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

by Marie Corelli

  “Delighted,” — said the Bishop, in rich, warm tones, “delighted to have the pleasure of personally congratulating you on the splendid work you have been doing lately in the cause of temperance, Mr. Everton! Yes! And most grateful to you for coming up to town to help us with our little scheme of charitable work. Mr. Carey tells me the collection to-day amounts to eight hundred pounds! Eight hundred pounds! Astonishing! I know of no preacher in London who could have drawn so much out of the pockets of a congregation in one morning! Let me introduce you to the Archdeacon!”

  Everton here acknowledged the presence of a handsome man of middle age, about as portly as the Bishop, but rather more symmetrical in height and build, though owning less shapely legs than those of his ecclesiastical superior. He was an impressive individual, with an elocutionary voice and an elocutionary manner, and was highly popular with that particular section of church-going society who like their religious doctrines served up to them like dessert, on painted plates with satin doilies, and finger-bowls full of rose water. He greeted Everton with a grave cordiality that became his height and general appearance, and as he was the only additional guest whom the Bishop had invited, luncheon was no longer delayed. Seated at table, the four gentlemen in Holy Orders began to exchange ideas on the topics of the day, and though at first Richard took a ready and eloquent part in the conversation, he soon found himself out of the running and quite behind his companions in what is called the social point of view. Growing more and more silent, he presently sat quietly listening to the flow of talk between the Bishop, the Archbishop and the Reverend ‘Mother Carey’ in more or less pained bewilderment. Money was unquestionably their favorite subject, — the wealth of this, that, or t’other personage being discussed, declared, or denied, — and various ideas for ‘drawing’ congregations were mentioned as being of vital importance.

  “But we must not go quite so far,” — said the Archdeacon, in his deep, vibrant tones— “not quite so far as our excellent friends in America! Over there the services are extremely ‘up-to-date.’ One minister in New York has, so I hear, illuminated the outside of his church with arc-lights like a music-hall. He has provided an orchestra instead of an organ and illustrates his sermon with magic-lantern slides. Pretty young women in white gowns show the congregation to their seats, and every worshiper is provided with a picture post-card! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!” The Archdeacon’s low laugh had something mellow and juicy about it. “That is a curious, and no doubt effective, form of service! But I hardly think it would succeed here. A post-card parson! Ha-ha! He is a great enthusiast, and calls the primitive Church methods ‘the age of the tallow candle.’ He says that we in England still pursue the tallow-candle policy, but that he intends to use electric light. Ha-ha-ha!”

  The Bishop and Mr. Carey joined gently in the soft ‘Ha-ha!’ and helped themselves and the Archdeacon to more wine. Everton was very still; his face was pale, and the light in his eyes was cold as the flash of steel.

  “After all,” — said Carey— “he’s not so far wrong. It’s absolutely necessary nowadays to attract the people by something new, and, if possible, ‘sensational.’ They are tired of plain Gospel preaching. I have often thought of asking Mrs. Nordstein to recite in my church. Some devotional piece, of course—’ Rock of Ages’ or ‘Abide with me.’ She would ‘draw’ immensely!”

  Everton looked up. There was an expression on his fine features that, like a word of command, invoked silence. He waited a moment, — then — addressing himself to the Bishop, said:

  “My lord, will you not speak?”

  The Bishop gave him a placidly surprised smile.

  “Will I not speak?” he echoed— “Is there anything for me to say?”

  “I should have thought so!” replied Everton, steadily, though his voice had a strong ring of passion in it— “I should, have thought it impossible for you to tolerate patiently the proposal made by a minister of Christ to turn the services of the church into a ‘variety ‘entertainment!”

  The Bishop flushed red with a violent shock of annoyance.

  “But you must not take it quite in that way,” — he hastily began.

  “How am I to take it then?” — and Everton, thoroughly roused, flashed a challenging glance at Carey, who merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders with an air of patient tolerance, while the Archdeacon turned his well-trained eyes from one to another as in mild deprecation of any dispute —

  “A church is a building consecrated to Divine worship. Men are educated and ordained to carry out certain forms of this Divine worship with all possible humility, simplicity and reverence. Yet I gather that Mr. Carey would not consider it beyond his ordainment if he could engage the services of a notorious society woman to play the actress within the so-called ‘House of God,’ in order to draw a large audience, God Himself not being considered sufficiently attractive! My lord, if the Christian religion is no longer an honest faith with us, let the Christian churches all be pulled down rather than have their ancient and sacred associations desecrated, — but, if we solemnly and truly believe in God and the Incarnate Divinity of Christ, let us beware how we blaspheme!”

  The Bishop looked confused. He was distinctly uncomfortable, — anxious as he always was to conciliate all parties and harmonize conflicting opinions, he found Everton’s plain speaking very awkward and difficult to answer.

  “Surely,” — said the Archdeacon, coming to the rescue with a bland and pacifying air— “you would not, Mr. Everton, consider the recitation of a hymn in church by a good and beautiful woman, blasphemous?”

  “I was about to make the same protest,” murmured Carey, sipping his wine; “Mr. Everton has, if he will pardon me for saying so, become rather suddenly heated in the matter. A great singer does not commit blasphemy because he or she sings an anthem in the church, — nor can I imagine the recitation of a beautiful poem by a sweet and generous lady a more blasphemous performance than the singing of an anthem. It does not do to be too narrow-minded in these days. And I think I may venture to remark that the word ‘notorious’ does not apply to Mrs. Nordstein. She is certainly renowned for her beauty — but her social reputation stands very high — in fact she is a woman of the finest principle and most unblemished character—”

  “Unblemished, — positively unblemished!” agreed the Archdeacon, murmuringly— “It is true that she was for a very short time on the stage as quite a young girl, — but that was the merest episode of accident, and scarcely counts in her life at all.”

  Over Everton’s face there swept a shadow of stern pain. “It matters little what she is,” — he said, coldly; “I judge no one in this case as either virtuous or vicious. What I say is this — that if any attempt is made to sink the church to the level of the theater, it will end by making religion a farce. If people cannot be drawn away for one day in the week from all worldly concerns, — from all spectacular shows, costumes, theatrical mannerisms, noise, bluster and brag, to consider in prayerful quietness the majesty of that Omnipotence on whom our little lives depend for every breath, — then we clergy are not doing our duty. We may not and dare not blame the people, for it is evident that we alone are in fault. We have lost our hold on them. And I am quite sure that if there is any one of us here present or elsewhere, who feels that he cannot draw his congregation together in the name and for the love of Christ, without any external or fictitious aid, his plain duty is to resign the Church altogether and seek some other means of making his life useful to the world.”

  The Archdeacon smiled blandly. —

  “You are mediaeval, my dear Mr. Everton!” he said, in soothing accents— “Really quite mediaeval! It is very refreshing to meet with any one like you in these days. You are a great gain to the Church! But you must not expect to find many imitators. St. Francis preached to the little birds. Perhaps you will be another St. Francis But modern society, alas — is not composed of little birds!”

  The Bishop laughed genially. —

  “Live, and let li
ve!” he said, “I believe in allowing each man in Holy Orders to formulate his own ideas on the faith to suit the tone and temper of his congregation. Provided the laity are drawn to God,” — here he pursed his lips and looked solemn; “no objection should be raised to the means whereby this desirable end is effected. We should not deny even to Mrs. Nordstein,” — here he smiled again, “the power to save a soul! We cannot lay down any fixed law.”

  “Not even the law of Christ?” demanded Everton— “It seems to me our sole business is to lay down that law, and insist upon it, if we mean to keep our faith firm as a bulwark of our national life.”

  “The Higher Criticism,” began the Archdeacon, oratorically, “the Higher Criticism—”

  “Is rank blasphemy!” said Everton, his rich voice ringing out like a clarion. “You call ‘higher criticism’ the opinion of a set of pigmy scholars, whose knowledge, such as it is, may be proved mere ignorance within the next hundred years of scientific discovery! Assertion and contradiction are the forward and backward swing of time’s pendulum, — what the wisest man declares is true to-day may be false to-morrow; but the life and death of Christ, — the Perfect Example of Perfect Love, is the same yesterday, to-day and for ever! And by Him and His command alone we must take our stand, otherwise our calling and election to the ministry is a lie and an affront to Heaven!”

  There was a moment’s dead silence. The Bishop grew red and pale by turns. Everton’s plain statement of plain fact was to him visibly unexpected and unpleasant. The Reverend Mr. Carey looked to him for an answer, — the Archdeacon turned a deferential ear towards him. He hummed and hawed; it was gradually borne in upon him that he ought to say something. He took a hasty gulp of wine, and his contradictory eyes looked down at his mouth in watchful expectancy. —

  “You have very strong opinions, Mr. Everton,” he said, at last— “And, if you will excuse my frankness, I venture to consider them rather too strong! Were I the Bishop of your diocese I am afraid — I am really afraid I should have to take you to task! You tread on very delicate and dangerous ground when you assume — mind, I only say ‘assume’ to know exactly the meaning of Our Lord’s commands, — for He gave as much consideration to the Magdalen as he did to His own mother, — nay perhaps, even more! — and He consorted ‘with publicans and sinners.’ Provided we serve God, it matters little how we serve Him. To one person a showy ceremonial may help to salvation; to another, a simple service may suffice; to one a Roman Catholic ritual may appeal, — to another a Methodist meeting, — but provided we have all one great intention—”

  “Which is to suit our own convenience,” interposed Everton, calmly— “anything may be tolerated. I see! I understand! But, my lord, your veiled reproof carries no conviction to me. On the contrary, I am bitterly sure that the vacillating conduct of many of the clergy to-day is alienating the people from the comprehension of Christ’s true teaching, — and I am equally and sadly positive that we shall be punished for our neglect and apathy very speedily. I hear that there are even men in your high position, my lord, who are disgracing their sacred office, — one I could myself name, who makes a companion and friend of a professing clergyman whose open immorality is the common byword of the country town he frequents, — and another—”

  He paused, checked by the startled confusion in the faces of his hearers. The Archdeacon raised an impressive hand in admonition.

  “Pray say no more, Mr. Everton!” he murmured, in grieved accents— “We know to whom you allude. I hardly thought the matter would have reached your ears, but as it has unfortunately done so, you surely see the advisability of dropping the subject?”

  “I should hope,” — said the Bishop, solemnly— “that Mr. Everton would not, even in the utmost fervor of his zeal, ever allude to it!” —

  “It would certainly be unwise and regrettable to do so, — added Mr. Carey.

  Everton looked from one to another in momentary surprise. Then a sudden light seemed to flash upon him, and his face grew very cold and stern.

  “I think I comprehend you!” he said, slowly. But let me just say that I am absolutely ignorant of the details of the matter which so evidently disturbs your minds. All I know is, that a certain Bishop is, to put it plainly, an infamous criminal, — and that both the Law and the State are conniving to cover his crime and keep him in his sacred office, when by every canon of honor and decency, he should be cast out of it and publicly disgraced. You ask me not to speak of this scandal. I do not even know the name of the man concerned. But if ever I do know it, I shall not join the conspiracy of silence. Rather shall I do my best to expose this high ecclesiastical fraud as openly as possible.”

  The Archdeacon flamed into sudden temper.

  “You will not serve the Church by such an action, sir!” he exclaimed, warmly; “You will do infinite harm! You must learn to be diplomatic. The cause of true religion is not served by exposing the weakness of any of its ministers.” Everton looked full at him.

  “Why then it would seem that we are more careful of our national finance than our national faith!” he said; “The Government would not permit a thief or a forger to become Chancellor of the Exchequer. Why should the Church permit a criminal to officiate at her altars and tamper with the sacraments of God? It is a position I do not understand, — though I shall make every endeavor to do so!” Here he addressed the Bishop. “Will you excuse me? I have several things to attend to this afternoon—”

  “One moment!” and the Bishop rose from table— “Give me a few words with you in my study, Mr. Everton,” — and he beamed upon him with a kindly cordiality; “I am sure I shall be able to convince you, that in certain matters affecting the clergy’s position with the laity, silence is best.”

  He led the way out of the room, and Everton followed. When the two had disappeared the Archdeacon and ‘Mother Carey’ exchanged glances. Then Carey gave a short angry laugh.

  “An insolent fellow!” — he said— “A pity the Bishop ever asked him to preach.”

  The Archdeacon smiled benignantly.

  “I should not say that,” — he observed, placidly; “No, I should not say that if I were you! He is a very powerful preacher, — very powerful indeed. Moreover, he is being ‘boomed ‘; and if the ‘boom’ continues, as it is likely to do, London will succumb to one of its epileptic fits of enthusiasm and he will ‘draw ‘all society. I think she means that he shall do so.”

  “She?” echoed Carey, quickly— “Who is she?”

  “Why, Mrs. Nordstein, of course.”

  “Mrs. Nordstein! What has she to do with him?”

  “That I am quite unable to inform you,” — and the Archdeacon waved the question away with a graceful valedictory gesture;— “But I am sure she is interested in his career. {Holy Orders Novel}

  It was, in fact, she who suggested to the Bishop that he should be asked to preach for our charity.”

  Carey’s round eyes protruded and his jaw lengthened with an expression of mingled surprise and dismay.

  “Mrs. Nordstein!” he again repeated— “Dear me! That makes things rather serious! He may become a power!”

  “Well, if her influence can make him so, he will,” replied the Archdeacon, walking with quite a stagey elegance to the window and looking out— “I see the Bishop has not detained him very long. He has just gone.”

  And as he spoke the Bishop himself re-entered the room, graciously smiling.

  “I have allowed our enthusiastic country friend to depart,” he said, amicably; “He was anxious to get through some pressing correspondence. He’s a very remarkable man. And a fine preacher. But perhaps just a little, — a little eccentric.”

  “Very much so, I should say!” agreed Carey; “I suppose you told him—”

  “Not all.” And the Bishop suddenly frowned. “It would not have been safe. He might have started off to rouse all London! With such a man it is best to temporize.”

  “For how long?” inquired the Archdeacon, with an odd smi
le.

  The darkness on the episcopal features deepened.

  “I cannot say. He is a difficult character. He has the courage of his opinions.”

  “The rashness, rather than the courage,” said the Archdeacon, severely.

  “Possibly!”

  And while they thus discussed him, Everton, stricken to his heart’s core with the horrible amazement and shame which had been aroused in his soul by the Bishop’s delicately hinted warning as to the real nature of the scandal affecting one of his brothers in office, made his way back to his hotel as quickly as he could, there to shut himself in the solitude and silence of his own room and try to think out the incidents of the morning. Even Jacynth, with her irritating smile and lazy languorous eyes, sank in the background of his consciousness in face of the greater shock he had received to all the deepest and most sacred emotions of his soul.

  “My God, my God!” he groaned, in sharp agony of spirit, “If the people only knew!”

  With this came the lightning flash of a suggestion:

  “Why should I not tell them?”

  For a moment his mental self sprang upright like a warrior fully armed for battle, — then sank again under the weary weight of a wave of deep depression. A mocking voice seemed whispering in his ears:

  “O fool!” — it said— “Of what avail to speak the truth? No one listens and no one cares!”

  CHAPTER XX

  IT was with a strong sense of reluctance and misgiving that he found himself next day outside the door of Israel Nordstein’s mansion in Portman Square, at the hour Jacynth had appointed to receive him. Twice or three times he had almost decided not to visit her, and to send a written excuse, — then the memory of her mocking glance and light laugh came back upon him and goaded his flagging intention. For, after all, she was only Jacynth! Only Jacynth, a heartless village wanton, to whom, when in ignorance of her true character, he had given the Holy Communion on many a Sunday, — only Jacynth, whom he had pitied because she had never known father or mother, and because she was just one of those illegitimate waifs and strays cast into the world without their own consent, and for ever after branded with a shame not of their seeking. Only Jacynth! — and she lived here — here in this big pretentious-looking house, painted a dazzling white, with balconies to every window, filled with flowers, — she whose home in Shadbrook had been a four-roomed cottage which neither she nor her so-called ‘auntie’ had ever troubled to keep clean! Truly time had worked changes in her surroundings, — and for her evil deeds she had received prosperity instead of punishment! Saddened and half angry with fate and fortune for playing such an incongruous trick, he paused on the wide stone step for a moment, hesitating; then finally rang the bell. The door opened instantly, displaying with considerable effect two gorgeous flunkeys who stood like statues on either side of the interior passage a little to the rear, while a stately man in black advanced a step or two with great dignity and then paused, awaiting the statement of the visitor’s business. “Mrs. Nordstein?” said Everton, tentatively.