# When It Was Dark/Chapter 14

CHAPTER II
AVOIDING THE FLOWER PATTERN ON THE CARPET
SIR MICHAEL MANICHOE, the stay and pillar of "Anglicanism" in the English Church, was a man of great natural gifts. The owner of one of those colossal Jewish fortunes which, few as they are, have such far-reaching influence upon English life, he employed it in a way which, for a man in his position, was unique.
He presented the curious spectacle, to sociologists and the world at large, of a Jew by origin who had become a Christian by conviction and one of the sincerest sons of the English Church as he understood it. In political life Sir Michael was a steady, rather than a brilliant, force. He had been Home Secretary under a former Conservative administration, but had retired from office. At the present moment he was a private member for the division in which his country house, Fencastle, stood, and he enjoyed the confidence of the chiefs of his party.
His great talent was for organisation, and all his powers in that direction were devoted towards the preservation and unification of the Church to which he was a convert.
Sir Michael's convictions were perfectly clear and straightforward. He believed, with all his heart, in the Catholicity of the Anglican persuasion. Roman priests he spoke of as "members of the Italian mission"; Non-conformists as "adherents to the lawless bands of Dissent." He allowed the validity of Roman orders and spoke of the Pope as the "Bishop of Rome," an Italian ​ecclesiastic with whom the English communion had little or nothing to do.
In his intimate and private life Sir Michael lived according to rubric. His splendid private chapel at Fencastle enjoyed the services of a chaplain, reinforced by priests from a community of Anglican monks which Sir Michael had established in an adjacent village. In London, St. Mary's was, in some sense, his particular property. He spent fabulous sums on the big Bloomsbury Parish and the needs of its great, cathedral-like church. There was no vicar in London who enjoyed the command of money that Father Ripon enjoyed. Certainly there was no other priest in the ranks of the High Churchmen who was the confidential friend and spiritual director of so powerful a political and social personality.
Yet in his public life Sir Michael was diplomatic enough. He worked steadily for one thing, it is true, but he was far too able to allow people to call him narrow-minded. The Oriental strain of cunning in his blood had sweetened to a wise diplomacy. While he always remembered he was a Churchman, he did not forget that to be an effective and helpful one he must keep his political and social eminence. And so, whatever might take place behind the scenes in the library with Father Ripon, or in the Bloomsbury clergy house, the baronet showed the world the face of a man of the world, and neither obtruded his private views nor allowed them to disturb his colleagues.
The day after the news arrived in Fleet Street from Palestine — while nothing was yet known and Harold Spence was rushing through Amiens en route for Paris and the East — a house party began to collect at Fencastle, the great place in Lincolnshire.
For a day or two a few rather important people were to meet under Sir Michael's roof. Now and then the ​palace in the fen lands was the scene of notable gatherings, much talked of in certain circles and commented on by people who would truthfully have described themselves as being "in the know."
These parties were, indeed, congresses of the eminent, the "big" people who quietly control an England which the ignorant and the vulgar love to imagine is in the hands of a corrupt society of well-born, "smart," and pleasure-seeking people.
The folk who gathered at Fencastle were as remote from the gambling, lecherous, rabbit-brained set which glitters so brightly before the eyes of the uninformed as any staid, middle-class reader of the popular journals.
In this stronghold of English Catholicism — "hot-bed of ritualists" as the brawling "Protestant" journals called it, one met a diversity of people, widely divided in views and only alike in one thing — the dominant quality of their brains and position.
Sir Michael thought it well that even his professed opponents should meet at his table, for it gave both him and his lieutenants new data and fresh impressions for use in the campaign. Sir Michael's convictions were perfectly unalterable, but to find out how others — and those hostile — really regarded them only added to the weapons in his armoury.
And, as one London priest once remarked to another, the combination of a Jewish brain and a Christian heart was one which had already revolutionised Society nearly two thousand years ago in the persons of eleven distinguished instances.
As Father Ripon drove to Liverpool Street Station after lunch, to catch the afternoon train to the eastern counties, he was reading a letter as his cab turned into Cheapside and crawled slowly through the heavy afternoon traffic of the city.
​"... It will be as well for you to see the man à huisclos and form your own opinions. There can be no doubt that he is a force to be reckoned with, and he is, moreover, as I think you will agree after inspection, far more brilliant and able than any other professed anti-christian of the front rank. Then there will also be Mrs. Hubert Armstrong. She is a pseudo-intellectual force, but her writings have a certain heaviness and authoritative note which I believe to have real influence with the large class of semi-educated people who mistake an atmosphere of knowledge for knowledge itself. A very charming woman, by the way, and I think sincere. Matthew Arnold and water!
"The Duke of Suffolk will stop a night on his way home. He writes that he wishes to see you. As you know, he is just back from Rome, and now that they have definitely pronounced against the validity of Anglican orders he is most anxious to have a further chat with you in order to form a working opinion as to our position. From his letter to me, and the extremely interesting account he gives of his interview at the Vatican, I gather that the Roman Church still utterly misunderstands our attitude, and that hopes there are high of the ultimate "conversion" of England. I hope that as a representative of English Churchmen you will be able to define what we think in an unmistakable way. This will have value. Among my other guests you win meet Canon Walke. He is preaching in Lincoln Cathedral on the Sunday, fresh from Windsor. "Render unto Caesar" will, I allow myself to imagine, not be an unlikely text for his homily. — I am, Father, yours most sincerely,
"M. M."
Still thinking carefully over Sir Michael's letter, Father Ripon bought his ticket and made his way to the platform.
​He got into a first-class carriage. While in London the priest lived a life of asceticism and simplicity which was not so much a considered thing as the outcome of an absolute and unconscious carelessness about personal and material comfort; when he went thus to a great country house, he complied with convention because it was politic.
He was the grandson of a peer, and, though he laughed at these small points, he wished to meet his friend's opinions in any reasonable way, rather than to flout them.
The carriage was empty, though a pile of newspapers and a travelling rug in one comer showed Father Ripon that he was to have one companion at any rate upon the journey.
He had bought the Church Times at the bookstall and was soon deeply immersed in the report of a Bampton Lecture delivered during the week at the University Church in Oxford.
Some one entered the carriage, the door was shut, and the train began to move out of the station, but he was too interested to look up to see who his companion might be.
A voice broke in upon his thoughts as they were tearing through the wide-spread slums of Bethnal Green.
"Do you mind if I smoke, sir? This isn't a smoking carriage, but we are alone—"
It was an ordinary query enough. "Oh, dear, no!" said the priest. "Please do, to your heart's content. It doesn't inconvenience me."
Father Ripon's quick, breezy manner seemed to interest the stranger. He looked up and saw a personality. Obviously this clergyman was some one of note. The heavy brows, the hawk-like nose, the large, firm, and yet kindly mouth, all these seemed familiar in some vague way.
​For his part, Father Ripon experienced much the same sensation as he glanced at the tall stranger. His hair, which could be seen beneath his ordinary hard felt hat, was dark red and somewhat abundant. His features were Semitic, but without a trace of that fulness, and often coarseness, which sometimes marks the Jew who has come to the period of middle life. The large black eyes were neither dull nor lifeless, but simply cold, irresponsive, and alert. A massive jaw completed an impression which was remarkable in its fineness and almost sinister beauty.
The priest found it remarkable but with no sense of strangeness. He had seen the man before.
Recognition came to Schuabe first.
"Excuse me," he said, "but surely you are Father Ripon? I am Constantine Schuabe."
Ripon gave a merry chuckle. "I knew I knew you!" he said, "but I couldn't think quite who you were for a moment. Sir Michael tells me you're going to Fencastle; so am I."
Schuabe leaned back in his seat and regarded Father Ripon with a steady and calm scrutiny, somewhat with the manner of a naturalist examining a curious specimen, with a suggestion of aloofness in his eyes.
Suddenly Father Ripon smiled rather sternly, and the deep furrows which sprang into his cheeks showed the latent strength and power of the face.
"Well, Mr. Schuabe," he said abruptly, "the train doesn't stop anywhere for an hour, so willy-nilly you're locked up with a priest!"
"A welcome opportunity, Father Ripon, to convince one that perhaps the devil isn't as black as he's painted."
"I've read your books," said Ripon, "and I believe you are sincere, Mr. Schuabe. It's not a personal question at all. At the same time, if I had the power, ​you know I should cheerfully execute you or imprison you for life, not out of revenge for what you have done, but as a precautionary measure. You should have no further opportunity of doing harm." He smiled grimly as he spoke.
"Rather severe, Father," said Schuabe laughing. "Because I find that in a rational view of history there is no place for a Resurrection and Ascension you would give me your blessing and an auto da fé!"
"I rather believe in stern measures, sometimes," answered the clergyman, with an underlying seriousness, though he spoke half in jest. "Not for all heretics, you know — only the dangerous ones."
"You are afraid of intellect when it is brought to bear on these questions."
"I thought that would be your rejoinder. Superficially it is a very telling one, because there is nothing so insidious as a half-truth. In a sense what you say is true. There are a great many Christians whose faith is weak and whose natural inclinations, assisted by supernatural temptations, are towards a life of sin. Christianity keeps them from it. Now, your books come in the way of such people as these far more readily and easily than works of Christian apologetics written with equal power. An attack upon our position has all the elements of popularity and novelty. It is more seen. For example, ten thousand people have heard of your Christ Reconceived for every ten who know Lathom's Risen Master. You have said the last word for agnosticism and made it widely public, the Master of Trinity Hall has said the last word for Christianity and only scholars know of it. It isn't the strength of your case which makes you dangerous, it's the ignorance of the public and a condition of affairs which makes it possible for you to shout loudest."
​"Well, there is at least a half-truth in what you say also, Mr. Ripon," said Schuabe. " But you don't seem to have brought anything to eat. Will you share my luncheon basket? There is quite enough for two people."
Father Ripon had been called away after the early Eucharist, and had quite forgotten to have any breakfast.
"Thank you very much," he said; "I will. I suddenly seem to be hungry, and after all there is scriptural precedent for spoiling the Egyptians!"
Both laughed again, sheathed their weapons, and began to eat.
Each of them was a man of the world, cultured, with a charming personality. Each knew the other was impervious to attack.
Only once, as the short afternoon was darkening and they were approaching their destination, did Schuabe refer to controversial subjects. The carriage was shadowed and dusky as they rushed through the desolate fenlands. The millionaire lit a match for a cigarette, and the sudden flare showed the priest's face, set and stern. He seemed to be thinking deeply.
"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe asked, in a tone of interested curiosity, — "What would you do if some stupendous thing were to happen, something to occur which proved without doubt that Christ was not divine? Supposing that it suddenly became an absolute fact, a historical fact which every one must accept?"
"Some new discovery, you mean?"
"Well, if you like; never mind the actual means. Assume for a moment that it became certain as an historical fact that the Resurrection did not take place. I say that the ignorant love of Christ's followers wreathed His life in legend, that the true story was from the ​beginning obscured by error, hysteria, and mistake. Supposing something proved what I say in such a way as to leave no loophole for denial. What would you do? As a representative Churchman, what would you do? This interests me."
"Well, you are assuming an impossibility, and I can't argue on such a postulate. But, if for a moment what you say could happen, I might not be able to deny these proofs, but I should never believe them."
"But surely—"
"Christ is within; I have found Him myself without possibility of mistake; day and night I am in communion with Him."
"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing a person who takes that attitude. But it is rare."
"Faith is weak in the world," said the priest, with a sigh, as the train drew up in the little wayside station.
A footman took their luggage to a carriage which was waiting, and they drove off rapidly through the twilight, over the bare brown fen with a chill leaden sky meeting it on the horizon, towards Fencastle.
Sir Michael's house was an immemorial feature of those parts. Josiah Manichoe, his father, had bought it from old Lord Lostorich. To this day Sir Michael paid two pounds each year, as "Knight's fee," to the lord of the manor at Denton, a fee first paid in 1236. As it stood now, the house was Tudor in exterior, covering a vast area with its stately, explicit, and yet homelike, rather than "homely," beauty.
The interior of the house was treated with great judgment and artistic ability. A successful effort had been made to combine the greatest measure of modern comfort without unduly disturbing the essential character of the place. Thus Father Ripon found himself in an ancient bedroom with a painted ceiling and panelled ​walls. The furniture was in keeping with the design, but electric lamps had been fitted to the massive pewter sconces on the wall, and the towel-rail by the washing-stand was made of copper tubing through which hot water passed constantly.
The dinner-gong boomed at eight and Ripon went down into the great hall, where a group of people were standing round an open fire of peat and coal.
Mrs. Bardilly, a widowed sister of Sir Michael's, acted as hostess, a quiet, matronly woman, very Jewish in aspect, shrewd and placid in temper, an admirable châtelaine.
Talking to her was Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the famous woman novelist. Mrs. Armstrong was tall and grandly built. Her grey hair was drawn over a massive, manlike brow in smooth folds, her face was finely chiselled. The mouth was large, rather sweet in expression, but with a slight hinting of "superiority" in repose and condescension in movement. When she spoke, always in full, well-chosen periods, it was with an air of somewhat final pronouncement. She was ever ex cathedra.
The lady's position was a great one. Every two or three years she published a weighty novel, admirably written, full of real culture, and without a trace of humour. In those productions, treatises rather than novels, the theme was generally that of a high-bred philosophical negation of the Incarnation. Mrs. Armstrong pitied Christians with passionate certainty. Gently and lovingly she essayed to open blinded eyes to the truth. With great condescension she still believed in God and preached Christ as a mighty teacher.
One of her utterances suffices to show the colossal arrogance — almost laughable were it not so bizarre — of her intellect:
​The world has expanded since Jesus preached in the dim ancient cities of the East. Men and women of to-day cannot learn the complete lesson of God from him now — indeed they could not in those old times. But all that is most necessary in forming character, all that makes for pureness and clarity of soul — this Jesus has still for us as he had for the people of his own time."
After the enormous success of her book, John Mulgrave, Mrs. Armstrong more than half believed she had struck a final blow at the errors of Christianity.
Shrewd critics remarked that John Mulgrave described the perversion of the hero with great skill and literary power, while quite forgetting to recapitulate the arguments which had brought it about.
The woman was really educated, but her success was with half-educated readers. Her works excited to a sort of frenzy clergymen who realised their insidious hollowness. Her success was real; her influence appeared to be real also. It was a deplorable fact that she swayed fools.
By laying on the paint very thick and using bright colours, Mrs. Armstrong caught the class immediately below that which read the works of Constantine Schuabe. They were captain and lieutenant, formidable in coalition.
A short, carelessly dressed man — his evening tie was badly arranged and his trousers were ill cut — was the Duke of Suffolk. His face was covered with dust-coloured hair, his eyes bright and restless. The Duke was the greatest Roman Catholic nobleman in England. His vast wealth and eager, though not first-class, brain were devoted entirely to the conversion of the country. He was beloved by men of all creeds.
Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a ​handsome man, portly, large, and gracious in manner. He was destined for high preferment, a persona grata at Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in which he moved.
Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation and a sort of purring geniality.
Dinner was a very pleasant meaL Every one talked well. Great events in Society and politics were discussed by the people who were themselves responsible for them.
Here was the inner circle itself, serene, bland, and guarded from the crowd outside. And perhaps, with the single exception of Father Ripon, who never thought about it at all, every one was pleasantly conscious of pulling the strings. They sat, Jove-like, kindly tolerant of lesser mortals, discussing, over a dessert, what they should do for the world.
At eleven nearly every one had retired for the night. Father Ripon and his host sat talking in the library for another hour discussing church matters. At twelve these two also retired.
And now the great house was silent save for the bitter winter wind which sobbed and moaned round the towers.
It was the eve of the twelfth of December. The world was as usual and the night came to England with no hintings of the morrow.
Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping calmly after a long, quiet evening with Helena and her father.
Father Ripon had said his prayers and lay half dreaming in bed, watching the firelight glows and shadows on the panelling and listening to the fierce outside wind as if it were a lullaby.
Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article ​for the Nineteenth Century in her bedroom. An open volume of Renan stood by her side; here and there the lady deftly paraphrased a few lines. Occasionally she sipped a cup of black-currant tea — an amiable weakness of this paragon when engaged upon her stirring labours.
In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and twitching lips, paced rapidly up and down. From the door to the dressing-table — seven steps. From there to the fireplace — ten steps — avoiding the flower pattern of the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven! ten! and then back again.
Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon his face, dried, hardened, and burst forth again.
Seven, ten, stop for a glass of water, and then on again, rapidly, hurriedly; the dawn is coming very near.
Ten! seven! turn!