!"

The tall, fair youth passed on; and although Mark never had thatheart-to-heart talk with him in the Mission, because he was killed in amountaineering accident in Switzerland that August, the memory of himsitting there under the oak tree on that fine summer afternoon remainedwith Mark for ever; and after that brief conversation he lost most ofhis shyness, so that he came to enjoy his visits to Silchester as muchas the Missioner himself did. 

As the new church drew near its completion, Mark apprehended why FatherRowley attached so much importance to as much of the money for it aspossible coming directly from Silchester. He apprehended how theMissioner felt that he was building Silchester in a Chatsea slum; andfrom that moment that landscape like a mirage of the sunlight, thatlandscape into which he had been unable to fit himself when he firstbeheld it became his own, for now beyond the chimneypots he could alwayssee the bald hills of Berkshire and the trees and towers of Silchester, and at the end of all the meanest alleys there were cattle in themeadows and birds in the air above. 

Silchester was not the only place that Mark visited with Father Rowley. It became a recognized custom for him to travel up to London wheneverthe Missioner was preaching, and in London he was once more struck bythe variety of Father Rowley's worldly knowledge and secular friends. One week-end will serve as a specimen of many. They left Chatsea on aSaturday morning travelling up to town in a third class smoker full ofbluejackets and soldiers on leave. None of them happened to know theMissioner, and for a time they talked surlily in undertones, evidentlyviewing with distaste the prospect of having a Holy Joe in theircompartment all the way to London; but when Father Rowley pulled out hispipe, for always when he was away from St. Agnes' he allowed himself theprivilege of smoking, and began to talk to them about their ships andtheir regiments with unquestionable knowledge, they unbent, so that longbefore Waterloo was reached it must have been the jolliest compartmentin the whole train. It was all done so easily, and yet without any ofthat deliberate descent from a pedestal, which is the democratic mannerof so many parsons; there was none of that Friar Tuck style ofaggressive laymanhood, nor that subtler way of denying Christ (of coursewith the best intentions) which consists of salting the conversationwith a few "damns" and peppering it with a couple of "bloodies" to showthat a parson may be what is called human. Father Rowley was simplyhimself; and a month later two of the bluejackets in that compartmentand one of the soldiers were regular visitors to the Mission House, andwhat is more regular visitors to the Blessed Sacrament. 

They reached London soon after midday and went to lunch at a restaurantin Jermyn Street famous for a Russian salad that Father Rowley sometimesspoke of with affection in Chatsea. After lunch they went to a matinéeof _Pelleas and Mélisande_, the Missioner having been given two stallsby an actor friend. Mark enjoyed the play and was being stirred by theimagination of old, unhappy, far off things until his companion began tolaugh. Several clever women who looked as if they had been draggedthrough a hedge said "Hush!"; even Mark, compassionate of the players'feelings should they hear Father Rowley laugh at the poignant nonsensethey were uttering on the stage, begged him to control himself. 

"But this is most unending rubbish, " he said. "I've never heard anythingso ridiculous in my life. Terrible. "

The curtain fell on the act at this moment, so that Father Rowley wasable to give louder voice to his opinions. 

"This is unspeakable bosh, " he repeated. "I can't understand anything atall that is going on. People run on and run off again and make the mostidiotic remarks. I really don't think I can stand any more of this. "

The clever women rattled their beads and writhed their necks like angrysnakes without effect upon the Missioner. 

"I don't think I can stand any more of this, " he repeated. "I shallhave apoplexy if this goes on. "

The clever women hissed angrily about the kind of people that came totheatres nowadays. 

"This man Maeterlinck must have escaped from an asylum, " Father Rowleywent on. "I never heard such deplorable nonsense in my life. "

"I shall ask an attendant if we can change our seats, " snapped one ofthe clever women in front. "That's the worst of coming to a Saturdayafternoon performance, such extraordinary people come up to town onSaturdays. "

"There you are, " exclaimed Father Rowley loudly, "even that poor womanin front thinks they're extraordinary. "

"She's talking about you, " said Mark, "not about the people in theplay. "

"My good woman, " said Father Rowley, leaning over and tapping her on theshoulder. "You don't think that you really enjoy this rubbish, do you?"

One of her friends who was near the gangway called out to a programmeseller:

"Attendant, attendant, is it possible for my friends and myself to moveinto another row? We are being pestered with a running commentary bythat stout clergyman behind that lady in green. "

"Don't disturb yourselves, you foolish geese, " said Father Rowleyrising. "I'm not going to sit through another act. Come along, Mark, come along, come along. I am not happy. I am not happy, " he cried in anabsurd falsetto. 

Then roaring with laughter at his own imitation of Mélisande, he wentrolling out of the theatre and sniffed contentedly the air of theStrand. 

"I told Lady Pechell we shouldn't arrive till tea-time, so we'd bettergo and ride on the top of a bus as far as the city. "

It was an exhilarating ride, although Mark found that Father Rowleyoccupied much more than half of the seat for two. About five o'clockthey came to the shadowy house in Portman Square in which they were tostay till Monday. The Missioner was as much at home here as he was atSilchester College or in a railway compartment full of bluejackets. Heknew as well how to greet the old butler as Lady Pechell and her sisterMrs. Mannakay, to all of whom equally his visit was an obvious delight. Not even Father Rowley's bulk could dwarf the proportions of that doubledrawing-room or of that heavy Victorian furniture. He took his placeamong the cases of stuffed humming birds and glass-topped tables ofcurios, among the brocade curtains with shaped vallances and goldentassels, among the chandeliers and lacquered cabinets and cages ofavadavats, sitting there like a great Buddha while he chatted to the twoold ladies of a society that seemed to Mark as remote as the people in_Pelleas and Mélisande_. From time to time one of the old ladies wouldtry to draw Mark into the conversation; but he preferred listening andlet them think that his monosyllabic answers signified a shyness thatdid not want to be conspicuous. Soon they appeared to forget hisexistence. Deep in the lap of an armchair covered with a glazed chintzof Sèvres roses and sable he was enthralled by that chronicle ofphantoms, that frieze of ghosts passing before his eyes, while thepresent faded away upon the growing quiet of the London evening andbecame remote as the distant roar of the traffic, which itself wasremote as the sound of the sea in a shell. Fox-hunting squires caracoledby with the air of paladins; and there was never a lady mentioned thatdid not take the fancy like a princess in an old tale. 

"He's universal, " Mark thought. "And that's one of the secrets of beinga great priest. And that's why he can talk about Heaven and make youfeel that he knows what he's talking about. And if I can discern what heis, " Mark went on to himself, "I can be what he is. And I will be, " hevowed in the rapture of a sudden revelation. 

On Sunday morning Father Rowley preached in the fashionable church ofSt. Cyprian's, South Kensington, after which they lunched at thevicarage. The Reverend Drogo Mortemer was a dapper little bachelor (itwould be inappropriate to call such a worldly little fellow a celibate)who considered himself the leader of the most advanced section of theCatholic Party in the Church of England. He certainly had a finger inthe pie of every well-cooked intrigue, knew everybody worth knowing inLondon, and had the private ears of several bishops. No more skilfulplace-finder existed, and any member of the advanced section who wanteda place for himself or for a friend had recourse to Mortemer. 

"But the little man is all right, " Father Rowley had told Mark. "Manypeople would have used his talents to further himself. He has everyqualification for the episcopate except one--he believes in theSacraments. "

Mr. Mortemer was the only son of James Mortimer of the famous firm ofHadley and Mortimer. His father had become rich before he married theyoungest daughter of an ancient but impoverished house, and soon afterhis marriage he died. Mrs. Mortemer brought up her son to forget thathis father had been a tradesman and to remember that he was rich. Inorder to dissociate herself from a partnership which now existed only inname above the plate glass of the enormous shop in Oxford Street Mrs. Mortemer took to spelling her name with an "e, " which as she pointed outwas the original spelling. She had already gratified her romantic fancyby calling her son Drogo. Harrow and Cambridge completed what Mrs. Mortemer began, and if Drogo had not developed what his mother spoke ofas a "mania for religion" there is no reason to suppose that he wouldnot one day have been a cabinet minister. However, as it was, Mrs. Mortemer died cherishing with her last breath a profound conviction thather son would soon be a bishop. That he was not likely to become abishop was due to the fact that with all his worldliness, with all hiswealth, with all his love of wire-pulling, with all his respect for rankhe held definite opinions and was not afraid to belong to a minorityunpopular in high places. He had too a simple piety that made his churcha power in spite of fashionable weddings and exorbitant pew rents. 

"The sort of thing we're trying to do here in a small way, " he said toFather Rowley at lunch, "is what the Jesuits are doing at Farm Street. My two assistant priests are both rather brilliant young people, and I'malways on the look out to get more young men of the right type. "

"You'd better offer Lidderdale a title when he's ready to be ordained. "

"Why, of course I will, " said the dapper little vicar with a courteoussmile for Mark. "Do take some more claret, Father Rowley. It's rather aspecialty of ours here. We have a friend in Bordeaux who buys for us. "

It was typical of Mr. Mortemer to use the plural. 

"There you are, Mark Anthony. I've secured you a title. "

"Mr. Mortemer is only being polite, " said Mark. 

"No, no, my dear boy, on the contrary I meant absolutely what I said. "

He seemed worried by Mark's distrust of his sincerity, and for the restof lunch he laid himself out to entertain his less important guest, talking with a slight excess of charm about the lack of vitality, lossof influence, and oriental barbarism of the Orthodox Church. 

"_Enfin_, Asiatic religion, " he said. "Don't you agree with me, Mr. Lidderdale? And our Philorthodox brethren who would like to bring aboutreunion with such a Church . . . The result would be dreadful . . . Eurasian . . . Yes, I must confess that sometimes I sympathize with thebehaviour of the Venetians in the Fourth Crusade. "

Father Rowley looked at his watch and announced that it was time tostart for Poplar, where he was to address a large gathering ofSocialists in the Town Hall. Mr. Mortemer made a _moue_. 

"Nevertheless I'm bound to admit that you have a strong case. PerhapsI'm like the young man with large possessions, " he burst out with asudden intense gravity. "Perhaps after all the St. Cyprian's religionisn't Christianity at all. Just Catholicism. Nothing else. "

"You'd better come down to Poplar with Mark and me, " Father Rowleysuggested. 

But Mr. Mortemer shook his head with a smile. 

The Poplar meeting was crowded. In an atmosphere of good fellowship onespeaker after another got up and denounced the present order. It wasdifficult to follow the arguments of the speakers, because the audiencecheered so many isolated statements. A number of people shook handswith Father Rowley when he had finished his speech and wished thatthere were more parsons like him. Father Rowley had not indulged inpolitical attacks, but had contented himself with praise of the poor. Hehad spoken movingly, but Mark was not moved by his words. He had a vaguefeeling that Father Rowley was being exploited. He was dazed by theexuberance of the meeting and was glad when it was over and he was backin Portman Square talking to Lady Pechell and Mrs. Mannakay while FatherRowley rested for an hour before he walked round the corner to preach inold Jamaica Chapel, a galleried Georgian conventicle that was now theChurch of the Visitation, but was still generally known as JamaicaChapel. Evensong was half over when the preacher arrived, and the churchbeing full Mark was given a chair by the sidesman in a dark corner, which presently became darker when Father Rowley went up into thepulpit, for all the lights were lowered except those above thepreacher's head, and nothing was visible in the church except theluminous crucifix upon the High Altar. The warmth and darkness broughtout the scent of the many women gathered together; the atmosphere wascharged with human emotion so that Mark sitting in his corner couldfancy that he was lost in the sensuous glooms behind some _MaterAddolorata_ of the seventeenth century. He longed to be back in Chatsea. He was dismayed at the prospect of one day perhaps having to cope withthis quality of devotion. He shuddered at the thought, and for the firsttime he wondered if he had not a vocation for the monastic life. But wasit a vocation if one longed to escape the world? Must not a truevocation be a longing to draw nearer to God? Oh, this nauseating bouquetof feminine perfumes . . . It was impossible to pay attention to thesermon. 

Mark went to bed early with a headache; but in the morning he wokerefreshed with the knowledge that they were going back to Chatsea, although before they reached home the journey had to be broken at HighThorpe whither Father Rowley had been summoned to an interview by theBishop of Silchester on account of refusing to communicate some peopleat the mid-day celebration. Dr. Crawshay was at that time so ill thathe received the Chatsea Missioner in bed, and on hearing that he wasaccompanied by a young man who hoped to take Holy Orders the Bishop sentword for Mark to come up to his bedroom, where he gave him his blessing. Mark never forgot the picture of the Bishop lying there under achequered coverlet looking like an old ivory chessman, a white bishopthat had been taken in the game and put off the board. 

"And now, Mr. Rowley, " Dr. Crawshay began when he had motioned Mark to achair. "To return to the subject under discussion between us. How canyou justify by any rubric of the Book of Common Prayer non-communicatingattendance?"

"I don't justify it by any rubric, " the Missioner replied. 

"Oh, you don't, don't you?"

"I justify it by the needs of human nature, " the Missioner continued. "In order to provide the necessary three communicants for the mid-dayMass. . . . "

"One moment, Mr. Rowley, " the Bishop interrupted. "I beg you mostearnestly to avoid that word. You know my old-fashioned Protestantnotions, " he added, and his eyes so tired with pain twinkled for amoment. "To me there is always something distasteful about that word. "

"What shall I substitute, my lord?" the Missioner asked. "Do you objectto the word 'Eucharist'?"

"No, I don't object to that, though why you should want a Greek namewhen we have a beautiful English name like the Lord's Supper, why youshould want to employ such a barbarism as 'Eucharist' I don't know. However, if you must use Eucharist, use Eucharist. And now, by wanderingoff into a discussion of terminology I forget where we were. Oh yes, youwere on the point of justifying non-communicating attendance by theneeds of human nature. "

"I am afraid, my lord, that in a district like St. Agnes' it isimpossible always to ensure communicants for sometimes as many as fourearly Lord's Suppers said by visiting priests. "

The Bishop's eyes twinkled again. 

"Yes, there you rather have me, Mr. Rowley. Four early Lord's Suppersdoes sound, I must admit, a little odd. "

"Four early Eucharists followed by another for children at half-pastnine, and the parochial sung Mass--sung Eucharist. "

"Children?" Dr. Crawshay repeated. "You surely don't let children go tothe Celebration?"

"_Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for ofsuch is the Kingdom of Heaven_, " Father Rowley reminded the Bishop. 

"Yes, yes, I happen to have heard that text before. But the devil, Mr. Rowley, can cite Scripture to his purpose. "

"In the last letter I wrote to your lordship about the services at St. Agnes' I particularly mentioned our children's Eucharist. "

"Did you, Mr. Rowley, did you? I had quite forgotten that. "

Father Rowley turned to Mark for verification. 

"Oh, if Mr. Rowley remembers that he did write, there is no need to callwitnesses. I have had to complain a good deal of him, but I have neverhad to complain of his frankness. It must be my fault, but I certainlyhadn't understood that there was definitely a children's Eucharist. Thisthen, I fancy, must be the service at which those three ladiescomplained of your treatment of them. "

"What three ladies?" asked the priest. 

"Dear me, I'm growing very unbusinesslike, I'm afraid. I thought I hadenclosed you a copy of their letter to me when I wrote to invite anexplanation of your high-handed action. "

The Bishop sighed. The details of these ecclesiastical squabblesdistracted him at a time when he should soon leave this fretful earthbehind him. He continued wearily:

"These were the three ladies who were refused communion by you at, as Iunderstood, the mid-day Celebration, which now turns out to be what youcall the children's Eucharist. "

"It is perfectly true, my lord, " Father Rowley admitted, "that on Sundayweek three women did present themselves from a neighbouring parish. "

"Ah, they were not parishioners?"

"Certainly not, my lord. "

"Which is a point in your favour. "

"Throughout the service they sat looking through opera-glasses at Snaithwho was officiating, and greatly scandalizing the children, who are notused to such behaviour in church. "

"Such behaviour was certainly most objectionable, " the Bishop agreed. 

"I happened to be sitting at the back of the church, thinking out mysermon, and their behaviour annoyed me so much that I sent for thesacristan to go and order a cab. I then went up and whispered to themthat inasmuch as they were strangers it would be better if they went andmade their Communion in the next parish where the service would be morelenient to their theory of worship. I took one of them by the arm, ledher gently down the aisle and out into the street, and handed her intothe cab. Her two companions followed her; I paid the cabman; and thatwas the end of the matter. "

The Bishop lay back on the pillows and thought for a moment or two insilence. 

"Yes, " he said finally, "I think that in this case you were justified. At the same time your justification by the Book of Common Prayer lay inthe fact that these women did not give you notice beforehand of theirintention to communicate. I think I must insist that in future you makesome arrangement with your workers and helpers to secure the requisiteminimum of communicants for every celebration. Personally, I think sixon a Sunday and four on a week-day far too many. I think the repetitionhas a tendency to cheapen the Sacrament. "

"_By Him therefore let us offer the sacrifice of praise to Godcontinually_, " Father Rowley quoted from the Epistle to the Hebrews. 

"Yes, yes, I know, " said the Bishop. "But I wish you wouldn't drag inthese texts. They really have nothing whatever to do with the point inquestion. Please realize, Mr. Rowley, that I allow you a great deal oflatitude at St. Agnes' because I am aware of what a great influence forgood you have been among these poor people. "

"Your lordship has always been consideration itself. "

"If that be your opinion, I want you to obey my ruling in this smallmatter. I am continually being involved in correspondence on youraccount with Vigilance Societies of the type of the Protestant Alliance, and I shall give myself the pleasure of answering their complaintswithout at the same time not, as I hope, impeding your splendid work. Iwish also, if God allows me to leave this bed again, to take the nextConfirmation in St. Agnes' myself. My presence there will afford you ameasure of official support which will not, I venture to believe, be adisadvantage to your work. I do not expect you to modify your method ofconducting the service too much. That would savour of hypocrisy, both onyour side and on mine. But there are one or two things which I shouldprefer not to see again. Last time you dressed a number of yourchoir-boys in red cassocks. "

"The servers, you mean, my lord?"

"Whatever you call them, they wear red cassocks, red slippers, and redskull caps. That I really cannot stand. You must put them into blackcassocks and leave their caps and slippers in the vestry cupboard. Further, I do not wish that most conspicuous processional crucifix to becarried about in front of me wherever I go. "

"Would you like the crucifix to be taken down from the altar as well?"Father Rowley asked. 

"No, that can stay: I shan't see that one. "

"What date will suit your lordship for the Confirmation?"

"Ought not the question to have been rather what date will suit you, forI have never yet been fortunate enough, and I never hope to be fortunateenough, to fix upon a date straight off that will suit you, Mr. Rowley. Let me know that later. In any case, my presence must depend, alas, uponthe state of my health. Now, how are you getting on with your newchurch?"

"We shall be ready to open it in the spring of next year if all goeswell. Do you think that a new licence will be required? The new St. Agnes' is joined to the present church by the sacristy. "

The Bishop considered the question for a moment. 

"No, I think that the old licence will serve. There is no prospect yetof making St. Agnes' into a parish, and I would rather take advantage ofthe technicality, all things being considered. Good-bye, Mr. Rowley. Godbless you. "

The Bishop raised his thin arm. 

"God bless your lordship. "

"You are always in my prayers, Mr. Rowley. I think much about you lyinghere on the threshold of Eternal Life. "

The Bishop turned to Mark who knelt beside the bed. 

"Young man, I would fain be spared long enough to ordain you to theservice of Almighty God, but you are still young and I am very near todeath. You could not have before you a better example of a Christiangentleman than your friend and my friend Mr. Rowley. I shall say nothingabout his example as a clergyman of the Church of England. Remember me, both of you, in your prayers. "

The Bishop sank back exhausted, and his visitors went quietly out of theroom. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE ALTAR FOR THE DEAD

All went as well with the new St. Agnes' as the Bishop had hoped. Columns of red brick were covered in marble and alabaster by the votiveofferings of individuals or the subscriptions of different SilchesterHouses; the baldacchino was given by one rich old lady, the pavement ofthe church by another; the Duke of Birmingham contributed a thurible;Oxford Old Siltonians decorated the Lady Chapel; Cambridge OldSiltonians found the gold mosaic for the dome of the apse. Father Rowleybegged money for the fabric far and wide, and the architect, thecontractors, and the workmen, all Chatsea men, gave of their best andasked as little as possible in return. The new church was to be openedon Easter morning. But early in Lent the Bishop of Silchester died inthe bed from which he had never risen since the day Father Rowley andMark received his blessing. The diocese mourned him, for he was a gentlescholar, wise in his knowledge of men, simple and pious in his own life. 

Dr. Harvard Cheesman, the new Bishop, was translated from the see ofIpswich to which he had been preferred from the Chapel Royal in theSavoy. Bishop Cheesman possessed all the episcopal qualities. He had thehands of a physician and the brow of a scholar. He was filled with asense of the importance of his position, and in that perhaps wasincluded n sense of the importance of himself. He was eloquent inpublic, grandiloquent in private. To him Father Rowley wrote shortlyafter his enthronement. 

 St. Agnes' House, Keppel Street, Chatsea. 

 March 24. 

 My Lord Bishop, I am unwilling to trouble you at a moment when you must be unusually busy; but I shall be glad to hear from you about the opening of the new church of the Silchester College Mission, which was fixed for Easter Sunday. Your predecessor, Bishop Crawshay, did not think that any new licence would be necessary, because the new St. Agnes' is joined by the sacristy to the old mission church. There is no idea at present of asking you to constitute St. Agnes' a parish and therefore the question of consecration does not arise. I regret to say that Bishop Crawshay thoroughly disapproved of our services and ritual, and I think he may have felt unwilling to commit himself to endorsing them by the formal grant of a new licence. May I hear from you at your convenience, and may I respectfully add that your lordship has the prayers of all my people?

 I am your lordship's obedient servant, John Rowley. 

To which the Lord Bishop of Silchester replied as follows:

 High Thorpe Castle. 

 March 26. 

 Dear Mr. Rowley, As my predecessor Bishop Crawshay did not think a new licence would be necessary I have no doubt that you can go ahead with your plan of opening the new St. Agnes' on Easter Sunday. At the same time I cannot help feeling that a new licence would be desirable and I am asking Canon Whymper as Rural Dean to pay a visit and make the necessary report. I have heard much of your work, and I pray that it may be as blessed in my time as it was in the time of my predecessor. I am grateful to your people for their prayers and I am, my dear Mr. Rowley, Yours very truly, Harvard Silton. 

Canon Whymper, the Rector of Chatsea and Rural Dean, visited the newchurch on the Monday of Passion week. On Saturday Father Rowley receivedthe following letter from the Bishop:

 High Thorpe Castle. 

 April 9. 

 Dear Mr. Rowley, I have just received Canon Whymper's report upon the new church of the Silchester College Mission, and I think before you open the church on Easter Sunday I should like to talk over one or two comparatively unimportant details with you personally. Moreover, it would give me pleasure to make your acquaintance and hear something of your method of work at St. Agnes'. Perhaps you will come to High Thorpe on Monday. There is a train which arrives at High Thorpe at 2. 36. So I shall expect you at the Castle at 2. 42. 

 Yours very truly, Harvard Silton. 

Mark paid his second visit to High Thorpe Castle on one of those sereneApril mornings that sail like swans across the lake of time. Theepiscopal standard on the highest turret hung limp; the castle quiveredin the sunlight; the lawns wearing their richest green seemed as farfrom being walked upon as the blue sky above them. Whether it was thatMark was nervous about the result of the coming interview or whether itwas that his first visit to High Thorpe had been the climax of so manynew experiences, he was certainly much more sharply aware on thisoccasion of what the Castle stood for. Looking back to the morning whenhe and Father Rowley sat with Bishop Crawshay in his bedroom, herealized how much the personality of the dead bishop had dominated hissurroundings and how little all this dignity and splendour, which musthave been as imposing then as it was now, had impressed his imagination. There came over Mark, when he and Father Rowley were walking silentlyalong the drive, such a foreboding of the result of this visit that healmost asked the priest why they bothered to continue their journey, whythey did not turn round immediately and take the next train back toChatsea. But before he had time to say anything Father Rowley had pulledthe chain of the door bell, the butler had opened the door, and theywere waiting the Bishop's pleasure in a room that smelt of the bestleather and the best furniture polish. It was a room that so long as Dr. Cheesman held the see of Silchester would be given over to thepreliminary nervousness of the diocesan clergy, who would one afteranother look at that steel engraving of Jesus Christ preaching by theSea of Galilee, and who when they had finished looking at that wouldlook at those two oil paintings of still life, those rich and sombreaccumulations of fish, fruit and game, that glowed upon the walls with akind of sinister luxury. Waiting rooms are all much alike, the doctor's, the dentist's, the bishop's, the railway-station's; they may differslightly in externals, but they all possess the same atmosphere oftransitory discomfort. They have all occupied human beings with theperusal of books they would never otherwise have dreamed of opening, with the observation of pictures they would never otherwise have thoughtof regarding twice. 

"Would you step this way, " the butler requested. "His lordship iswaiting for you in the library. "

The two culprits, for by this time Mark was oblivious of every otheremotion except one of profound guilt, guilt of what he could not say, but most unmistakably guilt, walked along toward the Bishop'slibrary--Father Rowley like a fat and naughty child who knows he isgoing to be reproved for eating too many tarts. 

There was a studied poise in the attitude of the Bishop when theyentered. One shapely leg trailed negligently behind his chair ready atany moment to serve as the pivot upon which its owner could swing roundagain into the every-day world; the other leg firmly wedged against thedesk supported the burden of his concentration. The Bishop swung roundon the shapely leg in attendance, and in a single sweeping gestureblotted the last page of the letter he had been writing and shook FatherRowley by the hand. 

"I am delighted to have an opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Rowley, " hebegan, and then paused a moment with an inquiring look at Mark. 

"I thought you wouldn't mind, my lord, if I brought with me youngLidderdale, who is reading for Holy Orders and working with us at St. Agnes'. I am apt to forget sometimes exactly to what I have and have notcommitted myself and I thought your lordship would not object. . . . "

"To a witness?" interposed the Bishop in a tone of courtly banter. "Come, come, Mr. Rowley, had I known you were going to be so suspiciousof me I should have asked my domestic chaplain to be present on myside. "

Mark, supposing that the Bishop was annoyed by his presence at theinterview, made a movement to retire, whereupon the Bishop tapped himpaternally upon the shoulder and said:

"Nonsense, non-sense, I was merely indulging in a mild pleasantry. Sitdown, Mr. Rowley. Mr. Lidderdale I think you will find that chair quitecomfortable. Well, Mr. Rowley, " he began, "I have heard much of you andyour work. Our friend Canon Whymper spoke of it with enthusiasm. Yes, yes, with enthusiasm. I often regret that in the course of my ministry Ihave never had the good fortune to be called to work among the poor, thereal poor. You have been privileged, Mr. Rowley, if I may be allowed tosay so, greatly, immensely privileged. You find a wilderness, and youmake of it a garden. Wonderful. Wonderful. "

Mark began to feel uncomfortable, and he thought by the way FatherRowley was puffing his cheeks that he too was beginning to feeluncomfortable. The Missioner looked as if he was blowing away the latherof the soap that the Bishop was using upon him so prodigally. 

"Some other time, Mr. Rowley, when I have a little leisure. . . . Iperceive the need of making myself acquainted with every side of my newdiocese--a little leisure, yes . . . Sometime I should like to have along talk with you about all the details of your work at Chatsea, ofwhich as I said Canon Whymper has spoken to me most enthusiastically. The question, however, immediately before us this morning is the licenceof your new church. Since writing to you first I have thought the matterover most earnestly. I have given the matter the gravest consideration. I have consulted Canon Whymper and I have come to the conclusion thatbearing all the circumstances in mind it will be wiser for you to apply, and I hope be granted, a new licence. With this decision in my mind Iasked Canon Whymper in his capacity as Rural Dean to report upon the newchurch. Mr. Rowley, his report is extremely favourable. He writes to meof the noble fabric, noble is the actual epithet he employs, yes, thevery phrase. He expresses his conviction that you are to becongratulated, most warmly congratulated, Mr. Rowley, upon your vigorouswork. I believe I am right in saying that all the money necessary toerect this noble edifice has been raised by yourself?"

"Not all of it, " said Father Rowley. "I still owe £3, 000. "

"A mere trifle, " said the Bishop, dismissing the sum with the airygesture of a conjurer who palms a coin. "A mere trifle compared withwhat you have already raised. I know that at the moment there is noquestion of constituting as a parish what is at present merely adistrict; but such a contingency must be borne in mind by both of us, and inasmuch as that would imply consecration by myself I am unwillingto prejudice any decision I might have to take later, should thenecessity for consecration arise, by allowing you at the moment a widerlatitude than I might be prepared to allow you in the future. Yes, CanonWhymper writes most enthusiastically of the noble fabric. " The Bishoppaused, drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair as if he weretesting the pitch of his instrument, and then taking a deep breathboomed forth: "But Mr. Rowley, in his report he informs me that in themiddle of the south aisle exists an altar or Holy Table expressly andexclusively designed for what he was told are known as masses for thedead. "

"That is perfectly true, " said Father Rowley. 

"Ah, " said the Bishop, shaking his head gravely. "I did not indeedimagine that Canon Whymper would be misinformed about such an importantfeature; but I did not think it right to act without ascertaining firstfrom you that such is indeed the case. Mr. Rowley, it would be difficultfor me to express how grievously it pains me to have to seem tointerfere in the slightest degree with the successful prosecution ofyour work among the poor of Chatsea, especially to make suchinterference one of the first of my actions in a new diocese; but theresponsibilities of a bishop are grave. He cannot lightly endorse acondition of affairs, a method of services which in his inmost heartafter the deepest confederation he feels is repugnant to the spirit ofthe Church Of England. . . . "

"I question that opinion, my lord, " said the Missioner. 

"Mr. Rowley, pray allow me to finish. We have little time at ourdisposal for a theological argument which would in any case befruitless, for as I told you I have already examined the question withthe deepest consideration from every standpoint. Though I may respectyour opinions in my private capacity, for I do not wish to impugn forone moment the sincerity of your beliefs, in my episcopal, or what I maycall my public character, I can only condemn them utterly. Utterly, Mr. Rowley, and completely. "

"But this altar, my lord, " shouted Father Rowley, springing to his feet, to the alarm of Mark, who thought he was going to shake his fist in theBishop's face, "this altar was subscribed for by the poor of St. Agnes', by all the poor of St. Agnes', as a memorial of the lives of sailors andmarines of St. Agnes' lost in the sinking of the _King Harry_. Yourpredecessor, Bishop Crawshay, knew of its existence, actually saw it andcommented on its ugliness; yet when I told him the circumstances inwhich it had been erected he was deeply moved by the beautiful idea. This altar has been in use for nearly three years. Masses for the deadhave been said there time after time. This altar is surrounded bymemorials of my dead people. It is one of the most vital factors in mywork there. You ask me to remove it, before you have been in the diocesea month, before you have had time to see with your own eyes what aninfluence for good it has on the daily lives of the poor people whobuilt it. My lord, I will not remove the altar. "

While Father Rowley was speaking the Bishop of Silchester had beenlooking like a man on a railway platform who has been ambushed by awhistling engine. 

"Mr. Rowley, Mr. Rowley, " he said, "I pray you to control yourself. Ibeg you to understand that this is not a mere question of red tape, if Imay use the expression, of one extra altar or Holy Table, but it is aquestion of the services said at that altar or Holy Table. "

"That is precisely what I am trying to point out to your lordship, "said Father Rowley angrily. 

"You yourself told me when you wrote to me that Bishop Crawshaydisapproved of much that was done at St. Agnes'. It was you who put itinto my head at the beginning of our correspondence that you were notasking me formally to open the new church, because you were doubtful ofthe effect your method of worship might have upon me. I don't wish for amoment to suggest that you were trying to bundle on one side thequestion of the licence, before I had had a moment to look round me inmy new diocese, I say I do _not_ think this for a moment; but inasmuchas the question has come before me officially, as sooner or later itmust have come before me officially, I cannot allow my future action tobe prejudiced by giving you liberties now that I may not be prepared toallow you later on. Suppose that in three years' time the question ofconsecrating the new St. Agnes' arises and the legality of this thirdaltar or Holy Table is questioned, how should I be able to turn roundand forbid then what I have not forbidden now?"

"Your lordship prefers to force me to resign?"

"Force you to resign, Mr. Rowley?" the Bishop repeated in aggrievedaccents. "What can I possibly have said that could lead you to supposefor one moment that I was desirous of forcing you to resign? I makeallowance for your natural disappointment. I make every allowance. Otherwise Mr. Rowley I should be tempted to characterize such astatement as cruel. As cruel, Mr. Rowley. "

"What other alternative have I?"

"I should have said, Mr. Rowley, that you have one other very obviousalternative, and that is to accept my ruling upon the subject of thisthird altar or Holy Table. When I shall receive an assurance that youwill do so, I shall with pleasure, with great pleasure, give you a newlicence. "

"I could not possibly do that, " said the Missioner. "I could notpossibly go back to my people to-night and tell them this Holy Week thatwhat I have been teaching them for ten years is a lie. I would ratherresign a thousand times. "

"That is a far more accurate statement than your previous assertionthat I was forcing you to resign. "

"When will you have found a priest to take my place temporarily?" theMissioner asked in a chill voice. "It is unlikely that the SilchesterCollege authorities will find another missioner at once, and I think itrests with your lordship to find a locum tenens. I do not wish todisappoint my people about the date of the opening of their new church. They have been looking forward to this Easter for so long now. Poordears!"

Father Rowley sighed out the last ejaculation to himself, and his sighran through the Bishop's opulent library like a dull wind. Mark had amad impulse to tell the Bishop the story of his father and the LimaStreet Mission. His father had resigned on Palm Sunday. Oh, this ghastlydream. . . . Father Rowley leave Chatsea! It was unimaginable. . . . 

But the Bishop was overthrowing the work of ten years with apparently aslittle consciousness of the ruin he was creating as a boar that hasrooted up an ant-heap with his snout. 

"Quite so. Quite so, Mr. Rowley. I certainly see your point, " the Bishopdeclared. "I will do my best to secure a priest, but meanwhile . . . Letme see. I need scarcely say how painful your decision has been, whatpain it has caused me. Let me see, yes, in the circumstances I agreewith you that it would be inadvisable to postpone the opening. I thinkfrom every point of view it would be wisest to proceed according toschedule. Could not this altar or Holy Table be railed off temporarily, I do not say muffled up, but could not some indication be given of thefact that I do not sanction its use? In that case I should have noobjection, indeed on the contrary I should be only too happy for you tocarry on with your work either until I can find a temporary substituteor until the Silchester College authorities can appoint a new missioner. Dear me, this is dreadfully painful for me. "

Father Rowley stared at the Bishop in astonishment. 

"You want me to continue?" he asked. "Really, my lord, you will excusemy plain speaking if I tell you that I am amazed at your point of view. A moment ago you told me that I must either remove this altar orresign. "

"Pardon me, Mr. Rowley. I did not mention the word 'resign. '"

"And now, " the Missioner went on without paying any attention to theinterruption. "You are ready to let me stay at St. Agnes' until asuccessor can conveniently be found. If my teaching is as pernicious asyou think, I cannot understand your lordship's tolerating my officiatingfor another hour in your diocese. "

"Mr. Rowley, you are introducing into this unhappy affair a great dealof extraneous feeling. I do not reproach you. I know that you arelabouring under the stress of strong emotion. I overlook the mannerwhich you have adopted towards me. I overlook it, Mr. Rowley. Before weclose this interview, which I must once more assure you is as painfulfor me as for you, I want you to understand how deeply I regret havingbeen forced to take the action I have. I ask your prayers, Mr. Rowley, and please be sure that you always have and always will have my prayers. Have you anything more you would like to say? Do not let me give you theimpression from my alluding to the heavy work of entering upon theduties and responsibilities of a new diocese that I desire to hurry youin any way this afternoon. You will want to catch the 4. 10 back toChatsea I have no doubt. Too early perhaps for tea. Good-bye, Mr. Rowley. Good-bye, Mr. . . . " the Bishop paused and looked inquiringly atMark. "Lidderdale, ah, yes, " he said. "For the moment I forgot. Good-bye, Mr. Lidderdale. A simple railing will, I think be sufficientfor the altar in question, Mr. Rowley. I perfectly appreciate yourmotive in asking the Bishop of Barbadoes to officiate at the opening. Iquite see that you did not wish to commit me to an approval of a ritualwhich might be more advanced than I might consider proper in my diocese. . . . Good-bye, good-bye. "

Father Rowley and Mark found themselves once more in the drive. Theepiscopal standard floated in the wind, which had sprung up while theywere with the Bishop. They walked silently to the railway station undera fast clouding sky. 

CHAPTER XX

FATHER ROWLEY

The first episcopal act of the Bishop of Silchester drove many poorsouls away from God. It was a time of deep emotional stress for all theSt. Agnes' workers, and Father Rowley could not show himself in KeppelStreet without being surrounded by a crowd of supplicants who with tearsand lamentations begged him to give up the new St. Agnes' and to remainin the old mission church rather than be lost to them for ever. Therewere some who even wished him to surrender the Third Altar; but in hislast sermon preached on the Sunday night before he left Chatsea, hespoke to them and said:

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. The 15th verse of the 21st Chapter of the Holy Gospel according to SaintJohn: _Feed my lambs. _

"It is difficult for me, dear people, to preach to you this evening forthe last time as your missioner, to preach, moreover, the last sermonthat will ever be preached in this little mission church which has meantso much to you and so much to me. By the mercy of God man does notrealize at the moment all that is implied by an occasion like this. Hespeaks with his mouth words of farewell; but his heart still beats towhat was and what is, rather than to what will be. 

"When I took as my text to-night those three words of Our Lord to St. Peter, _Feed my Lambs_, I took them as words that might be applied, first to the Lord Bishop of this diocese, secondly to the priest whowill take my place in this Mission, and thirdly and perhaps mostpoignantly of all to myself. I cannot bring myself to suppose that inthis moment of grief, in this moment of bitterness, almost of despair Iam able to speak fairly of the Bishop of Silchester's action incompelling me to resign what has counted for all that is most preciousin my life on earth. And already, in saying that the Bishop hascompelled me to resign, I am not speaking with perfect accuracy, inasmuch as if I had been willing to surrender what I considered one ofthe essential articles of our belief, the Bishop would have been glad tolicence the new St. Agnes' and to give his countenance and his supportto me, the unworthy priest in charge of it. 

"I want you therefore, dear people, to try to look at the matter fromthe standpoint of the Bishop. I want you to try to understand that inobjecting to our little altar for the dead he is objecting not so muchto the altar itself as to the services said at that altar. If it hadmerely been a question between us of a third altar, whether here or inthe new St. Agnes', I should have found it possible, howeverunwillingly, to ask you--you, who out of your hard-earned savings builtthat altar--to allow it to be removed. Yes, I should have been selfishenough to ask you to make that great sacrifice on my account. But whenthe Bishop insisted that I and the priests who have borne with me andworked with me and preached with me and prayed with me all these yearsshould abstain from saying those Masses which we believe and which youbelieve help our dear ones waiting for the Day of Judgment--why, then, Ifelt that my surrender would have been a denial of our dear Lord, such adenial as St. Peter himself uttered in the hall of the high-priest'shouse. But the Bishop does not believe that our prayers here below haveany efficacy or can in any way help the blessed dead. He does notbelieve in such prayers, and he believes that those who do believe insuch prayers are wrong, not merely according to the teaching of thePrayer Book, but also according to the revelation of Almighty God. I donot want you to say, as you will be tempted to say, that the Bishop ofSilchester in condemning our method of services at St. Agnes' iscondemning them with an eye to public opinion or to political advantage. Alas, I have myself been tempted to say bitter words about him, to thinkbitter thoughts; but at this moment, with that last _Nunc Dimittis_ringing in my ears, _Lord now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace_, I realize that the Bishop is acting honestly and sincerely, howevermuch he may be acting wrongly and hastily. It is dreadful for me at thismoment of parting to feel that some of you here to-night may be turnedfrom the face of God because you are angered against one of God'sministers. If any poor words of mine have power to touch your hearts, Ibeg you to believe that in giving us this great trial of our faith Godis acting with that mysterious justice and omniscience of which we speakidly without in the least apprehending what He means. I shall say nomore in defence and explanation of the Bishop's action, and if he shouldconsider my defence and explanation of it a piece of presumption I sendhim at this solemn moment of farewell a message that I shall never ceaseto pray that he may long guide you on the way that leads up to eternalhappiness. 

"I can speak more freely of what your attitude should be towards FatherHungerford, the priest who is coming to take my place and who is goingwith God's help to do far more for you here than ever I have been ableto do. I want you all to put yourselves in his place; I want you all tothink of him to-night wondering, fearing, doubting, hoping, and praying. I want you to imagine how difficult he must be feeling the situation isfor him. He will come here to-morrow conscious that there is nobody inthis district of ours who does not feel, whether he be a communicant ornot, that the Bishop had no right to intervene so soon and withoutgreater knowledge of his new diocese in a district like ours. I cannothelp knowing how much I myself am to blame in this particular; but, mydear people, it has been very hard for me during these last two weeksalways to be brave and hopeful. Often I have found those entreaties onmy doorstep almost more than I could endure to hear, those letters on mydesk almost more than I could bear to read. So, if you want to do theone thing that can comfort me in this bitter hour of mine I entreat youto show Father Hungerford that your faith and your hope and your love donot depend on your affection for an unworthy priest, but upon thatdeeper, greater, nobler affection for the word of God. There is only oneway in which you can show Father Hungerford that Jesus Christ lives inyour hearts, and that is by going to Confession and to Communion and byhearing Mass as you have done all this time. Show him by your behaviourin the street, by your kindness and consideration at home, by yourdevotion and reverence in church, that you appreciate the mercies ofGod, that you appreciate what it means to have Jesus Christ upon youraltar, that you are, in a word, Christians. 

"And now at last I must think of those words of our dear Lord as theyapply to myself: _Feed my lambs. _ And as I repeat them, I ask myselfagain if I have done right, for I am troubled in spirit, and I wonder ifI ought to have given up that third altar and to have remained here. Buteven as I wonder this, even as at this moment I stand in this pulpit forthe last time, a voice within me forbids me to doubt. No, my clear folk, I cannot surrender that altar. I cannot come to you and say that what Ihave been teaching for ten years was of so little value, of so littleimportance, of so little worth, that for the sake of policy it can beabandoned with a stroke of the pen or a nod of the head. I stand herelooking out into the future, hearing like angelic trumpets those threewords sounding and resounding upon the great void of time: _Feed mylambs!_ I ask myself what work lies before me, what lambs I shall haveto feed elsewhere; I ask myself in my misery whether God has found meunworthy of the trust He gave me. I feel that if I leave St. Agnes'to-morrow with the thought that you still cherish angry and resentfulfeelings I shall sink to a lower depth of humiliation and depressionthan I have yet reached. But if I can leave St. Agnes' with theassurance that my work here will go steadily forward to the glory of Godfrom the point at which I renounced it, I shall know that God must havesome other purpose for the remainder of my life, some other mission towhich He intends to call me. To you, my dear people, to you who haveborne with me patiently, to you who have tolerated so sweetly myinfirmities, to you who have been kind to my failings, to you who havetaught me so much more of our dear Lord Jesus Christ than I have beenable to teach you, to you I say good-bye. I cannot harrow your feelingsor my own by saying any more. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. "

Notwithstanding these words, the first episcopal act of the Bishop ofSilchester drove many poor souls away from God. 

The effect upon Mark, had his religion been merely a pastime ofadolescence, would have been disastrous. Owing to human nature's respectfor the conspicuous there is nothing so demoralizing to faith as thefailure of a leader of religion to set forth in his own actions the wordof God. Mark, however, looked at the whole business more from anecclesiastical angle. He had reason to condemn the Bishop forunchristian behaviour; but he preferred to condemn him for uncatholicbehaviour. Dr. Cheesman and the many other Dr. Cheesmans of whom theAnglican episcopate was at this period composed never succeeded inshaking his belief in Christ; they did succeed in shaking for a shorttime his belief in the Church of England. There are few Anglo-Catholics, whether priests or laymen, who have never doubted the right of theirChurch to proclaim herself a branch of the Holy Catholic Church. Thisphase of doubt is indeed so common that in ecclesiastical circles it hascome to be regarded as a kind of mental chicken-pox, not very alarmingif it catches the patient when young, but growing more dangerous inproportion to the lateness of its attack. Mark had his attack young. When Father Rowley left Chatsea, he was anxious to accompany him on whathe knew would be an exhausting time of travelling round to preach andcollect the necessary money to pay off what was actually a personaldebt. It seemed that there must be something fundamentally wrong with aChurch that allowed a man to perambulate England in an endeavour to payoff the debt upon a building from ministrating in which he had beendebarred. This debt, moreover, was presumably going to be paid by peoplewho fully subscribed to teaching which had been officially condemned. 

When Mark commented on this, Father Rowley pointed out that as a matterof fact a great deal of money had been sent by people who admired thepractical side, or what they would have called the practical side of hiswork among the poor, but who at the same time thoroughly disapproved ofits ecclesiastical form. 

"In justice to the poor old Church of England, " he said to Mark, "itmust be pointed out that a good deal of this money has been given bydevout Anglicans under protest. "

"Yes, but that doesn't seriously affect the argument, " said Mark. "Youcollect I don't know how many thousands of pounds to put up amagnificent church from which the Bishop of Silchester sees fit to turnyou out, but for the debt on which you are still personally responsible. It's fantastic!"

"Mark Anthony, " the priest said with a laugh, "you lack the legal mind. The Bishop did not turn me out. The Bishop can perfectly well say Iturned myself out. "

"It is all too subtle for me, " said Mark. "But I'm not going to worryyou with any more arguments. You've had enough of them to last you forever. I do wish you'd let me stick to you personally and help you in anyway possible. "

"No, Mark Anthony, " the priest replied. "I've done my work at St. Agnes', and you've done yours. Your business now is to take advantage ofwhat has happened and to get back to your books, which whatever you maysay have been more and more neglected lately. You'll find it of enormoushelp to be a good theologian. I have never ceased to regret my ownshortcomings in that respect. Besides, I think you ought to spend acertain amount of time with Ogilvie before you go to Glastonbury. Thereis quite a lot of work to do if you look for it in a country parishlike--what's the name of the place? Wych. Oh, yes, quite a lot of work. Don't bother your head about Anglican Orders and Roman Claims and theCatholicity of the Church of England. Your business is to save souls, your own included. Go back and read and get to know the people inOgilvie's parish. Anybody can tackle a district like St. Agnes'; anybodythat is who has the suitable personality. How many people can tackle anEnglish country parish? I hardly know one. I should like to have youwith me. I'm fond of you, and you're useful; but at your age to travelround from town to town listening to my begging would be all wrong. Imight even go to America. I've had most cordial invitations from severalAmerican bishops, and if I can't raise the money in England I shallhave to go there. If God has any more work for me to do I shall beoffered a cure some day somewhere. I want you to be one of my assistantpriests, and if you're going to be useful to me as an assistant priest, you really must have some theology behind you. These bishops get moreand more difficult to deal with every year. Now, it's no good arguing. My mind's made up. I won't take you with me. "

So Mark went back to Wych-on-the-Wold and brooded upon the non-Catholicaspects of the Anglican Church. 

CHAPTER XXI

POINTS OF VIEW

Mark did not find that his guardian was much disturbed by his doubts ofthe validity of Anglican Orders nor much alarmed by his suspicion thatthe Establishment had no right to be considered a branch of the HolyCatholic Church. 

"The crucial point in the Roman position is their doctrine ofintention, " said Mr. Ogilvie. "It always seems to me that this doctrineis a particularly dangerous one for them to play with and one that mayrecoil at any moment upon their own heads. There has been a great dealof super-subtle dividing of intentions into actual, virtual, habitual, and interpretative; but if you are going to take your stand on logic youmust be ready to face a logical conclusion. Let us agree for a momentthat Barlow and the other bishops who consecrated Matthew Parker had nointention of consecrating him as a bishop for the purpose of ordainingpriests in the sense in which Catholics understand the word priest. Dothe Romans expect us to believe that all their prelates in the time ofthe Renaissance had a perfect intention when they were consecrating? Orleave on one side for a moment the sacrament of Orders; the validity ofother sacraments is affected by their extension of the doctrine beyondthe interpretation of St. Thomas Aquinas. However improbable it may bethat at one moment all the priests of the Catholic Church should lackthe intention let us say of absolution, it _is_ a _logical_ possibility, in which case all the faithful would logically speaking be damned. Itwas in order to guard against this kind of logical catastrophe that thefirst split between an actual intention and a virtual intention wasmade. The Roman Church teaches that the virtual intention is enough; butif we argue that a virtual intention might be ascribed to the bishopswho consecrated Parker, the Roman controversialists present us withanother subdivision--the habitual intention, which is one that formerlyexisted, but of the present continuance of which there is no trace. Nowreally, my dear Mark, you must admit that we've reached a point verynear to nonsense if this kind of logical subtlety is to control Faith. "

"As a matter of fact, " said Mark, "I don't think I should ever want to'vert over the question of the validity of Anglican Orders. I haven'tany doubts now of their validity, and I think it's improbable that Ishall have any doubts after I'm ordained. At the same time, there _is_something wrong with the Church of England if a situation like that inChatsea can be created by the whim of a bishop. Our unhappy unionbetween Church and State has created a class of bishops which has noparallel anywhere else in Christendom. In order to become a bishop inEngland, at any rate of the kind that has a seat in the House of Lords, it is necessary to be a gentleman, or rather to have the outward andvisible signs of being a gentleman, to be a scholar, or to be adiplomat. Of course, there will be exceptions; but if you look at almostall our bishops, you will find they have reached their dignity by socialattainments or by political utility or sometimes by intellectualdistinction, but hardly ever by religious fervour, or spiritual honesty, or fearless opinion. I can sympathize with the dissenters of theseventeenth century in blaming the episcopate for all spiritualmaladies. I expect there were a good many Dr. Cheesmans in the days ofDefoe. Look back and see how the bishops have always voted in the Houseof Lords with enthusiastic unanimity against every proposal of reformthat was ever put forward. I wonder what will happen when they arecalled upon to face a real national crisis. "

"I'm perfectly ready to agree with everything you say about bishops, "the Rector volunteered. "But more or less, I'm sorry to add, it is acriticism that can be applied to all the orders of the priesthoodeverywhere in Christendom. What can we, what dare we say in favour ofpriests when we remember Our Lord?"

"When a man does try to follow the Gospel a little more closely thanthe rest, " Mark raged, "the bishops down him. They exist to maintain thesafety of their class. They have reached their present position byknowing the right people, by condemning the wrong people, and bybalancing their fat bottoms on fences. Sometimes when their politicalpatrons quarrel over a pair of mediocrities, a saintly man who is eithervery old or very ill like Bishop Crawshay is appointed as a stop-gap. "

"Yes, " the Rector agreed. "But our present bishops are only one moreaspect of Victorian materialism. The whole of contemporary society canbe criticized in the same way. After all, we get the bishops we deserve, just as we get the politicians we deserve and the generals we deserveand the painters we deserve. "

"I don't think that's any excuse for the bishops. I sometimes dream ofworming myself up and stopping at nothing in order to be made a bishop, and then when I have the mitre at last of appearing in my true colours. "

"Our Protestant brethren think that is what many of our right reverendfathers in God do now, " the Rector laughed. 

These discussions might have continued for ever without taking Mark anyfurther. His failure to experience Oxford had deprived him of theopportunity to whet his opinions upon the grindstone of debate, andthere had been no time for academic argument in the three years ofKeppel Street. In Wych-on-the-Wold there never seemed much else to dobut argue. It was one of the effects of leaving, or rather of seeingdestroyed, a society that was obviously performing useful work andreturning to a society that, so far as Mark could observe performed nokind of work whatever. He was loath to criticize the Rector; but he feltthat he was moving along in a rut that might at any moment deepen to achasm in which he would be spiritually lost. He seemed to be taking hispriestly responsibilities too lightly, to be content with gratifying hisown desire to worship Almighty God without troubling about hisparishioners. Mark did not like to make any suggestions about parochialwork, because he was afraid of the Rector's retorting with an impliedcriticism of St. Agnes'; and that would have involved him in a bitterargument for which he would afterward be sorry. Nor was it only in hismissionary duties that he felt his old friend was allowing himself torust. Three years ago the Rector had said a daily Mass. Now he wascontent with one on Thursdays except on festivals. Mark began to takewalks far afield, which was a sign of irritation with the inaction ofthe life round him rather than the expression of an interest in the lifebeyond. On one of these walks he found himself at Wield in the dioceseof Kidderminster thirty miles or more away from home. He had spent thenight in a remote Cotswold village, and all the morning he had beentravelling through the level vale of Wield which, beautiful at the timeof blossom, was now at midsummer a landscape without line, monotonouslygreen, prosperous and complacent. While he was eating his bread andcheese at the public bar of the principal inn, he picked up one of thelocal newspapers and reading it, as one so often reads in suchsurroundings, with much greater particularity than the journal of ametropolis, he came upon the following letter:

 To the Editor of the WIELD OBSERVER AND SOUTH WORCESTERSHIRE COURANT, SIR, --The leader in your issue of last Tuesday upon my sermon in St. Andrew's Church on the preceding Sunday calls for some corrections. The action of the Bishop of Kidderminster in inhibiting Father Rowley from accepting an invitation to preach in my church is due either to his ignorance of the facts of the case, to his stupidity in appreciating them, or, I must regretfully add, to his natural bias towards persecution. These are strong words for a parish priest to use about his diocesan; but the Bishop of Kidderminster's consistent support of latitudinarianism and his consistent hostility towards any of his clergy who practise the forms of worship which they feel they are bound to practise by the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer call for strong words. The Bishop in correspondence with me declined to give any reason for his inhibition of Father Rowley beyond a general disapproval of his teaching. I am informed privately that the Bishop is suffering from a delusion that Father Rowley disobeyed the Bishop of Silchester, which is of course perfectly untrue and which is only one more sign of how completely out of accord our bishops are with what is going on either in their own diocese or in any other. My own inclination was frankly to defy his Lordship and insist upon Father Rowley's fulfilling his engagement. I am not sure that I do not now regret that I allowed my church-wardens to overpersuade me on this point. I take great exception to your statement that the offertories both in the morning and in the evening were sent by me to Father Rowley regardless of the wishes of my parishioners. That there are certain parishioners of St. Andrew's who objected I have no doubt. But when I send you the attached list of parishioners who subscribed no less than £18 to be added to the two collections, you will I am sure courteously admit that in this case the opinion of the parishioners of St. Andrew's was at one with the opinion of their Vicar. --I am, Sir, your obedient servant, ADRIAN FORSHAW. 

Mark was so much delighted by this letter that he went off at once tocall on Mr. Forshaw, but did not find him at home; he was amused to hearfrom the housekeeper that his reverence had been summoned to aninterview with the Bishop of Kidderminster. Mark fancied that it wouldbe the prelate who would have the unpleasant quarter of an hour. Presently he began to ponder what it meant for such a letter to bewritten and published; his doubts about the Church of England returned;and in this condition of mind he found himself outside a small RomanCatholic church dedicated to St. Joseph, where hopeful of gaining theDivine guidance within he passed through the door. It may be that he wasin a less receptive mood than he thought, for what impressed him mostwas the Anglican atmosphere of this Italian outpost. The stale perfumeof incense on stone could not eclipse that authentic perfume ofrespectability which has been acquired by so many Roman Catholicchurches in England. There were still hanging on the pillars the framednumbers of Sunday's hymns. Mark pictured the choir boy who must haveslipped the cards in the frame with anxious and triumphant andimmemorial Anglican zeal; and while he was contemplating this symbolicalhymn-board, over his shoulder floated an authentic Anglican voice, avoice that sounded as if it was being choked out of the larynx by theclerical collar. It was the Rector, a stumpy little man with the purplestock of a monseigneur, who showed the stranger round his church andended by inviting him to lunch. Mark, wondering if he had reached acrossroad in his progress, accepted the invitation, and prepared himselfreverently to hear the will of God. Monseigneur Cripps lived in a littleGothic house next to St. Joseph's, a trim little Gothic house coveredwith the oiled curls of an ampelopsis still undyed by autumn's henna. 

"You've chosen a bad day to come to lunch, " said Monseigneur with awarning shake of the head. "It's Friday, you know. And it's hard to getdecent fish away from the big towns. "

While his host went off to consult the housekeeper about the extra placefor lunch, a proceeding which induced him to make a joke about extra'plaice' and extra 'place, ' at which he laughed heartily, Markconsidered the most tactful way of leading up to a discussion of theposition of the Anglican Church in regard to Roman claims. It should notbe difficult, he supposed, because Monseigneur at the first hint of hisguest's desire to be converted would no doubt welcome the topic. Butwhen Monseigneur led the way to his little Gothic dining-room full ofArundel prints, Mark soon apprehended that his host had evidently nothad the slightest notion of offering an _ad hoc_ hospitality. He paid noattention to Mark's tentative advances, and if he was willing to talkabout Rome, it was only because he had just paid a visit there inconnexion with a school of which he was a trustee and out of which hewanted to make one kind of school and the Roman Catholic Bishop ofDudley wanted to make another. 

"I had to take the whole question to headquarters, " Monseigneurexplained impressively. "But I was disappointed by Rome, oh yes, I wasvery disappointed. When I was a young man I saw it _couleur de rose_. Idid enjoy one thing though, and that was going round the Vatican. Yes, they looked remarkably smart, the Papal Guards; as soon as they saw Iwas _Monsignore_, they turned out and presented arms. I'm bound to admitthat I _was_ impressed by that. But on the way down I lost my pipe inthe train. And do you think I could buy a decent pipe in Rome? Iactually had to pay five _lire_--or was it six?--for this inadequatetube. "

He produced from his pocket the pipe he had been compelled to buy, acurved briar all varnish and gold lettering. 

"I've been badly treated in Wield. Certainly, they made me Monseigneur. But then they couldn't very well do less after I built this church. We've been successful here. And I venture to think popular. But theBishop is in the hands of the Irish. He cannot grasp that the Englishpeople will not have Irish priests to rule them. They don't like it, andI don't blame them. You're not Irish, are you?"

Mark reassured him. 

"This plaice isn't bad, eh? I ordered turbot, but you never get the fishyou order in these Midland towns. It always ends in my having plaice, which is good for the soul! Ha-ha! I hate the Irish myself. This schoolof which I am the chief trustee was intended to be a Catholicreformatory. That idea fell through, and now my notion is to turn itinto a decent school run by secular clergy. All the English Catholicschools are in the hands of the regular clergy, which is a mistake. Itputs too much power in the hands of the Benedictines and the Jesuits andthe rest of them. After all, the great strength of the Catholic Churchin England will always be the secular clergy. And what do we get now? Alot of objectionable Irishmen in Trilby hats. Last time I saw the BishopI gave him my frank opinion of his policy. I told him my opinion to hisface. He won't get me to kowtow to him. Yes, I said to him that, if hehanded over this school to the Dominicans, he was going to spoil one ofthe finest opportunities ever presented of educating the sons of decentEnglish gentlemen to be simple parish priests. But the Bishop of Dudleyis an Irishman himself. He can't think of anything educationally betterthan Ushaw. And, as I was telling you, I saw there was nothing for itbut to take the whole matter right up to headquarters, that is to Rome. Did I tell you that the Papal Guards turned out and presented arms? Ah, I remember now, I did mention it. I was extraordinarily impressed bythem. A fine body. But generally speaking, Rome disappointed me aftermany years. Of course we English Catholics don't understand that way ofworshipping. I'm not criticizing it. I realize that it suits theItalians. But suppose I started clearing my throat in the middle ofMass? My congregation would be disgusted, and rightly. It's anastonishing thing that I couldn't buy a good pipe in Rome, don't youthink? I must have lost mine when I got out of the carriage to look atthe leaning tower of Pisa, and my other one got clogged up with somecandle grease. I couldn't get the beastly stuff out, so I had to givethe pipe to a porter. They're keen on English pipes, those Italianporters. Poor devils, I'm not surprised. Of course, I need hardly saythat in Rome they promised to do everything for me; but you can't trustthem when your back is turned, and I need hardly add that the Bishop waspulling strings all the time. They showed me one of his letters, whichwas a tissue of mis-statements--a regular tissue. Now, suppose you had ason and you wanted him to be a priest? You don't necessarily want him tobecome a Jesuit or a Benedictine or a Dominican. Where can you send himnow? Stonyhurst, Downside, Beaumont. There isn't a single decent schoolrun by the secular clergy. You know what I mean? A school for the sonsof gentlemen--a public school. We've got magnificent buildings, grounds, everything you could wish. I've been promised all the money necessary, and then the Bishop of Dudley steps in and says that these Dominicansought to take it on. "

"I'm afraid I've somehow given you a wrong impression, " Mark interposedwhen Monseigneur Cripps at last filled his mouth with plaice. "I'm not aRoman Catholic. "

"Oh, aren't you?" said Monseigneur indifferently. "Never mind, I expectyou see my point about the necessity for the school to be run by secularclergy. Did I tell you how I got the land for my church here? That'srather an interesting story. It belonged to Lord Evesham who, as perhapsyou may know, is very anti-Catholic, but a thorough good sportsman. Wealways get on capitally together. Well, one day I said to his agent, Captain Hart: 'What about this land, Hart? Don't you think you could getit out of his lordship?' 'It's no good, Father Cripps, ' said Hart--Iwasn't Monseigneur then of course--'It's no good, ' he said, 'hislordship absolutely declines to let his land be used for a Catholicchurch. ' 'Come along, Hart, ' I said, 'let's have a round of golf. ' Well, when we got to the eighteenth hole we were all square, and we'd both ofus gone round three better than bogie and broken our own records. I wason the green with my second shot, and holed out in three. 'My game, ' Ishouted because Hart had foozled his drive and wasn't on the green. 'Notat all, ' he said. 'You shouldn't be in such a hurry. I may hole out inone, ' he laughed. 'If you do, ' I said, 'you ought to get Lord Evesham togive me that land. ' 'That's a bargain, ' he said, and he took his mashie. Will you believe it? He did the hole in two, sir, won the game, and beatthe record for the course! And that's how I got the land to build mychurch. I was delighted! I was delighted! I've told that storyeverywhere to show what sportsmen are. I told it to the Bishop, but ofcourse he being an Irishman didn't see anything funny in it. If he couldhave stopped my being made Monseigneur, he'd have done so. But hecouldn't. "

"You seem to have as much trouble with your bishops as we do with oursin the Anglican Church, " said Mark. 

"We shouldn't, if we made the right men bishops, " said Monseigneur. "Butso long as they think at Westminster that we're going to convert Englandwith a tagrag and bobtail mob of Irish priests, we never shall make theright men. You were looking round my church just now. Didn't it remindyou of an English church?"

Mark agreed that it did very much. 

"That's my secret: that's why I've been the most successful missionpriest in this diocese. I realize as an Englishman that it is no use togive the English Irish Catholicism. When I was in Rome the other day Iwas disgusted, I really was. I was disgusted. I thoroughly sympathizewith Protestants who go there and are disgusted. You cannot expect adecent English family to confess to an Irish peasant. It's notreasonable. We want to create an English tradition. "

"What between the Roman party in the Anglican Church and the Anglicanparty in the Roman Church, " said Mark, "It seems a pity that some kindof reunion cannot be effected. "

"So it could, " Monseigneur declared. "So it could, if it wasn't for theIrish. Look at the way we treat our English converts. The clergy, Imean. Why? Because the Irish do not want England to be converted. "

Mark did not raise with Monseigneur Cripps the question of his doubts. Indeed, before the plaice had been taken away he had decided that theyno longer existed. It became clear to him that the English Church wasEngland; and although he knew in his heart that Monseigneur Cripps wassuffering from a sense of grievance and that his criticism of Romanpolicy was too obviously biased, it pleased him to believe that it was afair criticism. 

Mark thanked Monseigneur Cripps for his hospitality and took a friendlyleave of him. An hour later he was walking back through the pleasantvale of Wield toward the Cotswolds. As he went his way among the greenorchards, he thought over his late impulse to change allegiance, marvelling at it now and considering it irrational, like one astonishedat his own behaviour in a dream. There came into his mind a story ofGeorge Fox who drawing near to the city of Lichfield took off his shoesin a meadow and cried three times in a loud voice "Woe unto the bloodycity of Lichfield, " after which he put on his shoes again and proceededinto the town. Mark looked back in amazement at his lunch withMonseigneur Cripps and his own meditated apostasy. To his present moodthat intention to forsake his own Church appeared as remote fromactuality as the malediction of George Fox upon the city of Lichfield. 

Here among these green orchards in the heart of England RomanCatholicism presented itself to Mark's imagination as an exotic. The twowords "Roman Catholicism" uttered aloud in the quiet June sunlight gavehim the sensation of an allamanda or of a gardenia blossoming in anapple-tree. People who talked about bringing the English Church intoline with the trend of Western Christianity lacked a sense of history. Apart from the question whether the English Church before theReformation had accepted the pretensions of the Papacy, it was absurdto suppose that contemporary Romanism had anything in common withEnglish Catholicism of the early sixteenth century. English Catholicismlong before the Reformation had been a Protestant Catholicism, always inrevolt against Roman claims, always preserving its insularity. It wasidle to question the Catholic intentions of a priesthood that couldproduce within a century of the Reformation such prelates as Andrews andKen. It was ridiculous at the prompting of the party in the ascendancyat Westminster to procure a Papal decision against English Orders whentwo hundred and fifty years ago there was a cardinal's hat waiting forLaud if he would leave the Church of England. And what about Paul IV andElizabeth? Was he not willing to recognize English Orders if she wouldrecognize his headship of Christendom?

But these were controversial arguments, and as Mark walked along throughthe pleasant vale of Wield with the Cotswold hills rising taller beforehim at every mile he apprehended that his adhesion to the English Churchhad been secured by the natural scene rather than by argument. Nevertheless, it was interesting to speculate why Romanism had not mademore progress in England, why even now with a hierarchy and with such adistinguished line of converts beginning with Newman it remained socompletely out of touch with the national life of the country. While theRomans converted one soul to Catholicism, the inheritors of the OxfordMovement were converting twenty. Catholicism must be accounted adisposition of mind, an attitude toward life that did not necessarilyimply all that was implied by Roman Catholicism. What was the secret ofthe Roman failure? Everywhere else in the world Roman Catholicism hadknown how to adapt itself to national needs; only in England did itremain exotic. It was like an Anglo-Indian magnate who returns to findhimself of no importance in his native land, and who but for the flavourof his curries and perhaps a black servant or two would be utterlyinconspicuous. He tries to fit in with the new conditions of hisreadopted country, but he remains an exotic and is regarded by hisneighbours as one to whom the lesson must be taught that he is nolonger of importance. What had been the cause of this breach in theRoman Catholic tradition, this curious incompetency, this Anglo-Indianconservatism and pretentiousness? Perhaps it had begun when in theseventeenth century the propagation of Roman Catholicism in England washanded over to the Jesuits, who mismanaged the country hopelessly. Bythe time Rome had perceived that the conversion of England could not beleft to the Jesuits the harm was done, so that when with greatertoleration the time was ripe to expand her organization it was necessaryto recruit her priests in Ireland. What the Jesuits had begun the Irishcompleted. It had been amusing to listen to the lamentations ofMonseigneur Cripps; but Monseigneur Cripps had expressed, howeverludicrous his egoism, the failure of his Church in England. 

Mark's statement of the Anglican position with nobody to answer hisarguments except the trees and the hedgerows seemed flawless. The levelroad, the gentle breeze in the orchards on either side, the scent of thegrass, and the busy chirping of the birds coincided with the main pointof his argument that England was most inexpressibly Anglican and thatRoman Catholicism was most unmistakably not. His arguments were reallyhasty foot-notes to his convictions; if each one had separately beenproved wrong, that would have had no influence on the point of view hehad reached. He forgot that this very landscape that was seemingincomparable England herself had yesterday appeared complacent andmonotonous. In fact he was as bad as George Fox, who after taking offhis shoes to curse the bloody city of Lichfield should only have putthem on again to walk away from it. 

The grey road was by now beginning to climb the foothills of theCotswolds; a yellow-hammer, keeping always a few paces ahead, twitteredfrom quickset boughs nine encouraging notes that drowned the echoes ofancient controversies. In such a countryside no claims papal orepiscopal possessed the least importance; and Mark dismissed the subjectfrom his mind, abandoning himself to the pleasure of the slow ascent. Looking back after a while he could see the town of Wield riding like aship in a sea of verdure, and when he surveyed thus England asleep inthe sunlight, the old ambition to become a preaching friar was kindledagain in his heart. He would re-establish the extinct and absolutelyEnglish Order of St. Gilbert so that there should be no question ofRoman pretensions. Doubtless, St. Francis himself would understand arevival of his Order without reference to existing Franciscans; butnobody else would understand, and it would be foolish to insist uponbeing a Franciscan if the rest of the Order disowned him and hisfollowers. If anybody had asked Mark at that moment why he wanted torestore the preaching friars, he might have found it difficult toanswer. He was by no means imbued with the missionary spirit just then;his experience at Chatsea had made him pessimistic about missionaryeffort in the Church of England. If a man like Father Rowley had failedto win the support of his ecclesiastical superiors, Mark, who possessedmore humility than is usual at twenty-one, did not fancy that he shouldbe successful. The ambition to become a friar was revived by anincomprehensible, or if not incomprehensible, certainly by aninexplicable impulse to put himself in tune with the landscape, toproclaim as it were on behalf of that dumb heart of England beating downthere in the flowery Vale of Wield: _God rest you merry gentlemen, letnothing you dismay!_ There was revealed to him with the assurance ofabsolute faith that all the sorrows, all the ugliness, all thesoullessness (no other word could be found) of England in the first yearof the twentieth century was due to the Reformation; the desire tobecome a preaching friar was the dramatic expression of this inspiredconviction. Before his journey through the Vale of Wield Mark in anydiscussion would have been ready to argue the mistake of theReformation: but now there was no longer room for argument. Whatformerly he thought now he knew. The song of the yellow-hammer waslouder in the quickset hedge; the trees burned with a sharper green; theroad urged his feet. 

"If only everybody in England could move as I am moving now, " hethought. "If only I could be granted the power to show a few people, sothat they could show others, and those others show all the world. Howconfidently that yellow-hammer repeats his song! How well he knows thathis song is right! How little he envies the linnet and how little thelinnet envies him! The fools that talk of nature's cruelty, the blindfatuous sentimental coxcombs!"

Thus apostrophizing, Mark came to a wayside inn; discovering that he washungry, he took his seat at a rustic table outside and called for breadand cheese and beer. While he was eating, a vehicle approached from thedirection in which he would soon be travelling. He took it at first fora caravan of gipsies, but when it grew near he saw that it was paintedover with minatory texts and was evidently the vehicle of itinerantgospellers. Two young men alighted from the caravan when it pulled upbefore the door of the inn. They were long-nosed sallow creatures withthat expression of complacency which organized morality too oftenproduces, and in this quiet countryside they gave an effect of beingovergrown Sunday-school scholars upon their annual outing. Having cast acensorious glance in the direction of Mark's jug of ale, they sat downat the farther end of the bench and ordered food. 

"The preaching friars of to-day, " Mark thought gloomily. 

"Excuse me, " said one of the gospellers. "I notice you've been lookingvery hard at our van. Excuse me, but are you saved?"

"No, are you?" Mark countered with an angry blush. 

"We are, " the gospeller proclaimed. "Or I and Mr. Smillie here, " heindicated his companion, "wouldn't be travelling round trying to saveothers. Here, read this tract, my friend. Don't hurry over it. We canwait all day and all night to bring one wandering soul to Jesus. "

Mark looked at the young men curiously; perceiving that they weresincere, he accepted the tract and out of courtesy perused it. The taletherein enfolded reminded him of a narrative testifying to the efficacyof a patent medicine. The process of conversation followed a stereotypedformula. 

_For three and a half years I was unable to keep down any sins for morethan five minutes after I had committed the last one. I had a dizzyfeeling in the heart and a sharp pain in the small of the soul. A friendof mine recommended me to try the good minister in the slum. . . . Afterthe first text I was able to keep down my sins for six minutes . . . After twenty-two bottles I am as good as I ever was. . . . I ascribe mysalvation entirely to_. . . . Mark handed back the tract with a smile. 

"Do you convert many people with this literature?" he asked. 

"We don't often convert a soul right off, " said Mr. Smillie. "But we sowthe good seed, if you follow my meaning; and we leave the rest to Jesus. Mr. Bullock and I have handed over seven hundred tracts in three weeks, and we know that they won't all fall on stony ground or be choked bytares and thistles. "

"Do you mind my asking you a question?" Mark said. 

The gospel bearers craned their necks like hungry fowls in theireagerness to peck at any problems Mark felt inclined to scatter beforethem. A ludicrous fancy passed through his mind that much of the goodseed was pecked up by the scatterers. 

"What are you trying to convert people to?" Mark solemnly inquired. 

"What are we trying to convert people to?" echoed Mr. Bullock and Mr. Smillie in unison. Then the former became eloquent. "We're trying towash ignorant people in the blood of the Lamb. We're converting themfrom the outer darkness, where there is weeping and wailing and gnashingof teeth, to be rocked safe for ever in the arms of Jesus. If you'd haveread that tract I handed you a bit more slowly and a bit more carefully, you wouldn't have had any call to ask a question like that. "

"Perhaps I framed my question rather badly, " Mark admitted. "Iunderstand that you want to bring people to believe in Our Lord; butwhen by a tract or by a personal exhortation or by an emotional appealyou've induced them to suppose that they are converted, or as you put itsaved, what more do you give them?"

"What more do we give them?" Mr. Smillie shrilled. "What more can wegive them after we've given them Christ Jesus? We're sitting hereoffering you Christ Jesus at this moment. You're sitting there mockingat us. But Mr. Bullock and me don't mind how much you mock. We're readyto stay here for hours if we can bring you safe to the bosom ofEmmanuel. "

"Yes, but suppose I told you that I believe in Our Lord Jesus Christwithout any persuasion from you?" Mark inquired. 

"Well, then you're saved, " said Mr. Bullock decidedly. "And you can askthe landlord for our bill, Mr. Smillie. "

"But is nothing more necessary?" Mark persisted. 

"_By faith are ye justified_, " Mr. Bullock and Mr. Smillie shoutedsimultaneously. 

Mark paused for a moment to consider whether argument was worth while, and then he returned to the attack. 

"I'm afraid I think that people like you do a great deal of damage toChristianity. You only flatter human conceit. You get hold of someemotional creature and work upon his feelings until in an access ofself-absorption he feels that the universe is standing still while thenecessary measures are taken to secure his personal salvation. Youflatter this poor soul, and then you go away and leave him to work outhis own salvation. "

"If you're dwelling in Christ Jesus and Christ Jesus is dwelling in you, you haven't got to work out your own salvation. He worked out yoursalvation on the Cross, " said Mr. Bullock contemptuously. 

"And you think that nothing more is necessary from a man? It seems to methat the religion you preach is fatal to human character. I'm not tryingto be offensive when I tell you that it's the religion of a tapeworm. It's a religion for parasites. It's a religion which ignores the HolyGhost. "

"Perhaps you'll explain your assertion a little more fully?" Mr. Bullockinvited with a scowl. 

"What I mean is that, if Our Lord's Atonement removed all responsibilityfrom human nature, there doesn't seem much for the Holy Ghost to do, does there?"

"Well, as it happens, " said Mr. Bullock sarcastically, "Mr. Smillie andI here do most of our work with the help of the Holy Ghost, so you'vehit on a bad example to work off your sneers on. "

"I'm not trying to sneer, " Mark protested. "But strangely enough justbefore you came along I was thinking to myself how much I should like totravel over England preaching about Our Lord, because I think thatEngland has need of Him. But I also think, now you've answered myquestion, that _you_ are doing more harm than good by yourinterpretation of the Holy Ghost. "

"Mr. Smillie, " interrupted Mr. Bullock in an elaborately off-hand voice, "if you've counted the change and it's all correct, we'd better get amove on. Let's gird up our loins, Mr. Smillie, and not sit wrestlinghere with infidels. "

"No, really, you must allow me, " Mark persisted. "You've had it so muchyour own way with your tracts and your talks this last few weeks that bynow you must be in need of a sermon yourselves. The gospel you preach isonly going to add to the complacency of England, and England is toocomplacent already. All Northern nations are, which is why they areProtestant. They demand a religion which will truckle to them, areligion which will allow them to devote six days of the week to what iscalled business and on the seventh day to rest and praise God that theyare not as other men. "

"_Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's and unto God the thingsthat are God's_, " said Mr. Smillie, putting the change in his pocket anduntying the nosebag from the horse. 

"_Ye cannot serve God and mammon_, " Mark retorted. "And I wish you'd letme finish my argument. "

"Mr. Smillie and I aren't touring the Midlands trying to find grapes onthorns and figs on thistles, " said Mr. Bullock scathingly. "We'd havegiven you a chance, if you'd have shown any fruits of the Spirit. "

"You've just said you weren't looking for grapes or figs, " Mark laughed. "I'm sorry I've made you so cross. But you began the argument by askingme if I was saved. Think how annoyed you would have been if I had beguna conversation by asking you if you were washed. "

"My last words to you is, " said Mr. Bullock solemnly, looking out ofthe caravan window, "my last words to you are, " he corrected himself, "is to avoid beer. You can touch up the horse, Mr. Smillie. "

"I'll come and touch you up, you big-mouthed Bible thumpers, " a richvoice shouted from the inn door. "Yes, you sit outside my public-houseand swill minerals when you're so full of gas already you could light acorporation gasworks. Avoid beer, you walking bellows? Step down out ofthat travelling menagerie, and I'll give you 'avoid beer. ' You'll avoidmore than beer before I've finished with you. "

But the gospel bearers without paying any attention to the tirade wenton their way; and Mark who did not wait to listen to the innkeeper'sabuse of all religion and all religious people went on his way in theopposite direction. 

Swinging homeward over the Cotswolds Mark flattered himself on a victoryover heretics, and he imagined his adversaries entering Wield thatafternoon, the prey of doubt and mortification. At the highest point ofthe road he even ventured to suppose that they might find themselves atEvensong outside St. Andrew's Church and led within by the grace of theHoly Spirit that they might renounce their errors before the altar. Indeed, it was not until he was back in the Rectory that the futility ofhis own bearing overwhelmed him with shame. Anxious to atone for hisself-conceit, Mark gave the Rector an account of the incident. 

"It seems to me that I behaved very feebly, don't you think?"

"That kind of fellow is a hard nut to crack, " the Rector saidconsolingly. "And you can't expect just by quoting text against text toeffect an instant conversion. Don't forget that your friends are intheir way as great enthusiasts probably as yourself. "

"Yes, but it's humiliating to be imagining oneself leading a revival ofthe preaching friars and then to behave like that. What strikes me now, when it's too late, is that I ought to have waited and taken theopportunity to tackle the innkeeper. He was just the ordinary man whosupposes that religion is his natural enemy. You must admit that Imissed a chance there. "

"I don't want to check your missionary zeal, " said the Rector. "But Ireally don't think you need worry yourself about an omission of thatkind so long before you are ordained. If I didn't know you as well as Ido, I might even be inclined to consider such a passion for souls atyour age a little morbid. I wish with all my heart you'd gone toOxford, " he added with a sigh. 

"Well, really, do you know, " said Mark, "I don't regret that. Whatevermay be the advantages of a public school and university, the educationhampers one. One becomes identified with a class; and when one hasfinished with that education, the next two or three years have to bespent in discovering that public school and university men form a verysmall proportion of the world's population. Sometimes I almost regretthat my mother did not let me acquire that Cockney accent. You can say alot of things in a Cockney accent which said without any accent soundpriggish. You must admit, Rector, that your inner comment on my tale ofthe gospellers and the innkeeper is 'Dear me! I am afraid Mark's turninginto a prig. '"

"No, no. I laid particular stress on the point that if I didn't know youas well as I do I might perhaps have thought that, " the Rectorprotested. 

"I don't think I am a prig, " Mark went on slowly. "I don't think I haveenough confidence in myself to be a prig. I think the way I argued withMr. Bullock and Mr. Smillie was a bit priggish, because at the back ofmy head all the time I was talking I felt in addition to the arroganceof faith a kind of confounded snobbishness; and this sense ofsuperiority came not from my being a member of the Church, but fromfeeling myself more civilized than they were. Looking back now at theconversation, I can remember that actually at the very moment I wastalking of the Holy Ghost I was noticing how Mr. Bullock's dicky wouldkeep escaping from his waistcoat. I wonder if the great missionarysaints of the middle ages had to contend with this accumulation ofsocial conventions with which we are faced nowadays. It seems to methat in everything--in art, in religion, in mere ordinary everyday lifeand living--man is adding daily to the wall that separates him fromGod. "

"H'm, yes, " said the Rector, "all this only means that you are growingup. The child is nearer to God than the man. Wordsworth said it betterthan I can say it. Similarly, the human race must grow away from God asit takes upon itself the burden of knowledge. That surely is inherent inthe fall of man. No philosopher has yet improved upon the first chapterof Genesis as a symbolical explanation of humanity's plight. When manwas created--or if you like to put it evolved--there must have been anexact moment at which he had the chance of remaining where he was--inother words, in the Garden of Eden--or of developing further along hisown lines with free will. Satan fell from pride. It is natural to assumethat man, being tempted by Satan, would fall from the same sin, thoughthe occasion, of his fall might be the less heroic sin of curiosity. Yes, I think that first chapter of Genesis, as an attempt to sum up thehistory of millions of years, is astoundingly complete. Have you everthought how far by now the world would have grown away from God withoutthe Incarnation?"

"Yes, " said Mark, "and after nineteen hundred years how little nearer ithas grown. "

"My dear boy, " said the Rector, "if man has not even yet got rid ofrudimentary gills or useless paps he is not going to grow very visiblynearer to God in nineteen hundred years after growing away from God forninety million. Yet such is the mercy of our Father in Heaven that, infinitely remote as we have grown from Him, we are still made in Hisimage, and in childhood we are allowed a few years of blessed innocency. To some children--and you were one of them--God reveals Himself moredirectly. But don't, my dear fellow, grow up imagining that thesevisions you were accorded as a boy will be accorded to you all throughyour life. You may succeed in remaining pure in act, but you will findit hard to remain pure in heart. To me the most frightening beatitude is_Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. _ What yourpresent state of mind really amounts to is lack of hope, for as soon asyou find yourself unable to be as miraculously eloquent as St. Anthonyof Padua you become the prey of despair. "

"I am not so foolish as that, " Mark replied. "But surely, Rector, itbehoves me during these years before my ordination to criticize myselfseverely. "

"As severely as you like, " the Rector agreed, "provided that you onlycriticize yourself, and don't criticize Almighty God. "

"But surely, " Mark went on, "I ought to be asking myself now that I amtwenty-one how I shall best occupy the next three years?"

"Certainly, " the Rector assented. "Think it over, and be sure that, whenyou have thought it over and have made your decision with the help ofprayer, I shall be the first to support that decision in every waypossible. Even if you decide to be a preaching friar, " he added with asmile. "And now I have some news for you. Esther arrives here tomorrowto stay with us for a fortnight before she is professed. "

CHAPTER XXII

SISTER ESTHER MAGDALENE

Esther's novitiate in the community of St. Mary Magdalene, Shoreditch, had lasted six months longer than was usual, because the Mother Superiorwhile never doubting her vocation for the religious life had feared forher ability to stand the strain of that work among penitents to whichthe community was dedicated. In the end, her perseverance had beenrewarded, and the day of her profession was at hand. 

During the whole of her nearly four years' novitiate Esther had not beenhome once; although Mark and she had corresponded at long intervals, their letters had been nothing more than formal records of minor events, and on St. John's eve he drove with the dogcart to meet her, wonderingall the way how much she would have changed. The first thing that struckhim when he saw her alight from the train on Shipcot platform was herneatness. In old days with windblown hair and clothes flung on anyhowshe had belonged so unmistakably to the open air. Now in her grey habitand white veil of the novice she was as tranquil as Miriam, and for thefirst time Mark perceived a resemblance between the sisters. Hercomplexion, which formerly was flushed and much freckled by the openair, was now like alabaster; and although her auburn hair was hiddenbeneath the veil Mark was aware of it like a hidden fire. He had in thevery moment of welcoming her a swift vision of that auburn hair lying onthe steps of the altar a fortnight hence, and he was filled with a wilddesire to be present at her profession and gathering up the shorn locksto let them run through his fingers like flames. He had no time to beastonished at himself before they were shaking hands. 

"Why, Esther, " he laughed, "you're carrying an umbrella. "

"It was raining in London, " she said gravely. 

He was on the point of exclaiming at such prudence in Esther when heblushed in the remembrance that she was a nun. During the drive backthey talked shyly about the characters of the village and the Rectoryanimals. 

"I feel as if you'd just come back from school for the holidays, " hesaid. 

"Yes, I feel as if I'd been at school, " she agreed. "How sweet thecountry smells. "

"Don't you miss the country sometimes in Shoreditch?" he asked. 

She shook her head and looked at him with puzzled eyes. 

"Why should I miss anything in Shoreditch?"

Mark was abashed and silent for the rest of the drive, because hefancied that Esther might have supposed that he was referring to thepast, rather than give which impression he would have cut out histongue. When they reached the Rectory, Mark was moved almost to tears bythe greetings. 

"Dear little sister, " Miriam murmured. "How happy we are to have youwith us again. "

"Dear child, " said Mrs. Ogilvie. "And really she does look like a nun. "

"My dearest girl, we have missed you every moment of these four years, "said the Rector, bending to kiss her. "How cold your cheek is. "

"It was quite chilly driving, " said Mark quickly, for there had comeupon him a sudden dismay lest they should think she was a ghost. He wasrelieved when Miriam announced tea half an hour earlier than usual inhonour of Esther's arrival; it seemed to prove that to her family shewas still alive. 

"After tea I'm going to Wych Maries to pick St. John's wort for thechurch. Would you like to walk as far?" Mark suggested, and then stoodspeechless, horrified at his want of tact. He had the presence of mindnot to excuse himself, and he was grateful to Esther when she replied ina calm voice that she should like a walk after tea. 

When the opportunity presented itself, Mark apologized for hissuggestion. 

"By why apologize?" she asked. "I assure you I'm not at all tired and Ireally should like to walk to Wych Maries. "

He was amazed at her self-possession, and they walked along withunhastening conventual steps to where the St. John's wort grew amid atangle of ground ivy in the open spaces of a cypress grove, appearingmost vividly and richly golden like sunlight breaking from black cloudsin the western sky. 

"Gather some sprays quickly, Sister Esther Magdalene, " Mark advised. "And you will be safe against the demons of this night when evil hassuch power. "

"Are we ever safe against the demons of the night?" she asked solemnly. "And has not evil great power always?"

"Always, " he assented in a voice that trembled to a sigh, like theuncertain wind that comes hesitating at dusk in the woods. "Always, " herepeated. 

As he spoke Mark fell upon his knees among the holy flowers, for therehad come upon him temptation; and the sombre trees standing roundwatched him like fiends with folded wings. 

"Go to the chapel, " he cried in an agony. 

"Mark, what is the matter?"

"Go to the chapel. For God's sake, Esther, don't wait. "

In another moment he felt that he should tear the white veil from herforehead and set loose her auburn hair. 

"Mark, are you ill?"

"Oh, do what I ask, " he begged. "Once I prayed for you here. Pray for menow. "

At that moment she understood, and putting her hands to her eyes shestumbled blindly toward the ruined church of the two Maries, heavilytoo, because she was encumbered by her holy garb. When she was gone andthe last rustle of her footsteps had died away upon the mid-summersilence, Mark buried his body in the golden flowers. 

"How can I ever look any of them in the face again?" he cried aloud. "Small wonder that yesterday I was so futile. Small wonder indeed! Andof all women, to think that I should fall in love with Esther. If I hadfallen in love with her four years ago . . . But now when she is goingto be professed . . . Suddenly without any warning . . . Without anywarning . . . Yet perhaps I did love her in those days . . . And wasjealous. . . . "

And even while Mark poured forth his horror of himself he held her imageto his heart. 

"I thought she was a ghost because she was dead to me, not because shewas dead to them. She is not a ghost to them. And is she to me?"

He leapt to his feet, listening. 

"Should she come back, " he thought with beating heart. "Should she comeback . . . I love her . . . She hasn't taken her final vows . . . Mightshe not love me? No, " he shouted at the top of his voice. "I will not doas my father did . . . I will not . . . I will not. . . . "

Mark felt sure of himself again: he felt as he used to feel as a littleboy when his mother entered on a shaft of light to console his childishterrors. When he came to the ruined chapel and saw Esther standing withuplifted palms before the image of St. Mary Magdalene long since putback upon the pedestal from which it had been flung by the squire ofRushbrooke Grange, Mark was himself again. 

"My dear, " Esther cried, impulsively taking his hand. "You frightenedme. What was the matter?"

He did not answer for a moment or two, because he wanted her to hold hishand a little while longer, so much time was to come when she wouldnever hold it. 

"Whenever I dip my hand in cold water, " he said at last, "I shall thinkof you. Why did you say that about the demons of the night?"

She dropped his hand in comprehension. 

"You're disgusted with me, " he murmured. "I'm not surprised. "

"No, no, you mustn't think of me like that. I'm still a very humanEsther, so human that the Reverend Mother has made me wait an extra yearto be professed. But, Mark dear, can't you understand, you who know whatI endured in this place, that I am sometimes tempted by memories ofhim, that I sometimes sin by regrets for giving him up, my dead loverso near to me in this place. My dead love, " she sighed to herself, "towhose memory in my pride of piety I thought I should be utterlyindifferent. "

A spasm of jealousy had shaken Mark while Esther was speaking, but bythe time she had finished he had fought it down. 

"I think I must have loved you all this time, " he told her. 

"Mark dear, I'm ten years older than you. I'm going to be a nun for whatof my life remains. And I can never love anybody else. Don't make thisvisit of mine a misery to me. I've had to conquer so much and I needyour prayers. "

"I wish you needed my kisses. "

"Mark!"

"What did I say? Oh, Esther, I'm a brute. Tell me one thing. "

"I've already told you more than I've told anyone except my confessor. "

"Have you found happiness in the religious life?"

"I have found myself. The Reverend Mother wanted me to leave thecommunity and enter a contemplative order. She did not think I should beable to help poor girls. "

"Esther, what a stupid woman! Why surely you would be wonderful withthem?"

"I think she is a wise woman, " said Esther. "I think since we camepicking St. John's wort I understand how wise she is. "

"Esther, dear dear Esther, you make me feel more than ever ashamed ofmyself. I entreat you not to believe what the Reverend Mother says. "

"You have only a fortnight to convince me, " said Esther. 

"And I will convince you. "

"Mark, do you remember when you made me pray for his soul telling methat in that brief second he had time to repent?"

Mark nodded grimly. 

"You still do think that, don't you?"

"Of course I do. He must have repented. "

She thanked him with her eyes; and Mark looking into their depths ofhope unfathomable put away from him the thought that the damned soul ofWill Starling was abroad to-night with power of evil. Yes, he put thisthought behind him; but carrying an armful of St. John's wort to hang insprays above the doors of the church he could not rid himself of thefancy that his arms were filled with Esther's auburn hair. 

CHAPTER XXIII

MALFORD ABBEY

Mark left Wych-on-the-Wold next day; although he did not announce thathe should be absent from home so long, he intended not to return untilEsther had gone back to Shoreditch. He hoped that he was not beingcowardly in thus running away; but after having assured Esther that shecould count on his behaving normally for the rest of her visit, he foundhis sleep that night so profoundly disturbed by feverish visions thatwhen morning came he dreaded his inability to behave as both he wouldwish himself and she would wish him to behave. Flight seemed the onlyway to find peace. He was shocked not so much by being in love withEsther, but by the suddenness with which his desires had overwhelmedhim, desires which had never been roused since he was born. If in aninstant he could be turned upside down like that, could he be sure thatupon the next occasion, supposing that he fell in love with somebodymore suitable, he should be able to escape so easily? His father musthave married his mother out of some such violent impulse as had seizedhimself yesterday afternoon, and resentiment about his weakness hadspoilt his whole life. And those dreams! How significant now were thewords of the Compline hymn, and how much it behoved a Christian soul tovanquish these ill dreams against beholding which the defence of theCreator was invoked. He had vowed celibacy; yet already, three monthsafter his twenty-first birthday, after never once being troubled withthe slightest hint that the vow he had taken might be hard to keep, hissecurity had been threatened. How right the Rector had been about thatfrightening beatitude. 

Mark had taken the direction of Wychford, and when he reached thebridge at the bottom of the road from Wych-on-the-Wold he thought hewould turn aside and visit the Greys whom he had not seen for a longtime. He was conscious of a curiosity to know if the feelings aroused byEsther could be aroused by Monica or Margaret or Pauline. He found thedear family unchanged and himself, so far as they were concerned, equally unchanged and as much at his ease as he had ever been. 

"And what are you going to do now?" one of them asked. 

"You mean immediately?"

Mark could not bring himself to say that he did not know, because such areply would have seemed to link him with the state of mind in which hehad been thrown yesterday afternoon. 

"Well, really, I was thinking of going into a monastery, " he announced. 

Pauline clapped her hands. 

"Now I think that is just what you ought to do, " she said. 

Then followed questions about which Order he proposed to join; and Markashamed to go back on what he had said lest they should think himflippant answered that he thought of joining the Order of St. George. 

"You know--Father Burrowes, who works among soldiers. "

When Mark was standing by the cross-roads above Wychford and waswondering which to take, he decided that really the best thing he coulddo at this moment was to try to enter the Order of St. George. He mightsucceed in being ordained without going to a theological college, or ifthe Bishop insisted upon a theological course and he found that he had avocation for the religious life, he could go to Glastonbury and rejointhe Order when he was a priest. It was true that Father Rowleydisapproved of Father Burrowes; but he had never expressed more than ageneral disapproval, and Mark was inclined to attribute his attitude tothe prejudice of a man of strong personality and definite methodsagainst another man of strong personality and definite methods workingon similar lines among similar people. Mark remembered now that therehad been a question at one time of Father Burrowes' opening a priory inthe next parish to St. Agnes'. Probably that was the reason why FatherRowley disapproved of him. Mark had heard the monk preach on oneoccasion and had liked him. Outside the pulpit, however, he knew nothingmore of him than what he had heard from soldiers staying in the KeppelStreet Mission House, who from Aldershot had visited Malford Abbey, themother house of the Order. The alternative to Malford was Clere Abbey onthe Berkshire downs where Dom Cuthbert Manners ruled over a smallcommunity of strict Benedictines. Had Mark really been convinced that hewas likely to remain a monk for the rest of his life, he would havechosen the Benedictines; but he did not feel justified in presentinghimself for admission to Clere on what would seem impulse. He hoped thatif he was accepted by the Order of St. George he should be given anopportunity to work at one of the priories in Aldershot or Sandgate, andthat the experience he might expect to gain would help him later as aparish priest. He could not confide in the Rector his reason for wantingto subject himself to monastic discipline, and he expected a good dealof opposition. It might be better to write from whatever village hestayed in to-night and make the announcement without going back at all. And this is what in the end he decided to do. 

 The Sun Inn, Ladingford. 

 June 24. 

 My dear Rector, I expect you gathered from our talk the day before yesterday that I was feeling dissatisfied with myself, and you must know that the problem of occupying my time wisely before I am ordained has lately been on my mind. I don't feel that I could honestly take up a profession to which I had no intention of sticking, and though Father Rowley recommended me to stay at home and work with the village people I don't feel capable of doing that yet. If it was a question of helping you by taking off your shoulders work that I could do it would be another matter. But you've often said to me that you had more time on your hands than you cared for since you gave up coaching me for an Oxford scholarship, and so I don't think I'm wrong in supposing that you would find it hard to discover for me any parochial routine work. I'm not old enough yet to fish for souls, and I have no confidence in my ability to hook them. Besides, I think it would bore you if I started "missionizing" in Wych-on-the-Wold. 

 I've settled therefore to try to get into the Order of St. George. I don't think you know Father Burrowes personally, but I've always heard that he does a splendid work among soldiers, and I'm hoping that he will accept me as a novice. 

 Latterly, in fact since I left Chatsea, I've been feeling the need of a regular existence, and, though I cannot pretend that I have a vocation for the monastic life in the highest sense, I do feel that I have a vocation for the Order of St. George. You will wonder why I have not mentioned this to you, but the fact is--and I hope you'll appreciate my frankness--I did not think of the O. S. G. Till this morning. Of course they may refuse to have me. But I shall present myself without a preliminary letter, and I hope to persuade Father Burrowes to have me on probation. If he once does that, I'm sure that I shall satisfy him. This sounds like the letter of a conceited clerk. It must be the fault of this horrible inn pen, which is like writing with a tooth-pick dipped in a puddle! I thought it was best not to stay at the Rectory, with Esther on the verge of her profession. It wouldn't be fair to her at a time like this to make my immediate future a matter of prime importance. So do forgive my going off in this fashion. I suppose it's just possible that some bishop will accept me for ordination from Malford, though no doubt it's improbable. This will be a matter to discuss with Father Burrowes later. 

 Do forgive what looks like a most erratic course of procedure. But I really should hate a long discussion, and if I make a mistake I shall have had a lesson. It really is essential for me to be tremendously occupied. I cannot say more than this, but I do beg you to believe that I'm not taking this apparently unpremeditated step without a very strong reason. It's a kind of compromise with my ambition to re-establish in the English Church an order of preaching friars. I haven't yet given up that idea, but I'm sure that I ought not to think about it seriously until I'm a priest. 

 I'm staying here to-night after a glorious day's tramp, and to-morrow morning I shall take the train and go by Reading and Basingstoke to Malford. I'll write to you as soon as I know if I'm accepted. My best love to everybody, and please tell Esther that I shall think about her on St. Mary Magdalene's Day. 

 Yours always affectionately, Mark. 

To Esther he wrote by the same post:

 My dear Sister Esther Magdalene, Do not be angry with me for running away, and do not despise me for trying to enter a monastery in such a mood. I'm as much the prey of religion as you are. And I am really horrified by the revelation of what I am capable of. I saw in your eyes yesterday the passion of your soul for Divine things. The memory of them awes me. Pray for me, dear sister, that all my passion may be turned to the service of God. Defend me to your brother, who will not understand my behaviour. 

 Mark. 

Three days later Mark wrote again to the Rector:

 The Abbey, Malford, Surrey. 

 June 27th. 

 My dear Rector, I do hope that you're not so much annoyed with me that you don't want to hear anything about my monastic adventures. However, if you are you can send back this long letter unopened. I believe that is the proper way to show one's disapproval by correspondence. 

 I reached Malford yesterday afternoon, and after a jolly walk between high hazel hedges for about two miles I reached the Abbey. It doesn't quite fulfil one's preconceived ideas of what an abbey should look like, but I suppose it is the most practicable building that could be erected with the amount of money that the Order had to spare for what in a way is a luxury for a working order like this. What it most resembles is three tin tabernacles put together to form three sides of a square, the fourth and empty side of which is by far the most beautiful, because it consists of a glorious view over a foreground of woods, a middle-distance of park land, and on the horizon the Hampshire downs. 

 I am an authority on this view, because I had to gaze at it for about a quarter of an hour while I was waiting for somebody to open the Abbey door. At last the porter, Brother Lawrence, after taking a good look at me through the grill, demanded what I wanted. When I said that I wanted to be a monk, he looked very alarmed and hurried away, leaving me to gaze at that view for another ten minutes. He came back at last and let me in, informing me in a somewhat adenoidish voice that the Reverend Brother was busy in the garden and asking me to wait until he came in. Brother Lawrence has a large, pock-marked face, and while he is talking to anybody he stands with his right hand in his left sleeve and his left hand in his right sleeve like a Chinese mandarin or an old washer-woman with her arms folded under her apron. You must make the most of my descriptions in this letter, because if I am accepted as a probationer I shan't be able to indulge in any more personalities about my brethren. 

 The guest-room like everything else in the monastery is match-boarded; and while I was waiting in it the noise was terrific, because some corrugated iron was being nailed on the roof of a building just outside. I began to regret that Brother Lawrence had opened the door at all and that he had not left me in the cloisters, as by the way I discovered that the space enclosed by the three tin tabernacles is called! There was nothing to read in the guest-room except one sheet of a six months' old newspaper which had been spread on the table presumably for a guest to mend something with glue. At last the Reverend Brother, looking most beautiful in a white habit with a zucchetto of mauve velvet, came in and welcomed me with much friendliness. I was surprised to find somebody so young as Brother Dunstan in charge of a monastery, especially as he said he was only a novice as yet. It appears that all the bigwigs--or should I say big-cowls?--are away at the moment on business of the Order and that various changes are in the offing, the most important being the giving up of their branch in Malta and the consequent arrival of Brother George, of whom Brother Dunstan spoke in a hushed voice. Father Burrowes, or the Reverend Father as he is called, is preaching in the north of England at the moment, and Brother Dunstan tells me it is quite impossible for him to say anything, still less to do anything, about my admission. However, he urged me to stay on for the present as a guest, an invitation which I accepted without hesitation. He had only just time to show me my cell and the card of rules for guests when a bell rang and, drawing his cowl over his head, he hurried off. 

 After perusing the rules, I discovered that this was the bell which rings a quarter of an hour before Vespers for solemn silence. I hadn't the slightest idea where the chapel was, and when I asked Brother Lawrence he glared at me and put his finger to his mouth. I was not to be discouraged, however, and in the end he showed me into the ante-chapel which is curtained off from the quire. There was only one other person in the ante-chapel, a florid, well-dressed man with a rather mincing and fussy way of worshipping. The monks led by Brother Lawrence (who is not even a novice yet, but a postulant and wears a black habit, without a hood, tied round the waist with a rope) passed from the refectory through the ante-chapel into the quire, and Vespers began. They used an arrangement called "The Day Hours of the English Church, " but beyond a few extra antiphons there was very little difference from ordinary Evening Prayer. After Vespers I had a simple and solemn meal by myself, and I was wondering how I should get hold of a book to pass away the evening, when Brother Dunstan came in and asked me if I'd like to sit with the brethren in the library until the bell rang for simple silence a quarter of an hour before Compline at 9. 15, after which everybody--guests and monks--are expected to go to bed in solemn silence. The difference between simple silence and solemn silence is that you may ask necessary questions and get necessary replies during simple silence; but as far as I can make out, during solemn silence you wouldn't be allowed to tell anybody that you were dying, or if you did tell anybody, he wouldn't be able to do anything about it until solemn silence was over. 

 The other monks are Brother Jerome, the senior novice after Brother Dunstan, a pious but rather dull young man with fair hair and a squashed face, and Brother Raymond, attractive and bird-like, and considered a great Romanizer by the others. There is also Brother Walter, who is only a probationer and is not even allowed wide sleeves and a habit like Brother Lawrence, but has to wear a very moth-eaten cassock with a black band tied round it. Brother Walter had been marketing in High Thorpe (I wonder what the Bishop of Silchester thought if he saw him in the neighbourhood of the episcopal castle!) and having lost himself on the way home he had arrived back late for Vespers and was tremendously teased by the others in consequence. Brother Walter is a tall excitable awkward creature with black hair that sticks up on end and wide-open frightened eyes. His cassock is much too short for him both in the arms and in the legs; and as he has very large hands and very large feet, his hands and feet look still larger in consequence. They didn't talk about much that was interesting during recreation. Brother Dunstan and Brother Raymond were full of monkish jokes, at all of which Brother Walter laughed in a very high voice--so loudly once that Brother Jerome asked him if he would mind making less noise, as he was reading Montalembert's Monks of the West, at which Brother Walter fell into an abashed gloom. 

 I asked who the visitor in the ante-chapel was and was told that he was a Sir Charles Horner who owns the whole of Malford and who has presented the Order with the thirty acres on which the Abbey is built. Sir Charles is evidently an ecclesiastically-minded person and, I should imagine, rather pleased to be able to be the patron of a monastic order. 

 I will write you again when I have seen Father Burrowes. For the moment I'm inclined to think that Malford is rather playing at being monks; but as I said, the bigwigs are all away. Brother Dunstan is a delightful fellow, yet I shouldn't imagine that he would make a successful abbot for long. 

 I enjoyed Compline most of all my experiences during the day, after which I retired to my cell and slept without turning till the bell rang for Lauds and Prime, both said as one office at six o'clock, after which I should have liked a conventual Mass. But alas, there is no priest here and I have been spending the time till breakfast by writing you this endless letter. 

 Yours ever affectionately, Mark. 

 P. S. They don't say Mattins, which I'm inclined to think rather slack. But I suppose I oughtn't to criticize so soon. 

To those two letters of Mark's, the Rector replied as follows:

 The Rectory, Wych-on-the-Wold, Oxon. 

 June 29th. 

 My dear Mark, I cannot say frankly that I approve of your monastic scheme. I should have liked an opportunity to talk it over with you first of all, and I cannot congratulate you on your good manners in going off like that without any word. Although you are technically independent now, I think it would be a great mistake to sink your small capital of £500 in the Order of St. George, and you can't very well make use of them to pass the next two or three years without contributing anything. 

 The other objection to your scheme is that you may not get taken at Glastonbury. In any case the Glastonbury people will give the preference to Varsity men, and I'm not sure that they would be very keen on having an ex-monk. However, as I said, you are independent now and can choose yourself what you do. Meanwhile, I suppose it is possible that Burrowes may decide you have no vocation, in which case I hope you'll give up your monastic ambitions and come back here. 

 Yours affectionately, Stephen Ogilvie. 

Mark who had been growing bored in the guest-room of Malford Abbeynearly said farewell to it for ever when he received the Rector'sletter. His old friend and guardian was evidently wounded by hisbehaviour, and Mark considering what he owed him felt that he ought toabandon his monastic ambitions if by doing so he could repay the Rectorsome of his kindness. His hand was on the bell that should summon theguest-brother (when the bell was working and the guest-brother was not)in order to tell him that he had been called away urgently and to ask ifhe might have the Abbey cart to take him to the station; but at thatmoment Sir Charles Horner came in and began to chat affably to Mark. 

"I've been intending to come up and see you for the last three days. ButI've been so confoundedly busy. They wonder what we country gentlemen dowith ourselves. By gad, they ought to try our life for a change. "

Mark supposed that the third person plural referred to the whole body ofRadical critics. 

"You're the son of Lidderdale, I hear, " Sir Charles went on withoutgiving Mark time to comment on the hardship of his existence. "I visitedLima Street twenty-five years ago, before you were born that was. Yourfather was a great pioneer. We owe him a lot. And you've been withRowley lately? That confounded bishop. He's our bishop, you know. But hefinds it difficult to get at Burrowes except by starving him forpriests. The fellow's a time-server, a pusher . . . "

Mark began to like Sir Charles; he would have liked anybody who wouldabuse the Bishop of Silchester. 

"So you're thinking of joining my Order, " Sir Charles went on withoutgiving Mark time to say a word. "I call it my Order because I set themup here with thirty acres of uncleared copse. It gives the Tommiessomething to do when they come over here on furlough from Aldershot. You've never met Burrowes, I hear. "

Mark thought that Sir Charles for a busy man had managed to learn agreat deal about an unimportant person like himself. 

"Will Father Burrowes be here soon?" Mark inquired. 

"'Pon my word, I don't know. Nobody knows when he'll be anywhere. He'spreaching all over the place. He begs the deuce of a lot of money, youknow. Aren't you a friend of Dorward's? You were asking Brother Dunstanabout him. His parish isn't far from here. About fifteen miles, that'sall. He's an amusing fellow, isn't he? Has tremendous rows with hissquire, Philip Iredale. A pompous ass whose wife ran away from him alittle time ago. Served him right, Dorward told me in confidence. Youmust come and have lunch with me. There's only Lady Landells. I can'tafford to live in the big place. Huge affair with Doric portico and allthat, don't you know. It's let to Lord Middlesborough, the shipping man. I live at Malford Lodge. Quite a jolly little place I've made of it. Suits me better than that great gaunt Georgian pile. You'd better walkdown with me this morning and stop to lunch. "

Mark, who was by now growing tired of his own company in the guest-room, accepted Sir Charles' invitation with alacrity; and they walked downfrom the Abbey to the village of Malford, which was situated at theconfluence of the Mall and the Nodder, two diminutive tributaries of theWey, which itself is not a mighty stream. 

"A rather charming village, don't you think?" said Sir Charles, pointingwith his tasselled cane to a particularly attractive rose-hung cottage. "It was lucky that the railway missed us by a couple of miles; we shouldhave been festering with tin bungalows by now on any available land, which means on any land that doesn't belong to me. I don't offer to showyou the church, because I never enter it. "

Mark had paused as a matter of course by the lychgate, supposing thatwith a squire like Sir Charles the inside should be of unusual interest. 

"My uncle most outrageously sold the advowson to the Simeon Trustees, itbeing the only part of my inheritance he could alienate from me, whom heloathed. He knew nothing would enrage me more than that, and the resultis that I've got a fellow as vicar who preaches in a black gown and hasevening communion twice a month. That is why I took such pleasure inplanting a monastery in the parish; and if only that old time-server theBishop of Silchester would licence a chaplain to the community, I shouldget my Sunday Mass in my own parish despite my uncle's simeony, as Icall it. As it is with Burrowes away all the time raising funds, I don'tget a Mass at the Abbey and I have to go to the next parish, which isfour miles away and appears highly undignified for the squire. "

"And you can't get him out?" said Mark. 

"If I did get him out, I should be afflicted with another one just asbad. The Simeon Trustees only appoint people of the stamp of Mr. Choules, my present enemy. He's a horrid little man with a gaunt wifesix feet high who beats her children and, if village gossip be true, herhusband as well. Now you can see Malford Place, which is let toMiddlesborough, as I told you. "

Mark looked at the great Georgian house with its lawns and cedars andgateposts surmounted by stone wyverns. He had seen many of these greathouses in the course of his tramping; but he had never thought of thembefore except as natural features in the landscape; the idea that peoplecould consider a gigantic building like that as much a home as the smallhouses in which Mark had spent his life came over him now with a senseof novelty. 

"Ghastly affair, isn't it?" said the owner contemptuously. "I'd let itstand empty rather than live in it myself. It reeks of my uncle'smedicine and echoes with his gouty groans. Besides what is there in itthat's really mine?"

Mark who had been thinking what an easy affair life must be for SirCharles was struck by his tone of disillusionment. Perhaps all peoplewho inherited old names and old estates were affected by their awarenessof transitory possession. Sir Charles could not alienate even a piece offurniture. A middle-aged bachelor and a cosmopolitan, he would havemoved about the corridors and halls of that huge house with lesspermanency than Lord Middlesborough who paid him so well to walk aboutin it in his stead, and who was no more restricted by the terms of hislease than was his landlord by the conditions of the entail. Mark beganto feel sorry for him; but without cause, for when Sir Charles came insight of Malford Lodge where he lived, he was full of enthusiasm. It wasindeed a pretty little house of red brick, dating from the first quarterof the nineteenth century and like so many houses of that period builtclose to the road, surrounded too on three sides by a verandah of ironand copper in the pagoda style, thoroughly ugly, but by reason of themellow peacock hues time had given its roof, full of personality andcharm. They entered by a green door in the brick wall and crossed alawn sloping down to the little river to reach the shade of a tulip treein full bloom, where seated in one of those tall wicker garden chairsshaped like an alcove was an elderly lady as ugly as Priapus. 

"There's Lady Landells, who's a poetess, you know, " said Sir Charlesgravely. 

Mark accepted the information with equal gravity. He was stillunsophisticated enough to be impressed at hearing a woman called apoetess. 

"Mr. Lidderdale is going to have lunch with us, Lady Landells, " SirCharles announced. 

"Oh, is he?" Lady Landells replied in a cracked murmur of completeindifference. 

"He's a great admirer of your poems, " added Sir Charles, hearing whichLady Landells looked at Mark with her cod's eyes and by way of greetingoffered him two fingers of her left hand. 

"I can't read him any of my poems to-day, Charles, so pray don't ask meto do so, " the poetess groaned. 

"I'm going to show Mr. Lidderdale some of our pictures before lunch, "said Sir Charles. 

Lady Landells paid no attention; Mark, supposing her to be on the vergeof a poetic frenzy, was glad to leave her in that wicker alcove underthe tulip tree and to follow Sir Charles into the house. 

It was an astonishing house inside, with Gothic carving everywhere andwith ancient leaded casements built inside the sashed windows of theexterior. 

"I took an immense amount of trouble to get this place arranged to mytaste, " said Sir Charles; and Mark wondered why he had bothered toretain the outer shell, since that was all that was left of theoriginal. In every room there were copies, excellently done of picturesby Botticelli and Mantegna and other pre-Raphaelite painters; the wallswere rich with antique brocades and tapestries; the ceilings were gildedor elaborately moulded with fan traceries and groining; greatcandlesticks stood in every corner; the doors were all old withfloriated hinges and huge locks--it was the sort of house in whichVictor Hugo might have put on his slippers and said, "I am at home. "

"I admit nothing after 1520, " said Sir Charles proudly. 

Mark wondered why so fastidious a medievalist allowed the Order of St. George to erect those three tin tabernacles and to matchboard theinterior of the Abbey. But perhaps that was only another outer shellwhich would gradually be filled. 

Lunch was a disappointment, because when Sir Charles began to talk aboutthe monastery, which was what Mark had been wanting to talk about allthe morning, Lady Landells broke in:

"I am sorry, Charles, but I'm afraid that I must beg for completesilence at lunch, as I'm in the middle of a sonnet. "

The poetess sighed, took a large mouthful of food, and sighed again. 

After lunch Sir Charles took Mark to see his library, which reminded himof a Rossetti interior and lacked only a beautiful long-necked creature, full-lipped and auburn-haired, to sit by the casement languishing over acithern or gazing out through bottle-glass lights at a forlorn andforeshortened landscape of faerie land. 

"Poor Lady Landells was a little tiresome at lunch, " said Sir Charleshalf to himself. "She gets moods. Women seem never to grow out ofgetting moods. But she has always been most kind to me, and she insistson giving me anything I want for my house. Last year she was good enoughto buy it from me as it stands, so it's really her house, although shehas left it back to me in her will. She took rather a fancy to you bythe way. "

Mark, who had supposed that Lady Landells had regarded him with aversionand scorn, stared at this. 

"Didn't she give you her hand when you said good-bye?" asked SirCharles. 

"Her left hand, " said Mark. 

"Oh, she never gives her right hand to anybody. She has some fad aboutspoiling the magnetic current of Apollo or something. Now, what about awalk?"

Mark said he should like to go for a walk very much, but wasn't SirCharles too busy?

"Oh, no, I've nothing to do at all. "

Yet only that morning he had held forth to Mark at great length on theamount of work demanded for the management of an estate. 

"Now, why do you want to join Burrowes?" Sir Charles inquired presently. 

"Well, I hope to be a priest, and I think I should like to spend thenext two years out of the world. "

"Yes, that is all very well, " said Sir Charles, "but I don't know that Ialtogether recommend the O. S. G. I'm not satisfied with the way thingsare being run. However, they tell me that this fellow Brother George hasa good deal of common-sense. He has been running their house in Malta, where he's done some good work. I gave them the land to build a motherhouse so that they could train people for active service, as it were;but Burrowes keeps chopping and changing and sending untrained novicesto take charge of an important branch like Sandgate, and now sinceRowley left he talks of opening a priory in Chatsea. That's all verywell, and it's quite right of him to bear in mind that the main objectof the Order is to work among soldiers; but at the same time he leavesthis place to run itself, and whenever he does come down here he planssome hideous addition, to pay for which he has to go off preaching foranother three months, so that the Abbey gets looked after by a youngnovice of twenty-five. It's ridiculous, you know. I was grumbling at theBishop; but really I can understand his disinclination to countenanceBurrowes. I have hopes of Brother George, and I shall take an earlyopportunity of talking to him. "

Mark was discouraged by Sir Charles' criticism of the Order; and that itcould be criticized like this through the conduct of its founderaccentuated for him the gulf that lay between the English Church and therest of Catholic Christendom. 

It was not much solace to remember that every Benedictine community wasan independent congregation. One could not imagine the most independentcommunity's being placed in charge of a novice of twenty-five. It madeMark's proposed monastic life appear amateurish; and when he was back inthe matchboarded guest-room the impulse to abandon his project wasrevised. Yet he felt it would be wrong to return to Wych-on-the-Wold. The impulse to come here, though sudden, had been very strong, and togive it up without trial might mean the loss of an experience that oneday he should regret. The opinion of Sir Charles Horner might or mightnot be well founded; but it was bound to be a prejudiced opinion, because by constituting himself to the extent he had a patron of theOrder he must involuntarily expect that it should be conducted accordingto his views. Sir Charles himself, seen in perspective, was a tolerablyridiculous figure, too much occupied with the paraphernalia of worship, too well pleased with himself, a man of rank and wealth who judged bysevere standards was an old maid, and like all old maids critical, butnot creative. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE ORDER OF ST. GEORGE

The Order of St. George was started by the Reverend Edward Burrowes sixyears before Sir Charles Horner's gift of land for a Mother House ledhim to suppose that he had made his foundation a permanent factor in thereligious life of England. 

Edward Burrowes was the only son of a band-master in the Royal Artillerywho at an impressionable moment in the life of his son was stationed atMalta. The religious atmosphere of Malta combined with the romanticassociations of chivalry and the influence of his mother determined theboy's future. The band-master was puzzled and irritated by his son'secclesiastical bias. He thought that so much church-going argued anunhealthy preoccupation, and as for Edward's rhapsodies about theAuberge of Castile, which sheltered the Messes of the Royal Artilleryand the Royal Engineers, they made him sick, to use his own expression. 

"You make me sick, Ted, " he used to declare. "The sooner I get quit ofMalta and quartered at Woolwich again, the better I shall be pleased. "

When at last the band-master was moved to Woolwich, he hoped that theeffect of such prosaic surroundings would put an end to Ted's mooning, and that he would settle down to a career more likely to reward him inthis world rather than in that ambiguous world beyond to which hisdreams aspired. Edward, who was by this time seventeen and who had sofar submitted to his father's wishes as to be working in a solicitor'soffice, found that the effect of being banished from Malta was tostimulate him into a practical attempt to express his dreams ofreligious devotion. He hired a small room over a stable in a back streetand started a club for the sons of soldiers. The band-master would nothave minded this so much, especially when he was congratulated on hisson's enterprise by the wife of the Colonel. Unfortunately this was notenough for Edward, who having got the right side of an unscrupulouslyromantic curate persuaded him to receive his vows of a Benedictineoblate. The band-master, proud and fond though he might be of his ownuniform, objected to his son's arriving home from business and walkingabout the house in a cassock. He objected equally to finding that hisown musical gifts had with his son degenerated into a passion forplaying Gregorian chants on a vile harmonium. It was only considerationfor his delicate wife that kept the band-master from pitching bothcassock and harmonium into the street. The amateur oblate regretted hisfather's hostility; but he persevered with the manner of life he hadmarked out for himself, finding much comfort and encouragement inreading the lives of the saintly founders of religious orders. 

At last, after a long struggle against the difficulties that friends andfather put in his way, Edward Burrowes managed at the age oftwenty-seven to get ordained in Canada, whither, in despair of escapingotherwise from the solicitor's office, he had gone to seek his ownfortune. He took with him the oblate's cassock; but he left behind theharmonium, which his father kicked to pieces in rage at not being ableto kick his son. Burrowes worked as a curate in a dismal lakeside townin Ontario, consoling himself with dreams of monasticism and chivalry, and gaining a reputation as a preacher. His chief friend was a youngfarmer, called George Harvey, whom he succeeded in firing with his ownenthusiasm and whom he managed to persuade--which shows that Burrowesmust have had great powers of persuasion--to wear the habit of aBenedictine novice, when he came to spend Saturday night to Mondaymorning with his friend. By this time Burrowes had passed beyond theoblate stage, for having found a Canadian bishop willing to dispense himfrom that portion of the Benedictine rule which was incompatible withhis work as a curate in Jonesville, Ontario, he got himself clothed as anovice. About this period a third man joined Burrowes and Harvey intheir spare-time monasticism. This was John Holcombe, who had emigratedfrom Dorsetshire after an unfortunate love affair and who had been takenon by George Harvey as a carter. Holcombe was the son of a yeoman farmerthat owned several hundred acres of land. He had been educated atSherborne, and soon by his capacity and attractive personality he madehimself so indispensable to his employer that George Harvey's farm wasturned into a joint concern. No doubt Harvey's example was the immediatecause of Holcombe's associating himself with the little community: butit still says much for Burrowes' powers of persuasion that he shouldhave been able to impress this young Dorset farmer with the seriouspossibility of leading the monastic life in Ontario. 

When another year had passed, an opportunity arose of acquiring a betterfarm in Alberta. It was the Bishop of Alberta who had been sosympathetic with Burrowes' monastic aspirations; and, when Harvey andHolcombe decided to move to Moose Rib, Burrowes gave up his curacy tolead a regular monastic life, so far as one could lead a regularmonastic life on a farm in the North-west. 

Two more years had gone by when a letter arrived from England to tellGeorge Harvey that he was the heir to £12, 000. Burrowes had kept all hisinfluence over the young farmer, and he was actually able to persuadeHarvey to devote this fortune to founding the Order of St. George formission work among soldiers. There was some debate whether FatherBurrowes, Brother George, and Brother Birinus should take their finalvows immediately; but in the end Father Burrowes had his way, and theywere all three professed by the sympathetic Bishop of Alberta, whogranted them a constitution subject to the ratification of theArchbishop of Canterbury. Father Burrowes was elected Father Superior, Brother George was made Assistant Superior, and Brother Birinus had toconcentrate in his person various monastic offices just as on the MooseRib Farm he had combined in his person the duties of the various hands. 

The immediate objective of the new community was Malta, where it wasproposed to open their first house and where, in despite of theoutraged dignity of innumerable real monks already there, they made asuccessful beginning. A second house was opened at Gibraltar and put incharge of Brother Birinus. Neither Malta nor Gibraltar provided much ofa field for reinforcing the Order, which, if it was to endure, requiredadditional members. Father Burrowes proposed that he should go toEngland and open a house at Aldershot, and that, if he could obtain ahearing as a preacher, he should try to raise enough funds for a houseat Sandgate as well. Brother George and Brother Birinus in a solemnchapter of three accepted the proposal; the house at Gibraltar was givenup; the Father Superior went to seek the fortunes of the Order inEngland, while the other two remained at their work in Malta. FatherBurrowes was even more successful as a preacher than he hoped; ascribingthe steady flow of offertories to Divine favour, he instituted duringthe next four years, priories at Aldershot and Sandgate. He began tofeel the need of a Mother House, having now more than enough candidatesfor the Order of Saint George, where the novices could be suitablytrained to meet the stress of active mission work. One of his movingappeals for this object was heard by Sir Charles Horner who, for reasonshe had already explained to Mark and because underneath all hisecclesiasticism there did exist a genuine desire for the glory of God, had presented the land at Malford to the Order. Father Burrowes preachedharder than ever, addressed drawing-room meetings, and started a monthlymagazine called _The Dragon_ to raise the necessary money to build amighty abbey. Meanwhile, he had to be contented with those three tintabernacles. Brother George, who had remained all these years in Malta, suggested that it was time for somebody else to take his place outthere, and the Father Superior, although somewhat unwillingly, hadagreed to his coming to Malford. Not having heard of anybody whom at themoment he considered suitable to take charge of what was now a distantoutpost of the Order, he told Brother George to close the house. It wasat this stage in the history of the Order that Mark presented himself asa candidate for admission. 

Father Burrowes arrived unexpectedly two days after the lunch atMalford Lodge; and presently Brother Dunstan came to tell Mark that theReverend Father would see him in the Abbott's Parlour immediately afterNones. Mark thought that Sir Charles might have given a mediæval liningto this room at least, which with its roll-top desk looked like theoffice of the clerk of the works. 

"So you want to be a monk?" said Father Burrowes contemptuously. "Wantto dress up in a beautiful white habit, eh?"

"I really don't mind what I wear, " said Mark, trying not to appearruffled by the imputation of wrong motives. "But I do want to be a monk, yes. "

"You can't come here to play at it, " said the Superior, looking keenlyat Mark from his bright blue eyes and lighting up a large pipe. 

"Curiously enough, " said Mark, who had forgotten the Benedictineinjunction to discourage newcomers that seek to enter a community, "Iwrote to my guardian a few days ago that my impression of Malford Abbeywas rather that it was playing at being monks. "

The Superior flushed to a vivid red. He was a burly man of faircomplexion, inclined to plumpness, and with a large mobile moutheloquent and sensual. His hands were definitely fat, the backs of themcovered with golden hairs and freckles. 

"So you're a critical young gentleman, are you? I suppose we're notCatholic enough for you. Well, " he snapped, "I'm afraid you won't suitus. We don't want you. Sorry. "

"I'm sorry too, " said Mark. "But I thought you would prefer frankness. If you will spare me a few minutes, I'll explain why I want to join theOrder of St. George. If when you've heard what I have to say you stillthink that I'm not suitable, I shall recognize your right to be of thatopinion from your experience of many young men like myself who have beentried and found wanting. "

"Did you learn that speech by heart?" the Superior inquired, raising hiseyebrows mockingly. 

"I see you're determined to find fault, " Mark laughed. "But, ReverendFather, surely you will listen to my reasons before deciding againstthem or me?"

"My instinct tells me you'll be no good to us. But if you insist onwasting my time, fire ahead. Only please remember that, though I may bea monk, I'm a very busy man. "

Mark gave a full account of himself until the present and wound up bysaying:

"I don't think I have any sentimental reasons for wanting to enter amonastery. I like working among soldiers and sailors. I am ready to putdown £200 and I hope to be of use. I wish to be a priest, and if youfind or I find that when the time comes for me to be ordained I shallmake a better secular priest, at any rate, I shall have had theadvantage of a life of discipline and you, I promise, will have had anovice who will have regarded himself as such, but yet will have learntsomehow to have justified your confidence. "

The Superior looked down at his desk pondering. Presently he opened aletter and threw a quick suspicious glance at Mark. 

"Why didn't you tell me that you had an introduction from Sir CharlesHorner?"

"I didn't know that I had, " Mark answered in some astonishment. "I onlymet him here a few days ago for the first time. He invited me to lunch, and he was very pleasant; but I never asked him to write to you, nor didhe suggest doing so. "

"Have you any vices?" Father Burrowes asked abruptly. 

"I don't think--what do you mean exactly?" Mark inquired. 

"Drink?"

"No, certainly not. "

"Women?"

Mark flushed. 

"No. " He wondered if he should speak of the episode of St. John's evesuch a short time ago; but he could not bring himself to do so, and herepeated the denial. 

"You seem doubtful, " the Superior insisted. 

"As a matter of fact, " said Mark, "since you press this point I oughtto tell you that I took a vow of celibacy when I was sixteen. "

Father Burrowes looked at him sharply. 

"Did you indeed? That sounds very morbid. Don't you like women?"

"I don't think a priest ought to marry. I was told by Sir Charles thatyou vowed yourself to the monastic life when you were not much more thanseventeen. Was that morbid?"

The Superior laughed boisterously, and Mark glad to have put him in agood humour laughed with him. It was only after the interview was overthat the echo of that laugh sounded unpleasantly in the caves of memory, that it rang false somehow like a denial of himself. 

"Well, I suppose we must try you as a probationer at any rate, " said theSuperior. And suddenly his whole manner changed. He became affectionateand sentimental as he put his hand on Mark's shoulder. 

"I hope, dear lad, that you will find a vocation to serve our dear Lordin the religious life. God bless you and give you endurance in the pathyou have chosen. "

Mark reproached himself for his inclination to dislike the ReverendFather to whom he now owed filial affection, piety, and respect, apartfrom what he owed him as a Christian of Christian charity. He shouldgain but small spiritual benefit from his self-chosen experiment if thiswas the mood in which he was beginning his monastic life; and whenBrother Jerome, who was acting novice-master, began to instruct him inhis monastic duty, he made up his mind to drive out that demon ofcriticism or rather to tame it to his own service by criticizinghimself. He wrote on markers for his favourite devotional books:

_Observe at every moment of the day the good in others, the evil inthyself; and when thou liest awake in the night remember only what goodthou hast found in others, what evil in thyself. _

This was Mark's addition to Thomas a Kempis, to Mother Juliana ofNorwich, to Jeremy Taylor and William Law; this was Mark's sprout ofholy wisdom among the Little Flowers of Saint Francis. 

The Rule of Malford was not a very austere adaptation of the Rule ofSaint Benedict; and, with the Reverend Father departing after Mark hadbeen admitted as a probationer and leaving the administration of theAbbey to the priority of Brother Dunstan, a good deal of what austerityhad been retained was now relaxed. 

The Night Office was not said at Malford, where the liturgical worshipof the day began with Lauds and Prime at six. On Mark devolved the dutyof waking the brethren in the morning, which was done by striking thedoor of each cell with a hammer and saying: _The Lord be with you_, whereupon the sleeping brother must rise from his couch and open thedoor of his cell to make the customary response. After Lauds and Prime, which lasted about half an hour, the brethren retired to their cells toput them in order for the day and to meditate until seven o'clock, unless they had been given tasks out of doors. At seven o'clock, ifthere was a priest in the monastery, Mass was said; otherwise meditationand study was prolonged until eight o'clock, when breakfast was eaten. Those who had work in the fields or about the house departed afterbreakfast to their tasks. At nine Terce was said, which was not attendedby the brethren working out of doors; at twelve Sext was said attendedby all the brethren, and at twelve-fifteen dinner was eaten. Afterdinner, the brethren retired to their cells and meditated until oneo'clock, when their various duties were resumed, interrupted only in thecase of those working indoors by the office of None at three o'clock. Ata quarter to five the bell rang for tea. Simple silence was relaxed, andthe brethren enjoyed their recreation until six-fifteen when the bellrang for a quarter of an hour's solemn silence before Vespers. Supperwas eaten after Vespers, and after supper, which was finished abouteight o'clock, there was reading and recreation until the bell rang forCompline at nine-fifteen. This office said, solemn silence was notbroken until the response to the _dominus vobiscum_ in the morning. Therule of simple silence was not kept very strictly at this period. Twobrethren working in the garden in these hot July days found thatpermitted conversation about the immediate matter in hand, say thewhereabouts of a trowel or a hoe, was easily extended into observationsabout the whereabouts of Brother So-and-So during Terce or the wayBrother Somebody-else was late with the antiphon. From the littleincidents of the Abbey's daily round the conversation was easilyextended into a discussion of the policy of the Order in general. Speculations where the Reverend Father was preaching that evening orthat morning and whether his offertories would be as large during thesummer as they had been during the spring were easily amplified fromdiscussions about the general policy of the Order into discussions aboutthe general policy of Christendom, the pros and cons of the Romanposition, the disgraceful latitudinarianism of bishops and deans; andstill more widely amplified from remarks upon the general policy ofChristendom into arguments about the universe and the great philosophiesof humanity. Thus Mark, who was an ardent Platonist, would find himselfat odds with Brother Jerome who was an equally ardent Aristotelian, while the weeds, taking advantage of the philosophic contest, grewfaster than ever. 

Whatever may have been Brother Dunstan's faults of indulgence, theysprang from a debonair and kindly personality which shone like a sunupon the little family and made everybody good-humoured, even BrotherLawrence, who was apt to be cross because he had been kept a postulantlonger than he expected. But perhaps the happiest of all was BrotherWalter, who though still a probationer was now the senior probationer, astatus which afforded him the most profound satisfaction and gave him akindly feeling toward Mark who was the cause of promotion. 

"And the Reverend Father has promised me that I shall be clothed as apostulant on August 10th when Brother Lawrence is to be clothed as anovice. The thought makes me so excited that I hardly know what to dosometimes, and I still don't know what saint's name I'm going to take. You see, there was some mystery about my birth, and I was called Walterbecause I was found by a policeman in Walter Street, and as ill-luckwould have it there's no St. Walter. Of course, I know I have a verywide choice of names, but that is what makes it so difficult. I hadrather a fancy to be Peter, but he's such a very conspicuous saint thatit struck me as being a little presumptuous. Of course, I have no doubtwhatever that St. Peter would take me under his protection, for if youremember he was a modest saint, a very modest saint indeed who asked tobe crucified upside down, not liking to show the least sign ofcompetition with our dear Lord. I should very much like to call myselfBrother Paul, because at the school I was at we were taken twice a yearto see St. Paul's Cathedral and had toffee when we came home. I lookback to those days as some of the happiest of my life. There again itdoes seem to be putting yourself up rather to take the name of a greatsaint like St. Paul. Then I thought of taking William after the littleSt. William of Norwich who was murdered by the Jews. That seems going tothe other extreme, doesn't it, for though I know that out of the mouthsof babes and sucklings shall come forth praise, one would like to feelone had for a patron saint somebody a little more conspicuous than ababy. I wish you'd give me a word of advice. I think about this problemuntil sometimes my head's in a regular whirl, and I lose my place in theOffice. Only yesterday at Sext, I found myself saying the antiphonproper to St. Peter a fortnight after St. Peter's day had passed andgone, which seems to show that my mind is really set upon being BrotherPeter, doesn't it? And yet I don't know. He is so very conspicuous allthrough the Gospels, isn't he?"

"Then why don't you compromise, " suggested Mark, "and call yourselfBrother Simon?"

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" Brother Walter exclaimed, clapping hishands. "Oh, thank you, Brother Mark. That has solved all mydifficulties. Oh, do let me pull up that thistle for you. "

Brother Walter the probationer resumed his weeding with joyful ferocityof purpose, his mind at peace in the expectation of shortly becomingBrother Simon the postulant. 

What Mark enjoyed most in his personal relations with the community werethe walks on Sunday afternoons. Sir Charles Horner made a habit ofjoining these to obtain the Abbey gossip and also because he tookpleasure in hearing himself hold forth on the management of his estate. Most of his property was woodland, and the walks round Malford possessedthat rich intimacy of the English countryside at its best. Mark was notmuch interested in what Sir Charles had to ask or in what Sir Charleshad to tell or in what Sir Charles had to show, but to find himselfwalking with his monastic brethren in their habits down glades of mightyoaks, or through sparse plantations of birches, beneath which grewbrakes of wild raspberries that would redden with the yellowing corn, gave him as assurance of that old England before the Reformation towhich he looked back as to a Golden Age. Years after, when much that wasgood and much that was bad in his monastic experience had beenforgotten, he held in his memory one of these walks on a fine afternoonat July's end within the octave of St. Mary Magdalene. It happened thatSir Charles had not accompanied the monks that Sunday; but in his placewas an old priest who had spent the week-end as a guest in the Abbey andwho had said Mass for the brethren that morning. This had given Markdeep pleasure, because it was the Sunday after Esther's profession, andhe had been able to make his intention her present joy and futurehappiness. He had been silent throughout the walk, seeming to listen inturn to Brother Dunstan's rhapsodies about the forthcoming arrival ofBrother George and Brother Birinus with all that it meant to him ofresponsibility more than he could bear removed from his shoulders; or toBrother Raymond's doubts if it should not be made a rule that when nopriest was in the Abbey the brethren ought to walk over to Wivelrod, thechurch Sir Charles attended four miles away, or to Brother Jerome'sdisclaimer of Roman sympathies in voicing his opinion that the Officeshould be said in Latin. Actually he paid little attention to any ofthem, his thoughts being far away with Esther. They had chosen HollybushDown for their walk that Sunday, because they thought that the view overmany miles of country would please the ancient priest. Seated on theshort aromatic grass in the shade of a massive hawthorn full-berriedwith tawny fruit, the brethren looked down across a slope dotted withjunipers to the view outspread before them. None spoke, for it had beenwarm work in their habits to climb the burnished grass. It would havebeen hard to explain the significance of that group, unless it were dueto some haphazard achievement of perfect form; yet somehow for Mark thatmoment was taken from time and placed in eternity, so that wheneverafterward in his life he read about the Middle Ages he was able to bewhat he read, merely by re-conjuring that monkish company in the shadeof that hawthorn tree. 

On their way back to the Abbey Mark found himself walking with Mr. Lamplugh, the ancient priest, who turned out to have known his father. 

"Dear me, are you really the son of James Lidderdale? Why, I used to goand preach at Lima Street in old days long before your father married. And so you're Lidderdale's son. Now I wonder why you want to be a monk. "

Mark gave an account of himself since he left school and tried to givesome good reasons why he was at Malford. 

"And so you were with Rowley? Well, really you ought to know somethingabout missions by now. But perhaps you're tired of mission workalready?" the old priest inquired with a quick glance at Mark as if hewould see how much of the real stuff existed underneath thatprobationer's cassock. 

"This is an active Order, isn't it?" Mark countered. "Of course, I'm nottired of mission work. But after being with Father Rowley and being keptbusy all the time I found that being at home in the country made meidle. I told the Reverend Father that I hoped to be ordained as asecular priest and that I did not imagine I had any vocation for thecontemplative life. I have as a matter of fact a great longing for it. But I don't think that twenty-one is a good age for being quite sure ifthat longing is not mere sentiment. I suppose you think I'm justindulging myself with the decorative side of religion, Father Lamplugh?I really am not. I can assure you that I'm far too much accustomed tothe decorative side to be greatly influenced by it. "

The old priest laid a thin hand on Mark's sleeve. 

"To tell the truth, my dear boy, I was on the verge of violating thedecencies of accepted hospitality by criticizing the Order of which youhave become a probationer. I am just a little doubtful about theefficacy of its method of training young men. However, it really is notmy business, and I hope that I am wrong. But I _am_ a little doubtful ifall these excellent young brethren are really desirous . . . No, I'llnot say another word, I've already disgracefully exceeded thelimitations to criticism that courtesy alone demands of me. I wascarried away by my interest in you when I heard whose son you were. Whata debt we owe to men like your father and Rowley! And here am I atseventy-six after a long and useless life presuming to criticize otherpeople. God forgive me!" The old man crossed himself. 

That afternoon and evening recreation was unusually noisy, and duringVespers one or two of the brethren were seized with an attack of gigglesbecause Brother Lawrence, who was in a rapt condition of mind owing tothe near approach of St. Lawrence's day when he was to be clothed as anovice, tripped while he was holding back the cope during the censing ofthe _Magnificat_ and falling on his knees almost upset Father Lamplugh. There was no doubt that the way Brother Lawrence stuck out his lower jawwhen he was self-conscious was very funny; but Mark wished that thegiggling had not occurred in front of Father Lamplugh. He wished toothat during recreation after supper Brother Raymond would be lessskittish and Brother Dunstan less arch in the manner of reproving him. 

"Holy simplicity is all very well, " Mark thought. "But holy imbecilityis a great bore, especially when there is a stranger present. "

Luckily Father Burrowes came back the following week, and Mark'sdeepening impression of the monastery's futility was temporarilyobliterated by the exciting news that the Bishop of Alberta whom thebrethren were taught to reverence as a second founder would be the guestof the Order on St. Lawrence's day and attend the profession of BrotherAnselm. Mark had not yet seen Brother Anselm, who was the brother incharge of the Aldershot priory, and he welcomed the opportunity ofwitnessing those solemn final vows. He felt that he should gain muchfrom meeting Brother Anselm, whose work at Aldershot was consideredafter the Reverend Father's preaching to be the chief glory of theOrder. Brother Lawrence was a little jealous that his name day, on whichhe was to be clothed in Chapter as a novice, should be chosen for themuch more important ceremony, and he spoke sharply to poor BrotherWalter when the latter rejoiced in the added lustre Brother Anselm'sprofession would shed upon his own promotion. 

"You must remember, Brother, " he said, "that you'll probably remain apostulant for a very long time. "

"But not for ever, " replied poor Brother Walter in a depressed tone ofvoice. 

"There may not be time to attend to you, " said Brother Lawrencespitefully. "You may have to wait until the Bishop has gone. "

"Oh dear, oh dear, " sighed Brother Walter looking woeful. "Brother Mark, do you hear what they say?"

"Never mind, " said Mark, "we'll take our final vows together whenBrother Lawrence is still a doddering old novice. "

Brother Lawrence clicked his tongue and bit his under lip in disgust atsuch a flippant remark. 

"What a thing to say, " he muttered, and burying his hands in his sleeveshe walked off disdainfully, his jaw thrust before him. 

"Like a cow-catcher, " Mark thought with a smile. 

The Bishop of Alberta was a dear old gentleman with silvery hair and acomplexion as fresh and pink as a boy's. With his laced rochet andpurple biretta he lent the little matchboarded chapel an exoticsplendour when he sat in a Glastonbury chair beside the altar during theOffice. The more ritualistic of the brethren greatly enjoyed giving himreverent genuflexions and kissing his episcopal ring. Brother Raymond'sbehaviour towards him was like that of a child who has been presentedwith a large doll to play with, a large doll that can be dressed andundressed at the pleasure of its owner with nothing to deter him excepta faint squeak of protest such as the Bishop himself occasionallyemitted. 

CHAPTER XXV

SUSCIPE ME, DOMINE

Brother Anselm was to arrive on the vigil of St. Lawrence. NormallyBrother Walter would have been sent to meet him with the Abbey cart atthe station three miles away. But Brother Walter was in a state of suchexcitement over his near promotion to postulant that it was notconsidered safe to entrust him with the pony. So Mark was sent in hisplace. It was a hot August evening with thunder clouds lying heavy onthe Malford woods when Mark drove down the deep lanes to the junction, wondering what Brother Anselm would be like and awed by the imaginationof Brother Anselm's thoughts in the train that was bringing him fromAldershot to this momentous date of his life's history. Almost before heknew what he was saying Mark was quoting from _Romeo and Juliet_:

 _My mind misgives_ _Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, _ _Shall bitterly begin his fearful date_ _With this night's revels. _

"Now why should I have thought that?" he asked himself, and he was justdeciding that it was merely a verbal sequence of thought when the firstfar-off peal of thunder muttered a kind of menacing contradiction of soeasy an explanation. It would be raining soon; Mark thumped the pony'sangular haunches, and tried to feel cheerful in the oppressive air. 

Brother Anselm did not appear as Mark had pictured him. Instead of thelithe enthusiast with flaming eyes he saw a heavily built man withblunted features, wearing powerful horn spectacles, his expressionmorose, his movements ungainly. He had, however, a mellow and strangelysympathetic voice, in which Mark fancied that he perceived the power hewas reputed to wield over the soldiers for whose well-being he fought sohard. Mark would have liked to ask him about life in the Aldershotpriory; perhaps if Brother Anselm had been less taciturn, he would havebroken if not the letter at any rate the spirit of the Rule by beggingthe senior to ask for his services in the Priory. But no sooner werethey jogging back to Malford than the rain came down in a deluge, andBrother Anselm, pulling the hood of his frock over his head, was moreunapproachable than ever. Mark wished that he had a novice's frock andhood, for the rain was pouring down the back of his neck and thethreadbare cassock he wore was already drenched. 

"Thank you, Brother, " said the new-comer when the Abbey was attained. 

It was dark by now, and, with nothing visible of the speaker except hiswhite habit in the gloom, the voice might have been the voice of aheavenly visitant, so rarely sweet, so gentle and harmonious were thetones. Mark was much moved by that brief recognition of himself. 

The wind rose high during the night; listening to it roaring through thecoppice in which the Abbey was built, Mark lay awake for a long time inmute prayer that Brother Anselm might find peace and felicity in his newstate. And while he prayed for Brother Anselm he prayed for Esther inShoreditch. In the morning when Mark went from cell to cell, rousing thebrethren from sleep with his hammer and salutation, the sun was climbinga serene and windless sky. The familiar landscape was become a mountaintop. Heaven was very near. 

Mark was glad that the day was so fair for the profession of BrotherAnselm, and at Lauds the antiphon, versicle, and response proper to St. Lawrence appealed to him by their fitness to the occasion, _Gold is tried in the fire: and acceptable men in the furnace ofadversity. _

 _V. The Righteous shall grow as a lily. _ _R. He shall flourish for ever before the Lord. _

Mark concerned himself less with his own reception as a postulant. Thedistinction between a probationer and a postulant was very slight, really an arbitrary one made by Father Burrowes for his own convenience, and until he had to decide whether he should petition to be clothed as anovice Mark did not feel that he was called upon to take himself tooseriously as a monk. For that reason he did not change his name, butpreferred to stay Brother Mark. The little ceremony of reception wascarried through in Chapter before the brethren went into the Oratory tosay Terce, and Brother Walter was so much excited when he heard himselfaddressed as Brother Simon that for a moment it seemed doubtful if hewould be sufficiently calm to attend the profession of Brother Anselm atthe conventual Mass. However, during the clothing of Brother Lawrence asa novice Brother Simon quieted down, and even gave over counting thethree knots in the rope with which he had been girdled. Ordinarily, Brother Lawrence would have been clothed after Mass, but this morning itwas felt that such a ceremony coming after the profession of BrotherAnselm would be an anti-climax, and it was carried through in Chapter. It took Brother Lawrence all he had ever heard and read about humilityand obedience not to protest at the way his clothing on his own saint'sday, for which he had been made to wait nearly a year, was being carriedthrough in such a hole in the corner fashion. But he fixed his mind uponthe torments of the blessed archdeacon on the gridiron and succeeded inkeeping his temper. 

Mark felt that the profession of Brother Anselm lost some of its dignityby the absence of Brother George and Brother Birinus, the only otherprofessed members of the Order apart from Father Burrowes himself. Itstruck him as slightly ludicrous that a few young novices and postulantsshould represent the venerable choir-monks whom one pictured at such aceremony from one's reading of the Rule of St. Benedict. Moreover, Father Burrowes never presented himself to Mark's imagination as anauthentic abbot. Nor indeed was he such. Malford Abbey was a courtesytitle, and such monastic euphemisms as the Abbot's Parlour and theAbbot's Lodgings to describe the matchboarded apartments sacred to theFather Superior, while they might please such ecclesiastical enthusiastsas Brother Raymond, appealed to Mark as pretentious and somewhat silly. In fact, if it had not been for the presence of the Bishop of Alberta incope and mitre Mark would have found it hard, when after Terce thebrethren assembled in the Chapter-room to hear Brother Anselm make hisfinal petition, to believe in the reality of what was happening, tobelieve, when Brother Anselm in reply to the Father Superior'sexhortation chose the white cowl and scapular (which in the Order of St. George differentiated the professed monk from the novice) and rejectedthe suit of dittos belonging to his worldly condition, that he waspassing through moments of greater spiritual importance than any sincehe was baptized or than any he would pass through before he stood uponthe threshold of eternity. 

But this was a transient scepticism, a fleeting discontent, whichvanished when the brethren formed into procession and returned to theoratory singing the psalm: _In Convertendo_. 

 _When the Lord turned again the captivity of Sion: then were we like unto them, that dream. _

 _Then was our mouth filled with laughter: and our tongue with joy. _

 _Then said they among the heathen: The Lord hath done great things for them. _

 _Yea, the Lord hath done great things for us already: whereof we rejoice. _

 _Turn our captivity, O Lord: as the rivers in the south. _

 _They that sow in tears: shall reap in joy. _

 _He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed: shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him. _

The Father Superior of the Order sang the Mass, while the Bishop ofAlberta seated in his Glastonbury chair suffered with an expression ofchildlike benignity the ritualistic ministrations of Brother Raymond, the ceremonial doffing and donning of his mitre. It was very still inthe little Oratory, for it was the season when birds are hushed; andeven Sir Charles Horner who was all by himself in the ante-chapel didnot fidget or try to peep through the heavy brocaded curtains that shutout the quire. Mark dared not look up when at the offertory BrotherAnselm stood before the Altar and answered the solemn interrogations ofthe Father Superior, question after question about his faith andendurance in the life he desired to enter. And to every question heanswered clearly _I will_. The Father Superior took the parchment onwhich were written the vows and read aloud the document. Then it wasplaced upon the Altar, and there upon that sacrificial stone BrotherAnselm signed his name to a contract with Almighty God. The holy calmthat shed itself upon the scene was like a spell on every heart that wasbeating there in unison with the heart of him who was drawing nearer toHeaven. Prostrating himself, the professed monk prayed first to God theFather:

 _O receive me according to thy word that I may live; and let me not be disappointed of my hope. _

The hearts that beat in unison with his took up the prayer, and thevoices of his brethren repeated it word for word. And now the professedmonk prayed to God the Son:

 _O receive me according to thy word that I may live; and let me not be disappointed of my hope. _

Once more his brethren echoed the entreaty. 

And lastly the professed monk prayed to God the Holy Ghost:

 _O receive me according to thy word that I may live; and let me not be disappointed of my hope. _

For the third time his brethren echoed the entreaty, and then one andall in that Oratory cried:

 _Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. _

There followed prayers that the peace of God might be granted to theprofessed monk to enable him worthily to perform the vows which he hadmade, and before the blessing and imposition of the scapular the Bishoprose to speak in tones of deep emotion:

"Brethren, I scarcely dared to hope, when, now nearly ten years ago, Ireceived the vows of your Father Superior as a novice, that I should oneday be privileged to be present at this inspiring ceremony. Nor evenwhen five years ago in the far north-west of Canada I professed yourFather Superior and those two devoted souls who will soon be with you, now that their work in Malta is for the time finished, did I expect tofind myself in this beautiful Oratory which your Order owes to thegenerosity of a true son of the Church. My heart goes out to you, and Ithank God humbly that He has vouchsafed to hear my prayers and bless theenterprise from which I had indeed expected much, but which Almighty Godhas allowed to prosper more, far more, than I ventured to hope. All mydays I have longed to behold the restoration of the religious life toour country, and now when my eyes are dim with age I am granted theineffable joy of beholding what for too long in my weakness and lack offaith I feared was never likely to come to pass. 

"The profession of our dear brother this morning is, I pray, an earnestof many professions at Malford. May these first vows placed upon theAltar of this Oratory be blessed by Almighty God! May our brother besteadfast and happy in his choice! Brethren, I had meant to speak moreand with greater eloquence, but my heart is too full. The Lord be withyou. "

Now Brother Anselm was clothed in the blessed habit while the brethrensang:

 _Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, _ _And lighten with celestial fire. _

The Father Superior of the Order gave him the paternal kiss. He beggedthe prayers of his brethren there assembled, and drawing the hood of hiscowl over his head prostrated himself again before the Altar. The Massproceeded. 

If the strict Benedictine usage had been followed at Malford, BrotherAnselm would have remained apart from the others for three days ofterhis profession, wrapped in his cowl, alone with God. But he was anxiousto go back to Aldershot that very afternoon, excusing himself becauseBrother Chad, left behind in charge of the Priory, would be overwhelmedby his various responsibilities. Brother Dunstan, who had weptthroughout the ceremony of the profession, was much upset by BrotherAnselm's departure. He had hoped to achieve great exaltation of spiritby Brother Anselm's silent presence. He began to wonder if the newlyprofessed monk appreciated his position. Had himself been granted whatBrother Anselm had been granted, he should have liked to spend a week incontemplation of the wonder which had befallen him. Brother Dunstanasked himself if his thoughts were worthy of a senior novice, of one whohad for a while acted as Prior and been accorded the address of ReverendBrother. He decided that they were not, and as a penance he begged forthe nib with which Brother Anselm had signed his profession. This hewore round his neck as an amulet against unbrotherly thoughts and as apledge of his own determination to vow himself eternally to the serviceof God. 

Mark was glad that Brother Anselm was going back so soon to his activework. It was an assurance that the Order of St. George did have activework to do; and when he was called upon to drive Brother Anselm to thestation he made up his mind to conquer his shyness and hint that heshould be glad to serve the Order in the Priory at Aldershot. 

This time, notwithstanding that he had a good excuse to draw his hoodclose, Brother Anselm showed himself more approachable. 

"If the Reverend Father suggests your name, " he promised Mark, "I shallbe glad to have you with us. Brother Chad is simply splendid, and theTommies are wonderful. It's quite right of course to have a MotherHouse, but. . . . " He broke off, disinclined to criticize the directionof the Order's policy to a member so junior as Mark. 

"Oh, I'm not asking you to do anything yet awhile, " Mark explained. "Iquite realize that I have a great deal to learn before I should be anyuse at Aldershot or Sandgate. I hope you don't mind my talking likethis. But until this morning I had not really intended to remain in theOrder. My hope was to be ordained as soon as I was old enough. Now sincethis morning I feel that I do long for the spiritual support of acommunity for my own feeble aspirations. The Bishop's words moved metremendously. It wasn't what he said so much, but I was filled with allhis faith and I could have cried out to him a promise that I for onewould help to carry on the restoration. At the same time, I know thatI'm more fitted for active work, not by any good I expect to do, but forthe good it will do me. I suppose you'd say that if I had a truevocation I shouldn't be thinking about what part I was going to play inthe life of the Order, but that I should be content to do whatever I wastold. I'm boring you?" Mark broke off to inquire, for Brother Anselm wasstaring in front of him through his big horn spectacles like an owl. 

"No, no, " said the senior. "But I'm not the novice-master. Who is, bythe way?"

"Brother Jerome. "

The other did not comment on this information, but Mark was sure that hewas trying not to look contemptuous. 

Soon the junction came in sight, and from down the line the white smokeof a train approaching. 

"Hurry, Brother, I don't want to miss it. "

Mark thumped the haunches of the pony and drove up just in time forBrother Anselm to escape. 

"Thank you, Brother, " said that same voice which yesterday, onlyyesterday night, had sounded so rarely sweet. Here on this mellow Augustafternoon it was the voice of the golden air itself, and the shriek ofthe engine did not drown its echoes in Mark's soul where all the wayback to Malford it was chiming like a bell. 

CHAPTER XXVI

ADDITION

Mark's ambition to go and work at Aldershot was gratified before the endof August, because Brother Chad fell ill, and it was consideredadvisable to let him spend a long convalescence at the Abbey. 

 The Priory, 17, Farnborough Villas, Aldershot. 

 St. Michael and All Angels. 

 My dear Rector, I don't think you'll be sorry to read from the above address that I've been transferred from Malford to one of the active branches of the Order. I don't accept your condemnation of the Abbey as pseudo-monasticism, though I can quite well understand that my account of it might lead you to make such a criticism. The trouble with me is that my emotions and judgment are always quarrelling. I suppose you might say that is true of most people. It's like the palmist who tells everybody that he is ruled by his head or his heart, as the case may be. But when one approaches the problem of religion (let alone what is called the religious life) one is terribly perplexed to know which is to be obeyed. I don't think that you can altogether rule out emotion as a touchstone of truth. The endless volumes of St. Thomas Aquinas, through which I've been wading, do not cope with the fact that the whole of his vast intellectual and severely logical structure is built up on the assumption of faith, which is the gift of emotion, not judgment. The whole system is a petitio principii really. 

 I did not mean to embark on a discussion of the question of the Ultimate Cause of religion, but to argue with you about the religious life! The Abbot Paphnutius told Cassian that there were three sorts of vocation--ex Deo, per hominem, and ex necessitate. Now suppose I have a vocation, mine is obviously per hominem. I inherit the missionary spirit from my father. That spirit was fostered by association with Rowley. My main object in entering the Order of St. George was to work among soldiers, not because I felt that soldiers needed "missionizing" more than any other class, but because the work at Chatsea brought me into contact with both sailors and soldiers, and turned my thoughts in their direction. I also felt the need of an organization behind my efforts. My first impulse was to be a preaching friar, but that would have laid too much on me as an individual, and from lack of self-confidence, youthfulness, want of faith perhaps, I was afraid. Well, to come back to the Abbot Paphnutius and his three vocations--it seems fairly clear that the first, direct from God, is a better vocation than the one which is inspired by human example, or the third, which arises from the failure of everything else. At the same time they ARE all three genuine vocations. What applies to the vocation seems to me to apply equally to the community. What you stigmatize as our pseudo-monasticism is still experimental, and I think I can see the Reverend Father's idea. He has had a great deal of experience with an Order which began so amateurishly, if I may use the word, that nobody could have imagined that it would grow to the size and strength it has reached in ten years. The Bishop of Alberta revealed much to us of our beginnings during his stay at the Abbey, and after I had listened to him I felt how presumptuous it was for me to criticize the central source of the religious life we are hoping to spread. You see, Rector, I must have criticized it implicitly in my letters to you, for your objections are simply the expression of what I did not like to say, but what I managed to convey through the medium of would-be humorous description. One hears of the saving grace of humour, but I'm not sure that humour is a saving grace. I rather wish that I had no sense of humour. It's a destructive quality. All the great sceptics have been humourists. Humour is really a device to secure human comfort. Take me. I am inspired to become a preaching friar. I instantly perceive the funny side of setting out to be a preaching friar. I tell myself that other people will perceive the funny side of it, and that consequently I shall do no good as a preaching friar. Yes, humour is a moisture which rusts everything except gold. As a nation the Jews have the greatest sense of humour, and they have been the greatest disintegrating force in the history of mankind. The Scotch are reputed to have no sense of humour, and they are morally the most impressive nation in the world. What humour is allowed them is known as dry humour. The corroding moisture has been eliminated. They are still capable of laughter, but never so as to interfere with their seriousness in the great things of life. I remember I once heard a tiresome woman, who was striving to be clever, say that Our Lord could not have had much sense of humour or He would not have hung so long on the Cross. At the time I was indignant with the silly blasphemy, but thinking it over since I believe that she was right, and that, while her only thought had been to make a remark that would create a sensation in the room, she had actually hit on the explanation of some of Our Lord's human actions. And his lack of humour is the more conspicuous because he was a Jew. I was reading the other day a book of essays by one of our leading young latitudinarian divines, in which he was most anxious to prove that Our Lord had all the graces of a well-bred young man about town, including a pretty wit. He actually claimed that the pun on Peter's name was an example of Our Lord's urbane and genial humour! It gives away the latitudinarian position completely. They're really ashamed of Christianity. They want to bring it into line with modern thought. They hope by throwing overboard the Incarnation, the Resurrection of the Body, and the Ascension, to lighten the ship so effectually that it will ride buoyantly over the billows of modern knowledge. But however lightly the ship rides, she will still be at sea, and it would be the better if she struck on the rock of Peter and perished than that she should ride buoyantly but aimlessly over the uneasy oceans of knowledge. 

 I've once more got a long way from the subject of my letter, but I've always taken advantage of your patience to air my theories, and when I begin to write to you my pen runs away with me. The point I want to make is that unless there is a mother house which is going to create a reserve of spiritual energy, the active work of the Order is going to suffer. The impulse to save souls might easily exhaust itself in the individual. A few disappointments, unceasing hard work, the interference of a bishop, the failure of financial support, a long period in which his work seems to have come to a standstill, all these are going to react on the individual missioner who depends on himself. Looking back now at the work done by my father, and by Rowley at Chatsea, I'm beginning to understand how dangerous it is for one man to make himself the pivot of an enterprise. I only really know about my father's work at second hand, but look at Chatsea. I hear now that already the work is falling to pieces. Although that may not justify the Bishop of Silchester, I'm beginning to see that he might argue that if Rowley had shown himself sufficiently humble to obey the forces of law and order in the Church, he would have had accumulated for him a fresh store of energy from which he might have drawn to consolidate his influence upon the people with whom he worked. Anyway, that's what I'm going to try to acquire from the pseudo-monasticism of Malford. I'm determined to dry up the critical and humorous side of myself. Half of it is nothing more than arrogance. I'm grateful for being sent to Aldershot, but I'm going to make my work here depend on the central source of energy and power. I'm going to say that my work is per hominem, but that the success of my work is ex Deo. You may tell me that any man with the least conception of Christian Grace would know that. Yes, he may know it intellectually, but does he know it emotionally? I confess I don't yet awhile. But I do know that if the Order of St. George proves itself a real force, it will not be per hominem, it will not be by the Reverend Father's eloquence in the pulpit, but by the vocation of the community ex Deo. 

 Meanwhile, here I am at Aldershot. Brother Chad, whose place I have taken, was a character of infinite sweetness and humility. All our Tommies speak of him in a sort of protective way, as if he were a little boy they had adopted. He had--has, for after all he's only gone to the Abbey to get over a bad attack of influenza on top of months of hard work--he has a strangely youthful look, although he's nearly thirty. He hails from Lichfield. I wonder what Dr. Johnson would have made of him. I've already told you about Brother Anselm. Well, now that I've seen him at home, as it were, I can't discover the secret of his influence with our men. He's every bit as taciturn with them as he was with me on that drive from the station, and yet there is not one of them that doesn't seem to regard him as an intimate friend. He's extraordinarily good at the practical side of the business. He makes the men comfortable. He always knows just what they're wanting for tea or for supper, and the games always go well when Brother Anselm presides, much better than they do when I'm in charge! I think perhaps that's because I play myself, and want to win. It infects the others. And yet we ought to want to win a game--otherwise it's not worth playing. Also, I must admit that there's usually a row in the billiard room on my nights on duty. Brother Anselm makes them talk better than I do, and I don't think he's a bit interested in their South African experiences. I am, and they won't say a word about them to me. I've been here a month now, so they ought to be used to me by this time. 

 We've just heard that the guest-house for soldiers at the Abbey will be finished by the middle of next month, so we're already discussing our Christmas party. The Priory, which sounds so grand and gothic, is really the corner house of a most depressing row of suburban villas, called Glenview and that sort of thing. The last tenant was a traveller in tea and had a stable instead of the usual back-garden. This we have converted into a billiard room. An officer in one of the regiments quartered here told us that it was the only thing in Aldershot we had converted. The authorities aren't very fond of us. They say we encourage the men to grumble and give them too great idea of their own importance. Brother Anselm asked a general once with whom we fell out if it was possible to give a man whose profession it was to defend his country too great an idea of his own importance. The general merely blew out his cheeks and looked choleric. He had no suspicion that he had been scored off. We don't push too much religion into the men at present. We've taught them to respect the Crucifix on the wall in the dining-room, and sometimes they attend Vespers. But they're still rather afraid of chaff, such as being called the Salvation Army by their comrades. Well, here's an end to this long letter, for I must write now to Brother Jerome, whose name-day it is to-morrow. Love to all at the Rectory. 

 Your ever affectionate

 Mark. 

Mark remained at Aldershot until the week before Christmas, when with aparty of Tommies he went back to the Abbey. He found that Brother Chad'sconvalescence had been seriously impeded in its later stages by theprospect of having to remain at the Abbey as guest-master, and thoughMark was sorry to leave Aldershot he saw by the way the Tommies greetedtheir old friend that he was dear to their hearts. When after ChristmasBrother Chad took the party back, Mark made up his mind that the rightperson was going. 

Mark found many changes at the Abbey during the four months he had beenaway. The greatest of all was the presence of Brother George as Prior. The legend of him had led Mark to expect someone out of the ordinary;but he had not been prepared for a personality as strong as this. Brother George was six feet three inches tall, with a presence of greatdignity and much personal beauty. He had an aquiline nose, strong chin, dark curly hair and bright imperious eyes. His complexion, burnt by theMediterranean sun, made him seem in his white habit darker than hereally was. His manner was of one accustomed to be immediately obeyed. Mark could scarcely believe when he saw Brother Dunstan beside BrotherGeorge that only last June Brother Dunstan was acting as Prior. As forBrother Raymond, who had always been so voluble at recreation, one lookfrom Brother George sent him into a silence that was as solemn as thedisciplinary silence imposed by the rule. Brother Birinus, who wasBrother George's right hand in the Abbey as much as he had been hisright hand on the Moose Rib farm, was even taller than the Prior; but hewas lanky and raw-boned, and had not the proportions of Brother George. He was of a swarthy complexion, not given to talking much, although whenhe did speak he always spoke to the point. He and Brother George werehard at work ploughing up some derelict fields which they had persuadedSir Charles Horner to let to the Abbey rent free on condition that theywere put back into cultivation. The patron himself had gone away for thewinter to Rome and Florence, and Mark was glad that he had, for he wassure that otherwise his inquisitiveness would have been severelysnubbed by the Prior. Father Burrowes went away as usual to preach afterChristmas; but before he went Mark was clothed as a novice together withtwo other postulants who had been at Malford since September. Of theseBrother Giles was a former school-master, a dried-up, tobacco-colouredlittle man of about fifty, with a quick and nervous, but always precisemanner. Mark liked him, and his manual labour was done under thedirection of Brother Giles, who had been made gardener, a post for whichhe was well suited. The other new novice was Brother Nicholas whom, hadMark not been the fellow-member of a community, he would have dislikedimmensely. Brother Nicholas was one of those people who are in aperpetual state of prurient concern about the sexual morality of thehuman race. He was impervious to snubs, of which he received many fromBrother George, and he had somehow managed to become a favourite of theReverend Father, so that he had been appointed guest-master, a post thatwas always coveted, and one for which nobody felt Brother Nicholas wassuited. 

Besides the increase of numbers there had been considerable additionsmade to the fabric of the Abbey, if such a word as fabric may be appliedto matchboard, felt, and corrugated iron. Mention has already been madeof the new Guest-house, which accommodated not only soldiers invited tospend their furloughs at the Abbey, but also tramps who sought a night'slodging. Mark, as Porter, found his time considerably taken up withthese casuals, because as soon as the news spread of a comfortablelodging they came begging for shelter in greater numbers than had beenanticipated. A rule was made that they should pay for theirentertainment by doing a day's work, and it was one of Mark's duties toreport on the qualifications of these casuals to Brother George, whosewhole life was occupied with the farm that he was creating out of thosederelict fields. 

"There's a black man just arrived, Reverend Brother. He says he lost hisship at Southampton through a boiler explosion, and is tramping toCardiff, " Mark would report. 

"Can he plough a straight furrow?" the Prior would demand. 

"I doubt it, " Mark would answer with a smile. "He can't walk straightacross the dormitory. "

"What's he been drinking?"

"Rum, I fancy. "

"Why did you let him in?"

"It's such a stormy night. "

"Well, send him along to me to-morrow after Lauds, and I'll put him tocleaning out the pigsties. "

Mark only had to deal with these casuals. Regular guests like thesoldiers, who were always welcome, and ecclesiastically minded inquirerswere looked after by Brother Nicholas. One of the things for which Markdetested Brother Nicholas was the habit he had of showing off his poorcasuals to the paying guests. It took Mark a stern reading of St. Benedict's Rule and the observations therein upon humility and obediencenot to be rude to Brother Nicholas sometimes. 

"Brother, " he asked one day. "Have you ever read what our Holy Fathersays about gyrovagues and sarabaites?"

Brother Nicholas, who always thought that any long word with which hewas unfamiliar referred to sexual perversion, asked what such peoplewere. 

"You evidently haven't, " said Mark. "Our Holy Father disapproves ofthem. "

"Oh, so should I, Brother Mark, " said Brother Nicholas quickly. "I hateanything like that. "

"It struck me, " Mark went on, "that most of our paying guests aregyrovagues and sarabaites. "

"What an accusation to make, " said Brother Nicholas, flushing withexpectant curiosity and looking down his long nose to give theimpression that it was the blush of innocence and modesty. 

When, an hour or so later, he had had leisure to discover the meaning ofboth terms, he came up to Mark and exclaimed:

"Oh, brother, how could you?"

"How could I what?" Mark asked. 

"How could you let me think that it meant something much worse? Why, it's nothing really. Just wandering monks. "

"They annoyed our Holy Father, " said Mark. 

"Yes, they did seem to make him a bit ratty. Perhaps the translationsoftened it down, " surmised Brother Nicholas. "I'll get a dictionaryto-morrow. "

The bell for solemn silence clanged, and Brother Nicholas must havespent his quarter of an hour in most unprofitable meditation. 

Another addition to the buildings was a wide, covered verandah, whichhad been built on in front of the central block, and which thereforeextended the length of the Refectory, the Library, the Chapter Room, andthe Abbot's Parlour. The last was now the Prior's Parlour, becauselodgings for Father Burrowes were being built in the Gatehouse, the onlybuilding of stone that was being erected. 

This Gatehouse was to be finished as an Easter offering to the FatherSuperior from devout ladies, who had been dismayed at the imagination ofhis discomfort. The verandah was granted the title of the Cloister, andthe hours of recreation were now spent here instead of in the Library asformerly, which enabled studious brethren to read in peace. 

The Prior made a rule that every Sunday afternoon all the brethrenshould assemble in the Cloister at tea, and spend the hour until Vespersin jovial intercourse. He did not actually specify that the intercoursewas to be jovial, but he look care by judicious teazing to see that itwas jovial. In his anxiety to bring his farm into cultivation, BrotherGeorge was apt to make any monastic duty give way to manual labour onthose thistle-grown fields, and it was seldom that there were more thana couple of brethren to say the Office between Lauds and Vespers. Theothers had to be content with crossing themselves when they heard thebell for Terce or None, and even Sext was sparingly attended after thePrior instituted the eating of the mid-day meal in the fields on finedays. Hence the conversation in the Cloister on Sunday afternoons waschiefly agricultural. 

"Are you going to help me drill the ten-acre field tomorrow, BrotherGiles?" the Prior asked one grey Sunday afternoon in the middle ofMarch. 

"No, I'm certainly not, Reverend Brother, unless you put me underobedience to do so. "

"Then I think I shall, " the Prior laughed. 

"If you do, Reverend Brother, " the gardener retorted, "you'll have toput my peas under obedience to sow themselves. "

"Peas!" the Prior scoffed. "Who cares about peas?"

"Oh, Reverend Brother!" cried Brother Simon, his hair standing up withexcitement. "We couldn't do without peas. "

Brother Simon was assistant cook nowadays, a post he filled tolerablywell under the supervision of the one-legged soldier who was cook. 

"We couldn't do without oats, " said Brother Birinus severely. 

He spoke so seldom at these gatherings that when he did few were foundto disagree with him, because they felt his words must have been deeplypondered before they were allowed utterance. 

"Have you any flowers in the garden for St. Joseph?" asked BrotherRaymond, who was sacristan. 

"A few daffodils, that's all, " Brother Giles replied. 

"Oh, I don't think that St. Joseph would like daffodils, " exclaimedBrother Raymond. "He's so fond of white flowers, isn't he?"

"Good gracious!" the Prior thundered. "Are we a girls' school or acompany of able-bodied men?"

"Well, St. Joseph is always painted with lilies, Reverend Brother, " saidthe sacristan, rather sulkily. 

He disapproved of the way the Prior treated what he called his petsaints. 

"We're not an agricultural college either, " he added in an undertone toBrother Dunstan, who shook his finger and whispered "hush. "

"I doubt if we ought to keep St. Joseph's Day, " said the Priortruculently. There was nothing he enjoyed better on these Sundayafternoons than showing his contempt for ecclesiasticism. 

"Reverend Brother!" gasped Brother Dunstan. "Not keep St. Joseph's Day?"

"He's not in our calendar, " Brother George argued. "If we're going tokeep St. Joseph, why not keep St. Alo--what's his name and Philip Neriand Anthony of Padua and Bernardine of Sienna and half-a-dozen otherItalian saints?"

"Why not?" asked Brother Raymond. "At any rate we have to keep mypatron, who was a dear, even if he was a Spaniard. "

The Prior looked as if he were wondering if there was a clause in theRule that forbade a prior to throw anything within reach at an imbecilesacristan. 

"I don't think you can put St. Joseph in the same class as the saintsyou have just mentioned, " pompously interposed Brother Jerome, who wascellarer nowadays and fancied that the continued existence of the Abbeydepended on himself. 

"Until you can learn to harness a pair of horses to the plough, " saidthe Prior, "your opinions on the relative importance of Roman saintswill not be accepted. "

"I've never been used to horses, " said Brother Jerome. 

"And you have been used to saints?" the Prior laughed, raising hiseyebrows. 

Brother Jerome was silent. 

"Well, Brother Lawrence, what do you say?"

Brother Lawrence stuck out his lower jaw and assumed the expression ofthe good boy in a Sunday School class. 

"St. Joseph was the foster-father of Our Blessed Lord, ReverendBrother, " he said primly. "I think it would be most disrespectful bothto Our Blessed Lord and to Our Blessed Lady if we didn't keep hisfeast-day, though I am sure St. Joseph would have no objection todaffodils. No objections at all. His whole life and character show himto have been a man of the greatest humility and forbearance. "

The Prior rocked with laughter. This was the kind of speech thatsometimes rewarded his teasing. 

"We always kept St. Joseph's day at the Visitation, Hornsey, " BrotherNicholas volunteered. "In fact we always made it a great feature. Wefound it came as such a relief in Lent. "

The Prior nodded his head mockingly. 

"These young folk can teach us a lot about the way to worship God, Brother Birinus, " he commented. 

Brother Birinus scowled. 

"I broke three shares ploughing that bad bit of ground by the firtrees, " he announced gloomily. "I think I'll drill in the oats to-morrowin the ten-acre. It's no good ploughing deep, " he added reproachfully. 

"Well, I believe in deep ploughing, " the Prior argued. 

Mark realized that Brother Birinus had deliberately brought back theconversation to where it started in order to put an end to thediscussion about St. Joseph. He was glad, because he himself was theonly one of the brethren who had not yet been called upon to face thePrior's contemptuous teasing. He wondered if he should have had thecourage to speak up for St. Joseph's Day. He should have found itdifficult to oppose Brother George, whom he liked and revered. But inthis case he was wrong, and perhaps he was also wrong to make theobservation of St. Joseph's Day a cudgel with which to belabour thebrethren. 

The following afternoon Mark had two casuals who he fancied might beuseful to the Prior, and leaving the ward of the gate to BrotherNicholas he took them down with him through the coppice to where overthe bleak March furrows Brother George was ploughing that rocky strip ofbad land by the fir trees. The men were told to go and report themselvesto Brother Birinus, who with Brother Dunstan to feed the drill wassowing oats a field or two away. 

"I don't think Brother Birinus will be sorry to let Brother Dunstan goback to his domestic duties, " the Prior commented sardonically. 

Mark was turning to go back to _his_ domestic duties when Brother Georgesigned to him to stop. 

"I suppose that like the rest of them you think I've no business to be amonk?" Brother George began. 

Mark looked at him in surprise. 

"I don't believe that anybody thinks that, " he said; but even as hespoke he looked at the Prior and wondered why he had become a monk. Hedid not appear, standing there in breeches and gaiters, his shirt openat the neck, his hair tossing in the wind, his face and form of the soillike a figure in one of Fred Walker's pictures, no, he certainly did notappear the kind of man who could be led away by Father Burrowes'eloquence and persuasiveness into choosing the method of life he hadchosen. Yes, now that the question had been put to him Mark wondered whyBrother George was a monk. 

"You too are astonished at me, " said the Prior. "Well, in a way I don'tblame you. You've only seen me on the land. This comes of letting myselfbe tempted by Horner's offer to give us this land rent free if I wouldtake it in hand. And after all, " he went on talking to the wide grey skyrather than to Mark, "the old monks were great tillers of the soil. It'sright that we should maintain the tradition. Besides, all those years inMalta I've dreamed just this. Brother Birinus and I have stewed on thosesun-baked heights above Valetta and dreamed of this. What made you joinour Order?" he asked abruptly. 

Mark told him about himself. 

"I see, you want to keep your hand in, eh? Well, I suppose you mighthave done worse for a couple of years. Now, I've never wanted to be apriest. The Reverend Father would like me to be ordained, but I don'tthink I should make a good priest. I believe if I were to become apriest, I should lose my faith. That sounds a queer thing to say, andI'd rather you didn't repeat it to any of those young men up there. "

The monastery bell sounded on the wind. 

"Three o'clock already, " exclaimed the Prior. And crossing himself hesaid the short prayer offered to God instead of the formal attendance atthe Office. 

"Well, I mustn't let the horses get chilled. You'd better get back toyour casuals. By the way, I'm going to have Brother Nicholas to work outhere awhile, and I want you to act as guest-master. Brother Raymondwill be porter, and I'm going to send Brother Birinus off the farm to besacristan. I shall miss him out here, of course. "

The Prior put his hand once more to the plough, and Mark went slowlyback to the Abbey. On the brow of the hill before he plunged into thecoppice he turned to look down at the distant figure moving with slowpaces across the field below. 

"He's wrestling with himself, " Mark thought, "more than he's wrestlingwith the soil. "

CHAPTER XXVII

MULTIPLICATION

At Easter the Abbey Gatehouse was blessed by the Father Superior, whoestablished himself in the rooms above and allowed himself to take aholiday from his labour of preaching. Mark expected to be made porteragain, but the Reverend Father did not attempt to change the postsassigned to the brethren by the Prior, and Mark remained guest-master, aduty that was likely to give him plenty of occupation during the summermonths now close at hand. 

On Low Sunday the Father Superior convened a full Chapter of the Order, to which were summoned Brother Dominic, the head of the Sandgate house, and Brother Anselm. When the brethren, with the exception of BrotherSimon, who was still a postulant, were gathered together, the FatherSuperior addressed them as follows:

"Brethren, I have called this Chapter of the Order of St. George toacquaint you with our financial position, and to ask you to make a gravedecision. Before I say any more I ought to explain that our threeprofessed brethren considered that a Chapter convened to make a decisionsuch as I am going to ask you to make presently should not include thenovices. I contended that in the present state of our Order wherenovices are called upon to fill the most responsible positions it wouldbe unfair to exclude them; and our professed brethren, like true sons ofSt. Benedict, have accepted my ruling. You all know what great additionsto our Mother House we have made during the past year, and you will allrealize what a burden of debt this has laid upon the Order and on myselfwhat a weight of responsibility. The closing of our Malta Priory, whichwas too far away to interest people in England, eased us a little. Butif we are going to establish ourselves as a permanent force in modernreligious life, we must establish our Mother House before anything. Youmay say that the Order of St. George is an Order devoted to active workamong soldiers, and that we are not concerned with the establishment ofa partially contemplative community. But all of you will recognize theadvantage it has been to you to be asked to stay here and prepareyourselves for active work, to gather within yourselves a great store ofspiritual energy, and hoard within your hearts a mighty treasure ofspiritual strength. Brethren, if the Order of St. George is to be worthyof its name and of its claim we must not rest till we have a priory inevery port and garrison, and in every great city where soldiers arestationed. Even if we had the necessary funds to endow these priories, have we enough brethren to take charge of them? We have not. I cannothelp feeling that I was too hasty in establishing active houses both atAldershot and at Sandgate, and I have convened you to-day to ask you tovote in Chapter that the house at Sandgate be temporarily given up, great spiritual influence though it has proved itself under our dearBrother Dominic with the men of Shorncliffe Camp, not only that we mayconcentrate our resources and pay our debts, but also that we may havethe help of Brother Dominic himself, and of Brother Athanasius, who hasremained behind in charge and is not here today. "

The Father Superior then read a statement of the Order's financialliabilities, and invited any Brother who wished, to speak his mind. Allwaited for the Prior, who after a short silence rose:

"Reverend Father and Brethren, I don't think that there is much to say. Frankly, I am not convinced that we ought to have spent so much on theAbbey, but having done so, we must obviously try and put ourselves on asound financial basis. I should like to hear what Brother Dominic has tosay. "

Brother Dominic was a slight man with black hair and a sallowcomplexion, whose most prominent feature was an, immense hooked nosewith thin nostrils. Whether through the associations with his namesaint, or merely by his personality, Mark considered that he looked atypical inquisitor. When he spoke, his lips seemed to curl in a sneer. The expression was probably quite accidental, perhaps caused by somedifficulty in breathing, but the effect was sinister, and his smoothvoice did nothing to counteract the unpleasant grimace. Mark wondered ifhe was really successful with the men at Shorncliffe. 

"Reverend Father, Reverend Brother, and Brethren, " said Brother Dominic, "you can imagine that it is no easy matter for me to destroy with a fewwords a house that in a small way I had a share in building up. "

"The lion's share, " interposed the Father Superior. 

"You are too generous, Reverend Father, " said Brother Dominic. "We couldhave done very little at Sandgate if you had not worked so hard for usthroughout the length and breadth of England. And that is whatpersonally I do feel, Brethren, " he continued in more emphatic tones. "Ido feel that the Reverend Father knows better than we what is the rightpolicy for us to adopt. I will not pretend that I shall be anything butloath to leave Sandgate, but the future of the whole order depends onthe ability of brethren like myself, " Brother Dominic paused for thebriefest instant to flash a quick glance at Brother Anselm, "torecognize that our usefulness to the soldiers among whom we are proudand happy to spend our lives is bounded by our usefulness to the Orderof St. George. I give my vote without hesitation in favour of closingthe Priory at Sandgate, and abandoning temporarily the work atShorncliffe Camp. "

Nobody else spoke when Brother Dominic sat down, and everybody voted infavour of the course of action proposed by the Father Superior. 

Brother Dominic, in addition to his other work, had been editing _TheDragon_, the monthly magazine of the Order, and it was now decided toprint this in future at the Abbey, some constant reader having presenteda fount of type. The opening of a printing-press involved housing room, and it was decided to devote the old kitchens to this purpose, so thatnew kitchens could be built, a desirable addition in view of theincreasing numbers in the Abbey and the likelihood of a further increasepresently. 

Mark had not been touched by the abandonment of the Sandgate prioryuntil Brother Athanasius arrived. Brother Athanasius was a florid youngman with bright blue eyes, and so much pent-up energy as sometimes toappear blustering. He lacked any kind of ability to hide his feelings, and he was loud in his denunciation of the Chapter that abolished hiswork. His criticisms were so loud, aggressive, and blatant, that he wasnearly ordered to retire from the Order altogether. However, the FatherSuperior went away to address a series of drawing-room meetings inLondon, and Brother George, with whom Brother Athanasius, almost aloneof the brethren, never hesitated to keep his end up, discovering that hewas as ready to stick up to horses and cows, did not pay attention tothe Father Superior's threat that, if Brother Athanasius could not keephis tongue quiet, he must be sent away. Mark made friends with him, andwhen he found that, in spite of all his blatancy and self-assertion, Brother Athanasius could not keep the tears from his bright blue eyeswhenever he spoke of Shorncliffe, he was sorry for him and vexed withhimself for accepting the surrender of Sandgate priory so much as amatter of course, because he had no personal experience of its work. 

"But was Brother Dominic really good with the men?" Mark asked. 

"Oh, Brother Dominic was all right. Don't you try and make me criticizeBrother Dominic. He bought the gloves and I did the fighting. Good manof business was Brother D. I wish we could have some boxing here. Halfthe brethren want punching about in my opinion. Old Brother Jerome'sface is squashed flat like a prize-fighter's, but I bet he's never hadthe gloves on in his life. I'm fond of old Brother J. But, my word, wouldn't I like to punch into him when he gives us that pea-soup morethan four times a week. Chronic, I call it. Well, if he doesn't give usa jolly good blow out on my name-day next week I really will punch intohim. Old Brother Flatface, as I called him the other day. And he wasn'thalf angry either. Didn't we have sport last second of May! I took aparty of them all round Hythe and Folkestone. No end of a spree!"

Mark was soon too much occupied with his duties as guestmaster to lamentwith Brother Athanasius the end of the Sandgate priory. The ReverendFather's drawing-room addresses were sending fresh visitors down everyweek to see for themselves the size of the foundation that requiredmoney, and more money, and more money still to keep it going. In the oldChatsea days guests who visited the Mission House were expected toprovide entertainment for their hosts. It mattered not who they were, millionaires or paupers, parsons or laymen, undergraduates orboard-school boys, they had to share the common table, face the commonteasing, and help the common task. Here at the Abbey, although theguests had much more opportunity of intercourse with the brethren thanwould have been permitted in a less novel monastic house, they weredefinitely guests, from whom nothing was expected beyond observance ofthe rules for guests. They were of all kinds, from the distinguished layleaders of the Catholic party to young men who thought emotionally ofjoining the Order. 

Mark tried to conduct himself as impersonally as possible, and in doingso he managed to impress all the visitors with being a young manintensely preoccupied with his vocation, and as such to be treated withgravity and a certain amount of deference. Mark himself was anxious notto take advantage of his position, and make friends with people thatotherwise he might not have met. Had he been sure that he was going toremain in the Order of St. George, he would have allowed himself agreater liberty of intercourse, because he would not then have beenafraid of one day seeing these people in the world. He desired to beforgotten when they left the Abbey, or if he was remembered to beremembered only as a guestmaster who tried to make the Monastery guestscomfortable, who treated them with courtesy, but also with reserve. 

None of the young men who came down to see if they would like to bemonks got as far as being accepted as a probationer until the end ofMay, when a certain Mr. Arthur Yarrell, an undergraduate from KebleCollege, Oxford, whose mind was a dictionary of ecclesiastical terms, was accepted and a month later became a postulant as Brother Augustine, to the great pleasure of Brother Raymond, who said that he reallythought he should have been compelled to leave the Order if somebody hadnot joined it with an appreciation of historic Catholicism. Early inJune Sir Charles Horner introduced another young man called Aubrey Wyon, whom he had met at Venice in May. 

"Take a little trouble over entertaining him, " Sir Charles counselled. And then, looking round to see that no thieves or highwaymen werelistening, he whispered to Mark that Wyon had money. "He would be anasset, I fancy. And he's seriously thinking of joining you, " the baronetdeclared. 

To tell the truth, Sir Charles who was beginning to be worried by thefinancial state of the Order of St. George, would at this crisis havetried to persuade the Devil to become a monk if the Devil would haveprovided a handsome dowry. He had met Aubrey Wyon at an expensive hotel, had noticed that he was expensively dressed and drank good wine, hadfound that he was interested in ecclesiastical religion, and, havingbragged a bit about the land he had presented to the Order of St. George, had inspired Wyon to do some bragging of what he had done forvarious churches. 

"If I could find happiness at Malford, " Wyon had said, "I would givethem all that I possess. "

Sir Charles had warned the Father Superior that he would do well toaccept Wyon as a probationer, should he propose himself; and the FatherSuperior, who was by now as anxious for money as a company-promoter, made himself as pleasant to Wyon as he knew how, flattering himcarefully and giving voice to his dreams for the great stone Abbey to bebuilt here in days to come. 

Mark took an immediate and violent dislike to the newcomer, which, hadhe been questioned about it, he would have attributed to his elaboratechoice of socks and tie, or to his habit of perpetually tightening theleather belt he wore instead of braces, as if he would compel thatflabbiness of waist caused by soft living to vanish; but to himself headmitted that the antipathy was deeper seated. 

"It's like the odour of corruption, " he murmured, though actually it wasthe odour of hair washes and lotions and scents that filled the guest'scell. 

However, Aubrey Wyon became for a week a probationer, ludicrously knownas Brother Aubrey, after which he remained a postulant only a fortnightbefore he was clothed as a novice, having by then taken the name ofAnthony, alleging that the inspiration to become a monk had been due tothe direct intervention of St. Anthony of Padua on June 13th. 

Whether Brother Anthony turned the Father Superior's head with hispromises of what he intended to give the Order when he was professed, orwhether having once started he was unable to stop, there was continuousbuilding all that summer, culminating in a decision to begin the AbbeyChurch. 

Mark wondered why Brother George did not protest against theexpenditure, and he came to the conclusion that the Prior was as muchbewitched by ambition for his farm as the head of the Order was by hishope of a mighty fane. 

Thus things drifted during the summer, when, since the Father Superiorwas not away so much, his influence was exerted more strongly over thebrethren, though at the same time he was not attracting as much money aswas now always required in ever increasing amounts. 

Such preaching as he did manage later on during the autumn was by nomeans so financially successful as his campaign of the preceding year atthe same time. Perhaps the natural buoyancy of his spirit led FatherBurrowes in his disappointment to place more trust than he mightotherwise have done in Brother Anthony's plan for the benefit of theOrder. The cloister became like Aladdin's Cave whenever there wereenough brethren assembled to make an audience for his luscious projectsand prefigurations. Sundays were the days when Brother Anthony wasparticularly eloquent, and one Sunday in mid-September--it was the Feastof the Exaltation of the Holy Cross--he surpassed himself. 

"My notion would be to copy, " he proclaimed, "with of course certainimprovements, the buildings on Monte Cassino. We are not quite so highhere; but then on the other hand that is an advantage, because it willenable us to allot less space to the superficial area. Yes, I have avery soft spot for the cloisters of Monte Cassino. "

Brother Anthony gazed round for the approbation of the assembledbrethren, none of whom had the least idea what the cloisters of MonteCassino looked like. 

"And I think some of our altar furniture is a little mean, " BrotherAnthony continued. "I'm not advocating undue ostentation; but there isroom for improvement. They understood so well in the Middle Ages theimportance of a rich equipment. If I'd only known when I was in Siennathis spring that I was coming here, I should certainly have bought asuperb reredos that was offered to me comparatively cheap. The columnswere of malachite and porphyry, and the panels of _rosso antico_ withscrolls of _lumachella_. They only asked 15, 000 lire. It was absurdlycheap. However, perhaps it would be wiser to wait till we finish theAbbey Church before we decide on the reredos. I'm very much in favour ofbeaten gold for the tabernacle. By the way, Reverend Father, have youdecided to build an ambulatory round the clerestory? I must say I thinkit would be effective, and of course for meditation unique. I shall haveto find if my money will run to it. Oh, and Brother Birinus, weren't yousaying the other day that the green vestments were rather faded? Don'tworry. I'm only waiting to make up my mind between velvet and brocadefor the purple set to order a completely new lot, including a set in oldrose damask for mid-Lent. It always seems to me such a mistake not totake advantage of that charming use. "

Father Burrowes was transported to the days of his youth at Malta whenhis own imagination was filled with visions of precious metals, of rarefabrics and mighty architecture. 

"A silver chalice of severe pattern encrusted round the stem with bluezircons, " Brother Anthony was chanting in his melodious voice, his eyesbright with the reflection of celestial splendours. "And perhaps anotherin gold with the sacred monogram wrought on the cup in jacinths andorange tourmalines. Yes, I'll talk it over with Sir Charles and get himto approve the design. "

The next morning two detectives came to Malford Abbey, and arrestedAubrey Wyon alias Brother Anthony for obtaining money under falsepretences in various parts of the world. With them he departed to prisonand a life more ascetic than any he had hitherto known. Brother Anthonydeparted indeed, but he was not discredited until it was too late. Hisgrandiose projects and extravagant promises had already incited FatherBurrowes to launch out on several new building operations that the Ordercould ill afford. 

Perhaps the cloister had been less like the Cave of Aladdin than theCave of the Forty Thieves. 

After Christmas another Chapter was convened, to which Brother Anselmand Brother Chad were both bidden. The Father Superior addressed thebrethren as he had addressed them a year ago, and finished up his speechby announcing that, deeply as he regretted it, he felt bound to proposethat the Aldershot priory should be closed. 

"What?" shouted Brother Anselm, leaping to his feet, his eyes blazingwith wrath through his great horn spectacles. 

The Prior quickly rose to say that he could not agree to the ReverendFather's suggestion. It was impossible for them any longer to claim thatthey were an active Order if they confined themselves entirely to theAbbey. He had not opposed the shutting down of the Sandgate priory, nor, he would remind the Reverend Father, had he offered any resistance tothe abandonment of Malta. But he felt obliged to give his opinionstrongly in favour of making any sacrifice to keep alive the Aldershotpriory. 

Brother George had spoken with force, but without eloquence; and Markwas afraid that his speech had not carried much weight. 

The next to rise was Brother Birinus, who stood up as tall as a tree andsaid:

"I agree with Brother George. "

And when he sat down it was as if a tree had been uprooted. 

There was a pause after this, while every brother looked at hisneighbour, waiting for him to rise at this crisis in the history of theOrder. At last the Father Superior asked Brother Anselm if he did notintend to speak. 

"What can I say?" asked Brother Anselm bitterly. "Last year I shouldhave been true to myself and voted against the closing of the Sandgatehouse. I was silent then in my egoism. I am not fit to defend our housenow. "

"But I will, " cried Brother Chad, rising. "Begging your pardon, ReverendFather and Brethren, if I am speaking too soon, but I cannot believethat you seriously consider closing us down. We're just beginning to geton well with the authorities, and we've a regular lot of communicantsnow. We began as just a Club, but we're something more than a Club now. We're bringing men to Our Lord, Brethren. You will do a great wrong ifyou let those poor souls think that for the sake of your own comfort youare ready to forsake them. Forgive me, Reverend Father. Forgive me, dearBrethren, if I have said too much and spoken uncharitably. "

"He has not spoken uncharitably enough, " Brother Athanasius shouted, rising to his feet, and as he did so unconsciously assuming the attitudeof a boxer. "If I'd been here last year, I should have spoken much moreuncharitably. I did not join this Order to sit about playing withvestments. I wanted to bring soldiers to God. If this Order is to beturned into a kind of male nunnery, I'm off to-morrow. I'm boiling over, that's what I am, boiling over. If we can't afford to do what we shouldbe doing, we can't afford to build gatehouses, and lay out flower-beds, and sit giggling in tin cloisters. It's the limit, that's what it is, the limit. "

Brother Athanasius stood there flushed with defiance, until the FatherSuperior told him to sit down and not make a fool of himself, a commandwhich, notwithstanding that the feeling of the Chapter had been so farentirely against the head of the Order, such was the Father Superior'sauthority, Brother Athanasius immediately obeyed. 

Brother Dominic now rose to try, as he said, to bring an atmosphere ofreasonableness into the discussion. 

"I do not think that I can be accused of inconsistency, " he pointed outsmoothly, "when we look back to our general Chapter of a year ago. Whatever my personal feelings were about closing the Sandgate priory, Irecognized at once that the Reverend Father was right. There is reallyno doubt that we must be strong at the roots before we try to grow intoa tall tree. However flourishing the branches, they will wither if theroots are not fed. The Reverend Father has no desire, as I understandhim, to abandon the activity of the Order. He is merely anxious toestablish us on a firm basis. The Reverend Brother said that we shouldmake any sacrifice to maintain the Aldershot house. I have no desire toaccuse the Reverend Brother of inconsistency, but I would ask him if heis willing to give up the farm, which, as you know, has cost so far agreat deal more than we could afford. But of course the Reverend Brotherwould give up the farm. At the same time, we do not want him to give itup. We realize that under his capable guidance that farm will presentlybe a source of profit. Therefore, I beg the Reverend Brother tounderstand that I am making a purely rhetorical point when I ask him ifhe is prepared to give up the farm. I repeat, we do not want the farmgiven up. 

"Another point which I feel has been missed. In giving up Aldershot, weare not giving up active work entirely. We have a good deal of activework here. We have our guest-house for casuals, and we are always readyto feed, clothe, and shelter any old soldiers who come to us. We arestill young as an Order. We have only four professed monks, includingthe Reverend Father. We want to have more than that before we canconsider ourselves established. I for one should hesitate to take myfinal vows until I had spent a long time in strict religiouspreparation, which in the hurry and scurry of active work is impossible. We have listened to a couple of violent speeches, or at any rate to oneviolent speech by a brother who was for a year in close touch withmyself. I appeal to him not to drag the discussion down to the level oflay politics. We are free, we novices, to leave to-morrow. Let usremember that, and do not let us take advantage of our freedom to impartto this Mother House of ours the atmosphere of the world to which we mayreturn when we will. 

"And let us remember when we oppose the judgment of the Reverend Fatherthat we are exalting ourselves without reason. Let us remember that itis he who by his eloquence and by his devotion and by his endurance andby his personality, has given us this wonderful house. Are we to turnround and say to him who has worked so hard for us that we do not wanthis gifts, that we are such wonderful fishers of men that we can beindependent of him? Oh, my dear Brethren, let me beg you to vote infavour of abandoning all our dependencies until we are ourselves nolonger dependent on the Reverend Father's eloquence and devotion andendurance and personality. God has blessed us infinitely. Are we tofling those blessings in His face?"

Brother Dominic sat down; after him in succession Brother Raymond, Brother Dunstan, Brother Lawrence, Brother Jerome, Brother Nicholas, andBrother Augustine spoke in support of the Father Superior. Brother Gilesrefused to speak, and though Mark's heart was thundering in his mouthwith unuttered eloquence, at the moment he should rise he could not finda word, and he indicated with a sign that like Brother Giles, he hadnothing to say. 

"The voting will be by ballot, " the Reverend Father announced. "It isproposed to give up the Priory at Aldershot. Let those brethren whoagree write Yes on a strip of paper. Let those who disagree write No. "

All knelt in silent prayer before they inscribed their will; after whichthey advanced one by one to the ballot-box, into which under the eyes ofa large crucifix they dropped their papers. The Father Superior did notvote. Brother Simon, who was still a postulant, and not eligible to sitin Chapter, was fetched to count the votes. He was much excited at histask, and when he announced that seven papers were inscribed Yes, thatsix were inscribed No, and that one paper was blank, his teeth werechattering. 

"One paper blank?" somebody repeated. 

"Yes, really, " said Brother Simon. "I looked everywhere, and there's nota mark on it. "

All turned involuntarily toward Mark, whose paper in fact it was, although he gave no sign of being conscious of the ownership. 

"_In a General Chapter of the Order of St. George, held upon the Vigilof the Epiphany of our Lord Jesus Christ, in the year of Grace, 1903, itwas resolved to close the Priory of the Order in the town ofAldershot. _"

The Reverend Father, having invoked the Holy Trinity, declared theChapter dissolved. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

DIVISION

Mark was vexed with himself for evading the responsibility of recordinghis opinion. His vote would not have changed the direction of thepolicy; but if he had voted against giving up the house at Aldershot, the Father Superior would have had to record the casting vote in favourof his own proposal, and whatever praise or blame was ultimately awardedto the decision would have belonged to him alone, who as head of theOrder was best able to bear it. Mark's whole sympathy had been on theside of Brother George, and as one who had known at first hand the workin Aldershot, he did feel that it ought not to be abandoned so easily. Then when Brother Athanasius was speaking, Mark, in his embarrassment atsuch violence of manner and tone, picked up a volume lying on the tableby his elbow that by reading he might avoid the eyes of his brethrenuntil Brother Athanasius had ceased to shout. It was the Rule of St. Benedict which, with a print of Fra Angelico's Crucifixion and an imageof St. George, was all the decoration allowed to the bare Chapter Room, and the page at which Mark opened the leather-bound volume was headed:DE PRAEPOSITO MONASTERII. 

 "_It happens too often that through the appointment of the Prior grave scandals arise in monasteries, since some there be who, puffed up with a malignant spirit of pride, imagining themselves to be second Abbots, and assuming unto themselves a tyrannous authority, encourage scandals and create dissensions in the community. . . . _

 "_Hence envy is excited, strife, evil-speaking, jealousy, discord, confusion; and while the Abbot and the Prior run counter to each other, by such dissension their souls must of necessity be imperilled; and those who are under them, when they take sides, are travelling on the road to perdition. . . . _

 "_On this account we apprehend that it is expedient for the preservation of peace and good-will that the management of his monastery should be left to the discretion of the Abbot. . . . _

 "_Let the Prior carry out with reverence whatever shall be enjoined upon him by his Abbot, doing nothing against the Abbot's will, nor against his orders. . . . _"

Mark could not be otherwise than impressed by what he read. 

 _Ii qui sub ipsis sunt, dum adulantur partibus, eunt in perditionem. . . . _

 _Nihil contra Abbatis voluntatem faciens. . . . _

Mark looked up at the figure of St. Benedict standing in that holy groupat the foot of the Cross. 

 _Ideoque nos proevidemus expedire, propter pacis caritatisque custodiam, in Abbatis pendere arbitrio ordinationem monasterii sui. . . . _

St. Benedict had more than apprehended; he had actually foreseen thatthe Abbot ought to manage his own monastery. It was as if centuries ago, in the cave at Subiaco, he had heard that strident voice of BrotherAthanasius in this matchboarded Chapter-room, as if he had beheldBrother Dominic, while apparently he was striving to persuade hisbrethren to accept the Father Superior's advice, nevertheless takingsides, and thereby travelling along the road that leads towarddestruction. This was the thought that paralyzed Mark's tongue when itwas his turn to speak, and this was why he would not commit himself toan opinion. Afterward, his neutrality appeared to him a weak compromise, and he regretted that he had not definitely allied himself with oneparty or the other. 

The announcement in _The Dragon_ that the Order had been compelled togive up the Aldershot house produced a large sum of sympatheticcontributions; and when the Father Superior came back just before Lent, he convened another Chapter, at which he told the Community that it wasimperative to establish a priory in London before they tried to reopenany houses elsewhere. His argument was cogent, and once again there wasthe appearance of unanimity among the Brethren, who all approved of theproposal. It had always been the custom of Father Burrowes to preach hishardest during Lent, because during that season of self-denial he wasable to raise more money than at any other time, but until now he hadnever failed to be at the Abbey at the beginning of Passion Week, nor toremain there until Easter was over. 

The Feast of St. Benedict fell upon the Saturday before the fifth Sundayin Lent, and the Father Superior, who had travelled down from the Northin order to be present, announced that he considered it would beprudent, so freely was the money flowing in, not to give up preachingthis year during Passion Week and Holy Week. Naturally, he did notintend to leave the Community without a priest at such a season, and hehad made arrangements with the Reverend Andrew Hett to act as chaplainuntil he could come back into residence himself. 

Brother Raymond and Brother Augustine were particularly thrilled by theprospect of enjoying the ministrations of Andrew Hett, less perhapsbecause they would otherwise be debarred from their Easter duties thanbecause they looked forward to services and ceremonies of which theyfelt they had been robbed by the austere Anglicanism of Brother George. 

"Andrew Hett is famous, " declared Brother Raymond at the pitch ofexultation. "It was he who told the Bishop of Ipswich that if the Bishopmade him give up Benediction he would give up singing Morning andEvening Prayer. "

"That must have upset the Bishop, " said Mark. "I suppose he resignedhis bishopric. "

"I should have thought that you, Brother Mark, would have been the lastone to take the part of a bishop when he persecutes a Catholic priest!"

"I'm not taking the part of the Bishop, " Mark replied. "But I think itwas a silly remark for a curate to make. It merely put him in the wrong, and gave the Bishop an opportunity to score. "

The Prior had questioned the policy of engaging Andrew Hett as Chaplain, even for so brief a period as a month. He argued that, inasmuch as theBishop of Silchester had twice refused to licence him to parishes in thediocese, it would prejudice the Bishop against the Order of St. George, and might lead to his inhibiting the Father Superior later on, should anexcuse present itself. 

"Nonsense, my dear Brother George, " said the Reverend Father. "He won'tknow anything about it officially, and in any case ours is a privateoratory, where refusals to licence and episcopal inhibitions have noeffect. "

"That's not my point, " argued Brother George. "My point is that anycommunication with a notorious ecclesiastical outlaw like this fellowHett is liable to react unfavourably upon us. Why can't we get downsomebody else? There must be a number of unemployed elderly priests whowould be glad of the holiday. "

"I'm afraid that I've offered Hett the job now, so let us make up ourminds to be content. "

Mark, who was doing secretarial work for the Reverend Father, happenedto be present during this conversation, which distressed him, because itshowed him that the Prior was still at variance with the Abbot, a stateof affairs that was ultimately bound to be disastrous for the Community. He withdrew almost immediately on some excuse to the Superior's innerroom, whence he intended to go downstairs to the Porter's Lodge untilthe Prior was gone. Unfortunately, the door of the inner room waslocked, and before he could explain what had happened, a conversationhad begun which he could not help overhearing, but which he dreaded tointerrupt. 

"I'm afraid, dear Brother George, " the Reverend Father was saying, "I'mvery much afraid that you are beginning to think I have outlived myusefulness as Superior of the Order. "

"I've never suggested that, " Brother George replied angrily. 

"You may not have meant to give that impression, but certainly that iswhat you have succeeded in making me feel personally, " said theSuperior. 

"I have been associated with you long enough to be entitled to expressmy opinion in private. "

"In private, yes. But are you always careful only to do so in private?I'm not complaining. My only desire is the prosperity and health of theOrder. Next Christmas I am ready to resign, and let the brethren electanother Superior-general. "

"That's talking nonsense, " said the Prior. "You know as well as I dothat nobody else except you could possibly be Superior. But recently Ihappen to have had a better opportunity than you to criticize our MotherHouse, and frankly I'm not satisfied with the men we have. Few of themwill be any use to us. Birinus, Anselm, Giles, Chad, Athanasius ifproperly suppressed, Mark, these in varying degrees, have something inthem, but look at the others! Dominic, ambitious and sly, Jerome, apompous prig, Dunstan, a nincompoop, Raymond, a milliner, Nicholas, a--well, you know what I think Nicholas is, Augustine, anothernincompoop, Lawrence, still at Sunday School, and poor Simon, a clown. I've had a dozen probationers through my hands, and not one of them wasas good as what we've got. I'm afraid I'm less hopeful of the futurethan I was in Canada. "

"I notice, dear Brother George, " said the Father Superior, "that you areprejudiced in favour of the brethren who follow your lead with a certainamount of enthusiasm. That is very natural. But I'm not so pessimisticabout the others as you are. Perhaps you feel that I am forgetting howmuch the Order owes to your generosity in the past. Believe me, I haveforgotten nothing. At the same time, you gave your money with your eyesopen. You took your vows without being pressed. Don't you think you oweit to yourself, if not to the Order or to me personally, to go throughwith what you undertook? Your three vows were Chastity, Poverty, andObedience. "

There was no answer from the Prior; a moment later he shut the doorbehind him, and went downstairs alone. Mark came into the room at once. 

"Reverend Father, " he said. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Ioverheard what you and the Reverend Brother were saying. " He went on toexplain how this had happened, and why he had not liked to make hispresence known. 

"You thought the Reverend Brother would not bear the mortification withas much fortitude as myself?" the Father Superior suggested with a faintsmile. 

It struck Mark how true this was, and he looked in astonishment atFather Burrowes, who had offered him the key to his action. 

"Well, we must forget what we heard, my son, " said the Father Superior. "Sit down, and let's finish off these letters. "

An hour's work was done, at the end of which the Reverend Father askedMark if his had been the blank paper when the votes were counted inChapter, and when Mark admitted that it had been, he pressed him for thereason of his neutrality. 

"I'm not sure that it oughtn't to be called indecision, " said Mark. "Iwas personally interested in the keeping on of Aldershot, because I hadworked there. "

"Then why not have voted for doing so?" the Superior asked, in accentsthat were devoid of the least grudge against Mark for disagreeing withhimself. 

"I tried to get rid of my personal opinion, " Mark explained. "I tried tolook at the question strictly from the standpoint of the member of acommunity. As such I felt that the Reverend Brother was wrong to runcounter to his Superior. At the same time, if you'll forgive me forsaying so, I felt that you were wrong to give up Aldershot. I simplycould not arrive at a decision between the two opinions. "

"I do not blame you, my son, for your scrupulous cast of mind. Onlybeware of letting it chill your enthusiasm. Satan may avail himself ofit one day, and attack your faith. Solomon was just. Our Blessed Lord, by our cowardly standards, was unjust. Remembering the Gadarene swine, the barren fig-tree, the parable of the wedding-guest without a garment, Martha and Mary. . . . "

"Martha and Mary!" interrupted Mark. "Why, that was really the point atissue. And the ointment that might have been sold for the benefit of thepoor. Yes, Judas would have voted with the Reverend Brother. "

"And Pontius Pilate would have remained neutral, " added Father Burrowes, his blue eyes glittering with delight at the effect upon Mark of hiswords. 

But when Mark was walking back to the Abbey down the winding drive amongthe hazels, he wished that he and not the Reverend Father had used thatillustration. However, useless regrets for his indecision in the matterof the priory at Aldershot were soon obliterated by a new cause ofdivision, which was the arrival of the Reverend Andrew Hett on the Vigilof the Annunciation, just in time to sing first Vespers. 

It fell to Mark's lot to entertain the new chaplain that evening, because Brother Jerome who had become guest-master when Brother Anselmtook his place as cellarer was in the infirmary. Mark was scarcelyprepared for the kind of personality that Hett's proved to be. He hadgrown accustomed during his time at the Abbey to look down upon theprotagonists of ecclesiastical battles, so little else did any of theguests who visited them want to discuss, so much awe was lavished uponthem by Brother Raymond and Brother Augustine. It did not strike Markthat the fight at St. Agnes' might appear to the large majority ofpeople as much a foolish squabble over trifles, a cherishing of theletter rather than the spirit of Christian worship, as the disputebetween Mr. So-and-so and the Bishop of Somewhere-or-other in regard tohis use of the Litany of the Saints in solemn procession on high daysand holy days. 

Andrew Hett revived in Mark his admiration of the bigot, which wouldhave been a dangerous thing to lose in one's early twenties. Thechaplain was a young man of perhaps thirty-five, tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired, with a complexion of extreme pallor. His light-blue eyeswere very red round the rims, and what eyebrows he possessed slanted upat a diabolic angle. His voice was harsh, high, and rasping as a guineafowl's. When Mark brought him his supper, Hett asked him severalquestions about the Abbey time-table, and then said abruptly:

"The ugliness of this place must be soul-destroying. "

Mark looked at the Guest-chamber with new eyes. There was such a forceof assertion in Hett's tone that he could not contradict him, and indeedit certainly was ugly. 

"Nobody can live with matchboarded walls and ceilings and not suffer forit, " Hett went on. "Why didn't you buy an old tithe barn and live inthat? It's an insult to Almighty God to worship Him in suchsurroundings. "

"This is only a beginning, " Mark pointed out. 

"A very bad beginning, " Hett growled. "Such brutalizing ugliness wouldbe inexcusable if you were leading an active life. But I gather that youclaim to be contemplative here. I've been reading your ridiculousmonthly paper _The Dragon_. Full of sentimental bosh about bringing backthe glories of monasticism to England. Tintern was not built of tin. Howcan you contemplate Almighty God here? It's not possible. What Divinepurpose is served by collecting men under hundreds of square feet ofcorrugated iron? I'm astonished at Charles Horner. I thought he knewbetter than to encourage this kind of abomination. "

There was only one answer to make to Hett, which was that the religiouslife of the Community did not depend upon any externals, least of allupon its lodging; but when Mark tried to frame this answer, his lipswould not utter the words. In that moment he knew that it was time forhim to leave Malford and prepare himself to be a priest elsewhere, andotherwise than by what the Rector had stigmatized as the pseudo-monasticlife. 

Mark wondered when he had left the chaplain to his ferociousmeditations what would have been the effect of that diatribe upon someof his brethren. He smiled to himself, as he sat over his solitarysupper in the Refectory, to picture the various expressions he couldimagine upon their faces when they came hotfoot from the Guest-chamberwith the news of what manner of priest was in their midst. And while hewas sipping his bowl of pea-soup, he looked up at the image of St. George and perceived that the dragon's expression bore a distinctresemblance to that of the Reverend Andrew Hett. That night it seemed toMark, in one of those waking trances that occur like dreams between onedisturbed sleep and another, that the presence of the chaplain wasshaking the flimsy foundations of the Abbey with such ruthlessness thatthe whole structure must soon collapse. 

"It's only the wind, " he murmured, with that half of his mind which wasawake. "March is going out like a dragon. "

After Mass next day, when Mark was giving the chaplain his breakfast, the latter asked who kept the key of the tabernacle. 

"Brother Birinus, I expect. He is the sacristan. "

"It ought to have been given to me before Mass. Please go and ask forit, " requested the chaplain. 

Mark found Brother Birinus in the Sacristy, putting away the whitevestments in the press. When Mark gave him the chaplain's message, Brother Birinus told him that the Reverend Brother had the key. 

"What does he want the key for?" asked Brother George when Mark hadrepeated to him the chaplain's request. 

"He probably wishes to change the Host, " Mark suggested. 

"There is no need to do that. And I don't believe that is the reason. Ibelieve he wants to have Benediction. He's not going to have Benedictionhere. "

Mark felt that it was not his place to argue with the Reverend Brother, and he merely asked him what reply he was to give to the chaplain. 

"Tell him that the key of the Tabernacle is kept by me while theReverend Father is away, and that I regret I cannot give it to him. "

The priest's eyes blazed with anger when Mark returned without the key. 

"Who is the Reverend Brother?" he rasped. 

"Brother George. "

"Yes, but what is he? Apothecary, tailor, ploughboy, what?"

"Brother George is the Prior. "

"Well, please tell the Prior that I should like to speak to himinstantly. "

When Mark found Brother George he had already doffed his habit, and wasdressed in his farmer's clothes to go working on the land. 

"I'll speak to Mr. Hett before Sext. Meanwhile, you can assure him thatthe key of the Tabernacle is perfectly safe. I wear it round my neck. "

Brother George pulled open his shirt, and showed Mark the golden keyhanging from a cord. 

On receiving the Prior's message, the chaplain asked for a railwaytime-table. 

"I see there is a fast train at 10. 30. Please order the trap. "

"You're not going to leave us?" Mark exclaimed. 

"Do you suppose, Brother Mark, that no bishop in the Establishment willreceive me in his diocese because I am accustomed to give way? I shouldnot have asked for the key of the Tabernacle unless I thought that itwas my duty to ask for it. I cannot take it from the Reverend Brother'sneck. I will not stay here without its being given up to me. Pleaseorder the trap in time to catch the 10. 30 train. "

"Surely you will see the Reverend Brother first, " Mark urged. "I shouldhave made it clear to you that he is out in the fields, and that all thework of the farm falls upon his shoulders. It cannot make any differencewhether you have the key now or before Sext. And I'm sure the ReverendBrother will see your point of view when you put it to him. "

"I am not going to argue about the custody of God, " said the chaplain. "I should consider such an argument blasphemy, and I consider thePrior's action in refusing to give up the key sacrilege. Please orderthe trap. "

"But if you sent a telegram to the Reverend Father . . . Brother Dominicwill know where he is . . . I'm sure that the Reverend Father will putit right with Brother George, and that he will at once give you thekey. "

"I was summoned here as a priest, " said the chaplain. "If the amateurmonk left in charge of this monastery does not understand theprerogatives of my priesthood, I am not concerned to teach him exceptdirectly. "

"Well, will you wait until I've found the Reverend Brother and told himthat you intend to leave us unless he gives you the key?" Mark begged, in despair at the prospect of what the chaplain's departure would meanto a Community already too much divided against itself. 

"It is not one of my prerogatives to threaten the prior of a monastery, even if he is an amateur, " said the chaplain. "From the moment thatBrother George refuses to recognize my position, I cease to hold thatposition. Please order the trap. "

"You won't have to leave till half-past nine, " said Mark, who had madeup his mind to wrestle with Brother George on his own initiative, and ifpossible to persuade him to surrender the key to the chaplain of his ownaccord. With this object he hurried out, to find Brother Georgeploughing that stony ground by the fir-trees. He was looking ruefully ata broken share when Mark approached him. 

"Two since I started, " he commented. 

But he was breaking more precious things than shares, thought Mark, ifhe could but understand. 

"Let the fellow go, " said Brother George coldly, when Mark had relatedhis interview with the chaplain. 

"But, Reverend Brother, if he goes we shall have no priest for Easter. "

"We shall be better off with no priest than with a fellow like that. "

"Reverend Brother, " said Mark miserably, "I have no right to remonstratewith you, I know. But I must say something. You are making a mistake. You will break up the Community. I am not speaking on my own accountnow, because I have already made up my mind to leave, and get ordained. But the others! They're not all strong like you. They really are not. Ifthey feel that they have been deprived of their Easter Communion by you. . . And have you the right to deprive them? After all, Father Hett hasreason on his side. He is entitled to keep the key of the Tabernacle. Ifhe wishes to hold Benediction, you can forbid him, or at least you canforbid the brethren to attend. But the key of the Tabernacle belongs tohim, if he says Mass there. Please forgive me for speaking like this, but I love you and respect you, and I cannot bear to see you putyourself in the wrong. "

The Prior patted Mark on the shoulder. 

"Cheer up, Brother, " he said. "You mustn't mind if I think that I knowbetter than you what is good for the Community. I have had a longer timeto learn, you must remember. And so you're going to leave us?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about that now, " Mark said. 

"Nor do I, " said Brother George. "I want to get on with my ploughing. "

Mark saw that it was as useless to argue with him as attempt to persuadethe chaplain to stay. He turned sadly away, and walked back with heavysteps towards the Abbey. Overhead, the larks, rising and falling upontheir fountains of song, seemed to mock the way men worshipped AlmightyGod. 

CHAPTER XXIX

SUBTRACTION

Mark had not spent a more unhappy Easter since the days of HavertonHouse. He was oppressed by the sense of excommunication that broodedover the Abbey, and on the Saturday of Passion Week the versicles andresponses of the proper Compline had a dreadful irony. 

 _V. O King most Blessed, govern Thy servants in the right way. _ _R. Among Thy Saints, O King most Blessed. _ _V. By holy fasts to amend our sinful lives. _ _R. O King most Blessed, govern Thy Saints in the right way. _ _V. To duly keep Thy Paschal Feast. _ _R. Among Thy Saints, O King most Blessed. _

"Brother Mark, " said Brother Augustine, on the morning of Palm Sunday, "_did_ you notice that ghastly split infinitive in the last versicle atCompline? _To duly keep. _ I can't think why we don't say the Office inLatin. "

Mark felt inclined to tell Brother Augustine that if nothing more vitalthan an infinitive was split during this holy season, the Communitymight have cause to congratulate itself. Here now was Brother Birinusthrowing away as useless the bundle of palms that lacked the blessing ofa priest, throwing them away like dead flowers. 

Sir Charles Horner, who had been in town, arrived at the Abbey on theTuesday, and announced that he was going to spend Holy Week with theCommunity. 

"We have no chaplain, " Mark told him. 

"No chaplain!" Sir Charles exclaimed. "But I understood that AndrewHett had undertaken the job while Father Burrowes was away. "

Mark did not think that it was his duty to enlighten Sir Charles uponthe dispute between Brother George and the chaplain. However, it was notlong before he found out what had occurred from the Prior's own lips andcame fuming back to the Guest-chamber. 

"I consider the whole state of affairs most unsatisfactory, " he said. "Ireally thought that when Brother George took charge here the Abbey wouldbe better managed. "

"Please, Sir Charles, " Mark begged, "you make it very uncomfortable forme when you talk like that about the Reverend Brother before me. "

"Yes, but I must give my opinion. I have a right to criticize when I amthe person who is responsible for the Abbey's existence here. It's allvery fine for Brother George to ask me to notify Bazely at Wivelrod thatthe brethren wish to go to their Easter duties in his church. Bazely isa very timid man. I've already driven him into doing more than he reallylikes, and my presence in his church doesn't alarm the parishioners. Infact, they rather like it. But they won't like to see the church full ofmonks on Easter morning. They'll be more suspicious than ever of whatthey call poor Bazely's innovations. It's not fair to administer such ashock to a remote country parish like Wivelrod, especially when they'rejust beginning to get used to the vestments I gave them. It seems to methat you've deliberately driven Andrew Hett away from the Abbey, and Idon't see why poor Bazely should be made to suffer. How many monks areyou now? Fifteen? Why, fifteen bulls in Wivelrod church would createless dismay!"

Sir Charles's protest on behalf of the Vicar of Wivelrod was effective, for the Prior announced that after all he had decided that it was theduty of the Community to observe Easter within the Abbey gates. TheReverend Father would return on Easter Tuesday, and their Easter dutieswould be accomplished within the Octave. Withal, it was a gloomy Easterfor the brethren, and when they began the first Vespers with thequadruple Alleluia, it seemed as if they were still chanting thesorrowful antiphons of Good Friday. 

 _My spirit is vexed within Me: and My heart within Me is desolate. _

 _Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by: behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto My sorrow, which is done unto Me. _

 _What are these wounds in Thy Hands: Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends. _

Nor was there rejoicing in the Community when at Lauds of Easter Daythey chanted:

 _V. In Thy Resurrection, O Christ. _ _R. Let Heaven and earth rejoice, Alleluia. _

Nor when at Prime and Terce and Sext and None they chanted:

 _This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. _

And when at the second Vespers the Brethren declared:

 _V. Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us, therefore let us keep the Feast. _

 _R. Not with the old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened Bread of sincerity and truth. Alleluia. _

scarcely could they who chanted the versicle challenge with their eyesthose who hung down their heads when they gave the response. 

 * * * * *

The hour of recreation before Compline, which upon great Feasts was wontto be so glad, lay heavily upon the brethren that night, so that Markcould not bear to sit in the Cloister; there being no guests in theAbbey for his attention, he sat in the library and wrote to the Rector. 

 The Abbey, Malford, Surrey. 

 Easter Sunday. 

 My dear Rector, I should have written before to wish you all a happy Easter, but I've been making up my mind during the last fortnight to leave the Order, and I did not want to write until my mind was made up. That feat is now achieved. I shall stay here until St. George's Day, and then the next day, which will be St. Mark's Eve, I shall come home to spend my birthday with you. I do not regret the year and six months that I have spent at Malford and Aldershot, because during that time, if I have decided not to be a monk, I am none the less determined to be a priest. I shall be 23 this birthday, and I hope that I shall find a Bishop to ordain me next year and a Theological College to accept responsibility for my training and a beneficed priest to give me a title. I will give you a full account of myself when we meet at the end of the month; but in this letter, written in sad circumstances, I want to tell you that I have learnt with the soul what I have long spoken with the lips--the need of God. I expect you will tell me that I ought to have learnt that lesson long ago upon that Whit-Sunday morning in Meade Cantorum church. But I think I was granted then by God to desire Him with my heart. I was scarcely old enough to realize that I needed Him with my soul. "You're not so old now, " I hear you say with a smile. But in a place like this one learns almost more than one would learn in the world in the time. One beholds human nature very intimately. I know more about my fellow-men from association with two or three dozen people here than I learnt at St. Agnes' from association with two or three hundred. This much at least my pseudo-monasticism has taught me. 

 We have passed through a sad time lately at the Abbey, and I feel that for the Community sorrows are in store. You know from my letters that there have been divisions, and you know how hard I have found it to decide which party I ought to follow. But of course the truth is that from the moment one feels the inclination to side with a party in a community it is time to leave that community. Owing to an unfortunate disagreement between Brother George and the Reverend Andrew Hett, who came down to act as chaplain during the absence of the Reverend Father, Andrew Hett felt obliged to leave us. The consequence is we have had no Mass this Easter, and thus I have learned with my soul to need God. I cannot describe to you the torment of deprivation which I personally feel, a torment that is made worse by the consciousness that all my brethren will go to their cells to-night needing God and not finding Him, because they like myself are involved in an earthly quarrel, so that we are incapable of opening our hearts to God this night. You may say that if we were in such a state we should have had no right to make our Easter Communion. But that surely is what Our Blessed Lord can do for us with His Body and Blood. I have been realizing that all this Holy Week. I have felt as I have never felt before the consciousness of sinning against Him. There has not been an antiphon, not a versicle nor a response, that has not stabbed me with a consciousness of my sin against His Divine Love. 

 "What are these wounds in Thy Hands: Those with which I was wounded in the house of My friends. "

 But if on Easter eve we could have confessed our sins against His Love, and if this morning we could have partaken of Him, He would have been with us, and our hearts would have been fit for the presence of God. We should have been freed from this spirit of strife, we should have come together in Jesus Christ. We should have seen how to live "with the unleavened Bread of sincerity and truth. " God would have revealed His Will, and we, submitting our Order to His Will, should have ceased to think for ourselves, to judge our brethren, to criticize our seniors, to suspect that brother of personal ambition, this brother of toadyism. The Community is being devoured by the Dragon and, unless St. George comes to the rescue of his Order on Thursday week, it will perish. Perhaps I have not much faith in St. George. He has always seemed to me an unreal, fairy-tale sort of a saint. I have more faith in St. Benedict and his Holy Rule. But I have no vocation for the contemplative life. I don't feel that my prayers are good enough to save my own soul, let alone the souls of others. I _must_ give Jesus Christ to my fellow-men in the Blessed Sacrament. I long to be a priest for that service. I don't feel that I want by my own efforts to make people better, or to relieve poverty, or to thunder against sin, or to preach them up to and through Heaven's gates. I want to give them the Blessed Sacrament, because I know that nothing else will be the slightest use to them. I know it more positively to-night than I have ever known it, because as I sit here writing to you I am starved. God has given me the grace to understand why I am starved. It is my duty to bring Our Lord to souls who do not know why they are starved. And if after nearly two years of Malford this passion to bring the Sacraments to human beings consumes me like a fire, then I have not wasted my time, and I can look you in the face and ask for your blessing upon my determination to be a priest. 

 Your ever affectionate

 Mark. 

When Mark had written this letter, and thus put into words what hadhitherto been a more or less nebulous intention, and when in addition tothat he had affixed a date to the carrying out of his intention, he feltcomparatively at ease. He wasted no time in letting the Father Superiorknow that he was going to leave; in fact he told him after he hadconfessed to him before making his Communion on Easter Thursday. 

"I'm sorry to lose you, my dear boy, " said Father Burrowes. "Very sorry. We are just going to open a priory in London, though that is a secretfor the moment, please. I shall make the announcement at the EasterChapter. Yes, some kind friends have given us a house in Soho. Splendidly central, which is important for our work. I had planned thatyou would be one of the brethren chosen to go there. "

"It's very kind of you, Reverend Father, " said Mark. "But I'm sure thatyou understand my anxiety not to lose any time, now that I feelperfectly convinced that I want to be a priest. "

"I had my doubts about you when you first came to us. Let me see, it wasnearly two years ago, wasn't it? How time flies! Yes, I had my doubtsabout you. But I was wrong. You seem to possess a real fixity ofpurpose. I remember that you told me then that you were not sure youwanted to be a monk. Rare candour! I could have professed a hundredmonks, had I been willing to profess them within ten minutes of theirfirst coming to see me. "

The Father Superior gave Mark his blessing and dismissed him. Nothinghad been said about the dispute between the Prior and the Chaplain, andMark began to wonder if Father Burrowes thought the results of it wouldtell more surely in favour of his own influence if he did not allude toit nor make any attempt to adjudicate upon the point at issue. Now thathe was leaving Malford in little more than a week, Mark felt that he wascompletely relieved of the necessity of assisting at any conventuallegislation, and he would gladly have absented himself from the EasterChapter, which was held on the Saturday within the Octave, had notFather Burrowes told him that so long as he wore the habit of a noviceof the Order he was expected to share in every side of the Community'slife. 

"Brethren, " said the Father Superior, "I have brought you back news thatwill gladden your hearts, news that will show I you how by the Grace ofGod your confidence in my judgment was not misplaced. Some kind friendshave taken for us the long lease of a splendid house in Soho Square, sothat we may have our priory in London, and resume the active work thatwas abandoned temporarily last Christmas. Not only have these kindfriends taken for us this splendid house, but other kind friends havecome forward to guarantee the working expenses up to £20 a week. God isindeed good to us, brethren, and when I remember that next Thursday isthe Feast of our great Patron Saint, my heart is too full for words. During the last three or four months there have been unhappy differencesof opinion in our beloved Order. Do let me entreat you to forget allthese in gratitude for God's bountiful mercies. Do let us, with thearrival once more of our patronal festival, resolve to forget our doubtsand our hesitations, our timidity and our rashness, our suspicions andour jealousies. I blame myself for much that has happened, because Ihave been far away from you, dear brethren, in moments of greatspiritual distress. But this year I hope by God's mercy to be with youmore. I hope that you will never again spend such an Easter as this. Ihave only one more announcement to make, which is that I have appointedBrother Dominic to be Prior of St. George's Priory, Soho Square, andBrother Chad and Brother Dunstan to work with him for God and oursoldiers. "

In the morning, Brother Simon, whose duty it was nowadays to knock withthe hammer upon the doors of the cells and rouse the brethren from sleepwith the customary salutation, went running from the dormitory to thePrior's cell, his hair standing even more on end than it usually did atsuch an hour. 

"Reverend Brother, Reverend Brother, " he cried. "I've knocked andknocked on Brother Anselm's door, and I've said 'The Lord be with you'nine times and shouted 'The Lord be with you' twice, but there's noanswer, and at last I opened the door, though I know it's against theRule to open the door of a brother's cell, but I thought he might bedead, and he isn't dead, but he isn't there. He isn't there, ReverendBrother, and he isn't anywhere. He's nowhere, Reverend Brother, andshall I go and ring the fire-alarm?"

Brother George sternly bade Brother Simon be quiet; but when theBrethren sat in choir to sing Lauds and Prime, they saw that BrotherAnselm's stall was empty, and those who had heard Brother Simon'sclamour feared that something terrible had happened. 

After Mass the Community was summoned to the Chapter room to learn fromthe lips of the Father Superior that Brother Anselm had broken his vowsand left the Order. Brother Dunstan, who wore round his neck the nibwith which Brother Anselm signed his profession, burst into tears. Brother Dominic looked down his big nose to avoid the glances of hisbrethren. If Easter Sunday had been gloomy, Low Sunday was gloomierstill, and as for the Feast of St. George nobody had the courage tothink what that would be like with such a cloud hanging over theCommunity. 

Mark felt that he could not stay even until the patronal festival. IfBrother George or Brother Birinus had broken his vows, he could haveborne it more easily, for he had not witnessed their profession; fond hemight be of the Prior, but he had worked for human souls under theorders of Brother Anselm. He went to Father Burrowes and begged to leaveon Monday. 

"Brother Athanasius and Brother Chad are leaving tomorrow, " said theFather Superior, "Yes, you may go. "

Brother Simon drove them to the station. Strange figures they seemed toeach other in their lay clothes. 

"I've been meaning to go for a long time, " said Brother Athanasius, whowas now Percy Wade. "And it's my belief that Brother George and BrotherBirinus won't stay long. "

"I hoped never to go, " said Brother Chad, who was now Cecil Masters. 

"Then why are you going?" asked the late Brother Athanasius. "I never doanything I don't want to do. "

"I think I shall be more help to Brother Anselm than to soldiers inLondon, " said the late Brother Chad. 

Mark beamed at him. 

"That's just like you, Brother. I am so glad you're going to do that. "

The train came in, and they all shook hands with Brother Simon, who hadbeen cheerful throughout the drive, and even now found great difficultyin looking serious. 

"You seem very happy, Brother Simon, " said Mark. 

"Oh, I am very happy, Brother Mark. I should say Mr. Mark. The ReverendFather has told me that I'm to be clothed as a novice on Wednesday. Alllast week when we sung, '_The Lord is risen indeed, and hath appearedunto Simon_, ' I knew something wonderful was going to happen. That'swhat made me so anxious when Brother Anselm didn't answer my knock. "

The train left the station, and the three ex-novices settled themselvesto face the world. They were all glad that Brother Simon at least washappy amid so much unhappiness. 

CHAPTER XXX

THE NEW BISHOP OF SILCHESTER

The Rector of Wych thought that Mark's wisest plan if he wished to beordained was to write and ask the Bishop of Silchester for an interview. 

"The Bishop of Silchester?" Mark exclaimed. "But he's the last bishop Ishould expect to help me. "

"On the contrary, " said the Rector, "you have lived in his diocese formore than five years, and if you repair to another bishop, he willcertainly wonder why you didn't go first to the Bishop of Silchester. "

"But I don't suppose that the Bishop of Silchester is likely to helpme, " Mark objected. "He wasn't so much enamoured of Rowley as all that, and I don't gather that he has much affection or admiration forBurrowes. "

"That's not the point; the point is that you have devoted yourself tothe religious life, both informally and formally, in his diocese. Youhave shown that you possess some capacity for sticking to it, and Ifancy that you will find the Bishop less unsympathetic than you expect. "

However, Mark was not given an opportunity to put the Bishop ofSilchester's good-will to the test, for no sooner had he made up hismind to write to him than the news came that he was seriously ill, soseriously ill that he was not expected to live, which in fact turned outa true prognostication, for on the Feast of St. Philip and St. James theprelate died in his Castle of High Thorpe. He was succeeded by theBishop of Warwick, much to Mark's pleasure and surprise, for the newBishop was an old friend of Father Rowley and a High Churchman, one whomight lend a kindly ear to Mark's ambition. Father Rowley had been inthe United States for nearly two years, where he had been treated withmuch sympathy and where he had collected enough money to pay off thedebt upon the new St. Agnes'. He had arrived home about a week beforeMark left Malford, and in answer to Mark he wrote immediately to Dr. Oliphant, the new Bishop of Silchester, to enlist his interest. Early inJune Mark received a cordial letter inviting him to visit the Bishop atHigh Thorpe. 

The promotion of Dr. Aylmer Oliphant to the see of Silchester wasconsidered at the time to be an indication that the political party thenin power was going mad in preparation for its destruction by the gods. The Press in commenting upon the appointment did not attempt to cast aslur upon the sanctity and spiritual fervour of the new Bishop, but itfelt bound to observe that the presence of such a man on the episcopalbench was an indication that the party in power was oblivious of theexistence of an enraged electorate already eager to hurl them out ofoffice. At a time when thinking men and women were beginning to turn tothe leaders of the National Church for a social policy, a governmentworn out by eight years of office that included a costly war was solittle alive to the signs of the times as to select for promotion aprelate conspicuously identified with the obscurantist tactics of thatsmall but noisy group in the Church of England which arrogated to itselfthe presumptuous claim to be the Catholic party. Dr. Oliphant's learningwas indisputable; his liturgical knowledge was profound; his eloquencein the pulpit was not to be gainsaid; his life, granted his sacerdotaleccentricities, was a noble example to his fellow clergy. But had heshown those qualities of statesmanship, that capacity for moderation, which were so marked a feature of his predecessor's reign? Was he notidentified with what might almost be called an unchristian agitation toprosecute the holy, wise, and scholarly Dean of Leicester for appearingto countenance an opinion that the Virgin Birth was not vital to thebelief of a Christian? Had he not denounced the Reverend Albert Blundellfor heresy, and thereby exhibited himself in active opposition to hislate diocesan, the sagacious Bishop of Kidderminster, who had beencompelled to express disapproval of his Suffragan's bigotry byappointing the Reverend Albert Blundell to be one of his examiningchaplains?

"We view with the gravest apprehension the appointment of Dr. AylmerOliphant to the historic see of Silchester, " said one great journal. "Such reckless disregard, such contempt we might almost say, for thefeelings of the English people demonstrates that the present governmenthas ceased to enjoy the confidence of the electorate. We have for Dr. Oliphant personally nothing but the warmest admiration. We do notventure for one moment to impugn his sincerity. We do not hesitate toaffirm most solemnly our disbelief that he is actuated by any but thehighest motives in lending his name to persecutions that recall thespirit of the Star Chamber. But in these days when the rapid andrelentless march of Scientific Knowledge is devastating the plain ofTheological Speculation we owe it to our readers to observe that theappointment of Dr. Aylmer Oliphant to the Bishopric of Silchester mustbe regarded as an act of intellectual cowardice. Not merely is Dr. Oliphant a notorious extremist in religious matters, one who for thesake of outworn forms and ceremonies is inclined to keep alive theunhappy dissensions that tear asunder our National Church, but he isalso what is called a Christian Socialist of the most advanced type, onewho by his misreading of the Gospel spreads the unwholesome and perilousdoctrine that all men are equal. This is not the time nor the place tobreak a controversial lance with Dr. Oliphant. We shall contentourselves with registering a solemn protest against the unparagonedcynicism of a Conservative government which thus gambles not merely withits own security, but what is far more unpardonable with the security ofthe Nation and the welfare of the State. "

The subject of this ponderous censure received Mark in the same roomwhere two and a half years ago the late Bishop had decided that theThird Altar in St. Agnes' Church was an intolerable excrescence. Nowadays the room was less imposing, not more imposing indeed than theroom of a scholarly priest who had been able to collect a few books andbuy such pieces of ancient furniture as consorted with his severe taste. Dr. Oliphant himself, a tall spare man, seeming the taller and morespare in his worn purple cassock, with clean-shaven hawk's face andblack bushy eyebrows most conspicuous on account of his grey hair, stoodbefore the empty summer grate, his long lean neck out-thrust, his armscrossed behind his back, like a gigantic and emaciated shadow ofNapoleon. Mark felt no embarrassment in genuflecting to salute him; theaction was spontaneous and was not dictated by any ritualisticindulgence. Dr. Oliphant, as he might have guessed from the anger withwhich his appointment had been received, was in outward semblance allthat a prelate should be. 

"Why do you want to be a priest?" the Bishop asked him abruptly. 

"To administer the Sacraments, " Mark replied without hesitation. 

The Bishop's head and neck wagged up and down in grave approbation. 

"Mr. Rowley, as no doubt he has told you, wrote to me about you. And soyou've been with the Order of St. George lately? Is it any good?"

Mark was at a loss what to reply to this. His impulse was to say firmlyand frankly that it was no good; but after not far short of two years atMalford it would be ungrateful and disloyal to criticize the Order, particularly to the Bishop of the diocese. 

"I don't think it is much good yet, " Mark said. He felt that he simplycould not praise the Order without qualification. "But I expect thatwhen they've learnt how to combine the contemplative with the activeside of their religious life they will be splendid. At least, I hopethey will. "

"What's wrong at present?"

"I don't know that anything's exactly wrong. "

Mark paused; but the Bishop was evidently waiting for him to continue, and feeling that this was perhaps the best way to present his own pointof view about the life he had chosen for himself he plunged into anaccount of life at Malford. 

"Capital, " said the Bishop when the narrative was done. "You have givenme a very clear picture of the present state of the Order andincidentally a fairly clear picture of yourself. Well, I'm going torecommend you to Canon Havelock, the Principal of the TheologicalCollege here, and if he reports well of you and you can pass theCambridge Preliminary Theological Examination, I will ordain you atAdvent next year, or at any rate, if not in Advent, at Whitsuntide. "

"But isn't Silchester Theological College only for graduates?" Markasked. 

"Yes, but I'm going to suggest that Canon Havelock stretches a point inyour favour. I can, if you like, write to the Glastonbury people, but inthat case you would be out of my diocese where you have spent so much ofyour time and where I have no doubt you will easily find a beneficedpriest to give you a title. Moreover, in the case of a young man likeyourself who has been brought up from infancy upon Catholic teaching, Ithink it is advisable to give you an opportunity of mixing with themoderate man who wishes to take Holy Orders. You can lose nothing bysuch an association, and it may well happen that you will gain a greatdeal. Silchester Theological College is eminently moderate. Thelecturers are men of real learning, and the Principal is a man whom itwould be impertinent for me to praise for his devout and Christianlife. "

"I hardly know how to thank you, my lord, " said Mark. 

"Do you not, my son?" said the Bishop with a smile. Then his head andneck wagged up and down. "Thank me by the life you lead as a priest. "

"I will try, my lord, " Mark promised. 

"Of that I am sure. By the way, didn't you come across a priest at St. Agnes' Mission House called Mousley?"

"Oh rather, I remember him well. "

"You'll be glad to hear that he has never relapsed since I sent him toRowley. In fact only last week I had the satisfaction of recommendinghim to a friend of mine who had a living in his gift. "

Mark spent the three months before he went to Silchester at the Rectorywhere he worked hard at Latin and Greek and the history of the Church. At the end of August he entered Silchester Theological College. 

CHAPTER XXXI

SILCHESTER THEOLOGICAL COLLEGE

The theological students of Silchester were housed in a red-brick alleyof detached Georgian houses, both ends of which were closed to trafficby double gates of beautifully wrought iron. This alley known as Vicar'sWalk had formerly been inhabited by the lay vicars of the Cathedral, whose music was now performed by minor canons. 

There were four little houses on either side of the broad pavement, thecrevices in which were gay with small rock plants, so infrequent werethe footsteps that passed over them. Each house consisted of four roomsand each room held one student. Vicar's Walk led directly into theClose, a large green space surrounded by the houses of dignitaries, froma quiet road lined with elms, which skirted the wall of the Deanerygarden and after several twists and turns among the shadows of greatGothic walls found its way downhill into the narrow streets of the smallcity. One of the houses in the Close had been handed over to theTheological College, the Principal of which usually occupied a Canon'sstall in the Cathedral. Here were the lecture-rooms, and here livedCanon Havelock the Principal, Mr. Drakeford the Vice-Principal, Mr. Brewis the Chaplain, and Mr. Moore and Mr. Waters the Lecturers. 

There did not seem to be many arduous rules. Probably the most asceticwas one that forbade gentlemen to smoke in the streets of Silchester. There was no early Mass except on Saints' days at eight; but gentlemenwere expected, unless prevented by reasonable cause, to attend Matins inthe Cathedral before breakfast and Evensong in the College Oratory atseven. A mutilated Compline was delivered at ten, after which gentlemenwere requested to retire immediately to their rooms. Academic Dress wasto be worn at lectures, and Mark wondered what costume would be designedfor him. The lectures took place every morning between nine and one, andevery afternoon between five and seven. The Principal lectured onDogmatic Theology and Old Testament history; the Vice-Principal on theOld and New Testament set books; the Chaplain on Christian worship andChurch history; Mr. Moore on Pastoralia and Old Testament Theology; andMr. Waters on Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. 

As against the prevailing Gothic of the mighty Cathedral Vicar's Walkstood out with a simple and fragrant charm of its own, so against theprevailing Gothic of Mark's religious experience life at the TheologicalCollege remained in his memory as an unvexed interlude during whichflesh and spirit never sought to trouble each other. Perhaps if Mark hadnot been educated at Haverton House, had not experienced conversion, hadnot spent those years at Chatsea and Malford, but like his fellowstudents had gone decorously from public school to University and stillmore decorously from University to Theological College, he might withhis temperament have wondered if this red-brick alley closed to trafficat either end by beautifully wrought iron gates was the best place toprepare a man for the professional service of Jesus Christ. 

Sin appeared very remote in that sunny lecture-room where to the soundof cawing rooks the Principal held forth upon the strife betweenPelagius and Augustine, when prevenient Grace, operating Grace, co-operating Grace and the _donum perseverantiae_ all seemed to dependfor their importance so much more upon a good memory than upon theinscrutable favours of Almighty God. Even the Confessions of St. Augustine, which might have shed their own fierce light of Africa uponthe dark problem of sin, were scarcely touched upon. Here in thistranquil room St. Augustine lived in quotations from his controversialworks, or in discussions whether he had not wrongly translated ἐφ᾽ ῷπἁντεϛ ἢμαρτου in the Epistle to the Romans by _in quo omnespeccaverunt_ instead of like the Pelagians by _propter quod omnespeccaverunt_. The dim echoes of the strife between SemipelagianMarseilles and Augustinian Carthage resounded faintly in Mark's brain;but they only resounded at all, because he knew that without being ableto display some ability to convey the impression that he understood theThirty-Nine Articles he should never be ordained. Mark wondered whatCanon Havelock would have done or said if a woman taken in adultery hadbeen brought into the lecture-room by the beadle. Yet such a suppositionwas really beside the point, he thought penitently. After all, humanbeings would soon be degraded to wax-works if they could be lecturedupon individually in this tranquil and sunny room to the sound of rookscawing in the elms beyond the Deanery garden. 

Mark made no intimate friendships among his fellows. Perhaps themoderation of their views chilled him into an exceptional reserve, orperhaps they were an unusually dull company that year. Of the thirty-onestudents, eighteen were from Oxford, twelve from Cambridge, and thethirty-first from Durham. Even he was looked at with a good deal ofsuspicion. As for Mark, nothing less than God's prevenient grace couldexplain his presence at Silchester. Naturally, inasmuch as they weregoing to be clergymen, the greatest charity, the sweetest toleration wasshown to Mark's unfortunate lack of advantages; but he was never unawarethat intercourse with him involved his companions in an effort, adistinct, a would-be Christlike effort to make the best of him. It wasthe same kind of effort they would soon be making when as Deacons theysought for the sick, poor, and impotent people of the Parish. Mark mighthave expected to find among them one or two of whom it might beprophesied that they would go far. But he was unlucky. All the brilliantyoung candidates for Ordination must have betaken themselves toCuddesdon or Wells or Lichfield that year. 

Of the eighteen graduates from Oxford, half took their religion as a hotbath, the other half as a cold one. Nine resembled the pale youngcurates of domestic legend, nine the muscular Christian that is for somereason attributed to the example of Charles Kingsley. Of the twelvegraduates from Cambridge, six treated religion as a cricket match playedbefore the man in the street with God as umpire, six regarded it as arespectable livelihood for young men with normal brains, socialconnexions, and weak digestions. The young man from Durham looked uponreligion as a more than respectable livelihood for one who had plenty ofbrains, an excellent digestion, and no social connexions whatever. 

Mark wondered if the Bishop of Silchester's design in placing him amidsuch surroundings was to cure him for ever of moderation. As was hiscustom when he was puzzled, he wrote to the Rector. 

 The Theological College, Silchester. 

 All Souls, '03. 

 My dear Rector, My first impressions have not undergone much change. The young men are as good as gold, but oh dear, the gold is the gold of Mediocritas. The only thing that kindles a mild phosphorescence, a dim luminousness as of a bedside match-tray in the dark, in their eyes is when they hear of somebody's what they call conspicuous moderation. I suppose every deacon carries a bishop's apron in his sponge-bag or an archbishop's crosier among his golf-clubs. But in this lot I simply cannot perceive even an embryonic archdeacon. I rather expected when I came here that I should be up against men of brains and culture. I was looking forward to being trampled on by ruthless logicians. I hoped that latitudinarian opinions were going to make my flesh creep and my hair stand on end. But nothing of the kind. I've always got rather angry when I've read caricatures of curates in books with jokes about goloshes and bath-buns. Yet honestly, half my fellows might easily serve as models to any literary cheapjack of the moment. I'm willing to admit that probably most of them will develop under the pressure of life, but a few are bound to remain what they are. I know we get some eccentrics and hotheads and a few sensual knaves among the Catholic clergy, but we do not get these anæmic creatures. I feel that before I came here I knew nothing about the Church of England. I've been thrown all my life with people who had rich ideas and violent beliefs and passionate sympathies and deplorable hatreds, so that when I come into contact with what I am bound to accept as the typical English parson in the making I am really appalled. 

 I've been wondering why the Bishop of Silchester told me to come here. Did he really think that the spectacle of moderation in the moulding was good for me? Did he fancy that I was a young zealot who required putting in his place? Or did he more subtly realize from the account I gave him of Malford that I was in danger of becoming moderate, even luke-warm, even tepid, perhaps even stone-cold? Did he grasp that I must owe something to party as well as mankind, if I was to give up anything worth giving to mankind? But perhaps in my egoism I am attributing much more to his lordship's paternal interest, a keener glance to his episcopal eye, than I have any right to attribute. Perhaps, after all, he merely saw in me a young man who had missed the advantages of Oxford, etc. , and wished out of regard for my future to provide me with the best substitute. 

 Anyway, please don't think that I live in a constant state of criticism with a correspondingly dangerous increase of self-esteem. I really am working hard. I sometimes wonder if the preparation of a "good" theological college is the best preparation for the priesthood. But so long as bishops demand the knowledge they do, it is obvious that this form of preparation will continue. There again though, I daresay if I imagined myself an inspired pianist I should grumble at the amount of scales I was set to practice. I'm not, once I've written down or talked out some of my folly, so very foolish at bottom. 

 Beyond a slight inclination to flirt with the opinions of most of the great heresiarchs in turn, but only with each one until the next comes along, I'm not having any intellectual adventures. One of the excitements I had imagined beforehand was wrestling with Doubt. But I have no wrestles. Shall I always be spared?

 Your ever affectionate, Mark. 

Gradually, as the months went by, either because the students becamemore mellow in such surroundings or because he himself was achieving awider tolerance, Mark lost much of his capacity for criticism andlearned to recognize in his fellows a simple goodness and sincerity ofpurpose that almost frightened him when he thought of that great worldoutside, in the confusion and complexity of which they had pledgedthemselves to lead souls up to God. He felt how much they missed by notrelying rather upon the Sacraments than upon personal holiness and theupright conduct of the individual. They were obsessed with the need ofsetting a good example and of being able from the pulpit to direct thewandering lamb to the Good Shepherd. Mark scarcely ever argued about hispoint of view, because he was sure that perception of what theSacraments could do for human nature must be given by the grace of God, and that the most exhaustive process of inductive logic would not availin the least to convince somebody on whom the fact had not dawned in aswift and comprehensive inspiration of his inner life. Sometimes indeedMark would defend himself from attack, as when it was suggested that hisreliance upon the Sacraments was only another aspect of Justification byFaith Alone, in which the effect of a momentary conversion was prolongedby mechanical aids to worship. 

"But I should prefer my idolatry of the outward form to your idolatry ofthe outward form, " he would maintain. 

"What possible idolatry can come from the effect upon a congregation ofa good sermon?" they protested. 

"I don't claim that a preacher might not bring the whole of hiscongregation to the feet of God, " Mark allowed. "But I must have lessfaith in human nature than you have, for I cannot believe that anypreacher could exercise a permanent effect without the Sacraments. Youall know the person who says that the sound of an organ gives him holythoughts, makes him feel good, as the cant phrase goes? I've no doubtthat people who sit under famous preachers get the same kind ofsensation Sunday after Sunday. But sooner or later they will beworshipping the outward form--that is to say the words that issue fromthe preacher's mouth and produce those internal moral rumblings in thepit of the soul which other listeners get from the diapason. Have yourorgans, have your sermons, have your matins and evensong; but don't putthem on the same level as the Blessed Sacrament. The value of that isabsolute, and I refuse to consider It from the point of view ofpragmatic philosophy. "

All would protest that Mark was putting a wrong interpretation upontheir argument; what they desired to avoid was the substitution of theBlessed Sacrament for the Person of the Divine Saviour. 

"But I believe, " Mark argued, "I believe profoundly with the whole of myintellectual, moral, and emotional self that the Blessed Sacrament _is_our Divine Saviour. I maintain that only through the Blessed Sacramentcan we hope to form within our own minds the slightest idea of thePerson of the Divine Saviour. In the pulpit I would undertake to presentfifty human characters as moving as our Lord; but when I am at the AltarI shall actually give Him to those who will take Him. I shall know thatI am doing as much for the lowest savage as for the finest product ofcivilization. All are equal on the altar steps. Elsewhere man remainsdivided into classes. You may rent the best pew from which to see andhear the preacher; but you cannot rent a stone on which to kneel at yourCommunion. "

Mark rarely indulged in these outbursts. On him too Silchester exerted amellowing influence, and he gained from his sojourn there much of whathe might have carried away from Oxford; he recaptured the charm of thatJune day when in the shade of the oak-tree he had watched a Collegecricket match, and conversed with Hathorne the Siltonian who wished tobe a priest, but who was killed in the Alps soon after Mark met him. 

The bells chimed from early morning until sombre eve; ancient clockssounded the hour with strikes rusty from long service of time; rooks andwhite fantail-pigeons spoke with the slow voice of creatures that arelazily content with the slumbrous present and undismayed by the sleepymorrow. In Summer the black-robed dignitaries and white choristers, themselves not more than larger rooks and fantails, passed slowly acrossthe green Close to their dutiful worship. In Winter they battled withthe wind like the birds in the sky. In Autumn there was a sound ofleaves along the alleys and in the Gothic entries. In Spring there weredaisies in the Close, and daffodils nodding among the tombs, and on thegrey wall of the Archdeacon's garden a flaming peacock's tail ofJapanese quince. 

Sometimes Mark was overwhelmed by the tyranny of the past inSilchester; sometimes it seemed that nothing was worth while except atthe end of living to have one's effigy in stone upon the walls of theCathedral, and to rest there for ever with viewless eyes and coldprayerful hands, oneself in harmony at last with all that had gonebefore. 

"Yet this peace is the peace of God, " he told himself. "And I who amprivileged for a little time to share in it must carry away with meenough to make a treasure of peace in my own heart, so that I can givefrom that treasure to those who have never known peace. "

 _The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always. _

When Mark heard these words sound from the altar far away in the goldenglooms of the Cathedral, it seemed to him that the building bowed like amighty couchant beast and fell asleep in the security of God's presence. 

After Mark had been a year at the Theological College he received aletter from the Bishop:

 High Thorpe Castle. 

 Sept. 21, '04. 

 Dear Lidderdale, I have heard from Canon Havelock that he considers you are ready to be ordained at Advent, having satisfactorily passed the Cambridge Preliminary Theological Examination. If therefore you succeed in passing my examination early in November, I am willing to ordain you on December 18. It will be necessary of course for you to obtain a title, and I have just heard from Mr. Shuter, the Vicar of St. Luke's, Galton, that he is anxious to make arrangements for a curate. You had better make an appointment, and if I hear favourably from him I will licence you for his church. It has always been the rule in this diocese that non-graduate candidates for Holy Orders should spend at least two years over their theological studies, but I am not disposed to enforce this rule in your case. 

 Yours very truly, Aylmer Silton. 

This expression of fatherly interest made Mark anxious to show hisappreciation of it, and whatever he had thought of St. Luke's, Galton, or of its incumbent he would have done his best to secure the titlemerely to please the Bishop. Moreover, his money was coming to an end, and another year at the Theological College would have compelled him toborrow from Mr. Ogilvie, a step which he was most anxious to avoid. Hefound that Galton, which he remembered from the days when he had sentCyril Pomeroy there to be met by Dorward, was a small county town ofsome eight or nine thousand inhabitants and that St. Luke's was a newchurch which had originally been a chapel of ease to the parish church, but which had acquired with the growth of a poor population on theoutskirts of the town an independent parochial status of its own. TheReverend Arnold Shuter, who was the first vicar, was at first glancejust a nervous bearded man, though Mark soon discovered that hepossessed a great deal of spiritual force. He was a widower and lived inthe care of a housekeeper who regarded religion as the curse of goodcooking. Latterly he had suffered from acute neurasthenia, and three orfour of his wealthier parishioners--they were only relativelywealthy--had clubbed together to guarantee the stipend of a curate. Markwas to live at the Vicarage, a detached villa, with pointed windows anda front door like a lychgate, which gave the impression of having beenbuilt with what material was left over from building the church. 

"You may think that there is not much to do in Galton, " said Mr. Shuterwhen he and Mark were sitting in his study after a round of the parish. 

"I hope I didn't suggest that, " Mark said quickly. 

The Vicar tugged nervously at his beard and blinked at his prospectivecurate from pale blue eyes. 

"You seem so full of life and energy, " he went on, half to himself, asthough he were wondering if the company of this tall, bright-eyed, hatchet-faced young man might not prove too bracing for his worn-outnerves. 

"Indeed I'm glad I do strike you that way, " Mark laughed. "Afterdreaming at Silchester I'd begun to wonder if I hadn't grown rather toomuch into a type of that sedate and sleepy city. "

"But there is plenty of work, " Mr. Shuter insisted. "We have thehop-pickers at the end of the summer, and I've tried to run a missionfor them. Out in the hop-gardens, you know. And then there's Oaktown. "

"Oaktown?" Mark echoed. 

"Yes. A queer collection of people who have settled on a derelict farmthat was bought up and sold in small plots by a land-speculator. They'llgive plenty of scope for your activity. By the way, I hope you're nottoo extreme. We have to go very slowly here. I manage an early Eucharistevery Sunday and Thursday, and of course on Saints' days; but theattendance is not good. We have vestments during the week, but not atthe mid-day Celebration. "

Mark had not intended to attach himself to what he considered a tooindefinite Catholicism; but inasmuch as the Bishop had found him thisjob he made up his mind to give to it at any rate his deacon's year andhis first year as a priest. 

"I've been brought up in the vanguard of the Movement, " he admitted. "But you can rely on me, sir, to be loyal to your point of view, even ifI disagreed with it. I can't pretend to believe much in moderation; butI should always be your curate before anything else, and I hope verymuch indeed that you will offer me the title. "

"You'll find me dull company, " Mr. Shuter sighed. "My health has goneall to pieces this last year. "

"I shall have a good deal of reading to do for my priest's examination, "Mark reminded him. "I shall try not to bother you. "

The result of Mark's visit to Galton was that amongst the varioustestimonials and papers he forwarded two months later to the Bishop'sRegistrar was the following:

 To the Right Reverend Aylmer, Lord Bishop of Silchester. 

 I, Arnold Shuter, Vicar of St. Luke's, Galton, in the County of Southampton, and your Lordship's Diocese of Silchester, do hereby nominate Mark Lidderdale, to perform the office of Assistant Curate in my Church of St. Luke aforesaid; and do promise to allow him the yearly stipend of £120 to be paid by equal quarterly instalments; And I do hereby state to your Lordship that the said Mark Lidderdale intends to reside in the said Parish in my Vicarage; and that the said Mark Lidderdale does not intend to serve any other Parish as Incumbent or Curate. 

 Witness my hand this fourteenth day of November; in the year of our Lord, 1904. 

 Arnold Shuter, St. Luke's Vicarage, Galton, Hants. 

 I, Arnold Shuter, Incumbent of St. Luke's, Galton, in the County of Southampton, bonâ fide undertake to pay Mark Lidderdale, of the Rectory, Wych-on-the-Wold, in the County of Oxford, the annual sum of one hundred and twenty pounds as a stipend for his services as Curate, and I, Mark Lidderdale, bonâ fide intend to receive the whole of the said stipend. And each of us, Arnold Shuter and Mark Lidderdale, declare that no abatement is to be made out of the said stipend in respect of rent or consideration for the use of the Glebe House; and that I, Arnold Shuter, undertake to pay the same, and I, Mark Lidderdale, intend to receive the same, without any deduction or abatement whatsoever. 

 Arnold Shuter, Mark Lidderdale. 

CHAPTER XXXII

EMBER DAYS

Mark, having been notified that he had been successful in passing theBishop's examination for Deacons, was summoned to High Thorpe onThursday. He travelled down with the other candidates from Silchester onan iron-grey afternoon that threatened snow from the louring North, andin the atmosphere of High Thorpe under the rule of Dr. Oliphant he foundmore of the spirit of preparation than he would have been likely to findin any other diocese at this date. So many of the preliminaries toOrdination had consisted of filling up forms, signing documents, andanswering the questions of the Examining Chaplain that Mark, when he wasnow verily on the threshold of his new life, reproached himself withhaving allowed incidental details and petty arrangements to make him fora while oblivious of the overwhelming fact of his having been acceptedfor the service of God. Luckily at High Thorpe he was granted a day toconfront his soul before being harassed again on Ember Saturday withfurther legal formalities and signing of documents. He was able to spendthe whole of Ember Friday in prayer and meditation, in beseeching God togrant him grace to serve Him worthily, strength to fulfil his vows, andthat great _donum perseverantiæ_ to endure faithful unto death. 

"Not everyone that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, " Mark remembered in thedamasked twilight of the Bishop's Chapel, where he was kneeling. "Let mekeep those words in my heart. Not everyone, " he repeated aloud. Thenperversely as always come volatile and impertinent thoughts when themind is concentrated on lofty aspirations Mark began to wonder if he hadquoted the text correctly. He began to be almost sure that he had not, and on that to torment his brain in trying to recall what was the exactwording of the text he desired to impress upon his heart. "Not everyonethat saith unto me, Lord, Lord, " he repeated once more aloud. 

At that moment the tall figure of the Bishop passed by. 

"Do you want me, my son?" he asked kindly. 

"I should like to make my confession, reverend father in God, " saidMark. 

The Bishop beckoned him into the little sacristy, and putting on rochetand purple stole he sat down to hear his penitent. 

Mark had few sins of which to accuse himself since he last went to hisduties a month ago. However, he did have upon his conscience what hefelt was a breach of the Third Commandment in that he had allowedhimself to obscure the mighty fact of his approaching ordination byattaching too much importance to and fussing too much about thepreliminary formalities. 

The Bishop did not seem to think that Mark's soul was in grave peril onthat account, and he took the opportunity to warn Mark against anover-scrupulousness that might lead him in his confidence to allow sinto enter into his soul by some unguarded portal which he supposed firmlyand for ever secure. 

"That is always the danger of a temperament like yours?" he mused. "Byall means keep your eyes on the high ground ahead of you; but do notforget that the more intently you look up, the more liable you are toslip on some unnoticed slippery stone in your path. If you abandonedyourself to the formalities that are a necessary preliminary toOrdination, you did wisely. Our Blessed Lord usually gave practicaladvice, and some of His miracles like the turning of water into wine atCana were reproofs to carelessness in matters of detail. It was onlywhen people worshipped utility unduly that He went to the other extremeas in His rebuke to Judas over the cruse of ointment. "

The Bishop raised his head and gave Mark absolution. When they came outof the sacristy he invited him to come up to his library and have atalk. 

"I'm glad that you are going to Galton, " he said, wagging his long neckover a crumpet. "I think you'll find your experience in such a parishextraordinarily useful at the beginning of your career. So many youngmen have an idea that the only way to serve God is to go immediately toa slum. You'll be much more discouraged at Galton than you can imagine. You'll learn there more of the difficulties of a clergyman's life in ayear than you could learn in London in a lifetime. Rowley, as no doubtyou've heard, has just accepted a slum parish in Shoreditch. Well, hewrote to me the other day and suggested that you should go to him. But Idissented. You'll have an opportunity at Galton to rely upon yourself. You'll begin in the ruck. You'll be one of many who struggle year inyear out with an ordinary parish. There won't be any paragraphs aboutSt. Luke's in the Church papers. There won't be any enthusiasticpilgrims. There'll be nothing but the thought of our Blessed Lord tokeep you struggling on, only that, only our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ. "

The Bishop's head wagged slowly to and fro in the silence that succeededhis words, and Mark pondering them in that silence felt no longer thathe was saying "Lord, Lord, " but that he had been called to follow andthat he was ready without hesitation to follow Him whithersoever Heshould lead. 

The quiet Ember Friday came to an end, and on the Saturday there weremore formalities, of which Mark dreaded most the taking of the oathbefore the Registrar. He had managed with the help of subtle High Churchdivines to persuade himself that he could swear he assented to theThirty-nine Articles without perjury. Nevertheless he wished that he wasnot bound to take that oath, and he was glad that the sense in which theThirty-nine Articles were to be accepted was left to the discretion ofhim who took the oath. Of one thing Mark was positive. He was assuredlynot assenting to those Thirty-nine Articles that their compilersintended when they framed them. However, when it came to it, Markaffirmed:

"I, Mark Lidderdale, about to be admitted to the Holy Order of Deacons, do solemnly make the following declaration:--I assent to the Thirty-nineArticles of Religion, and to the Book of Common Prayer, and theordering of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons. I believe the doctrine of theChurch of England, as therein set forth, to be agreeable to the Word ofGod; and in Public Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments I willuse the Form in the said Book prescribed, and none other, except so faras shall be ordered by lawful authority. 

"I, Mark Lidderdale, about to be admitted to the Holy Order of Deacons, do swear that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to His MajestyKing Edward, his heirs and successors according to law. 

"So help me God. "

"But the strange thing is, " Mark said to one of his fellow candidates, "nobody asks us to take the oath of allegiance to God. "

"We do that when we're baptized, " said the other, a serious young manwho feared that Mark was being flippant. 

"Personally, " Mark concluded, "I think the solemn profession of a monkspeaks more directly to the soul. "

And this was the feeling that Mark had throughout the Ordination of theDeacons notwithstanding that the Bishop of Silchester in cope and mitrewas an awe-inspiring figure in his own Chapel. But when Mark heard himsay:

 _Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a Priest in the Church of God_, he was caught up to the Seventh Heaven and prayed that, when a yearhence he should be kneeling thus to hear those words uttered to him andto feel upon his head those hands imposed, he should receive the HolyGhost more worthily than lately he had received authority to execute theoffice of a Deacon in the Church of God. 

Suddenly at the back of the chapel Mark caught sight of Miriam, who musthave travelled down from Oxfordshire last night to be present at hisOrdination. His mind went back to that Whit-Sunday in Meade Cantorumnearly ten years ago. Miriam's plume of grey hair was no longer visible, for all her hair was grey nowadays; but her face had scarcely altered, and she sat there at this moment with that same expression of austeresweetness which had been shed like a benison upon Mark's dreary boyhood. How dear of Miriam to grace his Ordination, and if only Esther too couldhave been with him! He knelt down to thank God humbly for His mercies, and of those mercies not least for the Ogilvies' influence upon hislife. 

Mark could not find Miriam when they came out from the chapel. She musthave hurried away to catch some slow Sunday train that would get herback to Wych-on-the-Wold to-night. She could not have known that he hadseen her, and when he arrived at the Rectory to-morrow as glossy as abeetle in his new clerical attire, Miriam would listen to his account ofthe Ordination, and only when he had finished would she murmur how shehad been present all the time. 

And now there was still the oath of canonical obedience to take beforelunch; but luckily that was short. Mark was hungry, since unlike most ofthe candidates he had not eaten an enormous breakfast that morning. 

Snow was falling outside when the young priests and deacons in their newfrock coats sat down to lunch; and when they put on their sleek silkhats and hurried away to catch the afternoon train back to Silchester, it was still falling. 

"Even nature is putting on a surplice in our honour, " Mark laughed toone of his companions, who not feeling quite sure whether Mark was beingpoetical or profane, decided that he was being flippant, and lookedsuitably grieved. 

It was dusk of that short winter day when Mark reached Silchester, andwandered back in a dream toward Vicar's Walk. Usually on Sunday eveningsthe streets of the city pattered with numerous footsteps; but to-nightthe snow deadened every sound, and the peace of God had gone out fromthe Cathedral to shed itself upon the city. 

"It will be Christmas Day in a week, " Mark thought, listening to theSabbath bells muffled by the soft snow-laden air. For the first time itoccurred to him that he should probably have to preach next Sundayevening. 

 _And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. _

That should be his text, Mark decided; and, passing from the snowystreets, he sat thinking in the golden glooms of the Cathedral about hissermon. 

EXPLICIT PRÆLUDIUM