Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  Presbyter John Owen rose from the row of seats assigned to the forty-eight, and moved hesitatingly towards the platform. He was an intelligent-looking, honest-faced, sunburnt working man, a mason by trade, who had come into the Church from the Baptist society; and he was awkwardly dressed in his Sunday clothes, with the scrupulous clumsy neatness of a respectable artisan who expects to take part in an important ceremony. He spoke nervously and with hesitation, but with all the transparent earnestness of a simple, enthusiastic nature.

  “Apostle and friends,” he said, “it ain’t very easy for me to disentangle my feelin’s on this subjec’ from one another. I hope I ain’t moved by any worldly feelin’, an’ yet I hardly know how to keep such considerations out, for there’s no denyin’ that it would be a great pleasure to me and to his mother to see our Paul becomin’ a teacher in Israel, and receivin’ an education such as you, Apostle, has pinted out. But we hope, too, we ain’t insensible to the good of the Church and the advantage that it might derive from our Paul’s support and preachin’. We can’t help seein’ ourselves that the lad has got abilities; and we’ve tried to train him up from his youth upward, like Timothy, for the furtherance of the right doctrine. If the Church thinks he’s fit for the work laid upon him, his mother and me’ll be glad to dedicate him to the service.”

  He sat down awkwardly, and the Church again hummed its approbation in a suppressed murmur. The Apostle rose once more, and briefly called on Paul Owen to stand forward.

  In answer to the call, a tall, handsome, earnest-eyed boy advanced timidly to the platform. It was no wonder that those enthusiastic Gideonite visionaries should have seen in his face the visible stamp of the Apostleship. Paul Owen had a rich crop of dark-brown glossy and curly hair, cut something after the Florentine Cinque-cento fashion — not because his parents wished him to look artistic, but because that was the way in which they had seen the hair dressed in all the sacred pictures that they knew; and Margaret Owen, the daughter of some Wesleyan Spitalfields weaver folk, with the imaginative Huguenot blood still strong in her veins, had made up her mind ever since she became Convinced of the Truth (as their phrase ran) that her Paul was called from his cradle to a great work. His features were delicately chiselled, and showed rather natural culture, like his mother’s, than rough honesty, like John Owen’s, or strong individuality, like the masterful Apostle’s. His eyes were peculiarly deep and luminous, with a far-away look which might have reminded an artist of the central boyish figure in Holman Hunt’s picture of the Doctors in the Temple. And yet Paul Owen had a healthy colour in his cheek and a general sturdiness of limb and muscle which showed that he was none of your nervous, bloodless, sickly idealists, but a wholesome English peasant boy of native refinement and delicate sensibilities. He moved forward with some natural hesitation before the eyes of so many people — ay, and what was more terrible, of the entire Church upon earth; but he was not awkward and constrained in his action like his father. One could see that he was sustained in the prominent part he took that morning by the consciousness of a duty he had to perform and a mission laid upon him which he must not reject.

  “Are you willing, my son Paul,” asked the Apostle, gravely, “to take upon yourself the task that the Church proposes?”

  “I am willing,” answered the boy in a low voice, “grace preventing me.”

  “Does all the Church unanimously approve the election of our brother Paul to this office?” the Apostle asked formally; for it was a rule with the Gideonites that nothing should be done except by the unanimous and spontaneous action of the whole body, acting under direct and immediate inspiration; and all important matters were accordingly arranged beforehand by the Apostle in private interviews with every member of the Church individually, so that everything that took place in public assembly had the appearance of being wholly unquestioned. They took counsel first with one another, and consulted the Scripture together; and when all private doubts were satisfied, they met as a Church to ratify in solemn conclave their separate conclusions. It was not often that the Apostle did not have his own way. Not only had he the most marked personality and the strongest will, but he alone also had Greek and Hebrew enough to appeal always to the original word; and that mysterious amount of learning, slight as it really was, sufficed almost invariably to settle the scruples of his wholly ignorant and pliant disciples. Reverence for the literal Scripture in its primitive language was the corner-stone of the Gideonite Church; and for all practical purposes, its one depositary and exponent for them was the Apostle himself. Even the Rev. Albert Barnes’s Commentary was held to possess an inferior authority.

  “The Church approves,” was the unanimous answer.

  “Then, Episcops, Presbyters, and brethren,” said the Apostle, taking up a roll of names, “I have to ask that you will each mark down on this paper opposite your own names how much a year you can spare of your substance for six years to come as a guarantee fund for this great work. You must remember that the ministry of this Church has cost you nothing; freely I have received and freely given; do you now bear your part in equipping a new aspirant for the succession to the Apostolate.”

  The two senior Episcops took two rolls from his hand, and went round the benches with a stylographic pen (so strangely do the ages mingle — Apostles and stylographs) silently asking each to put down his voluntary subscription. Meanwhile the Apostle read slowly and reverently a few appropriate sentences of Scripture. Some of the richer members — well-to-do small tradesmen of Peckham — put down a pound or even two pounds apiece; the poorer brethren wrote themselves down for ten shillings or even five. In the end the guarantee list amounted to 195l. a year. The Apostle reckoned it up rapidly to himself, and then announced the result to the assembly, with a gentle smile relaxing his austere countenance. He was well pleased, for the sum was quite sufficient to keep Paul Owen two years at school in London and then send him comfortably if not splendidly to Oxford. The boy had already had a fair education in Latin and some Greek, at the Birkbeck Schools; and with two years’ further study he might even gain a scholarship (for he was a bright lad), which would materially lessen the expense to the young Church. Unlike many prophets and enthusiasts, the Apostle was a good man of business; and he had taken pains to learn all about these favourable chances before embarking his people on so very doubtful a speculation.

  The Assembly was just about to close, when one of the Presbyters rose unexpectedly to put a question which, contrary to the usual practice, had not already been submitted for approbation to the Apostle. He was a hard-headed, thickset, vulgar-looking man, a greengrocer at Denmark Hill, and the Apostle always looked upon him as a thorn in his side, promoted by inscrutable wisdom to the Presbytery for the special purpose of keeping down the Apostle’s spiritual pride.

  “One more pint, Apostle,” he said abruptly, “afore we close. It seems to me that even in the Church’s work we’d ought to be business-like. Now, it ain’t business-like to let this young man, Brother Paul, get his eddication out of us, if I may so speak afore the Church, on spec. It’s all very well our sayin’ he’s to be eddicated and take on the Apostleship, but how do we know but what when he’s had his eddication he may fall away and become a backslider, like Demas and like others among ourselves that we could mention? He may go to Oxford among a lot of Midianites, and them of the great an’ mighty of the earth too, and how do we know but what he may round upon the Church, and go back upon us after we’ve paid for his eddication? So what I want to ask is just this, can’t we bind him down in a bond that if he don’t take the Apostleship with the consent of the Church when it falls vacant he’ll pay us back our money, so as we can eddicate up another as’ll be more worthy?”

  The Apostle moved uneasily in his chair; but before he could speak, Paul Owen’s indignation found voice, and he said out his say boldly before the whole assembly, blushing crimson with mingled shame and excitement as he did so. “If Brother Grimshaw and all the brethren think so ill of me that they cannot trust my
honesty and honour,” he said, “they need not be at the pains of educating me. I will sign no bond and enter into no compact. But if you suppose that I will be a backslider, you do not know me, and I will confer no more with you upon the subject.”

  “My son Paul is right,” the Apostle said, flushing up in turn at the boy’s audacity; “we will not make the affairs of the Spirit a matter for bonds and earthly arrangements. If the Church thinks as I do, you will all rise up.”

  All rose except Presbyter Grimshaw. For a moment there was some hesitation, for the rule of the Church in favour of unanimity was absolute; but the Apostle fixed his piercing eyes on Job Grimshaw, and after a minute or so Job Grimshaw too rose slowly, like one compelled by an unseen power, and cast in his vote grudgingly with the rest. There was nothing more said about signing an agreement.

  II.

  Meenie Bolton had counted a great deal upon her visit to Oxford, and she found it quite as delightful as she had anticipated. Her brother knew such a nice set of men, especially Mr. Owen, of Christchurch. Meenie had never been so near falling in love with anybody in her life as she was with Paul Owen. He was so handsome and so clever, and then there was something so romantic about this strange Church they said he belonged to. Meenie’s father was a country parson, and the way in which Paul shrank from talking about the rector, as if his office were something wicked or uncanny, piqued and amused her. There was an heretical tinge about him which made him doubly interesting to the Rector’s daughter. The afternoon water party that eventful Thursday, down to Nuneham, she looked forward to with the deepest interest. For her aunt, the Professor’s wife, who was to take charge of them, was certainly the most delightful and most sensible of chaperons.

  “Is it really true, Mr. Owen,” she said, as they sat together for ten minutes alone after their picnic luncheon, by the side of the weir under the shadow of the Nuneham beeches— “is it really true that this Church of yours doesn’t allow people to marry?”

  Paul coloured up to his eyes as he answered, “Well, Miss Bolton, I don’t know that you should identify me too absolutely with my Church. I was very young when they selected me to go to Oxford, and my opinions have decidedly wavered a good deal lately. But the Church certainly does forbid marriage. I have always been brought up to look upon it as sinful.”

  Meenie laughed aloud; and Paul, to whom the question was no laughing matter, but a serious point of conscientious scruple, could hardly help laughing with her, so infectious was that pleasant ripple. He checked himself with an effort, and tried to look serious. “Do you know,” he said, “when I first came to Christchurch, I doubted even whether I ought to make your brother’s acquaintance because he was a clergyman’s son. I was taught to describe clergymen always as priests of Midian.” He never talked about his Church to anybody at Oxford, and it was a sort of relief to him to speak on the subject to Meenie, in spite of her laughing eyes and undisguised amusement. The other men would have laughed at him too, but their laughter would have been less sympathetic.

  “And do you think them priests of Midian still?” asked Meenie.

  “Miss Bolton,” said Paul suddenly, as one who relieves his overburdened mind by a great effort, “I am almost moved to make a confidante of you.”

  “There is nothing I love better than confidences,” Meenie answered; and she might truthfully have added, “particularly from you.”

  “Well, I have been passing lately through a great many doubts and difficulties. I was brought up by my Church to become its next Apostle, and I have been educated at their expense both in London and here. You know,” Paul added with his innate love of telling out the whole truth, “I am not a gentleman; I am the son of poor working people in London.”

  “Tom told me who your parents were,” Meenie answered simply; “but he told me, too, you were none the less a true gentleman born for that; and I see myself he told me right.”

  Paul flushed again — he had a most unmanly trick of flushing up — and bowed a little timid bow. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Well, while I was in London I lived entirely among my own people, and never heard anything talked about except our own doctrines. I thought our Apostle the most learned, the wisest, and the greatest of men. I had not a doubt about the absolute infallibility of our own opinions. But ever since I came to Oxford I have slowly begun to hesitate and to falter. When I came up first, the men laughed at me a good deal in a good-humoured way, because I wouldn’t do as they did. Then I thought myself persecuted for the truth’s sake, and was glad. But the men were really very kind and forbearing to me; they never argued with me or bullied me; they respected my scruples, and said nothing more about it as soon as they found out what they really were. That was my first stumbling-block. If they had fought me and debated with me, I might have stuck to my own opinions by force of opposition. But they turned me in upon myself completely by their silence, and mastered me by their kindly forbearance. Point by point I began to give in, till now I hardly know where I am standing.”

  “You wouldn’t join the cricket club at first, Tom says.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I thought it wrong to walk in the ways of Midian. But gradually I began to argue myself out of my scruples, and now I positively pull six in the boat, and wear a Christchurch ribbon on my hat. I have given up protesting against having my letters addressed to me as Esquire (though I have really no right to the title), and I nearly went the other day to have some cards engraved with my name as ‘Mr. Paul Owen.’ I am afraid I’m backsliding terribly.”

  Meenie laughed again. “If that is all you have to burden your conscience with,” she said, “I don’t think you need spend many sleepless nights.”

  “Quite so,” Paul answered, smiling; “I think so myself. But that is not all. I have begun to have serious doubts about the Apostle himself and the whole Church altogether. I have been three years at Oxford now; and while I was reading for Mods, I don’t think I was so unsettled in my mind. But since I have begun reading philosophy for my Greats, I have had to go into all sorts of deep books — Mill, and Spencer, and Bain, and all kinds of fellows who really think about things, you know, down to the very bottom — and an awful truth begins to dawn upon me, that our Apostle is after all only a very third-rate type of a thinker. Now that, you know, is really terrible.”

  “I don’t see why,” Meenie answered demurely. She was beginning to get genuinely interested.

  “That is because you have never had to call in question a cherished and almost ingrown faith. You have never realized any similar circumstances. Here am I, brought up by these good, honest, earnest people, with their own hard-earned money, as a pillar of their belief. I have been taught to look upon myself as the chosen advocate of their creed, and on the Apostle as an almost divinely inspired man. My whole life has been bound up in it; I have worked and read night and day in order to pass high and do honour to the Church; and now what do I begin to find the Church really is? A petty group of poor, devoted, enthusiastic, ignorant people, led blindly by a decently instructed but narrow-minded teacher, who has mixed up his own headstrong self-conceit and self-importance with his own peculiar ideas of abstract religion.” Paul paused, half surprised at himself, for, though he had doubted before, he had never ventured till that day to formulate his doubts, even to himself, in such plain and straightforward language.

  “I see,” said Meenie, gravely; “you have come into a wider world; you have mixed with wider ideas; and the wider world has converted you, instead of your converting the world. Well, that is only natural. Others beside you have had to change their opinions.”

  “Yes, yes; but for me it is harder — oh! so much harder.”

  “Because you have looked forward to being an Apostle?”

  “Miss Bolton, you do me injustice — not in what you say, but in the tone you say it in. No, it is not the giving up of the Apostleship that troubles me, though I did hope that I might help in my way to make the world a new earth; but it is the shock and downfall of their hopes to a
ll those good earnest people, and especially — oh! especially, Miss Bolton, to my own dear father and mother.” His eyes filled with tears as he spoke.

  “I can understand,” said Meenie, sympathetically, her eyes dimming a little in response. “They have set their hearts all their lives long on your accomplishing this work, and it will be to them the disappointment of a cherished romance.”

  They looked at one another a few minutes in silence.

  “How long have you begun to have your doubts?” Meenie asked after the pause.

  “A long time, but most of all since I saw you. It has made me — it has made me hesitate more about the fundamental article of our faith. Even now, I am not sure whether it is not wrong of me to be talking so with you about such matters.”

  “I see,” said Meenie, a little more archly; “it comes perilously near — —” and she broke off, for she felt she had gone a step too far.