by Grant Allen
‘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 Christ Church. 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 a 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 Christ Church, 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 Christ Church 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 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 realised 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 all 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.
‘Perilously near falling in love,’ Paul continued boldly, turning his big eyes full upon her. ‘Yes, perilously near.’
Their eyes met; Meenie’s fell; and they said no more. But they both felt they understood one another. Just at that moment the Professor’s wife came up to interrupt the tête-à-tête; ‘for that young Owen,’ she said to herself, ’is really getting quite too confidential with dear Meenie.’
That same evening Paul paced up and down his rooms in Peckwater with all his soul strangely upheaved within him and tossed and racked by a dozen conflicting doubts and passions. Had he gone too far? Had he yielded like Adam to the woman who beguiled him? Had he given way like Samson to the snares of Delilah? For the old Scripture phraseology and imagery, so long burned into his very nature, clung to him still in spite of all his faltering changes of opinion. Had he said more than he thought and felt about the Apostle? Even if he was going to revise his views, was it right, was it candid, was it loyal to the truth, that he should revise them under the biassing influence of Meenie’s eyes? If only he could have separated the two questions — the Apostle’s mission, and the something which he felt growing up within him! But he could not — and, as he suspected, for a most excellent reason, because the two were intimately bound up in the very warp and woof of his existence. Nature was asserting herself against the religious asceticism of the Apostle; it could not be so wrong for him to feel those feelings that had thrilled every heart in all his ancestors for innumerable generations.
He was in love with Meenie: he knew that clearly now. And this love was after all not such a wicked and terrible feeling; on the contrary, he felt all the better and the purer for it already. But then that might merely be the horrible seductiveness of the thing. Was it not always typified by the cup of Circe, by the song of the Sirens, by all that was alluring and beautiful and hollow? He paced up and down for half an hour, and then (he had sported his oak long ago) he lit his little reading-lamp and sat down in the big chair by the bay window. Running his eyes over his bookshelf, he took out, half by chance, Spencer’s Sociology. Then, from sheer weariness, he read on for a while, hardly heeding what he read. At last he got interested, and finished a chapter. When he had finished it, he put the book down, and felt that the struggle was over. Strange that side by side in the same world, in the same London, there should exist two such utterly different types of man as Herbert Spencer and the Gideonite Apostle. The last seemed to belong to the sixteenth century, the first to some new and hitherto uncreated social world. In an age which produced thinkers like that, how could he ever have mistaken the poor, bigoted, narrow, half-instructed Apostle for a divinely inspired teacher! So far as Paul Owen was concerned, the Gideonite Church and all that belonged to it had melted utterly into thin air.
Three days later, after the Eights in the early evening, Paul found an opportunity of speaking again alone with Meenie. He had taken their party on to the Christ Church barge to see the race, and he was strolling with them afterwards round the meadow walk by the bank of the Cherwell. Paul managed to get a little in front with Meenie, and entered at once upon the subject of his late embarrassments.
‘I have thought it all over since, Miss Bolton,’ he said — he half hesitated whether he should say ‘Meenie’ or not, and she was half disappointed that he didn’t, for they were both very young, and very young people fall in love so unaffectedly— ‘I have thought it all over, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no help for it: I must break openly with the Church.’
‘Of course,’ said Meenie, simply. ‘That I understood.’
He smiled at her ingenuousness. Such a very forward young person! And yet he liked it. ‘Well, the next thing is, what to do about it. You see, I have really been obtaining my education, so to speak, under false pretences. I can’t continue taking these good people’s money after I have ceased to believe in their doctrines. I ought to have faced the question sooner. It was wrong of me to wait until — until it was forced upon me by other considerations.’
This time it was Meenie who blushed. ‘But you don’t mean to leave Oxford without taking your degree?’ she asked quickly.
‘No, I think it will be better not. To stop here and try for a fellowship is my best chance of repaying these poor people the money which I have taken from them for no purpose.’
‘I never thought of that,’ said Meenie. ‘You are bound in honour to pay them back, of course.’
Paul liked the instantaneous honesty of that ‘of course.’ It marked the naturally honourable character; for, ‘of course,’ too, they must wait to marry (young people jump so) till all that money was paid off. ‘Fortunately,’ he said, ‘I have lived economically, and have not spent nearly as much as they guaranteed. I got scholarships up to a hundred a year of my own, and I only took a hundred a year of theirs. They offered me two hundred. But there’s five years at a hundred, that makes five hundred pounds — a big debt to begin life with.’
‘Never mind,’ said Meenie. ‘You will get a fellowship, and in a few years you can pay it off.’
‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘I can pay it off. But I can never pay off the hopes and aspirations I have blighted. I must become a schoolmaster, or a barrister, or something of that sort, and never repay them for their self-sacrifice and devotion in making me whatever I shall become. They may get back their money, but they will have lost their cherished Apostle for ever.’
‘Mr. Owen,’ Meenie answered solemnly, ‘the seal of the Apostolate lies far deeper than that. It was born in you, and no act of yours can shake it off.’
‘Meenie,’ he said, looking at her gently, with a changed expression— ‘Meenie, we shall have to wait many years.’
‘Never mind, Paul,’ she replied, as naturally as if he had been Paul to her all her life long, ‘I can wait if you can. But what will you do for the immediate present?’
‘I have my scholarship,’ he said; ‘I can get on partly upon that; and then I can take pupils; and I have only one year more of it.’
So before they parted that night it was all well understood between them that Paul was to declare his defection from the Church at the earliest opportunity; that he was to live as best he might till he could take his degree; that he was then to pay off all the back debt; and that after all these things he and Meenie might get comfortably married whenever they were able. As to the Rector and his wife, or any other parental authorities, they both left them out in the cold as wholly as young people always do leave their elders out on all similar occasions.
‘Maria’s a born fool!’ said the Rector to his wife a week after Meenie’s return; ‘I always knew she was a fool, but I never knew she was quite such a fool as to permit a thing like this. So far as I can get it out of Edie, and so far as Edie can get it out of Meenie, I understand that she has allowed Meenie to go and get herself engaged to some Dissenter fellow, a Shaker, or a Mormon, or a Communist, or something of the sort, who is the son of a common labourer, and has been sent up to Oxford, Tom tells me, by his own sect, to be made into a gentleman, so as to give some sort or colour of respectability to their absurd doctrines. I shall send the girl to town at once to Emily’s, and she shall stop there all next season, to see if she can’t manage to get engaged to some young man in decent society at any rate.’
III
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p; When Paul Owen returned to Peckham for the long vacation, it was with a heavy heart that he ventured back slowly to his father’s cottage. Margaret Owen had put everything straight and neat in the little living room, as she always did, to welcome home her son who had grown into a gentleman; and honest John stood at the threshold beaming with pleasure to wring Paul’s hand in his firm grip, just back unwashed from his day’s labour. After the first kissings and greetings were over, John Owen said rather solemnly, ‘I have bad news for you, Paul. The Apostle is sick, even unto death.’
When Paul heard that, he was sorely tempted to put off the disclosure for the present; but he felt he must not. So that same night, as they sat together in the dusk near the window where the geraniums stood, he began to unburden his whole mind, gently and tentatively, so as to spare their feelings as much as possible, to his father and mother. He told them how, since he went to Oxford, he had learned to think somewhat differently about many things; how his ideas had gradually deepened and broadened; how he had begun to inquire into fundamentals for himself; how he had feared that the Gideonites took too much for granted, and reposed too implicitly on the supposed critical learning of their Apostle. As he spoke his mother listened in tearful silence; but his father murmured from time to time, ‘I was afeard of this already, Paul; I seen it coming, now and again, long ago.’ There was pity and regret in his tone, but not a shade of reproachfulness.
At last, however, Paul came to speak, timidly and reservedly, of Meenie. Then his father’s eye began to flash a little, and his breath came deeper and harder. When Paul told him briefly that he was engaged to her, the strong man could stand it no longer. He rose up in righteous wrath, and thrust his son at arm’s-length from him. ‘What!’ he cried fiercely, ‘you don’t mean to tell me you have fallen into sin and looked upon the daughters of Midian! It was no Scriptural doubts that druv you on, then, but the desire of the flesh and the lust of the eyes that has lost you! You dare to stand up there, Paul Owen, and tell me that you throw over the Church and the Apostle for the sake of a girl, like a poor miserable Samson! You are no son of mine, and I have nothin’ more to say to you.’
