Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  They had by this time reached the dessert stage of their dinner, and Howard, helping himself to a rosy-vested pear, began to peel it slowly.

  “Presuming you will pardon me for the remark, the clergy are at present not qualified to deal with any matters at all,” — he said— “Not in the way they are going on. They are in a great many cases corruptible, and open to the bribery of Rome. You tell me of country clergymen who find their lives difficult. Well! I can tell you of country clergymen who make their lives difficult, and the lives of other people unbearable! I know of one of these worthies who is always preaching about moral restraint between the sexes, and who is a great advocate of temperance as well, yet he is the most hypocritical and immoral of men. His ‘natural’ daughter, wearing the clothes he has purchased for her, walks about his parish quite openly and unabashed, — goes into his house and garden when his wife is absent, and amuses herself in her own particular fashion. Every one in the place, down to the very schoolboys, knows who and what she is, — and he has brought himself into utter contempt — but, — his Bishop intends to promote him shortly! Have you ever considered the singular blindness of some Bishops? I have; — very often! Take another clerical example. I could give you the name and address of a clergyman so parsimonious, that he will not employ a sexton, — he rings his own church bell, digs the graves, and herds his cow in the graveyard! All the parishioners have ceased to attend his services, and they tramp to a church four miles distant rather than go near him. Does the Bishop know?

  Oh yes, the Bishop knows. But it is too much trouble for this particular Bishop to take any steps in the matter. One more case in point, — name and address likewise at your service, — that of the rector of a small country parish who for a certain social (and financial) consideration flatly disobeyed a fixed rule of the Church, for which, mark you! he received, not the reproach but the actual approval of his Bishop; yet this fraud of a ‘Christian’ is notoriously known in the town nearest to his village as a habitué of a low street where women sell themselves for a few shillings, and where two or three of them openly boast of their shameful intimacy with this ‘dispenser of Gospel Truth.’ Here again, the whole town knows, and the Bishop has been told — but the Bishop in this instance elects to be not only blind but deaf, for rumor asserts that this cheap adulterer, masquerading as a servant of Christ, is to be made a Canon. Well! — do you wonder that the Church is sinking into the quicksands of criminal apathy? When ‘society’ knows, as you will know shortly, that there is even one Bishop — only one! — in propria persona — who is guilty of such unnamable sins as should cause him to be publicly whipped out of his own Cathedral doors, and that notwithstanding this, he is allowed to remain on in his high office, can you be surprised that the laity are beginning to look upon the ordained exponents of religion with suspicion, if not with absolute contempt?”

  “But these cases are surely exceptional,” — said Everton, in grave, pained accents— “There are black sheep in every calling—”

  “True! — but I do not go about looking for black sheep, — my aim is to try and find the best of everything in human nature. These examples of the clergy have been thrust upon me — I have not sought for them. I have been, and am, deeply sorry to find them. But that they exist only proves the possible existence of many more like them. And most harmful and mischievous of all perhaps is that section which seeks to ‘leave things alone,’ and which entertains the slothful idea that bold, plain speaking in the cause of Christ is to be deprecated lest it make matters worse. These sort of men are well-intentioned, no doubt, but the front they present to the world suggests desire for personal ease rather than personal trouble.”

  At that moment peals of gay laughter echoed out from the curtained recess where the guests of Claude Ferrers were being entertained. Everton started, fancying he heard the rippling laugh of Jacynth ringing above the rest.

  “Personal ease,” went on Howard, stirring his coffee leisurely, and now and then lifting his keen dark eyes to study his companion’s face— “and personal pleasure are the two chief objects of modern life. The luxury of our present surroundings bears witness to the fact. The people in there” — and he indicated by a gesture the Ferrers party; “care not a jot whether Christ ever lived or died. And such are the kind of folk you must be prepared to face if you preach in London. Some country clerics there are who refuse to admit that such folk exist. I know an excellent man down in Somerset, who is ‘strictly orthodox’ and rules his household, particularly his domestics, with a rod of iron. He assured me with much satisfaction that his parishioners knew nothing of the wave of atheism that was surging over Europe, and that he did not wish them to know. ‘I do not allow it,’ — he said. He supervises the literature of his parish, and flatters himself that no man, woman or child ever reads anything he does not approve. Never was there a more pathetic case of blindness. His own servants take in all the sensational ‘dailies’ on the sly, and there is not a man in the neighborhood who does not gloat every week over a certain ‘Sunday Dreadful’ which serves up all the worst police cases as a cook serves curry, well-seasoned and highly-flavored. And he, the innocent good man, being convinced that his ‘little flock’ live in a state of primitive innocence, declines altogether to discuss with me any form of the heart-breaking distress from which half the world is suffering to-day, — the doubt of God which makes people ‘afraid to think’ — the misery and terror which hang suspended over the wretched human unit deprived of faith and hope, like the sword of an executioner, ‘for,’ says he, comfortably, ‘it is better to ignore it.’ Even so Louis the Sixteenth, though an honest and well-meaning monarch, ignored his people’s discontent. ‘Is it a riot?’ he asked, when told the Bastille was being stormed by the mob of Paris. ‘No, Sire,’ he was answered— ‘It is a Revolution!’ You can apply the same words to the Churches of to-day. It is not a riot; it is a revolution.”

  Fascinated by his even, quiet voice and the ease and eloquence with which he spoke, Everton listened with deep if sometimes grieved attention. A cultured American who can talk well is better than a cultured Englishman who can do the same, for the American is less restrained by convention and prejudice. And though hating to be forced to admit it, he knew that Howard was not exaggerating the abuses prevalent in the Churches all over the world, but more particularly in the Church of England.

  “I wish I could contradict you,” — he said, rather sadly— “But — to be honest — I cannot! The clergy are losing their hold on the million; the million are trying to find God for themselves — and I cannot blame them. The flocks are astray because of the sloth of their shepherds. I am afraid this is true. Yet I must say I have not met such flagrant examples of laxity among the clergy as those you have spoken of — nor do I know of any Bishop who has so greatly transgressed—”

  Howard interrupted him by a slight warning gesture.

  “Hush!” he said— “All walls have ears, especially the walls of the Savoy; and the episcopal lord may be here tonight for all we know, though I should hardly think he would, after what is privately known of him, have the temerity to show himself in public. Anyway, he is far more likely to be at dinner than at prayers!”

  Everton’s honest blue eyes expressed a deep concern and bewilderment. He was about to speak when fresh peals of ringing laughter from the curtained recess made him wince and grow pale. Howard saw that he was troubled, — and concluding that the Savoy sights and sounds were beginning to chafe and irritate his mind, took pity on him.

  “Would you rather go now?” he asked— “Or would you care for another glimpse of Mrs. Nordstein, made doubly radiant by the warm glow of champagne and ‘crème de menthe’ in her veins? People say she is at her loveliest after dinner — and that when most over-fed women look redfaced and greasy, she is pale as a pearl and cool as a watermelon. By the way, that’s her husband, Israel Nordstein, just coming in.”

  Everton turned his head quickly and saw a thin, undersized old man with a pallid, wize
ned face and gray goatee beard, advancing slowly into the room, ushered along by a deferential French waiter all smiles, bows and gesticulations, who was evidently explaining that the Ferrers banquet was in a private room apart from the less exclusive crowd. Many people nudged one another and exchanged awestruck whispers as the notorious Jew millionaire passed by their various tables, nodding condescendingly to those he recognized, and looking about him quizzically with sharp ferret eyes that sparkled under his stiff bushy brows like bits of cold steel. At the table next to that where Everton and Howard sat, he stopped and laid a yellow, veiny hand on the shoulder of a man who was dining with a pert-looking young actress.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he queried in a rasping voice which struck against his false teeth like the grating of a saw; “That’s right! But don’t let this delightful lady” — here he bowed to the actress in question with an unpleasantly derisive courtesy— “keep you late for your appointment with me to-morrow. Some one in the city told me you were going abroad, but I should not advise you to do-that; -no! —— —— — I should not advise it at this time of the year!”

  He stretched his thin lips in a wide grin, and his goatee beard wagged up and down with the inward movement of his silent mirth. The man he spoke to answered him in sharp haste and evident irritation.

  “Oh, I’m not going. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “I thought so!” and Nordstein’s smile was wider than before. “And let me assure you that you do well to change it!”

  With that he went on to the corner where the French Ganymede stood attentively ready for him near the velvet curtain which hid the Aero-Club revels from outside observation. Raising the rich drapery with an impressive elegance, the waiter held it up as though it were an arch of triumph for the redoubtable man of millions to walk under, — then let it fall softly behind him like a conjurer who makes haste to conceal the stage whereon he works his black magic tricks and mysteries.

  Richard Everton had watched the little scene with morbid intentness. He tried to realize that this old, shrunken, wicked-eyed Jew was the husband of Jacynth; — the husband of a girl of twenty-one; for she was not eighteen when she had left Shadbrook four years ago, — and the more the fact forced itself upon him the stronger grew his sense of shame that such a thing should be. A feeling of revolt and resentment rose up in him; — his whole mental and moral being was jarred into sudden discord. The brilliant restaurant with its throng of chattering, laughing, feeding men and women, seemed to him nothing but a child’s kaleidoscope with bits of colored glass that changed into different patterns with each slight movement, and he gave a quick involuntary sigh of weariness. He glanced expressively at his host.

  “Shall we go?” said he.

  “By all means!” answered Howard, promptly.

  They left their table and walked slowly together through the crowded room. They were both tall, well-built men, of a finer and more intellectual type than common, and many people stared at them openly in the eminently rude British way which so often disfigures British manners. Everton thought he heard the words ‘Another millionaire!’ as Howard passed by one set of persons who were dining together near the doorway, but glancing at his companion’s unmoved face, he concluded his ears must have deceived him. At the summit of the wide staircase which they had to ascend from the dining-room into the lounge, a foppishly-dressed man stood looking down at them with a vacuous air as though he were peering into the bottom of a deep well. His face was of a sickly white hue, and a foolish smile played now and then on his loose mouth like a weak flicker from an expiring flame. He was considerably in the way of the coming and going people, and once or twice was swayed aside by their movements as though he were too helpless for personal resistance. Just as Everton and Howard passed him he suddenly lost his balance and toppled over, rolling from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Everton was about to hurry to his assistance when Howard pulled him back.

  “Don’t interfere,” — he said— “He’s drunk. The waiters will see to him.”

  “Drunk!” echoed Everton, amazedly— “Here? Not possible!”

  “Quite possible! You think not, because he’s dressed like a, gentleman and is in a restaurant which ostensibly caters for gentlefolk. But, my good sir, there’s as much occasional drunkenness in high-flying places of this sort as there is in the lowest public-house slum. See! — they’ve picked up his lordship.”

  “His lordship?”

  “Yes — he’s a lord. Quite of the ‘best quality’” — and Howard laughed scornfully— “He went over to the States two or three years ago on the prowl after a pretty little Boston girl, an only child, whose father will leave her some millions. She had a romantic idea that it would be nice to marry into an old ‘historic’ English family and be called ‘my lady.’ But after seeing this chap drunk a few times she altered her mind.”

  “Fortunately for herself!” commented Everton.

  “Quite so! Now his is a case of drink where Balfour’s accusation of ‘gross criminal self-indulgence’ comes in pat. He is drunk, not through one sort of poison but through several sorts, mixed. He has probably taken at his one meal, sherry, hock, claret, champagne, port and liqueurs, finishing up with two or three whiskies. That is the frequent drink-routine of the habitual diner-out. Naturally complete intoxication sets in — I was going to say bestial intoxication, but that would be wronging the poor beasts who never get drunk. And this man is only one of many more of his class and kind. I could even name to you a royal prince who never goes to bed sober.”

  Everton gave a gesture of pained disgust.

  “Spare me!” he said— “For if those who are set in high positions as ‘leaders’ of society sink so low, there is little hope for the masses who have no leader at all. And a preacher such as I am may as well give up his calling, for he can never be more than a voice in the wilderness.”

  “A voice in the wilderness was the herald of Christ,” — replied Howard— “We mustn’t forget that! And the ‘masses’ — the masses of Great Britain, are the finest masses of human material in existence! I would back them against the whole world; — yes, though I’m an American I would! There’s no soldier like the British soldier — no sailor like the British sailor — anywhere on God’s earth! And, — if he were given the proper chance of training and experience there’s nothing like the British working-man. He’ll beat any foreigners at any piece of work if he can only be saved from the licensed curse of drink. Now shall we remain here a little? — or shall we go and see a few ‘slum ‘sights?”

  “Slum sights are fairly familiar to me,” — answered Everton, “I worked in the East End of London as an assistant curate before I was married, and saw enough there to break my heart if it had not been too full of faith and hope then to be easily broken—”

  “Then?” queried Howard, with a keen glance at him; “And — now?”

  “Well! — now it is broken!” he answered quietly, “But faith and hope still hold the broken pieces together.” Howard smiled — a very warm and kindly smile.

  “Come along then,” — he said— “Come out of this luxurious feeding-place of the over-rich Dives-folk of the world, and let us go and look at Lazarus in rags, doing his best to fight starvation and misery. The struggle against poverty is always a more inspiring sight than is the passive acceptance of needless luxury. You don’t want to see Claude Ferrers again or his ‘Magic Crystal’?”

  A slight shadow crossed Everton’s face, but he smiled coldly.

  “No. I have seen enough of them to-night.”

  They put on their coats and left the restaurant, and for the rest of the evening they strolled through some of the many purlieus of drink and poverty lying close about the Strand and Covent Garden. —

  “This place,” — said Howard, indicating a small, dingy street; “was the scene of a curious riot some time ago. Nearly every house in it is owned by Jews, and one of them, a baker, being overpressed with work against time, took on three Christian assistants t
o help him turn out his loaves. He was at once ‘boycotted,’ and gangs of Jews paraded in front of his shop, causing the greatest obstruction and annoyance, and threatening him with actual bodily violence because he had employed other than Jews. Think of that in ‘free’ England! I am no fanatical Anti-Semite, — but I should be intellectually blind if I did not see that Britain is being gradually overrun by Jews, in society, in politics and in commerce, — and that the marked encouragement of Jews by the Throne and the Press is going in time to prove as serious a matter as the question of the negro population in America.”

  “I deprecate all quarrels between sects,” — said Everton, quickly— “Many Jews are kinder and more charitable than Christians.”

  “In certain well-defined and well-advertised cases, yes,” — agreed his companion “But in the aggregate quantity, no. The grabbing Christian is bad enough, but the grabbing Jew is twenty times worse. Besides, it is not a question of sect — but of race. Racial differences are inextinguishable. The lion will not lie down with the lamb. Take Nordstein, for example. He has made his millions by the most unscrupulous and dishonorable methods, and yet there is no one who would dare to expose him. One of his numerous ‘trades’ is the Drama. He makes or mars it — as he pleases — and he is one of the many existing causes of its gradual decline.”