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All othar original copiaa ara filmad baginning on tha firat paga with a printad or illuatratad impraa> aion. and anding on tha laat paga with a printad or illuatratad impraaaion. Tha laat racordad frama on aach microficha shall contain tha symbol — <»• (maaning "CON- TINUED"!, or tha symbol V Imaaning "ENO"l. whichavar appliaa. Mapa. platas. charts, ate. may ba filmad at diffarant raduction ratios. Thosa too larga to ba antiraly includad in ona axposura ara filmad baginning in tha uppar latt hand cornar. laft to right and top to bottom, as many framas as raquirad. Tha following diagrams iliustrata tha mathod: Las imagaa auivantas ont *t* raproduitas avac la plua grand soin. compta tanu da la condition at da la nactat* da I'anamplaira film*, at •n conformity avac !•• condiiiona du contrat da filmago. Laa axamplairaa originaux dont la couvanura mn papiar aat ImprimOa sont fiimis an commancant par la pramiar plat at an tarminant soit par la darniara paga qui comporta una amprainta d'impraaaion ou d'illuatration. soit par la second plat, salon la ca*. Toua laa autraa aaamplairas originaux aont film*a an commancant par la pramiira paga qui comporta una amprainta d'impraaaion ou d'illuatration at mn torminant par la darni*ra paga qui compona una talta amprainta. Un daa symbolaa auivanta apparaitra sur la darniira imaga da chaqua microficha. salon la cat: la aymbola ^ aignifia "A SUIVRE". la tymbola ▼ tiQnifia "FIN". Laa cartaa. planchaa. tablaaua. ate. pauvant atra film^a k daa uux da raduction diffOrants. Lorsqua la documant aat trop grand pour atra raproduit 9n un saul clicha. il aat film* A partir da I'angia supOriaur gaucha. da gaucna a drotta. at da haut •!% baa. an pranant la nombra d'imagaa nAcaaaaira. Laa diagrammaa »ui% nt* illuatrant la m^thoda. 1 d thanks L'«xttmpiair« film* fut reproduit fi ^iv^ i la g^nirosit* da: Bibliotheque natiorile du Caxxada uality jibility ha • filmad g on imprva- .All I on tha arcs- printad :ha CON- NO"). I at e to ba led laft to i as te tha Laa imagaa suivantas ont «t« raproduitas avac la plus grand soin. compta tanu da la condition at da la nattai* da I'axamplaira film*, at an conformit* avac laa conditions du contrat da filmaga. Las axamplairas originaux dont la couvartura an papiar ast imprimSa sent film*s an comn^enpant par la pramisr plat ct an tarminant soit par la darni*ra paga qui comporta una amprainta d'imprassion ou d'illustration, soit par ia sacond plat, salon la cas. Tous las autras axamplairas originaux sont film*s an commanqant par la prami*ra paga qui comporta una amprainta d'imprassion ou d'illustration at an tarminant par la darniira paga qui comporta una talla amprainta. Un das symbolaa suivants apparaitra sur la darniira imaga da chaqua microfiche, salon la cas: la symbola -^ signifia "A SUIVB6". la symbols V signifia "FIN". Las cartaa. planchaa. tableaux, etc., peuvant atra film«s i daa taux de reduction diff*rants. Lorsqua la documant ast trop grand pour atra reproduit an un saul clich*. il est film6 d partir de I'angia supiriaur gauche, de gauche * droite, et de haut en bas, an prenant lo nombre d'imagas n*cessaira. Las diagrammas suivants lllustrent la mithoda. 1 MICROCOPY RESOiUTION TEST CHART (Ai^SI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I !fE Ilia 1.8 ^ /APPLIED IIVHGE Inc lesj Eost Main Street Rochester, New York 14609 (716) 482 - 0300 -Phone (ne) 288- 59e9 -Fox USA i CALVARY: A TRAGEDY OF SECTS CALVARY A TRAGEDY OF SECTS BY "RITA" Toronto : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED l$SOz. Printtd in Great Britain 1 mi on str wh PREFACE '"pHIS book embodies the subject of many years' anxious thought and study of religious systems. They de- manded written expression, and yet counseUed waiting on the spirit of the times. I pubUsh it with many mis- givings. Yet I feel that those who have known the soul's struggle for Truth will understand my meaning. Those who have not, may scoff as they please. " RITA." Thi The The i CONTENTS PART I The Way '*" PART II The Means «- PART III The End ^^^ f H / PART I THE F VY r »■ B A tin other isity c An( I dim V I swept [might All [save a A nat [tide t' [only I |a mil( iruined [large s ^he b fhe 8( changi It its ITIxig, CALVARY A TRAGEDY OF SECTS PROLOGUE THE VISION A FAR in high Heaven the great Archangel Michael stood UTin??! r""'"^ °" ^'' fry^ ^^^'^^^ o»^<^ "Pon the Earth A tmy g lobe-a speck of light-whirling amongst a million stty of Ipace ^''^^' "" ^'"''' significance in the Immen^ And as he looked the distance between himself and that dim world lessened, and with swift and sudden moUon he swept downwards and stood poised upon a gianTrock- a mighty pyram d that reared itself froi out the sea ' All around the great ocean rolled in long, languid waves save at one point where the causeway to the Mount Can ^tr^'t^^'} led landwards from its basr WithTuH ionlv bv s^rw^rl *" '^^1^* ".^ ^"^ '"'^^^ approachable only by sea With low water it became a promontorv ruZd' '^ ^7""jf^rtn«e; its high crest cro^vn^d by a turned chapel, of which the Cross alone remained A fine baptism of fierce rams had worn it to smoothness mie sea's soft breath had crystallized its stones The at Its base the gorse and sea-thyme spread prote^tin^ irms. CALVARY The hour was close on sunset ; the sky a dream of rose and gold ; and the voice of the sea was a voice of mystery and of woe. The dirge of dying days, of wearied Time, sounded in its voice, and swelled upwards in a mad re- bellion. For of all the prisoned forces of Life there is none so great and so rebellious as that chained force of mighty waters. For ever has sounded its unavailing plaint. For ever v/ill it sound while the world exists. The voices of all the sorrow and all the passion of the living earth sound in the sea. The tears of the mourner are in its depths, and the despair of the d3dng — and the dead. To its breast have come the betrayer and betrayed; the sinner and the sin. To it has been given the labour of man, and the gold he has coveted — and lost. Cradled in its depths lie the babe and the mother; the dotard in life's senility ; the youth in life's springtide. It holds all mystery of love and passion and despair. All the soul's longing, and the earth's futile effort to satisfy man's desire I In the golden sunset the great Archangel listened to its voice, and thus he answered it : " Hearken, O Sea ! Thou torrent of mighty waters loosened by the Creator's word ere yet this globe was peopled for thy encirclement ! A rebel hast thou been — and a rebel still thou art-— and they who love thee ever rue thy love. For as a woman art thou in thy treachery, and like a woman thou servest worst those who love thee best. Yet great has been thy service to mankind, for on thy stormy breast thou hast borne the message of Eternal Life ! " Then a sudden peace seemed to fall upon the earth. The voice ceased, and all was still. The glory of the sunset died out o' the sky. The sea-birds flew to the shelter of the rocks. Nothing stirred or seemed alive save the ever-moving waters. The Angel looked from the grey sea to the shadowy land, and once again his voice sounded like a trumpet-call of Doom : " And thou, Earth ! accursed by man's sin and by man to be redeemed — how long shalt thou challenge Almighty Patience and defy thy fate ? How long shall thy priests lift sia-staiiied hands and crafty eyes to God's 3tened to its CALVARY altars, and, calling on His name with their lips, deny Him by their lives ? How long shall the message of Eternal Love find only the translation of hypocrites, or swell the chorus of ambition ? How long shall sect and creed rave madly of their own petty exaltation ? How long shall Error sit enthroned as Truth— while Truth stands with veiled eyes in uncared for obscurity ? How long, Man ! shall Immortal Patience wait on thee — and Immortal Love cry vainly for one faithful messenger to speak the word of Truth ? To bear the Promise of Divine Pardon ? " The voice ceased again. And as it ceased something stirred and rose from the rocks at the base of the great Mount that bore the Angel's name. The Angel looked down and met the rapt and wonder- ing eyes of a young child. For a space that long and silent gaze held each in a spell of soul-entrancement. No spoken word broke it for one long moment. Then the voice of the child swept upwards to where that mighty Figure stood. And thus it cried to him : " I— will bear that Message, and I will speak that Pardon ! " But the Angel looked sadly at the young, passionate face. And the child's eyes fell abashed before the glory of that gaze, and he fell on his knees, crying : " Surelv it is God Himself ! " o j But the Angel said : " Nay, child, I am not God. But one of His ministers, who from time to time He sends to bear a message to this cold and callous earth. And who art thou ? " And the boy trembled greatly. And he said : " I am no one, and nothing, mighty Angel, save a human weed flung here by the great sea. I love it— and it fills me with strange desires ! " Then said the Angel : "I know thy desires, and they shall be fulfilled. For it is the strength of his desire that makes man akin to God, and by reason of that kinship forces him to create even at cost of suffering for the thing created ! Listen, thou small human soul ! Listen and heed my words. For this thy soul shall grow and its «reams shall be divine; yea, the world shall sound thy 5 CALVARY praise. But in the hour of thy g'.ory ahaU sound the voice of thy doom. Yet in that hour thou mayest save thy sou. hy repentance and by reparation. For of the sea IS tby kingdom, and its pride, and its power, and its longmg ai > in thy blood." The chile hid his face and trembled greatly. He mur- mured prayers— the feeble prayers of a child's faith in the Unknown and UnreaUzable. Darkness grew apace; the spray from the surging waves was as a baptism of tears upon his bent head. Then m fear and wonder he looked upwards once again. But there was no figure on the Mount. The Cross alone showed Itself against the evening sky. Then a great awe shook the boy's young soul, and he imew that he had seen a vision. What its portent or its meamng he could not tell. Had he slept and dreamed of the mighty Angel, or seen him in that waking moment When life reclaims the brain power sleep has stolen ? He rose and stood upright : a little fisher lad, pooriy dressed, lU-nourished, his bare feet blue and cold upon the sea- wet rocks. He rubbed his eyes with small, chilled hands. He looked out and away to the vast width of waters, and then to the cross-crowned promontory A terrible loneliness and a terrible solemnity held the hour and the place. The scouts of the wind were for once at rest, and neither wings nor voices gave sign of life A single star shone from out the dusky sky ; the pale, clear gold of the moon showed between dividing clouds. The loam became a belt of moving white, encircling the Mount with soft protection. The boy shivered, and stumbled downwards to the water s edge. There a small boat was moored to a broken arm of the rock. He loosed the rope and got into the boa^ axai rowed himself across to the mainland, going wanly through a narrow channel, where the rocks went down into deeper water and the waves were fraying them- selves into foam. He rowed on for an hour or more Then he came to a rough landing-stage where other boats were lying m safe moorage against the rising tide. He snrang out, and fastened the towing-rope securely and laid the oars in their n nnw Pr>.. o l^^t. I i. , , , oars in their place. For a long moment he gto — 1 aiivi CALVARY gazed at the shadowy Mount rising afar from out the moon- lit sea. " Was it a dream ? " he whispered—" or a vision ? Did I see the great Archangel and answer to his call ? If so, I am his servant, and God's — ^for all my life." IT f mHE boy turned and went up a rough stone quay, and X across broken extremities of land. Finally he stumbled up the chff and mto a narrow street of cottages. Some were closed to the chill Atlantic air. and of%ome the doors stood open, showing gleams of firehght or candle- light agamst the outer gloom. Before one door the little fisher lad stood and gazed within; a smile on his lips as he stood, unseen by the inmates. An old man sat by the hnnt ?"i * '"^f wooden table by his side lay an open book, a large heavy, leather-covered book— the Book of s'iw°''^\- V? i^^ '"^^^ '^ ^'^^ ^^^" the friend and solace of his life for nearly seventy years Seated on a stool at his feet was a girl of some twelve or l^ tZ ^vT °^ T- .?^' ^^' ^'^^"'"g ^ grey worsted stock, mg, and listening to the voice of the old man as he read. Ihe boy beside the door listened also. "And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first The old man paused and looked upwards, as if the vision of he Sacred Word stood revealed to himself The girl had let the knitting slip from her fingerraid tas looking up at his face with rapt and tender ey^s Be It trew, grandfather ? » she asked soifcly. " Be it all trew as it's writ there .? " j'- -oe n iJ^Zf'^r^^l! ^l"?'^ '^"'"^y ^^^ ^^ tJie little question- ing face. To doubt one word of the Holy Book meant to him a crime unpardonable. " It be trew as Heaven— as God Himself ' Wh-iVo been putting doubts into thy head, child v '' * ^^"^ ^^ No one, grandfather; no one. Only the questions come— I dunno how." ''^ quesuons " What questions ? " 8 CALVARY " About how it cum to be first written ? Anrl the be- ginning of everything ? And what 'ud happen if there farther ?"" "" '* ' ^"""^ '^'^ '"^ ^"^"^ '^ ^'^^'''''' ^rand- The old zealot looked down at the child. He did not see another face as eager in its questioning; other eves as burning m their appeal. He did not see the little lad crouched on the threshold ; all a strained and listening nerve echoing that simple question. IJ J' ^?^i ^''~\ ^f •' " ^^" ^^^^'^^^ ^^^"^ the old man's lips I cannot say how I du knaw— but it came, and I've held tu it all my hfe, and it will go with me to the gates of Death Itself. To the gates of Death-and Beyond- so pleaze Almighty God " ^ He bowed his head in prayer, and the child knelt at his knee The little ad sprang suddenly from the doorway, and threw himself beside her. The old man laid a hand on each bent head, and his heart went out on a wave of thanksgiving and of faith. He asked for little. He gave MnTifn^K-"^"'^-, ^"^ 'I'^P^^' ^°°^^^y ^P^^'^h he told his Maker of his simple needs and his spiritual shortcomings. therP h 'n r°''t '"? w ^^ '"^^^^^^ ^^^^' ^"d stotd there hand m hand before him. But on the boy's face Sed if '"^ ""^^^ ^"^ wonderful that the old man ques- "' ^^''''^r ^^^ another vision, David ? " he asked. .. J^e« Mr. Pascoe, ' answered the boy timidly, lell us of It. fhtlt f^'f^^l t.here before them, the firelight shining on Indfhl ^f ^u'l \^' l^^ ^^^^ °f ^he vision of the Mount and the words that the Angel had spoken. When he ceased there was a tense, strange silence-a tnZ a n ""^ "'^^ ''?^"^ ^^h^^« ^^ theia rose and fell m a never-ending plaint. And through the plaint Sronf ^K^'n-^ '^' ^""^ ''^"^^ '^ hear again that wo^ drous thnlhng voice: "Thy dreams shaU be divine and the world shall sound thy praise." That spIendS prophecy hngered in hia memonTto the exclusion of Its r,3?L^^!L'^,'^^"/^."^^. thy praise ! " He looked at the :p r^^nde,^,^ face of the girl, at the stem eyes of the oFd 11^ CALVARY zealot. He looked round the small, homely room with its scanty furnishing. This httle cottage, the simple fisher folk, the hard and toilful life— these were all he knew of life, or of the world. What had they to teach him that spelt greatness or re- nown ? What golden lever should he find here to uplift him to fame such as his burning soul had coveted ever since it had tasted the bitter fruit of knowledge ? The grinding wheels of poverty had done their best to crush out ambition in all the lives around. His life was cast in the same mould. How was it to break the mould, and efface its impress, and build itself afresh in a freer and bolder pattern ? He dared not question Zachariah Pascoe. He feared his stern rebuke. He only stood in silence, awaiting the interpretation of his vision, even as of old the Eastern king waited on the words of his boy captive. But for once Zachariah Pascoe did not interpret. For once he read a human soul aright, and recognized the zeal of the Fanatic. He looked at the open page of the Great Book. He saw again the words which his grandchild had ques- tioned. Were they true ? Was this vision true ? Were human life and spiritual life true, or did man but dream of some great Future im- possible to reach, and impossible to realize ? He closed the Book. The children followed the gesture with wondering eyes. They had been used to hear it as answer to every question of Life. Why was it silent now ? " Go," he said suddenly to the little lad. " Get thee home with thyself, David. It is late. They will be anxious for thee." The boy made no reply. He turned and went to the door, followed by the wistful eyes of the little girl. His home was at the end of the queer, straggling street. Here he had lived ever since he could remember life. The fisherman and his wife whom he called parents were only so by adoption. He had been picked up after one of the fierce storms for which that coast was famed. He had been fastened to a spar, and the sea in mercy for his lo i anxious CALVARY btchTh!ff ?^^ ^r'^ ^"^ "P °" ^ «*^^^h of sandy w J^«' ^""""irV- ^^^^ ^r^^ *^" «P^^ ^"d ^<^« strange freight was a rough, kindly Cornishman. He had been married many years and had no family. He brought thTehnd home to his wife and she readily accepted the sea's dffc Te Z71 r. ir '"' '^"^^'"^ ""'^ ™" - '»-^ But as soon as the child could speak and walk his Tl^jiXT.^''' ''^^f "^^ ^^^^-' his surrounlg' on^f'fhL ^ *^? 'J' ^^^ '''^^ ^^^^ ^<^ home in it and mv tic nnS\'^^.^^"''- ^"' ^^^ ^y^« ^^^« the eyes of the mystic, and his tongue spurned the rude dialect of his mn-^h n^ ''f ^S*^ r^*" ^^°°^ *he old minister of the parish church. He borrowed his books, and read them atSr/'nof T'' "^ft'T '^'^ ^°"gh fisher lads wer^ catclimg pollock or pilchards, or idling on the shinaln among the nets and boats. ^ ^'® Queer enough books for a child's reading they were > Vo umes of sermons ; works on orthodox tLolosv tL peare ' * ^^ell-worn. deeply treasured Shakes- The Rev. Caleb Crouch was a native of Truro and had maT VelT' ^^"^^' ''■ ^°^*^^^*^ ^^^^ ^^^ "yoS'^ man He was now some sixty years of aee A drpnmv fn'^ellf "^^^r"?' 'l^^ °^^ -^^^^ «f -"i4 tread'fg LSTnTT^P^*^' °/ ^^^^*y' ^^^ ^^"^^d ^^ith platitude! He Hv./i ^ 7^^^«f t'^^es of hfe. He had nevei married tendL fil- ! ''^^';'^^- ^" ^^^^ent housekeeper at- cereti- f ™*'' *"^ '"^^^ ^im as efficiently and un- oneTn tCnl^ """ TT ^^? ^°"^^ ^^^« d«"^- ^ike eve?y r. 1 iu P^^f®' ^® ^^^®<* the pretty castaway whom the sea had brought thither. Loved him all the mo e as each Cl^r ^'°°^r ^ ^'' ^^'^'^'''- ^' ^o"^g« classic' were bfshed nn -n^^'t'""' T^ ^'' °^^ ^^^^"« had to be fur! g, iixOiB man uu could well supply. II CALVARY 8uch had been young David's life until the momentous eve whrtn he had beheld that wondrous vision on the Moun* It was not the first time he had dreamt strange droams and setu strange visions. Night and the sea were peopled for hira by beings of another world; eloquent with a language to which the ears around ^pomed doaf. Hr had spoken of what he saw and heard to his adopted father and mother. But they only scofifed and scolded. No untrained intelligence can believe in more than it comprehends. .nd the words and dreams of the little lad were as an unknown language to the rough fisherman and his wife. On that night of the Vision they were sitting by the fire, discussing him and his strange ways. He entered with that radiance and wonder still in his eyes and in his smile of greeting. Rebuke died off their tongues as they looked at him. They only murmured something of the laU ncss of the hour, and asked where he had been. " On the sea," he answered. "Thee'm too much on the sea, my dear life," said Rachel Perryn. " Wliy, 'twas noon when 'ee left 'ere, and now 'tes gone nine." The boy said no more. Only drew up his chair to the wooden table where his supper was laid, and began to eat coarse bread and Cornish pasty with the healthy appetite of his age. utIt^®'"^ ^^^^ ®' '«'*i<^in'>" observed the fisherman. Mother an' I've tuk our supper hours agone." He looked proudly and fondly at the bright face. This boy was the apple of his eye. But all the same he stood somewhat m awe of him. He could not understand his strange ways, his refined speech, the delicacy and clean- Imess of his habits. He seemed made of finer clay, he seemed to move in a rarer atmosphere than those about him. Had he been his own child he would have felt it his duty to punish such vagaries and insubordination as his conduct of to-day. But every year and every month brought more clearly home to hir- :]ir. fact that no tie bound this sea waif to his home or his hoari ; that he wps free to choose his life if he desirefi ?« . f^ ,. am wheio he would and love whom he pleased. 12 momentous ion on the mt strange 16 sea were ; eloquent ^med deaf. lis adopted id scolded, re than it : the little fisherman by the fire, tered with n his smile ley looked le laloaesa life," said I left 'ere, lair to the gan to eat y appetite fisherman. > ace. This 5 he stood rstand his md clean- • clay, he ose about felt it his on as his •y month at no tie at he wp.B where he CALVARY Absence of affectioi was a striking < har.^teristic of L»avicl3. He was genile and courteouG by instinct, but never had he shown any sentiment approaching love for either of his adopted parents. He took their care and in- terest as a matter nf course ; He gave them as njuch obedience as seemed luedful ; but an invincible hatred of coercion had early made itself visible in his fharacter. i?reedom of life, freedom of r -tion, freedom of th<,ught seemed as necessary to him as air and sunshine. When it came to a conflict of wills he ceased arguments, but all the same he did what he had wished to do, whatever punishment awaited him afterwards. This long absence to-day was against all rule. A year before and he would have expected, and possibly received, a sound thrashing or been sent supperless to bed. Now— on the twelfth anniversary of his adoption— they had sat up, in aggrieved loneliness, angry at his absence and forgetfulness, but afraid to upbraid him when he came. He looked so voung and radiant, so full of life and beauty, he was so rmch a wonder and delight to this childless pair that hia mere presence made excuse for aU else. They watched him eat his simple meal and drink the clear spring- water, ^ hich was the only beverage he ever touched. Even the vay he ate and drank seemed a gracious condescension, nd formed part of the picturesque attitude he took towa-ds all duties and obligations of life. When he had finished, the good Cornish woman put aside his plate ana glass and the remains of the pasty for whose manufacture she was famous. Then she brought the great Bible from its place on the stone window-siU and placed it on the table. The fisherman opened it to read the usual evening chapter when the bov sprang from his seat, his face aglow, his eyes eager, and filled with that strange hght they already knew and feared. Wait, -ather ! " he cried. " This is the day you -all my birthday. Let me choose the chapter to-night ' '' U^Vr!^^'^''^ ^""^ ^^''^ ^'^ ^^^^ on the Bible, and looked David Perryn in the eyes. The man shrank back as ^ in awe. Without a word he rose from his seat and took the place beside his wife. With neither thanks nor -_^ .n ,ne doj tiuu-cu cnc leaves rapiUiy; paused, »3 CALVARY pmye?. ''""'"' ^""^ ^°°^'^ "P" ^^ ^^' "^^^^^ ^« ^^ ^^ riJht'"«'nS^f T ^"""^ •" *^^ °P^" P^g^' he stood up. sifmon? ' ™^'"^ ^''''^ ^^ preached his first i I 14 d as if in stood up- i Ills first II IT was a strange scene. The rough fisherman ; the homely figure of his wife ; and that boy preacher standing by the table, the lamp' light on his rapt face and shining eyes. With never a pause for word or phrase he spoke on till some fifteen minutes had passed ; spoke as one in- spired; with a vivid imagery, a nervous force little short ot marvellous in one so young. Then he ceased and closed the Book, and with a murmured " Good night " he left the room and went away up the wooden stairway to the tiny loft where he slept. David and Rachel Perryn looked at each other as if questioning the reality of what had occurred. Astonish- ment and an inexpressible fear bound their limited speech I pnd left them stranded on the shores of emotion. To the f woman tears came as a natural relief, but the man felt as If he would choke. u 2!^ '®® ®^®^ ^ ^^^^' ^'"1 mazed wi' wonder ! " That child be a chosen vessel," said the woman, dry- ing her eyes on her apron. " Even as Samuel was called, so he m been called of Heaven. Not for naught did the sea cast him up, or ye ha' the finding of him. An' the name we gave him, 'tes that of the Lord's anointed." u /®^/»y "ame, an' my vather's afore me." Iss fay; but ye'm always called Davy, an' it seems more nat ral. But twarn't in me to call the little 'un save tI "*™° ^^ ^^y Scripture prints it." They rose, and the man turned over the leaves of the ancient Bible as if questioning a new purpose. ^^ no ee mind the place ov the text ? " he asked. He never said— just opened like and looked. Th' r^ • rr!!"^;? "' "^y ^^^« • ' Behold the man whose name ^18 The Branch, and he shall grow up out of his 15 CALVARY ' Out of his ph ? " repeated David Perryn. " Be that meamn as this warn't th' lad's place by rights of birth f " Put the Book aside," said his wife. " The lad's 'ad a call and we must stand aloof. He'll be no fisher like theeself Davy. A fisher of men maybe, for the Lord Hisself has called him." " We mun lose him ef 'tes so, wife ? " ^ ".^?i' ■?^^^-, ^^ "^"" ^^^ '"» go his way, seein' 'tes God Almighty's will. I reckon we'd best go to Minister Crouch to-morrow, and tell 'un of this. 'Twas mortal • strange. " Those dreams 'ee's told us of, Rachel, maybe thev'm speretual, after all ? We'd no call to mock at 'emf as we ve done. The Lord forgive us if we've sinned." Twas natural enuf we wanted to keep 'un to our- selves. " But 'tes not to be," said the fisherman. " No, Davy— 'tes not to be." They put out the lamp and went to their own resting, place but httle sleep visited their eyes. Natural human attection does not take kindly to uprooting. And .'fc l;ad ahvays seemed a natural thing to this simple pair tliut the child of their adoption should follow the cal'in*^ of his adopted father, and inherit the boat and nets and" cottage in due time as others and more authentic Perrvns had inherited them. ^ Besides, the lad was a true child of the sea. From earhest years he could swim and dive and fish, and manage oar and sail as if fisherman's blood was in his veins ; a fisher's life his natural future. Yet now thev came to think of it, they recalled a difference in his love of the sea and their own. It meant more, it said more. It held more for the little lad whose life it had spared, and whose cradle it had been. He had spoken of it as if it were a living friend, as if its moods and passions, and smiles and plaints, were not mere sounds. He knew its voice as they did not know it, and read its threats or promises more accurately than experience had taught them to read such things. The child and the sea were united by an indissoluble tie. David loved it better than his human friends ; and there was no fear in his ]nvc=only i6 m yn. " Be that hts of birth ? " ■ The lad's 'ad no fisher hke for the Lord ay, seein' 'tea ;o to Minister 'Tvvas mortal naybe they'm 3k at 'em, as nned." ) 'un to our- own resting- itural liuman And ifc liad pair that the ialHn^ of his 3 and cottage Perryns had sea. From nd fish, and i was in his et now they e in his love t said more, spared, and 3f it as if it assions, and He knew its 8 threats or taught them were united er than his ! irivo=-only CALVARY a great longing and a great desire. For the unfathomable mystery of the ocean tempted him strangely. Tempted him to question its origin and its force, its meaning and Its secret. Something it held ; that ever-murmuring,^ever. rnlTke"tS%'- .^«.°^^^^^"g g-«n ^^ in the Begtnlg. explain ^^^^^"^"g. ^ mystery that man could neve; With an irresistible will and a power that gods might sTsSe rp"""' ^''''^ *° acknowledge a Wilf^re irre- sistible a Power more powerful. Though it smiled or ^n^ or raged, or dashed itself to dJt upon the ada- imkntine cliffs, it always seemed to utter the wail of a fpr^oned soul. It was always a Lament and a Lie Chaos was m its song, and every pulsing wave seemed ms^ct with rebellious life. ChaiLd, prisLrd. SefianTa ItZuZ T''''J'''''I' ^ ^^''^^ ^f ""^«^'« doom, so It rolled and raged, and smiled and sang for the voun^ strange hfe it had once spared, and now inspired ^ ^ wouW P.Tl n^ // day shining through his tiny window The e ,> A^ to look at the sea and taste its breath. J™ ^' .t ^'^^' '^^"^"S loveliness in the summed dawns ; a seething mass of foam-crested billows when winter gales held revel on that wild coast. But araU end every season it held a charm of its own such as the l^Z \-^ shadows of the great rocks, the cry of the testless birds resting in rough crannies, ox whSng and t. heeling over the crested waves-these were ebquLr^ fis'e'r iT' "'"""^ ''^" '^"^^"^ *^^ dull^rs o? the t He had at first tried to tell them of it. But he onlv mpf ^ith mockery. The sea was the sea-a thing of powe^r ^nd il X; f-A.? ^T'i'' ^^ '^'^ livelih?od-?hat Tas tLw ^ ^^ they heed of that mystery of chained forJe l^hich for ever troubled the dreaming boy ? \Vhat conS tthTartha: T'^ ''?* Creation^iai set'^unSte »^dlstJucS.n ' '''^^''' Y'^^^^'^ ^" '^'^^^ »>oth food pa aestruction ; a purpose and a danger ? For the beautv CctTntLnT Butl^ "^ft^' ''' ^^^^^ K'J ,^ nothing. But the child David r-nrpri f^r. fi,p„- ipiiiigs aouve ail else. "" '"^=® (I 17 CALVARY Never did he weary in the rocking arms of his first cradle ; never had he feared the anger of storm, or the threat of raging waters. He seemed to bear a cnarmed hfe, for no harm ever came to him, despite his recklessness and daring. His little boat, a small but well-made craft, the gift of the fisherman Daw Perrvn bore him hither and thither like a fairy vessel. He rowed or sailed It with a skill that Nature had taught. He lived in It all the long summer days, exploring the coves around, and landing where the fancy took him. Sometimes he hshed with a small and serviceable net he had helped to make in those long winter evenings when the fisher folk kept to their cottages perforce, and howling winds and lashing waves made the coast a place of terror. Ship- wrecks were not unfrequent there, and many a barque or brig met its fate upon those cruel rocks. Never a soul had been saved to David's knowledge. Dead men and fair women, and sometimes a little child, were cast up bv the sea to the land. To him they had always looked caliii and happy, as if in accepting their fate they had also accepted a gift of deeper meaning ; a gift of the sea, a hint ot Its mystery and its doom. • T^® ^^T" ^^°^® ^^^ ^nd fair that day after David's vision The sun shone through his tiny lattice, and the sea called from its harbourage below the cliffs He sprang up. His golden curls fell over his eyes, and he tossed them impatiently aside and went to the httle square lattice that stood open to winds and sun the summer through. His first thought, his first glance, wJienever he awoke were given to the sea. It never wore the same v!, T^' °'" '° ^^ thought. There was always some subtle change or variety in its aspect. His eyes swept the sky, and read its portent of fine weather. He washed and dressed, and for a space knelt by the open window, letting his thoughts stray mto what channel they pleased. Such straying and pure thankfulness for life meant always his morning prayer. Then he rose and went down into the one small living-room of the cottage. He cut himself a thick slice of bread and drank his usual drautxht of spring \i'n for qrri <^^"m a _..i -ht ,i . i8 Qs of his first of storm, or id to bear a m, despite his a small but Davy Perryn, el. He rowed ;ht. He lived coves around, Sometimes he lad helped to he fisher folk ig winds and terror. Ship- 7 a barque or Never a soul jad men and re cast up by } looked calm ley had also he sea, a hint ifter David's tice, and the 3. eyes, and he little square the summer whenever he re the same ilways some es swept the washed and dow, letting ased. Such ) always his wn into the I drank his it. xNothing CALVARY stirred as yet in the cottages or on the quay. There had been heavy spoils of late, and the fishermen were well content to rest on their good fortune. From the cliff a steep path wound down to the sea ; the path by which the boy had ascended the previous night. At its foot his little boat was moored. The tide was lifting it now. He looked down, reading invitation in those graceful, swaying movements. Then once more his eager gaze swept outwards to where that ever- memorable landmark reared its crest. It v^as not visible from here. The violet mists of morning stiil wreathed it in mystery. The boy turned abruptly, and prepared to descend the cliff. Just then a voice called his name. He looked up and saw a small figure hastening towards him. It was the little granddaughter of old Zachariah Pascoe. «< He waited and she ran to his side, panting and rosy. Oh, David— how early you are ! Are you going in vour boat? Will you take me ? " ^ h ^ y i " Of course," he said. " Only I can't promise to bring you back by breakfast-time." "No matter. I've laid it ready for gran'vather and lit the fire. He'll know I'm gone to th' spa." "Come along, then," said the boy, and he hastened down the rough path, leaving her to follow. They had been playmates and companions all their young lives, ho and Ruth Pascoe. It was no new thing for them to spend hours on the sea, or on the cliffs, sharing their simple meals and happy enough in each other's company. In both ran the same visionary strain ; that mingling of Biblical facts and natural application of those facts which IS by no means uncommon to the inhabitants ot Cornwall. There is a simplicity of nature and a pro- found sense of religion about these people that date from ante-Nonconformist times. Possibly their land lends itself to taith as to superstition. Possibly the dangers of their coast and the precarious nature of their trade, both by land and sea, have wTought a natural acceptance of peril as of hardship. The Bible is in every home, and its words come as familiar sayings to most lips, mingling with the noiuely pnrases and usages of their common life, and 19 if! % i u CALVARY leavened by a simplicity and ignorance that join in with the proverbial honesty of the Cornish character. Chapels are numerous and sects are many. The familiar picture of John Wesley preaching at Gwennap Pit is a picture reproduced by fitful frenzies of evangelizing, and sensational outbursts of missionary zeal. A wave of spiritual fanaticism spreads from time to time over the little townships and scattered hamlets. Sometimes a Call 18 professed by some illiterate miner or inspired fisherman. Then he feels it is his mission to preach, and according to his powers, or his novelty, so is his congre- To old Zachariah Pascoe, grandfather of little Ruth, such a call had come when he was advanced in years. He had entered the Nonconformist order, and taken over the tmy chapel of Poltreath by election. He was counted a second Wesley, so fervent was his expounding of the bacred Word, so unsparing his condemnation of smners. however tempted or however weak. Little Ruth was about the same age as David. She had lived in this atmosphere of austerity and piety ever smce her orphaned condition left the old zealot's cottage aa her only home. She performed all the services possible to her young hands and willing heart. She had learnt to cook and sew, and she kept the little cottage as clean and fresh as her o^vn life. She loved the old man dearly, and he was very good to her. True, that his calling kept him much occupied, and often meant hours of silence and absorption or days during which he would absent himself and walk the country round, his staff in his hand, his old worn Testament in his pocket, reading, brooding, some- times even preaching, if the Spirit moved him to do so. lo David, Ruth was less a companion than a solace- some one who loved him and understood him, and to whom he could talk as he pleased, and tell what he chose. She worshipped him with a passionate devotion : the devotion of a lonely childhood thrown upon itself, and denied all natural outlet for its feelings. When she could get away and be with David she was perfectly happy, ^ut of late he had seemed to shun her society. He would f- ,^ p^^.*orv oiiv cuuiu gut inrougu ner domestic 20 II CALVAEY duties, or he would tell her that the sea was too rough, or the place he was going to too far for her to accompany him. It hurt her deeply, though she made no complaint. But on this August morning she had resolved to go with him, and waking with the dawn had succeeded in her design. The boy loosed the boat with practised hand, and taking the oars sent the little craft out of its sheltering cove and over the wide rolling swell of the Atlantic. Soon he paused, and resting on his oars looked over the golden width of waters. The Mount was visible now ; a tall, conical shape rising from the sea, as the Pyramid from the desert. A noble, wonderful thing, wholly worthy of its legend and its name. The girl followed the boy's long gaze, and read his thoughts by memory of that related vision. She did not speak. She had learnt to know of masculine signs and moods that imposed silence on the feminine tongue. She was very meek and very patient, this little Ruth, With a sigh, David at last turned and took up the oars again. " Are you going — there ? " asked Ruth eagerly. He shook his head and turned the boat somewhat sharply. The shore curved amongst outrunning rocks and frowning caverns. The boy rowed steadily on, sending the light craft on its mission with strong, sweeping strokes. Ruth watched him silently, wondering as she had always wondered at his strange beauty ; at the poise of head and curl of lip, at once defiant and compelling ; at the gold of his hair, and the velvety darkness of his eyes. Never had she seen eyes of that colour : a deep, intense violet that looked black at night or under the influence of emo- tion ; eyes with something of the pansy's purple softness set in a clear white iris, almost startling by contrast. The delicate brows and sweeping lashes were almost girlish in their beauty. In fact, the feminine type was more ap- parent in the boy's physique than the masculine, its only contradiction the boldness of the brow and the curl of the upper lip. Ruth's mere childish prettiness looked commonplace be- side David. Kciice perhaps her adoring admiration of him. She had waited on his moods and confidences ever since ^ 1, 21 CALVARY their acquaintance began, and he still seemed to her a °f "!8 of another sphere in comparison with the fisher lads of the village. When David again ceased rowing they were close to one of those fairy coves with which the coast abounded. \j^®"tu }^°^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^y "Pon a stretch of firm sand. Then he sprang out, and helped Ruth to do the same, bhe looked around with some curiosity ; she had ^°il^T^ ^^f ^/^°'"^- ^^^ ^y^^ no*«d a caverned recess, half hidden by ferns and coarse sea-grasses. The sand on which she stood was powdered with delicate shells. The cliff shelved upwards by a rough, broken path, and to the left of the summit were the remains of an ancient tower which legend reported as i haunted spot. Her questioning glance sought David. Why were they here ? Was it to be a picnic, or an exploration, or a discovery of some new The boy was looking at the cavern's entrance. She wondered if he expected to see something or some one issue from thence While they waited a -oice suddenly rang out on the siJence. A man's full, rich voice chanting what might have been a pagan hymn to the God of Day, so joyous was the strain, so simple the melody. A sudden rapture shone in David's face. " He is here— still ! " he SSbXCLm The little girl crept closer to his side. Who is it ? " she whispered. He glanced at her with a sort of impatience. " I foreot you. I hope he won't mind," he answered. Almost on his words the fern-curtains were swept aside and the figure of a man stood in the entrance. He was oddly dressed ,• long, dark hair blew loose about a tanned olive-skmned face-the face of one to whom wind and weather are natural friends. It was a clean-shaven face, showing a beautiful mouth and white, even teeth ; a mouth that laughed for the joy of laughter, though the deep brown eyes held something of the sorrows of life When he saw the children he came out and greeted thHaylLtf ' ^^^^ """ ^^^ ^'°y *"^ ''^^"^"^^ °f '' So its you, my young Dreamer ! And who is this ? 22 ed to her a e nsher lads ere close to b abounded, itch of firm 1 to do the y ; she had rned recess, rhe sand on shells. The and to the cient tower questioning Was it to f some new ance. She le one issue denly rang .nting what Df Day, so A sudden -still ! " he " I forgot ivept aside . He was a tanned, wind and a-ven face, ; a mouth the deep d greeted elcome of ) is this ? CALVABY Your sister ? No— I remember you told me you possessed no relatives. Well, no matter. She is a friend of yours ; her best introduction." He swept his slouched hat to the ground in mocking salutation of sex. " Now you are here," he said, " you must join me at breakfast. It is true I have to find the breakfast first, but perhaps the sea will be kind. Have you a net, my young Samuel ? " " No— I did not bring one to-day," said David regret- fully. " An oversight ; but no matter. I have one of my own in the cave. Fetch it, and we'll try our luck." The boy ran into the cavern as if well used to such commands. Little Ruth, too amazed for speech, gazed open-mouthed at this strange being. Tall, dark, supple, dressed only in a woollen shirt of dull scarlet and loose serge trousers such as seamen wear, he yet had an air of command — a regal ease that set him miles away from any experience of her OAvn. She could find nothing to say, nor could she hide her bewilderment. He read it all. The childish soul was like an open book. He laughed again. " Why, how you stare, my little maid ! Am I so strange an object-lesson ? Vlh&t would you say were I unshorn and unshaved, and my beard tangled with my hair, as indeed wise Nature meant all beards should be — to save trouble ? " Still she looked and listened, her whole soul lost in wonder. Then David came out of the cavern dragging a brown fishing-net behind him. The stranger seized it and threw it into the boat, and sprang in after it. " Wait you here," he called as the water splashed on either side at his impetuous launching. " Make the fire m the old place, David, and spread the fr st on the rock yonder." The boat shot off, and they saw him cast his net in the deep sea beyond. The boy wasted no time. He gathered sticks and dry weed and made a pile of them just beside the mouth of the cave. He went within and brought out some rough, 23 ' ' t «1; :!i I w|. CALVARY &e, and hung atS fromlth'orB"!''' " ?™^ *"» cave and looked within Sl« . ■ f"** "entured to the curiously light Ilth™„l, tk " * *"''' ■•ock-B-alled space light to VtlrSf^e^LtTnif™;'' ■"> ^Perture'^for was heaped upon the sandy floorini' 1 ^™? "^ ^»''-''''" te^^st^ranr-'™^^^^^^^^^^ tbat^S|nrart3''ot»he:^^ ^S^T "°» "^ -» a slab of rock nearthe fe S^' .""."S"^ i"'* "■^" » found her tongue at l^t '"'""''^ «"<''• '"». ""d she a^ed" ^^'^ ^ P™'» '''"S "^ » Juggler. David ? " no?„?giLr"?fcund himKnS.''"' "? f ™'*' "-O to come again— and J hT ^ ^^^ ^^^ he told me Butheisth\lsrwoJderfu?mrL\luf '' t ' ^-" He knows everything- heX<,To " the world, I think. speaks you wish he fv'ould never? ^^'T^''^' ^I^^n he tire of hearing him When h^J ^''' ^?' ^^^ «^« never ]^ near and fiJ God's angels Shin"' ^''^'^^'' heaven tear you will see. Helsfominf & T" .^"<^ ^^^ ^^^ ^The two young eager wf^ V^'"®''^^- I^^sten ! " The net had been dra^^ £ thfh?^. '^'^ *^ ^^^ «^^- And over the golden Cter" 'rang ttl '"^' l"^^"^ ^^^'k' the " PescatortV' as it is sun^ri 4 /""^P^^^t song of Brittany, as it is sung wCvlr f^.^^^'u' f '* ^^ «""! i" and the nets well filled. Burto t^ 1?m^' ^'' P^'^^'^^J in Its pagan joy and reVeW J ^^^i'^^^^ren it was new note of praise' than of Tonq7es? th?^ '• '\ '"'"^'^ ^-«« a ^ho has wrested his spoi? from n! 1^^^°^^ ^i a victor g-ng of a grateful ^oAt:,^:^^^^^:^^^^^^ 24 Ill THE man leaped from the boat and dragged it to the beach. He tossed the living, quivering creatures he had caught into a wicker creel and brought them to where the fire was blazing. He made short work of preparation ; scaled and cleaned and opened the fish, and spitted them on sticks before the flame. Then he made tea in the earthen pot and cut the bread into thick slices, and told David of a hidden store of butter and sugar within the cave. "Spoils gathered from the last market-day yonder," he explained. " I gave some help to an old dame whose donkey had proved more incorrigibly lazy than even Cornish donkeys do prove at fairs and market times. Having some trick of management with animals, I drove him and the old dame to their very door. In gratitude she msisted I should take some of her own home-made butter and a trifle of tea and sugar for my empty larder. I take it that service rendered need not quibble at service paid. Hence our well-spread board to-day. I had not expected guests, but that makes them the more welcome and the spoils more opportune." While he spoke he was never idle. It seemed to Ruth that he was the personification of restlessness. Life quivered in every motion, look, and gesture, as if it were an impatient fire for ever on the point of breaking its restraints. He was as vivid a force as the morning itself • as restless and magnetic as the sea. And surely all the melody of earth and sea were in his voice, whether he spoke or sang— or thus it seemed to the wondering child. When the fish was cooked he served it up on one of the tin plates, brown and delicious, with the flavour of the sea m every mouthful. The tea he drank liim«plf f-r i>avid touched nothing b.'.t water, and Ruth could not 25 1 ': «■: '«*«- k. She was ing could be, I spoke in his nd filling of told David. If in even so isgression of ■e concerned ^er of land, 3!is lands go their boun- ght, and by ' So it is ing Samuel, 3SS as when ou haven't seven days f our meet- as bringing of life are I's progres- iel ? You y visitants )u on that ntly ? " I think in 70U would !am. But paled and Qpelled to " Yes— CALVARY " The same, or different ? " "Altogether different. I saw the Archangel himself upon the Mount." A flash of angry light shot from the dark eyes of the questioner. The scorn of his laugh was like a lash across the boy's sensitive heart. He sprang to his feet. " Ah, don't laugh ! " he cried in a passion of entreaty. " It hurts ! " For a moment the man said nothing, only his face grew strangely soft. " Poor infant Samuel," he said. " Does it hurt ? Is your soul so tender a thing ? Well, tell me the vision. Tell me all. I promise I will not laugh — again." " I lay at the foot of the Mount and looked up to Heaven. And as I looked I saw a golden pathway spread from thence, and there descended a Figure. He bore a sword in one outstretched hand, and ho stood upon the summit of .he Mount and looked out at the sea. Long and silently he looked, and I heard it tremble and shiver against the rocks, and its voice held a note of fear. Then the great Angel spoke to the sea and called it ' rebel.' Yet he blessed it for its services to man. And from the sea he looked to the earth. Accursed he called it. Accursed by man's sin, but by man to be redeemed " The boy's voice broke, for his eyes had turned to that strange mocking face of his listener. But there was no mockery in it now ; only a great sadness and an infinite despair. " Go on," he said in a husky whisper. Then the boy related the end of the vision. How, moved by some overwhelming impulse, he had sprung to his feet and, face to face with that glorious Being, had vowed himself his messeiiger. He told of the Archangel's answer and of those closing words. They seemed burnt as with letters of fire upon his memory. To repeat them was to see them. Glowing, fervid ; a prophecy and a pre- diction ; clear as the Writing on the Wall that shone before Belshazzar of Babylon. The stranger heard him to the end. And when the boy's appealing glance asked response it met such won- dering gentleness that the ready tears sprang to his eyes. " Ah ! you do believe — at last ! " 27 CALVARY ^„r^ S™ """ '° y™ ™h "lings are real Have I not calied you a second Samuel • a se^r T\„-=i h:;|nea" £rrr7n^^rredTo r„tfe^^^^^^^ runtn r^/."' °' impossible to us now will only be ac- counted truth a century hence' Hflv« t r, t/ij that as a grain of sand to the widfalore 7.\T ^'^ water to the mighty ocean m i7fh. T ?' * * '*''°P °^ but work together for one Inscrutable Purnose fI.k eadf fS'''* "^f\^"^ «^^^^« - minSrgodhead each futile monarchy boasting of its rights each r.w' thmg of genius, used and abSsed and meetinrbnt fS what was created-Imperfeci - '' *'^^^' ^''^''^'''^ ^^ told—""^^' """^ ""^^ "'"^^^^ P^^f^^t ? Are we not v^u imve oeen taught narrow facts bv narrnw »«,v^„ J^ou are but a child, my young evaneplisf • K„f at ? ^" till the Goniia,^ k^tTlfcuTtr"!:? " Y^ H"' the more sorry for mysplf rrw-;-' • , ^ ^^*~I ^"^ ,y - ^^sHir. xnciia IS tne easier part 28 fe we not CALVARY Through the bondage of a blind Belief they look out upon a limited sphere of self - promised bliss. You, child, are called to this blind orthodoxy. You — with cramped soul and limited intellect — dream of leading and converting other souls as cramped ; other intellects as limited. The one slight difference between you will only be the difference of that subtle power marking off capacity from incapacity. We would all be great and glorious — if we could. We would emulate the power we envy had not some sterner power placed one man on the ladder of achievement while another halts helplessly on its first rung of Desire ! . . . How you 'ook ! You do not understand me — yet. But you will, David — you will. I can read your future as though it were an open book lying before me on those sands ! Have we not talked and walked and mocked together, or perchance 'twas I who mocked, and you who rebuked ? Your soul is pure as yet, my young Samuel, and your record a spotless page in the great volume of life. But one day there will be a story to read in the book ; perchance a blot upon the page ! " He rose suddenly and stood looking away over the sea ; away to where the great Mount showed above the quiet waters. The boy followed his gaze. He rose also, and stood there in a silence bom of incomprehension. That flood of bitter words had poured itself out to ears as yet deaf to heresies; to a mind as yet sealed in pure innocence, unharmed by doubt. The young eyes of the Dreamer looked away to the scene of his vision, and once again the words of that strange prophecy leapt out in letters of gold upon the translucent air. It was Ruth's voice that recalled them both. Ruth, the patient listener whom they had forgotten. " If you please, there be some one signing to you — up there above ! " She pointed to the cliff. A man was standing there and making signals. The stranger looked up. " Possibly that means my dismissal," he said. " I have outstayed the hour of respite in my zeal for you, David." " The gentleman is coming down the path," said the boy. " So he is. Well, I will wait for him. The role of mes- =_ii_^. .„ ^,, ,>^^,^,, i^ut, vligiuiiv^Ji mail i.nut Ul llltl'UUcr. 29 h I: 11 s IJ CALVARY serv:d7stb]rtutS tthf^r.V^^^ «^* -k that had gather, and V^ve^^leKl^'^^t ''"^^'^ "^^"«^^« to- wash them. In a few moment thp n^ '"^ ^"^ ^^^^^ *° speaking distance. He ™ a th n "TTT ^^ ^^^^^^ dressed in rough tweeds an/ 1!?' ^^^^^^c-looking man were singu]arly%iSg\'^^^^ C; ?" ^^^« little g..up of trespasser's wifhX^dg^ ^" ^^^ here'^XanTcJo^^^rriJi-^^^^^^^^^ had the audacity to usZ Sr"'-^-f P"" °* °^^"« ^^^^ However, he so fir exceeded ^I P""^'^^^? ^^ ^J«««on- interest instead o Tnv'i''^^fcaSl'^"Criradd'ar'.'i'' "'^. ""• -"'" '"^s^dVit^itVorS^f-™^^^^^^ of doing it.^ You are at' lil,^! 7 '"'™ ' "y '-t^ntion iongas.ouehooserpraVtt:tt"™^fe^\tl^™^^^^ 30 ^ iii' A* CALVARY enough about such fools ' » these parts. Perhaps it's your ambition to achieve sa. ithood on similar lines ? " Again that rich and joyous laughter rang out, winning an unwilling smile from the saturnine lips of the Squire as response. "Sainthood? That is not much in my line, nor was it in theirs to the best of my knowledge. Like greatness, it was thrust upon them by smaller minds." The Squire looked at him with deepening interest. He could not but wonder at his strange appearance, or its contrast with his manners and his speech. Then his glance fell on the children. " Not — ^yours ? " he said. " I have no human ties," was the answer. "I am a Wanderer without name : an Ishmael of parts, save only that it is my mind, and not my hand, that is set against man. I am at war intellectually with all the enormous mass of Humbug that has been crystallized by civilization into one solid lie ! It is a magnificent lie, I grant, but — that makes it all the more terrible." " You interest me greatly ! " exclaimed the Squire. A curious glitter came into his eyes, and his thin face grew eager. " Then there must be something in you besides land- grabber and feudal chieftain ! For my part your domains are too insignificant to be worth a regret. I am not in- clined to stay here, despite your permission. The fact of any permission coming into the matter does away with the charm of freedom. I shall go further afield, or rather a-sea. My young friend here will give me place in his boat, and you, Sir Squire, can relieve the mind of your excellent keeper as to my intentions on his rabbits. Not but what they make excellent pasties, those same rabbits, but they have been served to me as a bona fide traveller, not as a personal experiment." " But why must you go ? " demanded the Squire sud- denly. " I have explained that you are welcome to your cavern as long as it pleases you to remain in it. Nay, more " — and his face grew yet more eager — " my house itself is at your service if you will be my guest. I am a lonely man. 1 have few pleasures save my books. If 31 |i CALVARY spare hours It boasts a collection rivalled by few " Books ? My one temptation ! " exclaimed the stran- fhl'n ?' ^°?^? «f^^«hingly at the giver of the invLtion then glanced at the sea. and from thence to the wonderW SsTin that dr K^"^''"^ r^^^ ^^^^^^^'^ ^^^^ ^--de "g mi^rt\tTettif^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^-^"^^ ^d- "o;\h^^^rt?rit':ou'''^^^"''' '^ ^^^^ ^^-p^^^- me'm'beryot" '"'""'" '"^ ^""'^- " ^^^ ^ ^^ ^°* '^- " Possibly a mere mortal, and a landowner at that 7:^iT':'Z\r^'' *^^ r^' °f y-r observLon.'' said the man of the cavern. '• You must know sir f>,nf our young friend there is no mere fisherkd Xis a Seer instinof VrT= ^r* ^y ^^^"^^ -«d preacher by instinct. Yonder Mount has taught him much. Not for nothmg has an Archangel consecrated its memory Buf I diverge ^at I wish to say is that your offer of hospi library Books are the one luxury I covet and mv Iif« s'uto'e V bu7 ".r* 'I "^ ^^^^^^^' wLh yo7m' y npT.!o I- T^^V^""^ insignificant. Wlien my shirt needs ivashing I wash it, and when it wears out I begor tirZ.'' rf ^^ ""°'^^^' ^' "^y °^«°d takes me For the rest, all climates are at my disposal. I can temner hSvI '".'^^^Pj^^e, and no country as home. The air of Sr Cp er" Fr;' ^T f ?" ^' "^^ ^^^ ^^^s of the air happier. For friends I have all the wo^Id of men thl n'"A ^^'^'"^ ^^'^ ^^* ^« I choose, and lea^ng Itpn vn' .V '^•'Y ^^^"derings when I weary of the7 I tell you this, Sir Squire, for fear you may repent oiv^r rashness in throwing open your library to myTreedv IZ etlaCi^i^rf /^"' '' " ^^^^^^^^ who'iifs faTed tS fW fi . ^'' and owns no name save that of Wanderer ^r^ve? :T r^^^"^ ''''^'' y°"^ '^ff^r - the spirit of Its giver, and— for the nonce, remains here ! " He looked at the fcrn-curtained doorway of the rnvn at the motley collectinn lit>l" Rp^k i,„h -' - i^ ^' — i iiL-i,, ,,.i,vn xittU 'vaaiiuu and put 32 11 claim some by few." led the stjan- le invitation ; he wondering »^es wandered unwilling ad- dd abruptly. I do not re- ner at that, )bservation," ow, sir, that He is a Seer ; preacher by 3h. Not for smory. But fer of hospi- possessing a and my life sh you may in my shirt >ut I beg or ?s me. For can temper . I own no The air of irds of the vld of men ind leaving y of them, ont of your ;reedy soul. s faced the Wanderer, he spirit of the cave, d and put CALVARY neatly together. Then he laughed softly. " It is too early yet to intrude upon your Squireship," he said. " Give me till noon with my young friends." " One moment," said the Squire. " Was that truth or jest you spoke about this boy ? " " Truth— with the saving grace of my own translation. Had you but come a few moments sooner you would have been treated to a finer sermon than chapel or church could give you." " I go to neither," said the Squire, with some contempt. " If you knew aught of mo, or of my name " " Ignorance on both points is my misfortune — as yet," interrupted the Wanderer, as he had called himself. " Well, for name I am plain Morgan Craddock ; an alien Cornishman, seeing that I inherit by the distaff side the property of a race who die out with my death. The house is old and ugly, and the lands are poor and the revenues small ; but when they came to mo I was grateful enough, and for twenty years I have given myself up to my hobby of book collecting. I don't know why I tell you this. I am not usually frank with strangers." "Most men are frank with me," said the Wan- derer, smile. " Oh — women ! " said the Squire contemptuously. *' Leave them out of our mtroduction ! Marplots and marionettes ! They serve some need of Nature, I suppose, but for sake of peace and sanity, I keep them out of my l.ause ! " " I would do the same, had I a house to be master of ! " laughed the Wanderer. " Yet they have some good points. Give them their due. But for Woman you and I would not be conversing together, nor would life suddenly show itself as a new interest for — one of us." " Why not for both ? " asked the Squire. " Oh ! " was the cool rejoinder. " Did you suppose that my interest was a personal matter ? " There was a moment's silence. Morgan Craddock seemed uncertain whether to resent a rudeness or condone an interest. But his hesitation was brief. " I could not flatter myself so far," he said. " But remember my house ^ 33 " And few — women," he added, with an odd httle i \ I* I:' i' I: CALVARY lies— there "—he pomted up the cliff—" and wy library is at your disposal whenever you care to visit it '' " You are kinder than I deserve, Sir Squire," laughed the strange recipient of such unusual courtesies. "But m this mad whirligig we call life no man gets his deserts. Iheretore Jet us part— in expectation." He took off his hat and bowed with that mocking cour- tesy which seemed a part of himself. The Squire returned It more unceremoniously, then turned and went slowly up the steep path. ''^ ^ David and Ruth looked questioningly at each other and then at the grave face of their new friend. He stood quite still, his eyes on the shining sea, his brows drawn together m a frown of perplexity. Then something-a bird, a wave, the rocking boat, caught his attention, and the old joyous mood returned. " To the sea, to the sea ! " he cried laughingly " The day is young yet, and its hours are our own. David you sJiall row— or stay-we will share that pleasure. And I will ins ruct you in my own theology. I have been to colleges, and forgotten more damnable falsehoods than vou will ever learn. You would go to no seminary save that Dame JNature keeps if you were wise, my young Samuel. But^- are you wise ? Is any one ? " 34 n>Y library is it.'' ire," laughed esies. " But s his deserts. locking cour- uire returned int slowly up . each other 3. He stood )rows drawn omething — a tention, and igly. "The David, you . And I will I to colleges, an you will J that Dame luel. But — IV THE two cliildren and their strange companion spent the morning on the water. Sometimes he talked, and they listened with rapt ears to his stories of the world ; to vicissitudes and experiences more marvellous than any fairy tale or page of romance. Sometimes there would fall a long spell of silence. Then David's gaze would seek the blue depths of the sky, or the wonderful opal tints of the water. And the ppell of their beauty, and the mystery of their meaning, would wrap him in strange content. The eyes of the Wanderer turned more than once to the spiritual beauty of that musing face. He had said he could read the boy's soul like an open book, but he could not read the thoughts of such moments, or follow that strain of mysti- cism through its perplexing maze. When noon drew nigh he turned the boat towards the shore again. David's eyes questioned. " Yes, I shall remain. A week— a month. I make no promise. But the chance of to-day does not often come to me. I have a feeling about that visitor of ours, David. He will play a part in both our lives. And interest is for me just the one thing that makes life worth living. I had expected none in this remote corner of the earth Possibly that is why I found it." , " Then I may come and see you again ? " said the bov I eagerly. "^ ''Every day, and all day, if it please you, Samuel! [But I thmk we will dispense with Ruth. She has heard [enough to fill every nook and cranny of her small human [soul. Let her digest it. A plethora of unaccustomed tood IS unhealthy, and tends to ill consequences. Ruth 'liad best sit at her needle or her spinning wheel— if |8uch a thine still exists — n.nr\ vnn aViaii or>.v>p 4-r. ^f. ,,„^ [near wisdom and gain knowledge, which, after all, is the 35 CALVAKY whole duty of man, even though it prove in the end but vanity and vexation of spirit." r " That," interposed Ruth proudly, " be a text ; taken from th Book of Ecclesiastus. Gran'vather preached from t the last Sabbath day but one." " Is that so ? I fancy I can hear that sermon. Were you present, my young seer ? " " No," said David. " I was at the church. Mr. Crouch teaches me, you know, and he likes me to come to his services. "I imagine his discourses must be more edifying even if they lack the primitive zeal of our Methodist friends ' Have you ever seen a bunch of grapes, David ? " " Oh, yes ! Mr. Crouch has a glass-house, and a vine grows withm. It has covered all the walls and the roof He is very proud of it." T " ^u®"' ^^^^} ^®^"S ^^' ^'^^ ^^ o" ^^^<^1^ ^y illustration. in a bunch of grapes there are small and large ; sour and A^ft ^^^ ^°°^^ ^^^^ ^^^ «^™® vine, the same stem. Ail have sprung from the same root, shared the same sun- shine and r-ceived the same care. How do you account for the variations of size, or flavour ? Does it not seem to mean that m Natiire there is the same strain of perve-sitv as marks human liie. For, look you, mankind has formed a million varying patterns out of his primitive ' first father ' Ue that first an evolution or a progression, or perfection ready-made as human vanity loves to believe, yet its variations seem endless. Take a small peninsula like this Ihere are more sects than I can count upon my fingers And each clings to its own belief in its own righteousness,' and holds Itself as pattern of the mysterious revelations ot i^od ! Has It occurred to your young mind yec, mv infant Samuel, to question the right or wrong of your chapel as set against your church ? I see it hasn't. But It will ; rest sure of that. The clash of creeds means the soul 8 first baptism of war. Be wary how you choose your commander, and on whose side you fight. Though for So^r""'" """^ ^' ^^^ *^ another, and all unsatis- ''Do you not go to church, sir ? " asked the boy timidly. JMot to one made vvith hands; nor do I accept any 36 I the end but rmon. Were CALVARY creed as true, or any preaching as satisfactory. Error can only beget error. From one small ephemera has sprung a hydra-headed monster whose rapacity is insatiable, and wh se crimes no man may count ! Still, for sake of some small grain of good, some tender gift of charity, I would not denounce all as evil. It is not the thing itself that stands for error, but tlr ^_^ who have worked it as an engine of mischief and a perverter of Truth. But stay on your oars a moment, David. Is not that roof we see above the trees Trebarwick House ? " " Yes," said the boy, who knew coast and cliff and every signal mark for miles around. " What did you think of your suzerain ? He owns your village yonder, you know, or so I was told. Shame that so many acres of goodly land fall to one man's owner- ship ! " " Does he own Poltreath as well as all— this ? " ex- claimed the boy wonderingly. " I believe so. And he is not of the soil either, which makes it a double wrong. He was only a third-rate de- scendant; an accident of relationship. However, he interested me strangely. I go to further our acquaint- anceship. You can pull me in to shore now, David, and then betake yourself to your own side of the bay." With no more formal farewell than a smile and a hand- wave, he leapt ashore and shoved off the boat again. But to David, as he turned homewards, it seemed as if the day had lost something of its brightness, and the sea of its charm. A strange regret filled its voice and echoed in his heart, and to Ruth and her prattle he gave but impatient rejoinder. Meanwhile the strange being who had elected to be called " Wanderer " went up the rugged cliff path, and, throwing himself down on the thyme-scented grass, looked long and thoughtfully at the surrounding landscape. The granite formation of the soil left large tracts of bare country. Here and there groups of trees or a flash of green fields showed up against the numerous boulders and the strange stone fences. The house or hall of Trebar- wick was shut in by granite walls topped bv hish hedges of escailonia. A sturdy gateway of* stone blocks and 37 n £1 . 3 U CALVARY carved moulding gave entrance to the garden. Over its centre stone the arms of the Trebarwicks were carved Ihrough the iron scroll-work of the gate a lawn and ^;jv ""^^ ^'^'!l'\. ^" ^'^^^' '^^ ^^^« flower-beds set thick with hardy blossoms. All about stood huge bushes of fuchsia and tall geraniums, and golden rod and white rocket. Monthly roses climbed up the side of the winlows! ^1 L^" creepmg hchen covered the walls. tonnJ;, nf"MT ^°°^^^ ^u'°"^? *^^ sate at all this wan- i«r.n- l^f"''^; «^^ the palms and the cacti and the camellia shrubs as tributes to the humid air and sheltering walls around It was a won^.rful out-of-door display and spoke well for the mildness of the climate. He turned the heavy iron handle of the gate and entered. Jn.. r.l' '°''*'^ ^ '■^^' ^"^^' ^"^ h^ «^^^ hi« acquaint- ance of the morning sitting beside an open ^vindow. read- ing At sound of the step two large deerhounds sprang Th/r? the stone flags on which the long windows opened They barked oudly, but not aggressively ; then, to the Squ^re-s surprise, they walked quietly up to the visitor tTpl^r'^'"* ^^T '"■''} ''^"^^y friendlmess. He pitted window """^ °" ^'^^^"^ "^^ '^^°^^ to the J2V^ "^^f 'l"'"S ^^^ ' ^^S" °^ ^^^ ' on me. Squire," n!v . I^^y .^^7 *°^ ^"^h ««n«e for hostilities. I never met the ammal yet who was not quicker at recog- nizing my harmlessness than were his two-legged superiors/' ^^ I am pleased to welcome you," said Morgan Craddock Will you come withm, or do you prefer the garden ? " feedTn' h^^f'A ^ ''" ""T' *° ^"^^^ ^"' ^^ talk in, or •.li/V, ^"t I i.ave come to see your library." Will you share my luncheon first ? We were both astir early enough to make a meal desirable." 1 am no friend to formal meals, nor," he added with thetr'"^ ^^ "* .H' ^"^^""^^' "^^ i exactly cl'aln the fashion of a guest for your table." Nonsense ! " said Craddock impatiently. " We will ca2 nff' T^^ ""^'^ ^^" mulberry tree yonder, and-i coats offend your sense of artistic fitness, I'll gladlv adont your costume. The day is hot enough 'to dfspenLS one. 38 len. Over its were carved. a lawn and ower-beds set I huge bushes od and white the windows, Is. all this wan. sacti and the md sheltering ioor display, e. and entered, his acquaint- indow, read- lunds sprang lows opened, then, to the ) the visitor He patted ;rode to the tne, Squire," ostihties. I er at recog- i superiors." n Craddock. garden ? " talk in, or were both a-dded, with ;tly clad in "We will er, and — if &dly adopt pense with CALVARY He threw off his own coat, and stood there in a loose shirt of white linen and the knickerbockers and leggings of the morning. His guest looked at him critically. He was a slight man of average height, with the face of an ascetic and a some- what cruel mouth. Just now his eyes were purposely inexpressive. He could make them so when it pleased him. He turned suddenly, crossed the room, and rang a bell. A manservant appeared, and he gave him some rapid orders. Then he stepped out )vex the low window-sill and joined the waiting stranger. " Come," he said, " I'll show you my garden. It is \yorth looking at, if only for its lavish tribute to inatten- tion. It does so much for itself that I do little for it. I have only my own tastes to study. My neighbours don't trouble me now. They did at first, but when I wouldn't hunt, or shoot, or eat their heavy, late dinners or ask them to eat my light ones — well, they gave me up as a degenerate descendant of my race. And now I am a free agent ! " " A limited freedom. No man of property or possessions is ever free. It is vagabonds like myself who claim that privilege. The whole wide earth at their disposal, and not a gift of the gods to envy ! Ah~that is fine ! " He stopped abruptly before a little glade, an opening between the trees which left the whole glittering width of the sea to view. Landwards spread the barren hills, and the irregular masses of volcanic stone which tradition has named and popularized under many a fancy title. The httle cove where the Wanderer had domiciled himself was clearly visible below the cliffs, and further still, facing the southern headland, crouched a strange-shaped rock, like a sea monster asleep on the quiet waters. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then the Squire said : " TJmt did more to reconcile me to prosperity than anything else. I have gazed at it now for some twenty years and never wearied. See "—and he pointed to a rough stone bench — " I sit there, and Nature paints my picture afresh each day. No gallery I have ever seen owns so many, or such variety." 39 CALVARY " I grant it," said the Wanderer. '« This would com- pensate for a great deal." I " J^\en the possession of a dining-room and a butler ? " laughed Craddock. " I wish you would tell me something Is your vagabondage a pose, or a necessity ? " " Neither," was the cool rejoinder. " I can't pose be- cause I am too sincerely natural ; and I bow to no necessity 1 have escaped the compulsion that rules mankind. I can never be forced to do anything I do not choose to do " Morgan Craddock was not easily surprised, but this announcement was too amazing for acceptance. " I con- fess that IS a somewhat incredible statement," he said JVo one IS fortunate enough to escape the trammels of humanity-if he claims its birthright. However strong be human will, it has to bow to a stronger force than its own sooner or later." '' I have recognized no such phase as yet." /' ^"!^^? yo" «^ean to say that in all the vicissitudes ot lile, m all that has befallen you, your oum mil has been supreme dictator ? " Again that whimsical smile flickered over the stranger's tace. I am not so mad as you think me," came the answer. But you must remember that you sought mv acquamtan. .-not I yours. And it is not my habit to give confidence, or answer questions. If you accept me as 1 am, you must accept my statements for what thev are. Is that understood ? " ^ " -!^ f dden colour came into the worn cheek of the Squire. It 1 did not feel we were destined to know more of each other I might resent your reserve. But I am wise enough to recognize a personality when I meet it. To those who interest mo I forgive all— save their interesting any one else— more. I was born jealous." "A humiliating confession. My philosophy would suggest that the interest ceased with the supplanting. Emotions mean so little; ideas so much. In the struggle for supremacy ^^e want enduring facts, not passing fancies." fanci?8%^°" ""^ '''*"'^'^' ^"^^^«^^P' lo^e as passing "They do pass, do tliey not ? An interest is only new until a newer one crowds it out of one's thoughts'. A 40 1 would com- a butler ? " something. I't pose be- o necessity, ind. I can B to do." I, but this ).^ "I con- ," he said, rammels of ver strong ce than its acissitudes U has been stranger's came the lought my ^ habit to accept me what they he Squire, re of each se enough }hose who ; any one ly would )planting. i struggle fancies." s passing only new A A 1- j._ Ills CALVARY friend is only satisfactory while he echoes our opinions and sympathizes with our hobbies. And love " He paused. For a moment the eyes of the two men met in a long, steady gaze, that questioned and baffled question- ing. ' Love," continued the Wandercx", *' is at once the meaning of life and its destruction. For to create i^ to destroy. Nature does it every day, every season of the year. What man worships as Gk)d has done it from the beginning — at lp<',st, what man calls the Beginning. It is not so really. It is only the end of a phase of experi- ments." " I am glad we are at one on that point ! " exclaimed Craddock eagerly. " You will find authorities and contro- versies enough to re-convert all Christendom in my library yonder." " Christendom," said the stranger, " will never be con- verted into anything rational or satisfactory. It is a vessel for ever steered by ignorant pilots. Mind you, the pilots have a very accurate knowledge of the port. It is only the steering of which they are uncertain. You have given thought to the subject ? " " The greater portion of my life. I have written of it, too." " A waste of time, my friend ! Neither written nor spoken words can alter a conviction rooted in the rocks of Time, and cradled in the arms of Superstition. And, after all, there is no need to alter it — ' re. There will be space and to spare for the remedy of ^ors and the con- founding of sects in the Future." " You grant— that ? " " I knoiv it." His face g' suddenly dark as if the shadow of some inward gloom had touched it. His eyes still rested on the lovely seascape — the opal tints cf sky and sea. But they saw only the crouching de ance of that strange rock : a monster misshapen, and immovable as are the super- stitioiis of man and the brutal forces of Nature. Into the silence came the prosaic sound of preparation for the al-fresco meal the Squire had oi dered. He touched the arm of the stranger. " Come," he said, " let us waive discussions for the 41 M CALVARY present. I shall lay no further claim upon you until w« vagabondage accounts luxur^. ther/wt an rpp^^^^^^^ simple and artistic in such arrangements as these Tht Wanderer seated himself opposite his ho«f ^nW smiling approval to his hospitaSy °'*' ^""^ «^^" fruit"* To tty^ ^i^*^"' ^"^.°"^y °^ «^^^d and bread and Xra^/L.t'"""!!""'"'-. ^"^'^ '™^ something To „ T^ith every moment of their intimacy. ^ ''^^^^ and beloved ground ^ ' ' '^ ''^'^' °" ^^^^^^'^r lonir«S or Tu P^^asaunce, set around with escal- quaint. A square ca/3"aHel^'^ on"" Sk'"'' """ '« you until we > d laden with fresh, fruits Isea bowl as i proved of 3ughs above, t. Little as ►peal at once these. The , and gave i bread and jciation of a in a fashion !e conversa- hing so in- ce with all amiharities, ore puzzled )se appear- irm hands, aanners so sojourn in umulation. 3n familiar I silence to 1 intellect, that met The ceil- 'est of the ! gold and 3ther part I'ith escal- ?reen and 8 old and ok, moss- d against CALVARY place ; a couch covered in sombre tapestry stood in one corner, faced by a carved wooden easel on which stood a painting. The painting was covered by a silken drapery of glowing and fantastic hues ; the one spot of brilliance in an atmosphere of sombre and yet stately dignity. Severity marked the scheme of decoration and furnishing, and throughout breathed an air of restfulness inexpres- sibly soothing. The stranger looked around with frank, admiring eyes. " In winter times, with a fire roaring in that massive grate and the wind and the sea howling for admission there beyond, this room must mean a paradise of comfort," he said, " You are right. It is then that I love it best. I wish you would believe that you are at liberty to enjoy that comfort whenever you please." The Wanderer laughed, " You are strangely trusting. For aught you know I might take you at your word." " My word is meant to be taken for what it expressed." " And if I made free here of your chairs and your fire and your books — what then ? " " You would be conferring an inestimable blessing on a very lonely and a very unhappy man." For a moment the Wanderer kept silence. His eyes strayed to the locked and unlocked cases; to chequered bindings and creamy vellum and mellowed calf. His strong sight read the titles with ease, despite the drawn blinds which subdued the afternoon sunlight. Then he moved from case to case, murmuring a word of criticism or ap- proval as he named the volumes. Before one case he paused a long moment. It was locked. On its highest shelf stood a row of books in bizarre bindings ; one row. As the stranger's eyes flashed from one to the other their owner watched him with a half furtive curiosity. Strangely grave and stern grew the Wanderer's face. Suddenly he turned. The eyes of the two men met once more as they had met in the glade of the garden. " A strange collection — that ' " " I suppose so ; but it interests me. It represents a psychology of iuieuse importance. It means the source of 43 ■*i- A A 1 ■' 4i 1 s i CALVABY HumaS" "ttT *"''.*''? "^'^''^ '"»'» th"' have scourged " Dm/Z / " Thl 1 , ?^°^® ^^ ^^ "^ <^hese days." fui, unsatisfying wonder rOlarihl' ™T"^"' f""^"- :rs gi »^i^A- ^'^e-r^ % Chanel 1o you man fhat v «°?' S"' ""•• '">»' ">« thing realLwe'r!.lu^d,rAt°v^ '" ?'^ "i" <"'<' there is something ac Jountebfe' fo^o„Tnd"?o Zoh "'°' in turn, must render account ' iif„ 1 ?*"* y,°". orates and c„,^s, and bSes and It7ne/. U(, '?."* zse rtifo":!L7;rugrtT f^^' ™'"- '^ ^t^^-zi^r \""' «on . Ailt7a:;5rdt„rrarthT^j,ir tv atoptly^:"" ^^ ^ '"'™ ™"<^ '*" «™^ ? " ho aaH luJXdXrrpret„'ti?.t i"'^? ""^^^ «"' «" -> a profanation of PurC °* '^'"^ "^'^ P"*" ™« " If you have studied those " he sfliH «« „«^ from their evil clutches sane a^d undefif^d tTen T" °"' or something hn little plea- sd strangely the silence ; ihoing from rime's own nt. Whom sionary, or our of his at strange, Iream, save lent of life. 1 grant me it. From for sake of banish all slty, or an ne go now ;st the in- CALVARY " I confess I cannot understand you, but comprehension of an mterest has little to do with its acceptance. Let me repeat that my house is at your service whenever you choose to visit it. I can only be your debtor for such visits. As for the boy " [[ y®^^^^** °^ ^^^ • " interrupted the stranger eagerly. I mil see him again if you desire it. And if I find that my books or myself can assist his future vocation " •' They can and will," interposed that deep, compellinc voice. i- © '' Then I shall place them at his service — for your sake." *' I would rather you did it from any other motive." Unfortunately no other has presented itself. In life the great things swallow up the less. You can translate the affair of this morning as you please." »' «S^^^^ ^°"^® ^^^^"' ^"^ ^ ^^^^ ^""g ^^^ boy ^vith me " When ? Soon ! To-morrow ? " exclaimed the Squire eagerly. ^ " Since I am yo"r tenant-at-ease for my own pleasure to-morrow will suit as well as any other day. We have good authority for doing quickly that which has to be done ! He went out and away with no further ceremony, and Craddock stood at tho open window watching him in such perplexity of mind as had never touched his selfish equanimity for years. Who and what was this Wanderer of the earth ? This being of caprice and unaccountability, whose mind was a storehouse of knowledge, and whose philosophy posed on so high an altitude of scorn that even accredited wisdom looked an apologia for what it had failed to prove. Wlio ? The question was unanswerable, since no previous ex- perience of his life could be called upon for assistance. Much as he loved mystery and the entanglements of occult and psychical phenomena, he yet failed to deduce trom their evidence any satisfactory solution of the pre- sent problem. Wlien he went back to his beloved study and threw himself into his favourite chair, he found that all his usual aptitude for reasoning and reflection had aeserted hira. Even his books had lost th.eir f^harni for once. Life had come to a sudden full-stop. He liad been E 49 i.i' :i CALVAEY violently arrested on its placid journey. He had been forced into accepting and welcoming an intrusion. Nay more— he had been coerced into a species of philanthropic patronage, a position for which he had little taste and less inclination. A sense of uneasiness and discomfort crept over his mind, even as the evening shadows crept over the sky. His room grew dark, but he did not ring for lights. He only sat on wrapped in thoughts as dark and obscure as the surrounding shadows. He recalled every word of those arguments and discussions of the day; he saw them coloured with the vivid personality of the speaker, con- vincing even in their whimsicality ; he saw, as it were, the sombre fabric of his sheltered life rent suddenly in twain and letting in not only sunlight, but a prismatic glory of hues that danced and quivered like living things before his dazzled eyes; he saw new promise and new mterest. Then the thought of responsibility crossed that magical web : ^ young life, a young soul— the dawn of a mystical awakening. Who was he to charge himself with such divine things ? Yet here they were on his threshold ; at his door ; break- ing down barriers of selfishness ; intruding eagerly into this warm shelter of intellectuaUty ; demanding his help • arresting his attention. It seemed to him, when he recalled those parting words, that he had had no power to resist the will of this stranger ; that he had been obliged to accept a self-imposed task! and must fulfil it. ''And I am no fit guide for youth," he told himself, with fierce upbraiding. " Have I not shunned it— avoided It— hated it almost, since the tragedy of its sins came home to me ? What fate is this that once again sets before me the exquisite temptation of watching its opening hours it9 promised triumphs ; hving over again what I hoped and desired— and lost ? " He rose suddenly. The room seemed full of ghostly i-T^; , J ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^ swelled and broke at the foot of the cJifis held a note of terror in its moaning voice. A knock at^ the door brought the safeguard of common- o"e^3trained nerves. Lights, service, SO place thing.i *■ o hi& yf!i Ho had been trusion. Nay philanthropic taste and less rept over his over the sky. 3r lights. He id obscure as word of those le saw them speaker, con- 7, as it were, i suddenly in b a prismatic living things lise and new crossed that he dawn of a himself with door; break- eagerly into ing his help ; arting words, ;his stranger ; nposed task, told himself, I it — avoided s came home ts before me ening hours, hat I hoped 1 of ghostly e foot of the 36. of common- ;hts, service, A CALVARY the dinner hour, the prose of his old butler's presence. For an hour he forgot, or told himself he had forgotten. But when the meal was ended he found the restraint of walls unendurable for once. An ungovernable restlessness seized him again. He went out and opened the gate, and stood looking over the quiet country-side, the scattered cottages, the moonlit sea. Then he closed the gate behind him and set out for one of those long tramps that, before now, had proved the best panacea for his frayed and irritated no v^es. He walked over the soft turf of the cliflFs until he reached a rough path— a mere sheep track. It descended to a wide and natural ledge— a rocky platform set about with huge broken boulders. To the right, another narrow track led to the fishing village of Poltreath. Its stone cottages and lichened roofs showed grey and shadowy in the soft moon- light. The Squire seated himself on one of the boulders. At his feet and at the base of the cliffs the sea was sweeping in. No verdure clothed the slope ; all was barren rock and broken granite ; and facing this rough platform was the odd, misshapen monster whose sphinx-like attitude had always possessed so strange a fascination. He sat there now m the quiet loneliness of the night, and watched the waves break against its sides and the moonlight quiver over its lifted head and crouching body. It always brought back to his mind an episode of youth— a night in the Egyptian desert. It was a memory he hated and therefore unforgettable ; for only the pleasant memo- ries of life lapse, the regrettable ones remain. The swish of the sea might have been the swirl of the sand as the \vind drove it relentlessly across void spaces. The sky was as deep and velvety in its softness, the light of the stars almost as brilliant. With his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his hands, Craddock sat there- motionless as the monster at which he gazed, deaf to all sounds except that of the sea. He was recalled at last by a voice close at hand. He looked up and saw the figure of the fisher lad in whose uesuny he had that day promised to intervene. 51 \Y^i ^ 1 ' I m CALVAKY " I— I beg your pardon, sir," said the boy. " But I was afraid you had fallen asleep, and this cliflf is dangerous." .u"}."^^^ ^°* asleep," answered the Squire, "I was only thinking. But what brings you out of your bed at this uncanny hour ? It is past midnight." "I could not sleep, so I got up and came here. I often sit here at night." " So do I. I wonder I have not met you. However since you have been the subject of my thoughts, I ani hardly surprised to see you. Thought is a power for attraction. To desire strongly almost certainly brings the desire to your feet." " I think I have never defired anything very much- yet. At least, until this last week." "This last week ? I could give a good guess at the dls- turbiDg influence. Your friend of the cave, is it not ? " " Yes, sir." " How long have you known him ? " *' A few days." "And I— one. Would you be surprised to hear that his interest in you has gone the length of interesting me £1180 : The boy looked gravely at the upturned face. He was standing scarcely a yard away, but on a higher level of the rock. .. '' I should think it very wonderful," he said slowly. But then everything about him is wonderful." " Do you know his name ? " " He told me to call him * the Wanderer.' " The Squire broke into a short laugh. " He is consistent on that point. Well, since you are less surprised than 1 expected, what do you say to a change in your life "> I am going to offer you the golden key that opens the magic portals of existence— Knowledge. If you care to accept it, come to me at the Hall yonder. Come every day for a week. That means seven days ; seven is the cryptic number. I will probe your young brains and see what they are worth. Then, if your natural guardians are willing, and your brain has responded to the test I will charge myself with your education. At present I have no object in life. To-day one was offered me, or, moro 52 CALVARY e, ur, muro correctly speaking, thrust upon me. It has awakened me from a long lethargy. What do you say to the plan ? " The boy looked calmly into the strange, half furtive eyes of the man. '* What can I say ? I long to learn. I love books as my life." "You cannot have a very wide acquaintance with them ? " " No. Mr. Crouch, the rector of the church over there, says he has lent me all he owns, and taught me all he knows. I love the sea, but I don't want to be a fisherman, like my father." " David Perryn is not your father ? " " He calls himself so. He has been very good to me. I think he is grieved because I want to be a preacher." " You want that ? " "I feel no other want. It is in everything. It means everything — that and the sea." " I have come into a region of mysteries it would seem ! " exclaimed Craddock. " This day has been a day of reve- lations. And they have been lying at my feet, as it were — and I slept the sleep of ignorance above ! Well, it is time they were investigated. Since I am unable to surprise you, my young evangeUst, I must e'en content Liyself with helping y jU, supposing you are willing to be helped. Perhaps you add that curious trait called pride to your other qualities ? " " It seems to me that the whole meaning of life must be helpfulness," said the boy. " What one has not, another should supply if he can." " A novel view of Socialism ! You would soon equalize humanity with that doctrine. Possibly you intend to preach it ? " "I cannot tell what I shall preach, or how," said the boy, looking out over the sea to that mystic landmark of his vision. " But I know I am called to do something. And the way ind the means will be given me." Craddock was silent. The mocking rejoinder on his tongue failed him as he looked at the beautiful spiritual- ized face. How strangely the boy's words fitted into that com- 53 ■ t ■I ''■ j-i-- 'i CALVARY cC!^", ^^'^ ■" ''"^ «' «"* ^'^-'ed and now wel- "The way and the means." The boy smiled. 54 nd now wel- VI rilHE next day broke with heavy rainstorms ; a ^vild X wind lashed the sea to fury. Craddock had slept badly and woke late. When he at last descended to the breakfast-room, Money, liis man- servant, told him that his acquaintance of the previous day was in the study. " He bade me not disturb vou, sir. I understood he had your permission to use the room if he desired." " Quite so. I ^ pv you had a fire lit ? " " Yes, sir. You tcc^ me to be guided by the weather, not the seasOi ." "Ask the Cit! tdock hesitated, and glanced at the impervious hcc of jjerfcctly trained servitude — " Ask the gentleman 5*' he will come in here and have some coffee. Oh — is there any one with him ? " " A little fisher lad, sir. from the village." " Ask them both." The man retired, and in a few moments returned, usher- ing in the Wanderer and David as if they were lords of the realm. He had perfect manners, and had lived long enough with Craddock to accept his vagaries without surprise. " Well, Squire, you see I took your word as meant — in a double sense. I fetched my young Samuel from his roof- tree and brought him here for your examination. He is less ignorant than you imagine, and his knowledge of Holy Writ would furnish an Archbishop with sermons, though I believe they preach rather worse than the ordinary Doctors of Divinity ! " " We made acquaintance last night,'" said Craddock. " Sit down, both of you, and have some coffee. I am sorry you had such a long, wet walk." \ji.x, Wt"-vuer never muuuicb luv ; Nature and I arc 55 CALVARY lUstniX'e^lraTjp 17 '^'S^ «-"« siting, properly appointed breawL tah^'f^'" ^'^ ^ '^^ ^^ a of so much individual Wv,v^ ^'^^ ^^^^ ^«hamed Craddock smiled ''T^Ll °" "^^^^^^ *» ^e." will you drink coffee orl i?! '^^ ^^^* ^ ^«^- »avid. " I have never drink InH? '^P^^^^ing ? " said the boy. ^ anythmg- m my life but water " Craddock. '" **"* "'"' ''"sert in my time," said BomS"iike''m^??f.'"Scoff^ f" sympathy with a the Grand Turk 11 iTad'nrAT '^ * "^'^rage worthy of > have a world-wide «Tr....-.^l"^. • the like of it so — y at hi» «uesl th^i.tS'Stt SdThTptIr man^ljp had gleTo litTi^lr^'^^'Y"^"^^ 8™""- and walked up\nd down tSr^l*! ™^ °* «>« ^arth, t"Su^fr« '^^ ^""-^ ^^^^ry'z^^zr: '"^- ™o fte'oolttS " "^"^^ "PO" ""^ point of the nature and reason Tmai ,vii?H ''™ H'"^ 'o fltin Maker. They have sueceeded i,^^ i^w'l.'^™'''"on of his amount of blunders, in con^i "/""',"""« an enormous m conferring a few doubtfThr #t """'""' inquirera, and are l.ated 4 pricJ°C^^^b'J'T f f *""""•• They fonn-ty. and insist on pTof nl^fe' ? ''.°oWnaI uni!. They have enoeavouj to';":^:! ^Ki,^ ,'*, CALVARY place in literature, but is not necessarily a text of In- Tl Zl- t^^K -^^^^ ^V^"^ ^« ^^«^*hy of reverence as Job. Which brings us back to our starting-point-the approved pattern of human patience." " I have always thought that history as purely fictional as any piece of work whose intention is to 'point a mora for the adorning of a tale.' " said Craddock. '« But when one knows that two of the ancient Books of Chronicles are a forgery, that the ideas of Cosmogony were derived from Babylonia, that David and Isaiah could not have written half of their accredited records, and that the early docu- ments of the Hebrews were subjected to all kinds of re- vision and alteration and distortion of their original rr^Jftio'nT."^- of the old childish beliJ in Craddock did look. He saw that the boy had grown H^h/h ' J^A^'^T r^ bewilderment were'^in his%^ ;; I suppose this is new to you ? " said the Squire, the Wande^r'''""' ^'" ""' ""'^^ ^°' ^^^'"'^ ''"^^'^'^ nf Pn^Vv '^'^'' 1* *^'^* ^ Y°" ^«^"y doubt the Word ,^,9 '. 11, ^^"i^?; ^^^^ ^^IV^rt is not true, and another If he could not wait for answer. " Oh ! it can't be. It meant it TVw' ''- "" "^ g°^ «P°^« ^^^" - Clod meant it It is His voice and His message and His will. To doubt would be sin. To judge for ourselves " He ifnlu-Tl, ^°^^- ^' ^''f''^ f'°°^ «"^ f^*^^ to the other. fnVff f ""^V ^« ^^^^e^' trained, scholarly. Life, Thi t'/''^*. ""^^^^ of. "f"' ^«ld "« «««rets from them! ■iney had read and studied and travelled, while he was as ve ZT.f '" ^.T^d«"g clothes of 'ignorance And ofwwSr -'"u^i^r^ ^5^^"«t their cynical criticism ot what his baby lips had lisped as a first Belief ; as Prayer he lived m the world at all. and recoiyn,V.«d -n .t- y^eintv cne never-ending miracle of existence." ' ^ S7 "\ t hi, . >> 1 1 .iilH:., HH .-lilj., ; ■ t 1 (', 1 1 CALVARY "Say what you please, David," broke in the sonorous voice of the Wanderer. " We will listen." tJ.T %J^°'^^''i ^^« H°y'' ^y^« ^^'^^ed to the watchful Bimuiation to do more than accept the compliment of woSrspeak"'^^ '^' ^^^' *'^y ^'"^^ listen.''w:it he Rapidly and without effort words came, even as they fehl'T^ "l" *^^^"^gh* of the vision on the Mount The Bible had been his guide and comforter too long to faH him m this hour of need. He spoke of it with TlUhe eon victjon possible to Faith; the Faith that asks no S but IS enough to itself. Doubt seemed to him a monster It was '«!]«« ^t w"^ ^'' P'^P^^*' *° ^^*^l^r« Hi« will. It was all as the Hedgerow Preachers preached-those Tramps of Spirituahty who from Gautama down to the Salvation Army have flung defiance at human l!^ic Craddock smiled more than once, but the face of thfl second hstener was serious and intent. Wlien the pas sionate voice ceased the Squire rose from his seat. ^^gZ there-to the room beyond," he said, " and wait till we join you. Excitement of this sort is bad for one so young " The boy's head drooped. He went obediently to tile he sank on his knees ; confused, abashed, unstrung by the intense emotion that had overwhelmed him ^ ^ oerer oryly. The greatest crimes of the world have sprung from defective teaching. Ignoranl parents teachers priests, parsons, fanatics-these should have no part m traming any offshoot of individuality They have do you see why I have given you an interest in life as s^fishnes'sT Th- ^°" f^'^t^ ^" ^ '^'''^ «* inteHectua semshness ? This weed of the sea tossed upwards from its greedy maw has a Mission, and he will ful?' Tat Sion at any cost. Amidst this Babel of a wo d this atmo sphere of spiritual confusion, he will stand oui as Lm all Tlome^Tff "'^r '^"^ ^"^^"«^^«^' ^- stood out Had 1 a home to offer him, or means to educate him. I would 58 , < le sonorous CALVARY take those responsibilities on my unworthy shoulders. But I have neither. A vagabond Ufe and a rampant philosophy would be a crude school for such intelligence. Therefore I have commended him to you. I have no doubt you will one day ask yourself how I had the con- summate impudence to preach a duty, or burden your well- conducted life with obligation. For that, the Future will answer. But remember— a boy's life is a man's life on a lesser scale, affected for good or evil by the ruling motive of his heart. According to the preponderance of such good or evil will be his fate— worthy or unworthy, noble or base. But, in this present instance, I do not think there is much baseness to fear. If anything, David's nature errs on the side of overstrained morality ; a purity of sense that will be hard to overthrow. He stands between God's inspira- tion and man's training. It may sound impious, but I have known as mischievous mistakes grow out of one as the other ; which proves there is a fault in the Universe somewhere. Have I said enough, or do you hate me ? Most men do — sooner or later ! " Craddock looked at the noble face shadowed by a sudden regret, and his wonder and bewilderment grew yet stronger. " Hate you ! How could I ? How could any one ? " he faltered. " Because truth is always hated and always feared, and because it is my mission to speak it. Yes— I, too, have a mission, as your eyes ask. One I cannot explain. One of which I can foretell nothing. Even the end." He rose in his turn, and signed towards the door. ^^ " Let us go and confer with our infant Teacher," he said, for he has taught us— something. You can't deny it. Only to the pure in heart do visions come, and Archangels speak. On that young tongue has been laid the fire from an unknown altar. It owns an eloquence that shall move and sway mankind, and to us is given its training." Words were impossible. Craddock could find none. He allowed the stranger to lead the way as if house and pos- sessions were his, and not their owner's. Together they entered the study to find David thrown upon the floor before the great fire-place, his head buried in his hands, hia wuole frame shakeu with sobs. 59 £ ' k CALVABY n.ar.jtt bSLf^,r„\Xn: '"^ ^"""^ ■'"-'- - W"~'^'* "'"'"" *' '^'^»I«-^d. "How do you ing Zt^Z b^„r„f rr"« °' «»*"-»«■». or weep": vour callitifK Tr. o -X. °°"^"c'^ed m a manner befittine Cp St o?'my rcqu^l^^^^^^^ 1 " ^^P ^^"^' ^ P^'^- training of EHhuE Tf ^^'-^Tf"^ ^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ it comf, or are senT L ' "" - '''' ^'*^ '^''^'^' ^° veiled OlympSs tL «n.f "I^'f ^^^^ '^^"^^ ^^*^ i" ««- Thoughts'tTrbecom: L vt ''f omZ t^^'^^ ^ ^ have swept unacademic honours T„r/ ^^^^^'l ^f*^« portals with laurels flnrlH^f 1 ^T *'^^ wreathed its have played in fts n?„ Pj^^se and passion of Youth secrets oTSe^^y brCn' ""^ ^^^"^^ement. There all isthesolemoZTowerofT^Jl'^ For inclination receives. Ah 'I have . -nil f^'*'"^^'*-^' ^"'^ ^^^^ ^^^^^-es. gnef. Do yo'u sl'trs-l^^mt^?^. ^^ *^^ ^^^-^ «^ "^ii?':tSn::dr^d<:S^ -^rnv"-*- strong^s Cu?e'slif nnf n ' ^'?^"« °^ ^ ^^^ce as will look in future for s?l ^? . ^^^^P^^^^^y- To him you welfare. Th f^rTinW roll. T ^\^'? ""^^^^^ <^« /""^ makes but "ma I deL?,H ^ ^""^ ^^^°^ ^^^ ^^« b«"«d good thing f^tL stud^t. tT^.P""'^^^^"^^ ^« ^ earth. you'„.ed taLtttun't%i'5.?:-r--«' ^'^ 60 CAT.VARY Live. Think. Learn. Be thankful that Life is yours, and do your part in it. So you will best serve the purpose of Creation. Acquire knowledge, but be not proud of your achievements. Wisdom means but increase of sorrow, as said the wisest man the world has ever known. Look on Humanity as an ant heap to which each individual ant f^^^.Vr,^''''''' °/ contribution. But every grain augments the Whole ; and the building up and completion of the Whole IS given to man. Some are poor architects, and sonie are negligent, and some refuse to work at all, and by such refusal weight themselves with a double burden • and some seek to destroy what has been already achieved, and they are the worst offenders. Yet so vast is the scheme, so immense the purpose of that Building, that eveiy failure will have time and space for renewed effort ere completion crowns it ! " The boy was gazing rapt and entranced into the speaker's tace. His tears had ceased. A great peace and a great tnankfulness stole over his heart. It seemed to him as if a veil had been suddenly lifted ; as if doubt and ignorance were swept aside. He rose to his feet. He looked from the face of the speaker to that dark, inscrutable one of his benefactor. It was strange he could feel no gratitude to Mm, He remembered their meeting the previous night. He recalled those words : " For seven days you nTust come to me. Seven is the cryptic number." A date-rack on the table marked this day as the 17th of August. Seven days marked his first acquaintance with the man who had influenced his destiny. Seeing he was unable to speak, Craddock now inter- posed. I should hke to know something of David's acquirements before sending him to try issues with other lads he said. This College-that you spoke of-where IS It f . ''I" <^li?^l'eart of the Tyrol," answered the Wanderer. Its President and chief is renowned for his learning, but even more for his ability to impart it in forms and degrees suitable to the varying requirements of his students. It would be as useless to send our David to an English Uni- versity as to a Board-school. He has a soul nbove set stan^arus, and musty conventions. He needs a College of 6i 1 1 I i.1 •5lf./ CALVAEY You'^mvirf.'n/ """°^^^«d *h^* at first acquaintance, lou my friend, require seven days to discover what I detected m as many minutes. All I ask of you is to plLe the boy where I suggest until his seventeenth year.^ By scheme^of Thinr ^"Tf ^u^^^ «^ "^^^"^"g '- th^ ^?r^l?arhe%''' ^ «"''^"^ ''' ^^« «^- ---^ «^ A ^"*~^ '^^ hoped— I had intenderl " sietinT^nt fnfl^' ^-"^ '""^f^ ^' ^=^^^^'g° <^i^^-^g« «" in- signincant to the universe at large ? ° •=• " .}>ll^"^"' ^"V^y ""^^'^ ^^^^^ ^^^ what he is an. f^hin^Jf T- ^°".' ^y '"^"^ ''^'^^ Pro-.^ed .., old- fashioned and conventional iines. My magic wand u.ll do more for our prot6g6 in throe yeax. thfn your pro ect could havo executed in thirty ! Bv the wav Tln^; J ?^ y^^^^Vutlcdzed dat... of eSstenc^ ? '> '^' ^"^^^' *"'^' Ihe boy sijook his head. " Neither do you own :? suniaii^e ? You can hnrdV fn^A Sectlbil^v? 1^"" fjrth equipped wa.ii a cognomen of ' S ou^ f-L .^r'V'.^°° ^^^^"^^ *^^^ appellation. But t^tandf ■'f?; ^"T^l Not your name. It might lead V l?rl ^ "^"'^^ ^^ °"'y ^*^<^h in <^he worst motives 'ittl ^t^«^'^^' my Dreamer of dreams ? Have you ^ iJd^; thf h ""^'^^'f \?- ^^.P^'nitive a convention ? " AgaKi the boy shook his head. It seemed of UHU moment what he was called. Be stood for hfmself and '^ aTI'^ ^^'' ^f f *^^"8« ^>-^ unimportant -Sh.l.^ T°" "'."'* *'^^^'" continued the Wanderer Shall we seek inspiration at yonder fount of Wisdom?" velfumTvered^Bib?:'' f ''? ^^^'^^^^ ^" whicli sZd a fi?! 1? r ? r^*''®' P^a^®« between a Concordia and ment'a r47 He w 7^^."^'* ^'^^^^'^^ ^^ various com fh!n 1 -5 V ?* '^®".* ^'^ *^^ ^a«^ and took out the Book then laid it before the boy. " Open and read," he sdd Thenhf ^^"^T", *¥ Sacred Word. His lips mov;d Then he opened it, letting his finger rest upon a line Tlui aTrS'dotttir ''^" ^^^^'^ '^ Crdlck!""l am uS. 5 -T °* ^'^^P "' ^^^y ™n^h," he said. ^^ btiil, it IS a coincidence," said Craddock. You mean about the Mount ? " 62 CALVARY " Yesj as connected with his vision, and its consequent David was looking down at the page. Mechanically he noted the word on which his finger rested— /^ermow. Read out the verse/' said the Squire suddenly. And the boy read out : " From Baal-gad under Mount Hermon unto the entering into Hamath." The two men glanced at each other. " There is a choice of three, remarked Craddock dryly. " But for nineteenth ^tV TtJ?"^°^®^ ' Hermon ' strikes me as the most suit- able. What do you say— David Hermon ? " The boy still stood looking down at the open page, which prophesied of the driving out of seemingly harmless peoples so that the acquisitive Israelite might gain yet more possessions. As for the name— what mattered one more than another, since he inherited none ? " What do you say ? " repeated his new guardian. " A mountam seems to have something about it akin to your ambitions. The most famous of all sermons was preached upon a Mount. Ohvet was a mount— and— Calvary Your star points to both." The boy closed the Book. " Let it be," he said. " A name is a small thing to trouble about." "Small things may express a fate, or embody a tragedv " said the stranger. ^ ^' « T'?"°?^*'r? ^*°^® ^^ decided upon," interposed Craddock, 1 should like to commence the work of preparation. It will be rather a sudden change from a fisherman's cottage to a college of students. For— though I am ignorant of the particular status of this seminary amongst the Tyrolean Mountains— I suppose it is founded on the usual scholastic principles. How much Latin do you know, David ? Can you translate Virgil ? " ;• Yes, sir," said th^ boy. " I did that with Mr. Crouch this year." •' Any Greek ? " The boy shook his head. "I can read a httle of the tTfeek Testament ; that is all." The Wanderer laughed suddenly. " My good Squire," Jie said, this boy will not need classics to teach him the true divimty of life. He knows more of that now than 63 I M m ill „j CAIVABY C jJationtcl'rerLfr. """h"' '* "y '"» '""-> Lav i> fn i,^l\.r*u X P ,' ""* *"^* ^^^ed not trouble vou find SesisSbl. T"^ *'" '°""^"^ ^" invitation I always counted upon you Don't disap^^ mo." ^'''- ' ''''™ acaroX'alr/t^XL.fpT.r^-'-y-teniaywa. aranf " ^e^awce nasuecl to the owner of such eenermm grant You are widening the wor'J for me '' he saM Craddrk"^'"^ °'"^^^^^"« ^- --f- thei/' answered scale and'^TstjIeJ^V^ri'"' '^""^"^^^«" ^ ^ ^-- He led the way through the breakfast-room and down 64 CALVARY a long passage to a small study, plainly and almost shab- bily furnished. xu"^u^^f'" ^f f,^^^' pointing to the maps on the wall and the shelves full of old and torn and dog-eared volumes, this was the old schoolroom of the Trebarwicks. It is a hberal education in the art of what to avoid. But in that cupboard there I have made a selection of books on which I should like to examine you from time to time- condensed knowledge, but useful. You know, this is the age of Tabloids. Physical and mental nutriment are alike compressed into small doses. Here, now, is Tabloid Number one : ' History and Theology of the Books of Moses ; then Carlyle— in fragments; Roman History, ^rgely condensed; Cato and Addison; Kingsley and Kuskin ; Milton and Shakespeare— a choice of fragments • the best of each in the smallest compass. Enough to whet the appetite for more. What shall we try first ? " David's eyes rested hungrily on the volumes at his dis- posal. Half timidly he touched the Shakespeare. Craddock drew it out and laughed. " Not a bad choice," He said, although no student of to-day accepts the actor as author. However, we can honour the work instead of disagreeing about the worker. After all, ' the play's the It'I^' ^!? ™°^® ^^"«^« *^an one. First tabloid, that Master of Discontent— Hamlet." i1 fll 65 m Mi i( VII 'T'Tl/T'Vif'^ '^^'^'^' ^''^ ?^^ ^"^ «^i" blew in fitful gusts There was a sound of breaking seas upon the rocks and the chff path was shppery and dangerous as David made his way homewards »'"igerous as He^ had remained at the Hall till four o'clock Then Craddock dismissed him, saying he would eome over to the Perryns' cottage next morning, and explain his irten- uons A ^ _^ 50 thn boy's education. David was less elated than satisfied. It was all verv wonder ul but also it was s, aiething that he lud fe t wa^ bound^to happen, and he accepted'it as he aecfep^d his rfor ^il^-i,,^^^^ -" ^-' H- to rL^^ll David calmly imparted his news. The little maiden wn aghast vvith surprise. She could hardly beirvetimr^^^^^ the previous morning his whole fate had aitlred-thari chance moeting had been hau^t with such e )rmont consequences. Then, as she sluwiy mas Led one i^T Ltw'aXi'::-i.rtf^"1 •] long Winrwithle:^*! ^! " Will 'ee ever come back ? Oh, Da^■id, will 'ee v /,. so feared you won't," ' "' so'2'(>addockti'^''' T^' •r ^"' ^^' •^"'^'"^^ ^^^^idays. ^ays. Yor knaw ho. 'tes already. Mr. Crouch he's CALVARY taught yo to speak ^iff'rciit in a manner to we here An' that's but the beg; ing. The more ye knaws the more ye 11 want to knaw An' doesn't the Good Book tell o' much larnin' bein' n uch sorrow ? " "I am coming back here to spend my life," said the boy confadently. I mean to go to and fro preaching the Word a^ Wesley preached it ! " His face kindled with sudden enthusiasm. He bent forward in his low wooden chair and gazed mto the flam* s. " I often see it Hke a picture " he went on. " The green, quiet fields and row upon row of faces, and I standing up before them to declare God's wonders and His will. I—the instrument which that uivii, • Hand tunes to His own celestial music." " But tf the Squire at t' Hall yonder be goin' to eddicate ?f' ^^.: "^^y^® ^^^'" ^® P^"^"' ye into a proper church hke Mr. Crouch's, an' then thee'll be a proper preaclior an' hav Reverend to thee name, same as Mr. Crouch hav' got " No," said David firmly, "I shall want much m* re than one small church in one small parish. I want to preach everywhere— all the world over. Not in fine build- ings and to th who are clothed in fine raiment, but to the poor and sick and unhappy." ;' Oh, David ! " said the girl, " that means thee'lt be gom for a missionary man, same as gran'vather du talk of ; gom to dreadful savage black folk in furrin parts. But here be gran'vather, for sure. He'll be praper mazed when ye tell him the news." She hurried to the door to welcome the old preacher He came in rather feebly, tired with a long walk and a battle with the strong sea wind. The girl helped him off with his overcoat and set his cushioned chair ready for him in the chimney corner. I hen she began to prepare soi,^^ cocoa for his evening "David has grand news for 'ee, gran'vather," she said lies been telhn' me that th' Squire be goin' to eddicate hiMi praper for th' ministry. \n' he be goin' to leave us soon. In a week, bean't it, David ? " '"^es," said the boy, and he repnforl his tale to old ^achanah. That ancient patriarch listened with . . ..n int€re=t 67 il '^ •sSIrafefl CALVARY i^L^tiorof'pr^ -H '^'' "^^^^-'•-"oe meant a special intervention of Providence, even as Eli of old recognized the Divme Call m the child Samiiois awakening ^ the mk«,on " r^"^*'^" is necessary for the fulfilment of tne mission, he afinounced. " The Lord ahou-«, fha x^Jr and we must take it. I found that outl,r mysd Ind I'm thinkm thee've found it too, David, aforeTday." "^ the work oTm. ""^'a^^^^ ^^'^ ^ P'-^^^^ed myself to the ^ork of Heaven, and I'll keep the promis(« ! " God helpm' 'ee ; ye should say that, DaM } Be not uplifted by the visions thee'st seen Remember tlfo^ Z seed be planted, there be the Devil at hand t^ 'snaLh it u }~~^^, chosen," said the boy eacerlv He lifted Viia head and looked upwards. His face was as tre face of an angel, so bright its glory, so strong its faith. 4te wL" moment's silence. Then the old mln's voice soundedTne: " Let us pray," he said solemnly. David Penyn a.id his wife accepted the wish of thA o'Xhetoed^h™." H:Vad tl^^lS Zi'"^", "''■™'' in flin nio«, I e ... I caKen little notice of any one m the place before this chance meeting with David all of that pTrV" ^T% *■'"" *" •'"y ™ "o oommoA boy r th^riitridt^t rst^t r£ l" ^^^ pid;ztXis^t^„?-Vh^r.d. ^ It hurt their affections, but it also increased heir SiTn »d fm^y^rv " Tha^lh' "'"T.""™ "> th"m'ld "r ahouira^^y litnLt-^M-i-cru^fXT^ 6S nt a special d recognized ing. fulfilment of nva the way self, and I'm day." 3d myself to e!" 'id. Be not )er, tho' the to snatch it gloryin'; of V^alk warily, lind ye, not e lifted hia 3 face of an rhere was a unded once ^ish of the to them to ir sea-waif of any one avid, all of imon boy; his behalf, (irust their ons^in the >d up and arded him ecognizing a IMOission. ir pride in a wonder rebarwick i spend a CALVARY good half-hour discussing David's future, was only another proof of their boy's appointed destiny. He was called as God's servant to God's service. No earthly power could intervene to hold him back. The World on the one side, the Master on the other, and tho Call sounding clear and full above them. So matters stood. With mere everyday details, such as his college expenses, they had nothing to do. It had been taken out of their hands. They felt no sense of obligation. It seemed only right that the boy's importance should be recognized, and that a man like the Squire of Trebarwick should i)lace wealth and means at his disposal. To both these simple fisher folk the thought that their adopted son might one day be a real minister, with a real church and a parish and a vicarage, was a thought em- bodying their very highest ambition. " We saved him, we took charge of him for this,'' was in their minds oven as the Squire set forth the plans for the lad's future. Craddock was surprised at the ease and dignity of their manner as much as by the perfect unselfishness of their devotion. " The Lord's will " explained everything and accounted for everything. Who were they to oppose it ? "It mun be ; it was to be," murmured Rachel Perryn, wiping her eyes with tho corner of her spotless' apron. "Th' dear lad were given first to our care, then, in th' appointed time, to yours, sir. Ye'U be good to him, won't 'ee ? He'm but a tender sapling, yet easy to bend in the wind o' strong opinions. There's been them, sir, as said you was naught but an unbeliever, seein' as how you've ne'er set foot in church or chapel these many years. But if 'twere so, you'd not 'av' troubled your head about our lad. An' for th' rest, th' Lord will take care of him, an' teach him the duties of life. His Will be done." Then David was called, and the arrangements as to his clothes and his journey made. For six weeks every sum- mer he was to return here, ;ind might choose the Hall or the cottage for roofstead. When he reached the age of seventeen the Squire's responsibility would cease, save m the matter of any arrangement that might need discus- sion, and would bo purely optional on either side. For the 69 ' t jIDI CALVARY iZntl 'f?'°?"'"« P'^'ent 'VM delightful enough-books molr'r'2T,le"rnrwh'"'^^" T''^"" ■" ™' a great Church h«rf .r?^' .™* '''™' "'"'so PaWeucc ho^than Softer So^^-?? ™"'^™'» ■« scarcely less ••Wola-f'^hatttTld'" -rrtS '^''^' »■'«' seemed rweak^d^nooTL'? 1^'^"^ "^^"^^^ ^^^^tions ^ct'^r«SS^9=-" Greatcr-somethinf htior'' """' <^al ed for something ship with tUs Zn^c h„ J h T7 ""T "' »'^V»">toncc. unlLness ^a,r;™rioX-iet^ """ '"' »''«"'"° 70 ugh— books, the novelty t'ere enough »y regret or } incapable, portance of ieara of his cents were ut an echo gives good thee ? " in to a real patience Jarcely less ! of human rist's early ? set apart vvs, duties, r lived as ihel with •he would was the His out- ! and call affections ig passion sloso con- 1 that no gratitude omething ts. And ave only i around mmovcd lintance- absolute CALVARY David was possessed of an insatiable craving for know- ledge. And with gratification came also an aptitude for choice and assimilation of what was laid before liim. His sole equipment for this seminary to which Fate was drift- ing him lay in this hunger for learning, and his stock of splendid health. His wardrobe — chosen by the Squire, but limited to the directions of the cHff hermit — consisted of a sort of loose cassock, like ^hose worn by acolytes of the Romish Church. This was the College dress, save at times of exercise or sports, M'hen the loose upper garment would be laid aside for shirt and trousers, or short flannel drawers reaching only to the knees. To David these novel garments pos- sessed merely the interest of novelty. He was thankful that no starched collar or stiff shirt was to interfere with a natural desire for freedom and ease. He spent his last night at the Squire's. They were to start very early. Both Craddock and the strange Wayfarer were to go with the boy to his new quarters, but while the Squire and David took the ordinary route of travel, and had arranged to spend a night in London and a few days in Paris, the other man went by a route and method which he termed " sacred to vagabondage," He had left a day in advance. He took no farewell ; he had merely appointed a place and time for meeting on the Austrian frontier and departed. David was conscious of a sudden feeUng of loneliness— the nearest approach to regret of which his strange nature was capable. But the excitement of a fresh experience of travel soon abolished all other feelings. How wonderful everything was, and how strange ! The boy ha i never been in a train before ; never seen a real town of any importance ; never realized what it could be to swrnp at strange speed through ever-changing landscapes; to watch the sunlit panorama of hills and valleys ; to dash by the curving coast-hne, with the blue sea at his feet ; to see scattered villages and square church towers, and miles of black and treeless country set with the shafts and chimneys of disused mines. Then for a SnaCO came Snff,fir ami 1nvoli«r i^oana r^t f^pr» ■al,,.^],.,..«J valleys and the gleam of rivers; the widening glories of 71 f i ' . i CALVARY as to>™ after tovmwtofedr "Tt?" ™P' "'"' ""S^' questionine CradHnpt >,/^ * • i 8"iae;DOok. To avoid window. '""^'^^^ *o withdraw his attention from the London, vvLse verr7amri^^^ '"^'^ "^^""« ^«"don. That Pi't of TophetyS^^ ^^ wickedness, that city of Modern Bnhv nn ? ^^^^^^nah had preached ; with bloV anfcJLraS"^^^^^^^^ ^^T^d famy unnameable. Its li^htlZlhodLi 'T ^V"" by in endless panoramiXniLS ^n^''?' ??^ wilderment filled the air Jr"°^ance its sounds of be- ita air, gazi„gl'f:o!S;sio"Ts i^d'^setZ':' T'"'"' croM'ds and streams of traffip W^» • ^-^ ^^ hurrying absoluteiy imp„ss,b,?rr?a^. "rdSe"? " '''^ ' «"" worthy of TkiJ loB^iJ'T"" ?° ''"'P '" "«" *'=n><'d Another train loi,ir nnd nt^ J j ^'^; ^ ""8^ station. restless people; wullXTlugtS Strapped cases and nil fKo^^^ i ^^^ther boxes and Wonderful! Yet m)touo„/Tf^^''"^"^ ""^ travel. Kentish eountiy! the chalk cSit M "'!.-^"^';' «'-^^" Then-scarce an hour of the of ' ^i'^^' ^'"'^^^^ ««*. more confusion and mLe be^^yZ ^"^^^'^'1'^ ^^^«» strange tongues clainoSin «n n f '"r ^?"^^ ' ^ow «tran|ely drV^d p~i "e^^d S^^^ -^ noise was deafening Tho If..? i ^ "*® ^^^^^- The seemed to iiiSe that tl? ^'^'^ and crush for seats Channel and wr^^u^nd fo'^^^^^^^^ ""^^^ ''^^ -°««-d the 79 CALVARY At last they were o£F again. A new landscape, a new country— flatter, more even and monotonous ; hot, shelter- less fields m which women worked, and men in strange blue blouses sat about, or smoked under a hedge, or lazily rested on hoe or pitchfork to watch that thing of iron and steam bearing its human freight to a great Capital; only a name to these toilers of the field. Then afternoon— hot and dusty. Sunset a warm, red radiance flushing a world of roofs and spires ; churches and buildings, turrets and columns, rising billow- like from a sea of haze. Waves of heat; more noise, more confusion. The Terminus ; the Douane. Finally a drive through magic streets ; lights and music and gay laughter and ahvays that babble of strange tongues. How could they understand one another ? Rest at last. Another beautiful place : all soft carpets and dazzling lights, and tables spread for hungry humanity Another w-onderful room ; a plunge in cool water, a brush- up of the blue serge travelling suit, and then a meal more wonderful than any yet in its service and appointments. Then Craddock spoke, sipping a liqueur of cognac, and gazing from under weary hds at the boy's excited face. If you are not tired, David, we will go out and have a look at Paris. It is-let me see-eight, no ten years since I was here. Much has happened to us both You re not tired ? Well, run up for your hat, and 1 \i take you for your first glimpse of Wonderland " 73 !EI II VIII FBurfi!?'f VVonderland to the eyes of the fi«her lad. mpnf if ^^ strangest feelmg in his mind was bewilder- ment at the enormous crowds-that ever-shifting eveJ- changing panorama of human faces and figures each re presentmg a separate human entity to be r^kched o^ aflfected or saved by one Divine Power. For these and Buch as these had Christ descended from His hgh estate IZtl^Tk:!''''' '' ''-'' «"«-^' sorrowed ^d^a Did they ever think of it ? Did they ever, in the midst of this wondrous city, remember that in a moment in the created" ' '''^^ ^^'^ ^°^^ ^^«™ '''^'^^ i* "^vas They wandered through the broad Boulevards, where at Td'm'^^ fs:?'drlt"""' 'T^' °1^^"^ dress;d tmen ana men sat drinking, smoking, chattering. The bov's s^kne^7rotw^^^'r ^^^ ^ "^^^' «p-- «^ '^^-^'y ..>ls. and httle |d!flrrdTnelt^^^^^^ ^^^ ^1 X:u';:?the"Btr ^^ ^"^'-^S^-^ --e mere'btf flaneurs oi the Boulevards m wicked Paris ,.fiLi^^ Craddock chose a caf6 and a table like the rest of the Idlers and sightseers. Ho ordered coffee and cociiac Srank ZlJ""' S^^' '1"^f ^"'^\^^^^ "^ France Tro Britons. ^ ®^®" ^" prosaic ^^11 Is it at all like what you imagined ? " he asked the 74 CALVARY David said he had not attempted to imagine it before seemg it. There was nothing in his experiences or his dreams that embodied the City of Pleasure. " I suppose not. Of course not," murmured Craddock absently. " You arc younger than your yeard. If I were an artist, I should paint you as the Divine Neophyte. You fill me with wonder. I am only sorry I cannot superintend your education. However, each year will change you; and I shall await that change with expectant interest. One can only recreate one's experiences in another when one has outUved one's own. I wonder when your eyes will dream no longer, David, and your human nature awake, and all that divine harmony of soul and body grow harsh and discordant ? For it must happen. It always Ims happened ; it always will." The boy was scarcely listening. He was looking at two priests wlio had drawn up their chairs to the next table. One was old and white-haired; the other young and pro- vincial-looking. He gave quick, furtive glances at his neighbours and surroundings ; he seemed timid and awk- ward. They were sipping black coffee and eau sucre, and scarcely talking at all. David could not have expressed how or why the idea of an imprisoned soul came to him. But tlie more he looked at the young priest's face, the stronger became that im- pression. He was as one in bondage ; trapped by some stronger power ; baffled at every turn that promised yet never granted liberty. Craddock noted the boy's iiiterest and understood it. Here was another zealot of anotlicr school bound for the same goal by a different route. Who should say which vyas right or which wrong, seeing that the ultimate destina- tion was one and the same ? Yet for eacli road to that goal-— for the method of saving a soul, not for its salvation— the Church had fought and argued, raged and ])er8eeuted, tortured and tormented, over since the voice of a Priest- hood had uplifted itself above the simple meaning of good. Far back in the dreams of centuries lay the aspirations of prophet and priest ; of teacher and ruler ; of false gods .„„ , ,,...-. viccT^s ucstiuvca. niiai; oetrer was Humanity for it all ? Were its sins lessened ; its sufferings 75 !'-, CALVARY I its blasphemies purged; its perplexities decreased ; answered ? H,f Hffif ^^"^ ^V^i® massive portals of the Madeleine at wo' prX^^ot^^^^ *'' '^^'"^^ ?''' '' **^« f-- "f 'the two priests. One heavy, sensual, earthly: the othpr TtW^ n''l-' ^^^'''''^y ^^^^"^°"«- Of these, and such a^ these Christianity counted her thousands and t^^ns of tn '^f ;ho J^^' '.^'^i "^ purer-minded than ordinary rntended uh^ /"^n^ood meant what God and Nature intended , who had not insulted creation by a pretended defiance of its laws, or turned disappointed passions into the narrow channels of bigotry passions into saiZflLr""^ ^""'^ '"''"' *° "'*''"'* y°"' »^^^^'" he «,w^u^°^ ^^^'■t''^- " ^ ^^as wishing I could understand what they were saying-that I coufd ask hFrn^bout £s " You will find more than one of his order and faifH where you are going," said Craddock. - RelLious ordt nances count more than one sect, one cre^d onfiFnlrh I understand that the teachers of St. Blasius h^ve iTbe ai mmds and include many orders Th^v nr« r.^1 t u-TJ to associate with each o'ihT'^Ls pr^^i^^tL'^fuS^^^^ tins seminary to be possessed of unusual judgment How ever, if you would really like to know omeThW ofou^ Sfe^'tair V"" T^\^^^ languageTei? en'ough to '""Tf^f' ..^hall we hear what he thinks of Paris ? " ^ rr«dHn!.r" 7"'^ °"^^,^'^ him ! » cried David eagerly xvS ^ J"^"^"; ^ '^'"^^ observation to the elder Sst o Cr K o '' '"^n' "^ i'""^^'^^ interested atteE the^^l llpsVd^r^Sr ^^ ^ ^- «t- Then " He IS from Britt ny,» he said to David " iust relea«od from a first curacy in a small Breton SlafieThe^^d most heretin nnH rioo*;..^^ a„ u- . "^loi/ud n r-ne ■ "' =^" ''^ "^ ctemaiiy damned. It 76 CALVARY must be a comfortable doctrine to hold, seeing that God created souls first and priests afterwards. We might therefore suppose He had a vested interest in our future r«^'„n^".i n^T^^"''^ of Rome places the creature first, and the Creator second. I mean, of course, the oursefves^? o^^«tn«; creature, not mere humans like , r ?^^^°? ?®'" s^i^ a voice almost at his elbow. " Your defanition is less logical than your subject deserves." v^raduock started, then sprang to his feet. David was already clingmg to the speaker, uttering glad greetings. 1 am m advance of our arrangement," said a deep, familiar voice. ' It occurred to me that Paris would be a better meeting-place. The-e is much I should like to show Au 'r."""!? ''^^Z'"*' "°*^ P^^^^®^ *o^ *^™e. No one will be at the College for a week or two." ;; But how did you find us-here ? " asked Craddock. raris iiolds a comparatively small area for the newlv Ture " ^^''^"^'■- ^ ^^^ "^*^ ™"«^^ difficulty in locating " It is delightful that you are here-and— what a trans- formation ! " exclaimed Craddock. " Oh ! I am a civihzea vagabond at times, and I own an insignificant garret m Montmartre, where I keep a suit of clothes for such occasions as these ! " He laughed gaily, and waved his hand towards the sur- rounding tables. - f '•^dock drew a chair forward. " Sit down," he said, and let us talk. Pans is complete now." fl,«.,?"* '-^ ^'T **^«<^"rbed your clerical friends-see, they re going. Grace be with them, though I found little to please me m the countenance of either. But then, the priesthood and I are sworn foes; that sort of priesthood. • 1 ! "? Y^*"* savours of intolerance. However, my wine doL aUiand " ' '''*^'''"* ^^'"^ ^''''"' ""* ^^'"^ Sanctuary so cIo?.'r^«I^ "" rapid order to the waiter, then drew his chair closer and glanced at the two welcoming faces. "So aevil m Pans. Good broadcloth has hidrUn a c-iov-" looi before to-day. Do you know, my good Squire," I 77 i. i" CALVARY felt sure I should find you at a caf6 ? A toleration of the infamous is inseparable from practical experiences— ®vento an acolyte and a philosopher." jniere is not much here to hurt-even an acolyte," said Craddock "And a philosopher can take care of himself." .. And choose his experiences, as I found you doing ' " ^nJZ '"uT /° hear you talking again," laughed the fequire. As for experiences, we are not seeking them yet ; or here. David has been lost in the mists of Amaze- ment. He dropped down a moment ago at sight of those two reverend gentlemen. I was just translating their his- tory— at least, as much of it as they communicated— when you appeared on the scene." " I have a fancy for the unexpected. Ah ! here comes Tood Squire ? " """'' *° ^'"' '^'' *^^" ^""^^^'i^' "^^ marvelfiSgl^^"'^^" *'"°"^'' ^""^ ^ ''^'^"^^- ^"<^ ^ """^ «*^" r ^fi -""f^^^ precious opportunities. To-night we will eat and drink and rejoice in life. It is not given to many travellers to meet the pure in heart-in Paris; or to see that modern Messahna through the illusioned eyes of youth Listen, my young Samuel. The good wine has unlocked my tongue and my brain is afire with speech. I spoke of iTr^'/"* ^ "°' •' ^f' '' '° y°"^h ^h^t illusio^nls to ™rhik tJ^u"^'^'"'''"^^^ ^""^^^^^ "^^®'' *^ ^® fulfilled. I thP^fnhI?"^T^^^'-^^T °^.^^"^c' ^"^ ^^^"^ f^r^'^rd across the table. A dip m the river Styx made Achilles invul- nerable save in that heel which maternal anxiety refused to release. Paris represents that river ; but your sublime Ignorance is the invulnerable encasement thVough which no arrow of mischance shall penetrate. Why-how you look ! You do not recognize your Sycorax of the Cavern in this wme-bibber of the Boulevards ' " " You were never Sycorax ! " exclaimed the boy. " He ^Unte^^''^^''' "^^"^ °'°''^ "^"^ Prospero-the En- H«17~*" enchanter ! " The whimsical face grew sud- SST" ^^^^^''^^^fg'-^'^-.boy. What an undeserved 78 CALVARY "It paints you as you seem to him," said Craddock. lie leant back and lit a cigarette. The Wanderer laughed harshly. " As I seem— as he seems-as you seem ! By the gods, what frauds we are ! J!r',S?^u^''?-^ ^'l,"''"^' '^ ^" Asmodeus of the present day could lift the hds of our souls and show us to each other— as those merry sinners of Madiid were shown to an in- visible spr ,ator . . . what a spectacle ! Does it ever strike you .;.at the reason why Humanity is given so long a rope-for its ultimate hanging-is that it affords such an inexhaustible fund of amusement to its procreator ' ihe variations formed on the original theme are endless A comic opera is not more ludicrous, nor a Baconian tragedy more tragic. The Hamlet theory of ' cursed spite ' IS ever fulfilling itself in the brains of would-be reformers Ah, my David, your young eyes are heavy with sleep, and my tongue is paying too heavy a tribute to the good red wme of Lutetia ! Let us away from this dissipated spot ' Or rather you must away-to the coucli of innocence and the slumber of saints. Farewell ! " " But it is early yet," exclaimed Craddock. " Won't you come to the hotel with us ? I have no intention of going to bed for hours." "My good Squire, if I accompany you I shall drink more wme and talk more philosophy, and undo all the good that a week of primitive innocence has accomphshed. J-lien 1 shall awake to-morrow morn with an aching head and heap maledictions upon this city, the wine and yourself! JNo, in the best interests of friendship we'll part now " with !« r ""* "'^ 5°^^^ ^^^^ ^'^^- Will you breakfast with us to-morrow ? ' "I will. I am going to take David a pilgrimage and show him a wider field of sanctified errors than he has areamt of m his most transcendent moments ! " What time are we to expect you ? " nf '^"/'^^^onimi^ my actions to 'the foolish interpretation of clocks. I shall be with you as soon as you expect me " He rose and pushed aside his chair. He seemed to mmgle with the throng and disappear before Craddock had grasped the meaning of his informal leave-taking. ^ v.i3« 10 uou 1 could understand him and his ways ! " 79 a,; I; 5 ■!■'' i H '■ '31 liv ^ ■^' f m 'f^ CALVARY muttered the Squire angrily. " Such a medley of farce, tragedy and mysiery X have never come across u. mv whole life ! ^ Craddock had reason to endorse, and opportunity to justify, that opinion of his strange acquaintance during the following days. He at on e puzzled, irritated, and de- lighted Inm. His method of performing what he callod " pilgrimagpp " did more to spirituahze David'? fancy than shock his Puritanism. He had, of cou.se, been taught that the Komish Church was a sync nym for Jesuitical cruelty and innumerable superstitions; for false worship and the sanctification of images, and a ritual that tended more to the deification of man than the ^\or8hip of (Jod. Men such as Zachariah Pascoe and David J rryn held the very nuuie of Rome as an abomination; synouMu of savage persecu- tions, overweening ambitions and spiritual apostasy. To a race of people bred and fed upon the teachings of Wesley and the verbal inspiration of the Scriptures, the word Popery could hold but one signiLcance. David had heard of that word, and credited its signifirance I ng before the magmficence of ritual, and the amaz ng celebrations of a High Mass dazzled his senses. His first experience of a Catholic ceremony was at Notre Dame. The air of the great cathedral mx^ heavy with incense from swinging censers. A wondw-fui light swept over nave and snnctuary and altar from rose-hued win- dows. The voices of choir and priests and the thunders of the organ transfused all sense of meaning into the meanings of sense. He was oppressed, borne down, up- lifted, entranced, and then half shamed. For he had been told this was idolatry. This bowing to an emblematic i^igure, these complex genuflexions, this changing of vest- ments and ringing of bells-did they really mean the service of Christ as Christ ordained it ? He questioned his companion when the service was over. " You mean as man has transformed it— for his own purposes^ not as Christ ordained it ? Yes, it is that and more. Did you not read ecclesiastical superiority in those holy countenances ? " ^ ^ 80 B!>r, you ■^■■-^ w CAi^VARY " It was what I read in them d .iie hours he would hear t tempt prefaced the ex- David loolced troubled. that I disliked," he said. " Possibly your instinct was con-ont. Yet there have en good priests— even excel '"n .^jes. But in the ^ast ma lery of this vast sy^t the wisest and best TLT, """* V^^l' '" *^^ '"^'^ ^ '^ "f their superiors, .orced to work for one object; to forfeit all individu- show o '^' °'' *^°"«^'*- ^"t ^on^^' I ^lave more to He led the boy from one plaoo of interest to another giving m brief terse plirases the liistory I the memorable building and its stoned treasures of the past And M hat are those ? " asked David suddenly, point- ing to one of the confession boxes, above which was written the name of a prie - ■ • Confessions. An expression of ironic planation, "Those? Standing reccuds of priestly inquisition; a liumiiiating memorial to human weakness; the recognition of a chain whose strength is dependent on every one of Its weakest links. You have never heard of Confession as a means of saving one's soul, David ? " " Oh, yes ; I have heard of it." The boy stood regard- n"io ..7?.''''\^' '*? curtained gratings in interested sur- of to'ood ?"» ^^^^''^ ^^"^^^^ ^'"^ ^° ^^^ ^"^^^^^ "Because the Romish Church has decreed that she is their mediator ; that unless she can pry into every secret Jrll'r Tt^' '"^"' V^^ °^ °^^^^' ^^^y ^'^nnot escape the wrath of Heaven It is a magnificent idea ! It kept half the world in bondage for centuries, and made kings Rofn^^f^ °"'' ^'. P^''"'. ^" ^^'^ g^"^^ «f supremacy, memh! rn / ^f P°.?*^"f «f a «y«tem that can make each member of a family a betrayer of the secrets of every other member of hat family. There-you have priestly power in a nutshell. Dc. you usk its purpose ? They would tell the'nnw' "T'' "^ ^''^\ ^ ^^" '' ^ ^^^' for ^establish ng " You should not iiate any one," said David gently. MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I 1.25 Win "'"= ■ » 113.2 u 1^ 1^ 1.4 2.5 2.2 2£ 1.8 S /APPLIED IIVMGE Inc 1653 East Main Street Rochester, New York U609 (7! 6) A82 - 0300 - Phone (716) 288- 5989 - Fa« USA CALVARY Then he added : " Shall you hate me, do you think, if ever I become a priest ? " " That will depend — on the order and nature of your priesthood. I shall not hate a faithful messenger of Christ. It is those who falsify Him, lie to Him and of Him, crucify Him afresh with every torment of insult and indignity — it is those whom I hate and scorn — and yet must serve." David repeated the words wonderingly : " Serve ? But you said you served no one; lived your life as you pleased ! " Those strange, mocking eyes looked down at the boy's uplifted face ; a hand lightly touched his golden curls. " Am I not serving — ^you, David ? " he said. They were joined by Craddock, and went with him to the South Tower where hangs the great Bourdon. There they ascended to the platform and rested, while the whole wonderful panorama of Paris unrolled itself at their feet. David was too amazed and too absorbed for speech. He could only think of this marvellous city ruled for such unworthy ends as this huge building at once consecrated and satirized. To his young mind and simple faith religion meant as yet only what it does m.^n to youth and sim- plicity—the worship of Holiness and Truth with pure soul and humble ti:anksgiving. All this adoration of symbols seemed but an adoration of idols. The lighting of candles for masses to be said for departed souls was another mystery. Wliat sort of conception of the Deity entered into such practices ? How could a few sous' worth of candles atone for a soul's errors ? Then, again, the worship of the mother of Christ seemed as essential to salvation as that of Christ himself. But David had been too well grounded in Biblical record to forget that there was very little proof there of any special honour paid to His earthly mother by her Son ; certainly none to show that He placed her on a spiritual equality with Himself. Had not His last action been to present her to another son V Did not an earthly disciple take her as his mother ? Again, the boy reflected!' that the Bible taught Faith in on '^ ' ' ,..-'- ^ . were so many ! un. But iicro there Altars and chapels to diverse saints of 82 CALVARY whose very names he was ignorant ; litanies and prayers and services in their honour. Had Christ meant such things to be ? He thought of that Sermon on the Mount, the simple yet all-sufficient prayer which the Son of God had taught His disciples ; the still simpler directions for continuing His ministry and commemorating His life and Where in ail this was word or rule for such a Church as that of Rome ? Such a ritual as he had witnessed ? " I know of what you are thinking," said the voice of his guide softly. " Shall I tell you ? Where does one seek the authority for what assumes to be the one and only True Church ? That authority is contained in a single word — a word translated into Pontifical supremacy by an error that has deluged the world with blood and fire and persecution ! But all that it has wrested for itself by such means is the institution of Man— not of Christ. Man whose ambition realized that no sove- reignty on earth is so powerful and so supreme as the sovereignty over human souls ! No command so absolute as one embodying Divinity as its source. How easy to reap the fruits of that command ! To rule ignorance by fear ; to withhold liberty of thought and liberty of action from its proselytes ; to veil Science and control Art ; to let dread of the Unknown root itself in human minds ; to rule them by that fear translated into penance— penance which brought riches to the Church, and honour akin to royalty to its Heads and Dignitaries. Then, at last, greed and ambition reached a point of self-wrought omnipotence that represented both Earth and Heaven as its slaves, and Eternal Damnation as its prerogative. And so came the hour of downfall. Nations desired freedom, and con- sciences demanded liberty, and Henry of blessed memory and many wives secured to himself and his people the divine rights of both ! Sacred history in a nutshell, my child ! But I make you a present of the kernel." David listened and pondered it all in his heart. It re- presented all he felt, but could not express. That inborn repugnauje to spiritual compulsion which has made the nation that first asserted its rights to spiritual freedom the greatest in the world. For Liberty is man's natural 83 1 1< I I l>l I CALVARY K^on^nVf^tf^'tT^^ P"^°" ^"« ""^b« ^"d control aid Sself f ^'' *^"^"' ^' ^^ «^^^^g« °" hi« Maker vM^'i^^Zs ^"^:. ""^ Djvid lived each to new and vivia interests. He grew familiar wch the beautiful streets and the ,ran^. Boulevards, the arcades and ga^S and^L^^^^'' ?°y^^' t^ pleasure-grounds of Vifcennes sf Cloud ^n^^^^"'^- ^^ty *°^^ '^' river steamboats to treasures of l.T"'' ' '.^'^ T'l' ^°»^« ^"^^^st the art treasures of the Louvre, though David nrofesaed nn nH miKation for masterpieces. The onlVone tha «1,^°/?' fascinate him was TiU's " EntoSent of ciir^st " B^? he could not speak of its effects. It at one" shocked him as commonplace, and a^ed him as Stnnl Tf brought before his own mind the JI^riaTeT^^clJl We, yet circumscribed his views of infinity and eternitv by a pageant of lower meaning. ^ eternitj One evening they were sitting at supper in one of fh^ restaurants in the Palais Royal.^ Craddock pXred it to the noisier and more crowded Boulevards. TlSy had a table at an open window, and David was look nj out on t^ie scene below while Craddock talked to tiie V^^vndereT PournevT^r 'tl ^'"^/« '^^^^ ^^^s and eontVnie theTr journey to the Austrian frontier. David was to face Hfl ookmg at the serene calm beauty of the Ws £a^ 3 dere^°" """'" "'*^ """"' " **"'' °*«' '' i the Wan- of'alfStris W* P'-^*^P<'="'8 «"^- Y t the heart of eomething that ekn't be provodT ^ ^ "'' ''''""" He glanced at DnviH'a »«,i£.,v~ *a— 84 CALVARY " You care very little for human friends, David— is it noi so ? " " I care for you," said the boy simply. " An irrational rejoinder. I have done nothing for you in comparison with your foster-parents, or our friend — the Squire yonder." His keen eyes rested on the boy as if trying to read some hidden meaning in his words. "Njither memory nor association binds us," he went on. " True, i have interfered with your life. Perhaps some day you'll upbraid me for my temerity. But in that I see no special cause for gratitude. Do you, Craddock ? " "You came into that life at a critical moment," said the Squire. " You let daylight in upon its secret chambers. That, in connection with your own surprising personality, mi^ht well awaken romantic feelings in any young and gen<5rous heart." " But you — are doing more." " How ? " asked Craddock. "I— but pointed the Way. You— are providing the Means. I wonder if we shall ever have cause ic* regret — the End ? " *r 85 PART II THE MEANS "VrOTHING in life is sufficient for itself. The word -Li Alone has no meaning in Creation. The whole universe is linked by one endless chain, and humanity is only one of its many links. This was the lesson that David was learning in that strange seminary to which he had been sent. He found himself one of a crowd of boys and youths of mixed nationalities and creeds, dispositions and tastes. But each and all were here for one purpose; the study of Theology in some form. Whether under the guise of Eastern Philosophy, or Modern Creeds of Materialism, or the Sophistries and Sanctities of Christianity, the object was to study according to individual belief that particular form of religion in whose manifestation they felt interested. The College was a vast stone building, standing in a wooded valley and shut in by the loneUness of great moun- tains. Everything in and about the place was conducted on principles of almost monastic simplicity. The library contained a vast collection of religious and philosophical literature ; of priestly writings on ceremonial and ritual ; u ^^^^^"o^og^cal details, ancient records, prophecies, and thought. These were classified and arranged for the young scholars. And they were taught from them and examined from them daily. The most curious character- istic of the College was that no student was admitted there who nad not one object in view— priesthood in some shape or form. Whether as Missionary, or Controvert'' list or Doctnnalist, he was offered full scope for his idiosj '. -a- ?®!i-"^TT° 1*^® ^8® °^ seventeen. Then he was dismissed to the Worid or the Sanctuary ; the Church or the Temple : the heathens of Cities, or the heathens of Savagery. At first David was bewildered. It \s'a.B like Babe! this concision of tongues; this mixture of races; thiVnon- 89 fill.-. CALVARY conformity of creeds. Jews, Greeks, Hindus, Catholics, Protestants— all were gathered under one roof. All had their respective instructors. There was no chapel, no religious service of prescribed form ; but individual worship was impressed upon the student as a daily need and a daily obligation. For the rest there were hours for study ; hours for meditation and recreation ; books, music ; walks in the depths of the wonderful forest, or to those more wonderful heights where the wild stag roamed, and the eagle had its eyrie. To David these vast woods were as great a delight as the sea had been ; and, like the sea, they held a voice of praise and mystery. A voice for ever sounding, a song for ever sad. In rosy dawns, in dreaming noontides, in the silence of night, he seemed to hear that voice and that song. The moving branches had a surf-like murmur ; the green aisles echoed with restless life ; the dim greenness of glades held the same depths as his beloved ocean. Only he looked through them instead of into them. The en- chantment of this region of mountain and forest held him like a spell ; deepened the mysticism of his nature, the spirituality of his mind. Among the motley crowd of students there were but three of his own nationality. The fact of speaking the same tongue naturally drew them together. Like himself, these boys were orphaned by accident or misfortune. Two were about his own age; the third was older — in his fifteenth year. He manifested an immediate friendli- ness towards David, and many mutual tastes and mutual sympathies drew them together. The strongest proved to be their admiration for the strange being to whom they owed their introduction to this scholastic retreat ; the opportunity of following the bent of their own minds. Godfrey St. Just was more practical in his ambitions than David. His father had been a cleric of that ad- vanced school of modern Ritual, set afoot by the Oxford movement. From the time he could speak Godfrey had only recognized life as a solemn incense-haunted pageant — a thing of daily services and mystical hours, of white robes and soundinff hfills. nnH f.ViA d'^*'ri owoii onri ^oTi r^f 90 Catholics, All had prescribed upon the For the lation and hs of the ;ht8 where Ik J* delight as a voice of g, a song ntides, in ! and that mur; the greenness an. Only The en- held him iture, the were but iking the e himself, isfortune. older — in s friendli- d mutual I for the action to wing the imbitions that ad- e Oxford Ifrey had • pageant of white >d call f>f CALVARY the organ. He was an ardent musician, and performed much of the music of the College. His father had died when the boy was but ten years of age. His mother married again : a very wealthy man. But the new step- father made life intolerable for Godfrey. One night he stole away from home and walked for miles till he reached a seaport town in the North of England. There he fell in with some seafaring men who were just about to embark on a voyage to Barbadoes. The vessel was short- handed, and they took him as cabin-boy. His next adven- ture was shipwreck. The boat in which he and most of the crew had spent days and nights in mid-ocean, was at last picked up by a Spanish barque. Godfrey next found himself in Barcelona — homeless and penniless. While sitting one day in forlorn contemplation of his position, he was observed by a stranger who spoke his own language, learnt his history, and finally brought him to this Seminary in the Austrian mountains. His description of the stranger, his vagabond appearance and whimsical talk and extra- ordinary fascination, tallied too closely with David's Wanderer to leave any doubts as to his identity. David's own history seemed very uneventful after this recital, but he gave it as it was, with all that confusion of dreams and visions that meant to him a Divine mission. Godfrey listened with the tolerant condonation of seniority for enthusiasms it has outlived. Ritual was in his blood, so to say, and his future was bounded only by an ambition to enter the Church and serve it as his *ather had done. How that could happen under present conditions he could not foresee. But he intended to take Orders as soon as was practicable. Means must be found by his mother or his stepfather. He had not told them where he was, for fear of being recalled and sent to a public school. But when the time came for leaving St. Blasius he meant to do this, and claim his rights of sonship. A companionship so novel and so interesting naturally affected David's character. He admired his new friend's abilities, and did his ' i to emulate him in pursuit of knowledge. He lost so. le of his primitive mannerisms and unnatural reserve. On the other hand, his passion for books increased, and his prescribed hours of study were 91 M mi CALVARY wHh' W^ %hi' °^/*f !«»« habits. No one interfered Zlnf.^ T ,^^"*^. °^ inclination was here the only recognized rule of tuition. "^ looSnVmrn'S?' ""^ *^" ?°"'«' ^^^« ^ «*^<^ly' Patriarchal- ook^ng man of some sixty years. He seemed to speak all fc mirt T ^,"T^.' ^"^ ^^ ^^d ^^^^ inexplicable gut of mastery mIucIi lends importance to all that is said Ta wiiL' ^H • "^'"^ r '.°^^^^ instructors of vaSed nationalities as the curriculum demanded; but bv some nrTntr^'^-"^ organization, there was' no discUa^ note in the universal harmony. ' We are all one family in the sight of Heaven " the Principal would say. " Loneliness, or sorrow, or po'verty of W T'"iv"-^"t""^ "^ '''^'^^'' i» «n« great chain of Love . the Divine Love that breathes in us and through us and must one day draw us back to Itself." ^ And this creed was the only one of which thev heard and which Imked them in an amicable anHeful Mother-' place. '" ^^°''^ ^""^ superstition found no resting- No women were admitted to the College. Its domestic aflFairs were managed by a staflP of boy! under superin fmpLTt' aid :^" rr'°^^- ^^^ cooking wasTfT simplest and plainest description. Garden and orchard "e KrsZf f "", "^^4i ^°^ -«^^^ simpHdty wis earden i-Mhl v. '^* ''J^"'' P"^ '^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^ed in the Ss and lp7f^ * l^'^ ^°" '^' °^^"^^ *h« cows and sTmp; meals InT ''•' 'Vt^'^'^' gathered fruit for the S oTThl^ f "•^''^i^ ^^""^^ ™^^^« ^" *he more be- sense of oW,V«f,r*^ '"^ ,*^' preparation. Underneath a sense of obligation, marked out as a duty there vpt Iav pLrrot fJ^'^A' "?f*y *^^* ™^^^ '-" ta k a pleasure, or touched it with a sense of responsibility to oJ tfeT/r™°'""'- /" .^"'^' ^^^*»^^^ '^f the hou eho d Routine pI'/''^' T"^^'"'' monotonous by an enforced routine. Each week or month brought a chanff« to fh^ Senrd'n' V l'!5^ ^"^^^^^"^^- ThufL mtZas nete t Smed 1^^^ ^"d "«<^ the simplest office to its merite was left unnoticed or unpraised.'^according to Its merits. Emulation never degenerated into rivalry i-uuao oi seir-aenial ana tne earliest lessonst fan^Kf „.««„ au-- 93 le interfered re the only patiiarchal- to speak all inexplicable that is said, rs of varied it, by some discordant saven," the or poverty, ?reat chain nd through hey heard, Lil Brother- -o resting- s domestic 5r superin- was of the d orchard plicity was :ed in the cows and nit for tlie more be- erneath a re yet lay !h task a nihility to household enforced ge to the was never lest office according rivalry, eif-deniai CALVARY and mutual appreciation. By Nature's own law of attrac tion mmd r'nfted to kindred mind, and taste to kindred taste. Yec an unknown evcr-watchful care intervened between any marked sentimentality that might have be- oome dangerous, and that sense of hero-worship to which youth 18 so prone. Physical science had its part also in this training-house. Nature s laws and instincts were explained with a healthy forcefulness that acted as pruning knife to unhealthy tendencies The laws of cause and effect were marked clearly both as danger chart and guide. No student could leave that Seminary without a safeguard of morality nnd spirituality. Evil thoughts, perverted minds, erratic im- pulses were met by stern rebuke, kindly counsel • and if found unconquerable by such means, the blac] sheep was sent from out the fold to indulge or suffer for his follies. 1 am not here to play Providence, my son," the kindly patriarch would say. " I can but express what seems to me Diyme Will, and point out the penalty for its defiance. Jixperience must be your next teacher, since folly is you • sole excuse for disobedience." Then a day would come when a vacant seat, a vacant place at meals, spoke of an absentee, and the students knew that one of them had " been tried and found want- For one wiioie yg^r David had lived this life— the lovely tranquil life of the ardent student. From the first he had been remarked by the Principal and, unknown to himself, surrounded by a tender and pure-souled guardianship. His friendship with Godfrey bt. Just met with approval. For the wise Head of the beminary recognized in it the elements ot dilTerence and the inner consciousness of agreement that coiustitute a o n vir"".™'^^', Pf ^""y ^^^ g^^^^'^ f^"^» ^ dreamer to a realist. He had found a basis for Faith, and with had" nivt? 11- T" f" ■'""? °" '^ ^^'^ ^difi^e ^hat dreams Had crystallized in his soul. ^JZ^^rT'^^Y ^^ ^^^"f bJe teaching, of carefully directed r"5' 1 •^^'^'l wonders. His friendship with a more Piautical mma had also served its purpose in the scheme 93 CALVARY of things. Physically and mentally, David at fourteen years of age was better equipped for his Mission to souls than nine-tenths of the Divinity students who enter Oxford or Cambridge. He had had no useless knowledge to eject, and only a serious, simple, and essential amount to assimi- late. With a definite idea in his own mind of what he wanted, he had worked for that idea in a direct and purposeful fashion. There was no doubt that three more such years of study and research would be no mean equip- ment for that mission of evangelization which was the day-star of his young ambition; a star for ever shining on the horizon of Hope, for ever beckoning him to some magical region of achievement. During this year the boy had received occasional letters from the Squire of Trebarwick, and one or two, badly expressed but fondly written, from little Ruth. To both he had sent rapturous desc ions of his life and his utter content with it. The time was now approaching for the long vacation. The College was always closed in July and August. When David had first come there no one had received him except the old libraiian, who never left it. Such students as had no homes to go to made up walking parties, and camped out in the forests or among the mountains. David was expected home, and was torn between duty and inclination. Godfrey was urging him to come on the walking tour, and the boy ardently longed to do so. On the other hand, Ruth wrote of the old fisher folks' anxiety to see him. At the crucial moment a letter came from the Squire asking him to stay at Trebarwick and bring his school friend also. Money was sent for the journey and distinct directions given. This seemed to David a happy way out of his difficulties. He asked Godfrey's opinion, and after some discussion they agreed to banish the idea of the tramp and go to England together. Once decided, David's eloquence let itself loose over the glories and wonders of his beloved coast. It seemed to him that he had never realized the loss of the sea until he was about to return to it. They had not been allowed to stay in Paris, but passed straight from station to station. At the London terminus 94 i CALVARY ihey made their first halt, and spent the night at the Paddington Hotel, where Craddock had engaged rooms for them. They left by the early train, and, to David's astonishment, were met at Plymouth by Craddock him- self. The Squire gave them luncheon, and only when they were in the Cornish train and meeting the usual vexatious delays of single-line monopoly, did he mention the real reason of his appearance. "I have some bad news for you, David," he said abruptly. " There has been a fatality in the village. A few nights ago some of the men were out, and one of those sea fogs we know, came on. They seem to have lost their reckoning. In any case, the boat never turned up. This morning, soon after daybreak, three bodies were washed ashore. One of them was that of your foster-father, David Perryn. His wife is overwhelmed with grief. I fear it will be a melancholy homecoming for you." David had grown very white. Death was as yet only a name ; it had not come into any personal experience. The thought of that strong, kindly man lying dead in his familiar home, was at first unrealizable. That he would never receive the kindly greeting, hear the rough Cornish voice calling his name, seemet' ^o strange a thing to grasp as calamity and the sea had fei .dped it. " Dead ! " he repeated. " David Perryn dead ! I can't believe it." " It is true," said the Squire. " And I'm afraid your foster-mother expects you to stay with her. She is all alone, you see." " Of course I will stay ! " exclaimed the boy. " She must be so lonely." "The funeral will be the day after to-morrow," said Craddock. " I— I made all the arrangements. It is always best to expedite such matters. After all, mourning IS but an exaggerated sentiment. The first shock of the inevitable is also the last. All else is but a morbid per- sistence in the self-indulgence of grief." David said nothing. He was trying to picture the vivid personality he had known, as suddenly extinct : something gone, nassed into nntliirnrnpao • r^r^y^r » v^r,™„_,. i „ regret. He could not do it. A curious restlessness over- 9S W CALVARY took him. He felt as if that which had hem must still be ; might even now stand as an unseen messenger at his side, trying to give him welcome, bidding him not to grieve. The Squire left him to himself for a while and talked to Godfrey of the country around ; of the College life ; of his own strange history of which David had told him. The boy had attracted him at once. His very contrast to David was an interest. Besides, it seemed odd that two such apparently dissimilar characters should be united by a predilection for the same office. Godfrey, on his side, was studying his friend's benefactor from the point of view of mere curiosity. David had often dwelt on the sudden birth of that interest in himself which had so widened the horizon of his life. As Godfrey looked at Craddock and listened to his cynical remarks, he found himself wonder- mg why he had chosen to play at philanthropy. He certainly gave no impression of being charitably inchned to humanity at large. When he touched upon religious matters, as was inevitable when the College came into dis- cussion, he treated them as a general influence more than a practical necessity. " Most people believe in religion," he said, " because it's too much trouble to think about it. It is only when they do think that they cease to believe." " What, exactly, do you mean by religion ? " asked Godfrey. " What the word represents to all who study life. The science of spirituality, either forced or assumed; the routine of churches ; the fear of something worse to happen than we already know has happened, and to avoid which we try to make terms with an unknown Tyrant, of whose actions we are not very sure." " Do you call that — religion ? " " I call it what I see practised in the name of religion. I don't know what form of it you have assimilated at your Seminary, but the root is always the same." " We are taught no form. We evolve that for ourselves," said Godfrey. " But surely the essence of all religion is the worship of something Greater, holier, purer than mere humanity." The Squire siuiied. '* Have you ever thought of the 96 W' CALVARY primary cause for that desire ? It means going a long way back, of course; even further than our mythical Garden of Eden. Man in his primeval condition was some- thing of a sayap< * and as a savage was influenced by all that appealed i sis primitive senses. Fear was possibly the strongest or ;.nese senses ; fear of all that could not be explained : calamities brought by flood or fire ; thunder- storms, eclipses, earthquakes. Any of these affected him with terror, because they exemplified some Power stronger than his own, and whose object seemed that of persecution or calamity. To pacify that Power would naturally occur to him. We may take it that he and his brother savages occasionally had fallings out, and inflicted injuries upon each other. We may even conclude that the weaker tried to pacify the stronger with gifts, or peace-offerings. Well, argue from that, that our forefathers applied the same reasoning to that inexplicable Force which destroyed their fields and their cattle, and wrought havoc upon their rude attempts at agriculture; an offering, a pacification, an atonement. Here you get the crux of natural religion : the idea of a special sacrifice at a special place, undertaken first by the sufferer himself, later by the intervention of a more enlightened order of beings who called themselves priests. I hope I'm not too personal ? " "Oh, no ! " said Godfrey. " Of course, I have read up to this mode of reasoning in rationalistic treatises. But I am not narrow-minded. My view of faith or of ritual is one of personal inclination. The belief that they may be gopd, and that the world badly needs being done good to." "I suppose it does. It always has needed it. And the mstitution of a class of men to do that good has also seemed a necessity. The religious development of man- kmd IS one of the strangest and most interesting studies. But, you may take it from me, that to go back far enough IS to find the root implanted in the primitive elements of J^ear, and Propitiation. These two elements have worked through all the forms and creeds of Faiths for which mankind has suffered and tormented himself— and others. It IS the secret of Conversion ; the secret of Missionizing ; * The Cormption of the Church. Alfred Momerie. H 97 CALVARY a secret that has served the vilest ends as well as the Holiest." " Would you have no spiritual directors, no Preachers or Priests— no visible Church ? " asked Godfrey. Craddock shrugged his shoulders. He glanced over to where David was sitting, wrapped in his own thoughts and gazing out at the fl3ang landscape. " I would have Truth — if it could be preached ; and a Church that moved, intellectually and scientifically, with the age. But such things stand apart from man's self-importance, and no such Church will ever be founded." Godfrey looked thoughtfully at the speaker. David had said little about him except that he seemed an irreligious man, and believed neither in Christ nor Church. Then why had he elected to play guardian to the boy's vocation ? ^ Godfrey, after that last speech, was trying to account for such a seeming contradiction of opinion and action. Had the speaker some such church in view as his words described ; one whose Founder would be his debtor in all things appertaining to its establishment ? If so, it struck him that David would be no malleable tool. The innate spirituality of his friend was as a rock-crystal in purity and in substance : something set and centred in his nature, impossible to discolour, and seemingly impossible to break. " Do you really think the Church of to-day has ceased to preach Truth, and has lost Faith?" he said at last. "It is long since I have attended any set service. We have no established form of worship at the College, you know." " Ah ! tell me about that," said Craddock eagerly. " There must be a curious medley of sects there ! " "Somehow they all agree," answered Godfrey. "Dr. Von Klausthal, our Principal, has a wonderful method of fusing diversity into a common union. After all, it is the best thing to believe in one Beginning, one Creator, one Force, to which we owe existence, and to which we return as part of itself. I know there are men who want to drag down Heaven to Earth, and make it material instead of spiritual, but 1, and David there " — he looked across to 98 well as the CALVARY the grave young face at the opposite window — " we think that the better way is to try and raise Earth up to Heaven." " It can never be done," said Craddock. " But it is a beautiful dream for spiritual-minded youth. I envy you that I " " What ? " asked Godfrey. " Being young, and groping one's way as we're doing. I don't see much to envy." "Possibly not. We never value what we possess — at the time of possession. I led the life of a Bedouin once in the heart of the desert. It seemed to me the acme of dis- comfort. Now I am condemned to the boredom of the civilized British landowner, and I sigh for the desert, and the simple excitement of tent and dust-storms. We are supposed to be rational creatures, we men. It is a wrong definition. We are many things — sometimes two or three at one and the same moment— but we are never rational." He turned towards David. " Won't you come over here and talk to us ? " he said gently. " It is a year since I parted from you. I can see it has altered you in many ways." 99 If 1 , 1 1 rl s JMMMj f i^il V 1 1 mm n DAVID stooi in the familiar cottage, held by loving arms, wept over by tears of joy and sorrow mingUng in the vortex of feminine emotions. Little Ruth held one hand and gazed wonderingly up at Lis face. How tall he had grown ; how much more manly he looked, and yet how beautiful his face still was ! Rachel Perryn sobbed her grief for her dead husband into his ears, alternately with expressions of joy that he had come home to be her comforter and take the dead man's place. That announcement startled the boy out of his momen- tary tenderness and sympathy. To take up the old life ; to follow his foster-father's calling ? Such an idea had never entered his head ! He drew away from the loving arms that had been cradle and comfort to his helpless childhood. He looked at the tear-stained face, then at the poor and humble cottage. Surely— surely she could not mean what she said ? could not expect that he would ever again become a fisherman, and lead a fisherman's hfe ? But in this first hour of grief and abandonment he could not say what he felt. It was his duty to console the poor woman's grief, and he set himself to do that. They led him to the dead man's side. They drew aside the covering, and he looked with a sudden sense of horror at the garb and countenance of Death. It was a great shock. The fisherman's brow was discoloured by a huge bruise where he had been dashed against the rocks. His face bore no likeness to the ruddy, weather-beaten visage David remembered. In that moment Death looked a horrible and relentless monster ; one who for no seeming purpose had snatched this honest life from use and help- fulness, and turned it into a thing of cold and callous im- movability. " Won't 'ee say a prayer aside o' him, David ? Do— lOO CALVARY ^^fu ^'^® Kl entreated the weeping Rachel. But the bov. with a sudden choking terror, only threw back the covering over the dead face, and rushed from the room P^?^yer? Prayer to that, or about that/ 'it was im- possible. He could not realize Death— yet; could not disassociate physical feelings and passions from the stonv silence that had confronted him. He almost resented the sight he had been forced to regard. Why had his mother done this ? Why had she not let them take away that dreadful shell of humanity, and leave him to his remem- brance of the warm, hving life it had represented ? .1, ,i, T ^™^®!^ °" ^'^ ^"e'^s ^y ^'^ old familiar bed in the little low-roofed room, and, burying his face in his hands cried out for help-for explanation. Fragments of bcripture, familiar texts, swept to his mind, but they RnTm "^^^"'"^^^^^ ^^^''^ ^^°°i ^"y possible conception of The finality of Life. The horrible transformation of it into what his shuddering soul had just beheld. Half the force of scriptural allusion is lost when we are unable to realize the position of the speakers or actors in the drama. And to David the cries of woe had no connection with the consohng fragments that serve as epitaphs for tombstones. Ihe instinct of grief is to bemoan a loss, not to turn aside for consolation. For what consolation is there for JJeath I It IS so relentless— so inaccessible. And of the i^terwards who has told ? From what authority have we absolute certain truth of M^hat happens ? Where the thing we loved has -one ? Why and by what means it leaves us desolate and unanswered, when our hearts are breaking in anguish for its loss ? ® From none. Let priests say what they will, let Church and Sanctuary explain as they may, there is one secret kept from all • trom the King as from the beggar; from the Pope on his apostolic throne to the humblest devotee of self-sacrifice. It IS the secret of the Closed Door Behind tliat Closed Door none shall penetrate until it ^ closed upon themselves. From its other side no messenger, no speech, no nnmfnrf. has «"pr i-c„ipH fKof u too reliable for Doubt. ^ ''^^' ^^^^ '' lOI t if i CALVARY True, Faith vanquishes such doubt by some abnormal method of visuaUzed spirituality ; true, that Church and Priest tell of " hope beyond the tomb," and paint celestial blessedness to the best of finite abilities ; but it is only faith ; it is only hope ; it is not Certainty. In the chaos of his mind David tried to recall visions of spiritual messengers. Winged Hopes that had borne him to the shores of the invisible world. But though such things had seemed real and possible at the time, they re- fused to fit in now with that grim figure below. " He will not come back ; he will never speak to me again ! For days and nights that has been lying in the cold sea. Where was he all that time ? Where^is he now ? " So ran his thoughts as he knelt in the little bare room, and faced for the first time the actual mystery of eternal loss. How could one be sure of meeting again the beings one had known and loved on earth ? He recalled the histories of past ages ; of past cen- turies. Where were all those dead and vanished millions ? How amongst them could one hope to find just that special soul one had loved as one's own; held so dear and pre- cious that with its loss, life was valueless evermore ? " H w ? " the boy cried out. " How ? Oh, God ! tell me — show me ! Help me ! " » t> i " Through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Paul had said that. Paul the apostate. Paul breathing threat- enings and slaughters against the followers of Christ, and then struck do^vn and converted into one of His most ardent disciples ! But how did Paul know ? He wrote this in a letter— as one writes something one feels and believes. But to those who don't feel and don't believe the fact is unconvincing. They, too, turn and question. " A fact must be provable to be certain. What proof have you ? " The boy went over remembered phrases; remembered chapters. ' The familiar story of the Thief on the Cross ; the words ho had so often wondered at : " To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise." To-day ? Yet Christ had not ascended till three days afterwards ! I02 CALVARY He had not gone to Paradise, but to preach to the s ,ra in Hell. He was seen again on earth. He was tt.'died and spoken to— and spoke. " To-day shalt thou be with Me" could not have meant what it appeared to mean ; recognition, or meeting in Heaven. He had never thought such thoughts before. He liad accepted the future life as a sort of transition from the present. But then he had not been confronted with visible Death. He rose suddenly and went to the familiar little window, and looked out over the sea. It was calm and beautiful now. Yet how cruel it had been ! It had had no mercy on the toiling, useful life that had loved it and lived with it so long. There it rolled and sang and gleamed under the warm sunset, as it had always done. Was the sea of more importance than man ? At least, it existed and continued while he suffered and died. Generations of human lives had been born and forgotten, but the sea was there, the same as in the Beginning : the beautiful, treacherous, insatiable, untiring thing that was unlike all else, and yet embodied the whole of Creation s meaning; the generating of Life ; the supporting of Life ; and the destruction of Life. Its voice stole to him, calling with the resistless spell of old. He felt he must go to it. Perhaps there he would find his answer ; the reason of its mission and its cruelty. He ran down the ladder-like stairs. Rachel Perryn was in the kitchen as he passed through. " Where be 'ee goin' to, David ?" she cried. ,.^,„ ^ , , " On the sea— to my boat," he answered. 1 11 be back soon." , She sat there staring after the lithe, swift figure, amazed at his quick departure, at the seeming heartlessness of his manner. For twelve long months she had not seen him, and now he was out and away, having given no account of liis doings during that year ! She shed a few tears as women will ; tears of sorrow and loss and incomprehension. She had looked to the arrival of her boy as the one ray of comfort in this desolation, but he had seemed like a stranger. He would not even pray ! David found his boat in the old place. It had been 103 :^ii i , II, :-|i i CALVARY carefully looked after during his absence ; caulked and painted freshly for his expected return. There was no one about. He got in and rowed himself out to sea, and then lay Idly rocking on the long, slow swell of the waves Afar m the golden haze the beautiful Mount lifted itself in familiar greeting. He recalled the scene for which it stood as reminder. Not a year yet since he had slept at Its base, and beheld as in a dream that wonderful Figure and answered its lament by a vow that had changed his whole life. ^ " I must keep it," he told himself. " I cannot live here and become a mere fisherman." He looked down into the deep, deep waters. He lost himself as of old in the strange mystery of their move- ment and their song. His heart was heavy and ill at ease ; he felt a conscious- ness of failure. The war between duty and inclination had begun, and he had decided for— inclination. Then he re- solved to throw the onus of decision on his benefactor, burely he would see that Rachel Perryn was provided for • that she need not depend on him, or consign him to the precarious livelihood of these fishermen around He seized his oars, and rowed to the little sheltered cove where he had met the Wanderer. Oh, that he were there ^?V },J^^^ counsel were at his service, and his help at hand ! But the cove was desolate and the caverS empty. He threw himself down on the warm sands and gazed long and silently up at the wonderful tints of the evening skv What went on there ? Did angels live behind that blue and golden canopy, and was Good's throne set amidst its splendid mystery ? Was David Perryn there-wandering through Its spaces, lost amidst celestial loveliness ? He could not picture the rough fisherman in white, flowing raiment ; sweeping through space with wondrous wines • praising God on a harp, with a new gift of melody in his voice. Yet these were the gifts of Heaven. He had been Q. t"?' 5^^^^ ^.^^^ °^ *^^°^ ^n the Revelation of ?!, nu' ., wonderful series of dream-visions which the^ Church has interpreted as symbolical of the Future J04 CALVARY Lying there, his face propped on his hands and his eyes searching the vast immensity of sky and sea, David's thoughts grew more and more perplexed. This last year had - langed everything. He seemed to hold a separate individuality from that of the dreaming, unpractical child Who had lived a life of his own, and deemed himself chosen by God for His special service. Suddenly as ho lay there he was conscious of a feeling of horrible loneliness ; of being a single helpless atom in a great blank void ; of try- ing to wrest that atom from suiTounding nothingness ; of making it a visible, important thing that demanded notice— that cried to the Infinite : " Void, from whence I came, tell me ray purpose here ? Tell me why I am, and what is thy will with me ? " But there was no answer. He kept quiet for a long, long time. Then he half rose and knelt on the sands, and bent his ear to listen to the voice of the sea. How sad it seemed, and yet how strong ! How much it also knew of loneliness and pain, and vain effort. Was that what made it a rebel ? He recalled the Angel's words : "A rebel hast thou been, and a rebel still thou art, and they who love thee ever rue thy love.^^ ^^ The boy's voice rang out suddenly in a cry of longing : " Oh ! I want to know so much — so much ! And I am only lowly, and ignorant, and foolish ! Where can I learn ? How shall I know ? The life of the body is so short, and that of the soul so long. Is the one to suffer for the sins of the other through all Eternity ? " But through the silence swept only the moan of the sca- the endless, endless plaint that none can still, or comprehend. " David ! " cried a voice, deep and solemn as the sea's mystery. " Why are you here ? Is not your mission one of consolation to the mourner, not of idle dreams ? " The boy sprang to his feet; his face aglow, his lips parted in eager welcome. " Oh ! is it you ? Really and truly you ? Now— I shall know what it all means." He M-as kissing the hands he had seized in a sort of rapture of greeting. Sorrow, loneliness, doubt A^ere all forgotten. '"' Wliat what means ? What is puzzling you ? I had 105 tiA ' CALVARY not expected to find you here. You should be playing comforter to your foster-mother by all laws of natural affection ! " I— I could not stay there ! " cried David, releasing the haiid« »nd looking up with the old adoring wonder at the face In, loved best on earth. " It was horrible ! " he went on. " I had never seen any one I knew— dead." " But did not your f/iith help you ? Has not this past year taught you that the mystery of Life goes hand iu hand with Jie mystery of Death, and that both mean the per- petual tragedy oS our undesirable existence ? " "I had never '^lized Death," the boy repeated. "I could not imagine u ay thing so horrible— and so still" He shuddered. " But how is it you are here ? " he went on rapidly. " You told me we should not meet again for four years," " Unless you wanted me. But I felt you wanted me. This catastrophe was not reckoned with, was it ? I came to see whether you were going to play the part of the dutiful son ; take up the duties and life of the dead man who stood to you as father." ^^ '' That is what has been puzzling me," exclaimed David. ^ I never thought of such a thing until mother suggested It. Ought I to do it ? " His face was troubled. Irresolu- tion struggled with the sorrow in his voice. " You ought to do it— yes. By all laws of duty and self- sacrifice, and other beautiful and unpleasant human vir- tues ! Gratitude should at this moment be playing a prominent part in your thoughts, and your future should only be bounded by a stern impulse to do what you would hate doing, what you are unfitted for doing, and yet what you feel called upon to do because of these verv reasons. There is nothing in life so disagreeable as duty— or so misunderstood." " That does not help me," said David. " I want to know if my duty lies here at home, or if I am still free to carry out the plans you made for me ? " " Did you like your life at the College ? It has changed you, I can see." ^ „ ^ ^ike it ? It was splendid ! " exclaimed the boy. -Every day, every hour has been a j >/ a xue : " 106 CALVARY " And the old life — here — has lost all charm by con- trast ? " David was silent for a rnoment, his eyes ou tiio sea, that breathed a caressing mun ar at his feet. " Not fhat," he answered softly. " Never that ! I love it as mu h as ever. But — " " You needn't explain. The obligations attending your life under yonder hum!/- roof do i. it appeal to you any longer. Yet you might live here, and preach ns you pleased — possibly possess a deeper influonce by reason of associa- tions. It would be a humble career — true, but a useful one ; a safer one, perhaps." David looked up into the face of the speaker. There was a mocking light in his eyes, but his face was un- usually grave. It seemed to hold a sort of anxiety, so the boy thought, as if waiting on a response far more momen- tous than its challenge. " I mean to preach here," came the awaited answer ; " all the country over, as Wesley did. I want no set service or special church; only to speak God's message under God's own sky. But — the time is not yet. I feel that. I never knew how ignorant I was till I began to study the wisdom of great minds and learn the thou; hts of great thinkers. Now — I am only thirsting for njore knowledge. It would break my heart to lose that chance you promised me; three years more of the life I ha/e just left." " So far the experiment has been successful, then ? What of this friend you have made ? Is he of kindred tastes ? " " Yes. But he has chosen the Church : the orthodox form of Holy Orders. He is an enthusiast for ritual. To me such things seem insignificant beside the One Great Truth." " But the world at large will not come to hear the One Great Truth, unless its ears are tickled with pleasant sounds, and its eyes dazzled with pomp and splendour ! Man is of the lower order of things — evolved from the Beasts that^perish, and not half so noble or so faithful as those same Beasts in my humble opinion. Remember this, David ; you can only bring to any phase of life, or 107 •. ( CALVARY form of art, what is in yourself. The noblest beauty that earth can show to human eyes is no more than just what those eyes choose to see. Your efflorescent spirituahty wiil only appeal to those akin to your spirit. To others it may be a wonder, an enthusiasm, a short-lived ecstasy, but no more ! The professing priest, or the true servant of Heaven, can only influence those who choose to be influenced. Pear, curiosity, anxiety, emptiness of life drive many stray sheep into the fold of the Church. So does expediency. But beneath profession and protestation lie but the slime and loathesomeness of the prehistoric man. His desire for self-gratification, his cowardice, his revengefulness. To get at these and root them out and cro\vn the dismantled edifice with a new completeness is beyond the power of any Creed, or any Church ! If it were not, the world would be a very different thing to-day from the vicious spectacle it presents! But we have strayed from our starting-point. Let us get back. You will not be a fisher of the sea. It is still the "Fisher of Men that attracts you? Well, I never go back on a promise. You shall have the full four years of education agreed upon. I will come back with you now and make things right for your foster-mother. She will grieve no doubt. But that is a mother's fate. All her love is thrown back on herself. Rarely is it valued, rarely understood. tuven Mary of blessed memory, learnt that lesson." 1 08 Ill DAVID PERRYN was laid to rest in the little wind- swept churchyard above the sea he had loved and braved all his useful, kindly life. The whole village fol- lowed his coffin as the stalwart Comishmen bore it up the cliff, and along the hot and dusty road. David and Rachel walked side by side, and Godfrey St. Just was behind them walking with little Ruth and Zachariah Pascoe. The simple ceremony had in it that element of tragedy attending all seafaring life. So little seems to stand between the seas of Time and that greater one of Eternity. At any moment, any hour, the mystery may be faced ; the borderland crossed. As the little procession moved homewards to face again the risks and dangers they had just commemorated, a great gloom and heaviness fell upon them. The childhood, youth, and manhood of their buried comrade had been a part of themselves and their lives. He was the head of them all ; a simple, God-fearing, industrious man, and his fate seemed cruel and uncalled for. The two comrades who had shared his boat and perished in its wreckage had not yet been found. Doubtless they were beyond recog- nition now. Both were married and had children. Their loss meant distress and hardship to the innocent bemgs left behind. It seemed a cruel fate and an undeserved one. David thought of it as he walked back with Rachel Perryn, and helped her to get her simple belongings to- gether. For she was to leave the cottage and hold the position of lodge-keeper at Trebarwick Hall. Her future was so far assured ; and an intense relief was in tLe boy's mind. He was not called upon to sacrifice mind for body ; mental for physical necessities. Rachel had heard the decision meekly, and accepted it 109 Ill CALVARY in the same spirit. After all, David was not her own son. She could not expect that he should prove more true to his adopted calling than to his natural instincts. Deep as was his passion for the sea, it carried with it no predilection for the toil and hardships connected with a fisherman's life. His innate refinement and spirituality shone clear as a lamp's flame through all enveloping obscurity. This one year had wrought a magical difference m the boy, and the poor Cornish woman's love held some- thing now of awe and adoration. She felt that for some unexplained reason she had been privileged to foster a young saint. And when David talked with her or read to her, or bestowed on her any of that passing tenderness boyhood condescends to offer motherhood,' her whole heart thrilled with pride and joy. She felt that he was called to a life she could never touch, or even imagine. Every year would widen the difference between them, lifting him higher above her comprehension, though never above her love. Every year— first those of education and separation, then those of vocation. But she felt that none of these could rob her of her first possession of the child ; of the memory of his clinging arms, his babbling, broken words, his faltering steps that she had guided and pro- tected; his first prayers, his first teaching. Like aii bruised and abused motherhood, she treasured these things in her heart; seeing still in the boy the helpless in- fant, hearing even in the echo of manUer tones the first pretty prattle that had been music tc her ears. David, in gratitude for the release he had scarcely hoped for, was more attentive and devoted to her than he had ever been. It seemed quite a familiar thing to see him and his friend in her pretty lodge parlour ; to give them tea and Cornish cakes, and Cornish cream, and the simple, homely fare the boy had known of old. She liked David's friend, and frankly showed her liking. There was a gaiety and bonhomie about the lad that David lacked ; also a spirit of advonturousness that appeals to feminine minds. On the whole, those two holiday months were a pleasant experience for both the boys. Craddock unbent to genial companionship, and in his interest in their vivid intelli- gonco almost forgot to be cynical at its expense. The only no CALVARY drop of bitterness in that cup of simple pleasures was sup- plied by the abrupt departure of the Wanderer. As soon as David's affairs were settled he disappeared again ; giving no excuse, taking no farewell, and making no promise of any meeting nearer at hand than that previous appoint- ment for David's seventeenth birthday. The birthday of his finding and adoption — the only one he knew. The boys spent much of their time on the sea ; sailing, or rowing, or fishing; exploring the many coves and caverns ; excursionizing to the numerous spots of beauty and places of interest that make the Cornish coast an end- less delight. Sometimes Craddook would accompany them. But oftener he left them to themselves. In those long days and summer nights the garden and the open air made life an outdoor, not a conventional, thing. Sometimes they had music, and both Craddock and David would listen with delight to Godfrey's wonderful playing and wonderful voice. Then there would be long talks, and dissertations on the subject nearest their heart. Craddock loved to draw out their enthusiasms and contrast them with their crude knowledge of the inner meaning of such things. Sometimes he would read to them from works at once subtle and unanswerable ; explain embryonic pro- cesses of thought ; show up bizarre contrasts of super- stition and ignorance, strange creeds of mingled truth and falsehood; mythology, Jewish bigotry, Romish arrogance. The wars of the Intellect and the Soul all had their place on those crowded shelves, and added their quota of con- fusion to the general fabric of human knowledge. Portions and extracts were greedily absorbed and assimilated by the young brains into which life was pouring a restless eagerness for experience. " Don't be too eager," cautioned the Squire. " Nothing we know is too certain for doubt. The bed-rock of Know- ledge is not always as steadfast as it looks. Common experiences of life we feel to be inevitable, but apart from those experiences may lie unexplored fields of mystery. The hard part of all is that no individual life is half or a quarter long enough to explore even one field thoroughly. -.- |-itv. r'l i-;'_-tiic ol,'l L VlicuKa IL IIIIU- way, or engulfs it in the nothingness of Death. The III ;ir- I I'l- '^ CALVARY highest philosophy can only console us by sa)dng that such accidents and barriers may be of some possible good ; but M-e don't want possibilities, we want realities — and we don't get them ; at least, not in this uncomfortable and mismanaged world ! Thought is an ocean vast as that encircling our globe ; but its waters break on shores of pain and doubt. Here and there some kindred thought touches another, even as the shipwrecked touch a rock or reef. Life cUngs desperately to promised safety. But on the rock there is no water, and on the reef no food, and the poor derelict is as badly off as when the ocean first engulfed him." It said much for youth's enthusiasm that it sailed buoy- antly over all such arguments, or escaped the fatal quag- mires of doubt. Possibly that element of spirituality at which the Squire so often wondered, was as yet too im- personal and too strong for question or for hair-splitting. Besides, if others had been wrong, these two young re- formers were to be right. To show the Way ; to preach the Crusade as no one in or out of Orders had yet preached it. The shining ideal of a New Jerusalem, to be founded by themselves on one broad area of spirituality, was an ideal they never lost sight of. Pure and bright as the Day Star of Hope, it shone in the horizon of their future. Craddock watched them with a sullen wonderment. He recalled his own youth ; the youth of all manhood, when the senses awaken and the mysteries of life are fraught with a passionate desire for indulgence. How was it that these lads escaped both the prurience of evil curiosity, and the allurement of easy vice ? He had sounded Godfrey to meet only indignant repudiation. As for David, sex had as yet no meaning, and the subtle chords of emotion- alism were only roused to discord by evil suggestions. It was a singular fact, but it was an undeniable one. The pulse and passion of youth were here, but not its animalism. The senses could not defile the soul, nor the body corrupt the intellect. As a vivisector handles the scalpel, so did Craddock handle these unconscious subjects; submitting them to tests and temptings, yet persistently bafHed, not by ignor- ance, but indiilerence. Ho could not resist the fascination 112 'I, ii CALVARY of this study. He tried, as others have tried, to fathom the mystery between psychical and physical impulses ; to trace the birth of the one in the maturity of the other But he confessed himself baffled. These souls were seated on a higher throne than he could reach. The shadow- house of Sm had not yet claimed them for tenants. He recalled the explanation of that unconventional Lollege which had been given him in Paris; a place where each student had but one object and mission ; to teach others what he felt to be true in himself. As for the train- ing and its method, these boys had shown him how wise a one it was. To Craddock— with what Craddock knew of the usual Divinity student's training— ii certainly seemed to have worked for one object, and worked well. He thought of the two great English Universities. Oxford, that depressing and mediaeval refuge of " lost causes and impossible beliefs " ; and Cambridge, with its laxity and luxvry and free-thought. He recalled the lives their young pseudo-Christians led as preparation for God's ministry; the wine-parties, the drinking bouts; the escapades and immoralities, the debts and extravagances by which they prepared themselves to become Teachers of Men ; examples of spiritual life ! He found himself wondering whether in either case the system was at tault ? In the one, experience was thrust into the hands ot Ignorance as a necessary weapon for life's warfare; in the other, temptation was proved to have no ethical value, and the psychological phenomenon of purity crystal- lized life into a seemingly impregnable fortress. Conscience played a more active part than curiosity. The sensuous instincts were not denied, but they were appointed their proper place in the scheme of things. They became an interest of the future, that Time would place or satisfy Of course, Craddock recognized that only exceptional natures could accept such teaching or profit by its wisdom. i5Ut, as far as he could learn, that curious admixture of races and creeds all possessed this substratum of spirit- uality, more or less ready for development. The marvel was how they all drifted to that one spot; dropped into a natural setting of defined psvcholoev. He half madA up Uia mmd to visit the College again ; to interview that re- ^ 113 fiiiiii CALVARY markable President whose praises were so constantly sung, and whose system spoke for itself. '^^ He was astonished at the extraordinary difference his acquaintance with David had made in his life. How vivid its interests had grown. With what eagerness he looked forward to that time when the semi-finished product of his guardianship should burst upon an astonished world as a modern Savonarola ! It amused him to think how he could work those springs of astonishment ; how his wealth and influence might aid the young enthusiast even to the founding of a new Church to fit a new Preacher. But would the enthusiasm last ? Would that religious passion kindle other souls and affect other lives, and wake the world from spiritual lethargy to a sense of higher duties and nobler ideals ? He wondered ? He didn't believe it possible. The world had grown blind and deaf to all save its own pleasures and follies. It worshipped but one god; one with an added letter to the name ; a single letter. But it made all the difference between the mammon of unrighteousness and the cult of good. " Well, we shall see," he told himself at this point of speculation, and then went to his bookshelves, and won- dered if he should try the effect of some writer more daring and more unscrupulous than had yet played the unworthy part of assailant. To his credit's sake, be it said, he resisted for once. It was the last evening of their holiday. He resolved to leave them in peace. The boys were wandering in the garden in the flooding light of the August moon. Godfrey had been making David tell him that story of the vision on the Mount. He had repeated it with the same certainty of its meaning ; of his call to fulfil a mission — directed and ordained. In the clear golden light his face wore an almost un- earthly beauty. He lost himself once more in that be- wildering memory; thrilled with rapture and impatience of tlie coming time when he should speak as he would be told to speak ; when the live coal of inspiration should be lifted frnm God's altar and laid upon his lips. 114 CALVARY " You are not sorry to go back ? " asked Craddock, coming suddenly to their side. They were standing in the opening of the glade that showed the sea and the strange, crouching rock, set in this frame of arching boughs Goc^rey started. " Oh-it's you ? I can answer for myself I am very sorry to leave here. It has been a splendid time. But all the same " The Squire laughed. " You are certainly exemplary products of modern culture, you and David ; anxious for learning instead of trying your best to evade it." " Have you not said that life is not half long enough for all we want and ought to know ? " ''Not a millionth part long enough, if this life were all." said Craddock. he'^sk^d ^'"'"''^^ .-> a friend in me. I have watched you carefully during your time here. It seems strange to have to say it, but I can point to no neglect of duty, no faults of conduct, no evasion of discipline. Such a record is almost unexampled. It is accounted for by an innate strain of spirituality that seems to hold you apart from common weakness as from common faults. But I should like to advise you that it is just that strain of spirituality which will be the stumbling-block in your future life. You must learn to look into things, not over them. You must allow for weakness and imperfection as the inheritance of humanity. You cannot reproduce in those imperfections the beautiful fabric of your dreams. Still, those dreams are too divine to peiish. Heaven grant you a portion at least of their fulfilment. Our ideals rarely achieve realization. But if they were not higher than our human reach of them, they would cease to be ideal. You have a great mission to accomplish, at once the greatest and most difficult of any that man has coveted, or God or- dained. But in essaying its fulfilment you will taste a diviner joy than mere humanity knows of ; possibly a bitterer despair. Yet the joy — be it ever so brief — is worth all else in life. To have performed one great action, created one great work, given the world one great thought for which it is the happier and the better — this is to touch the ecstasy of Creation. No one but the creator com- prehends that ecstasy. Its birthright holds the first Thought that made a World. In a lesser and more imperfect manner we make our world ; creating our joys and sorrows, our sins and our punishments, our doom and our salvation. This is Life ; forming out of chaos its own hopes and faiths ; falsifying or ennobling them as seems best or proves inevitable." David listened silently to the calm, impressive voice. Every word sank into his heart, and was destined to be remembered in after years with the bitterness of regret. Failure — as yet — he had not reckoned with. It seemed a far-off, impalpable thing. The zeal of the enthusiast was as a consuming fixe. M\ the world, it seemed to him, had 119 li m CALVARY but to hear and it would believe ; to accept the message of Divine Love, and straightway the desert would bloom as a rose and the dry places become as rivers of joy » lie had shut his ears to the hints of impossibiUties. A force was m him, and would speak through him, that should awaken and startle and heal by its message. His hot youth his passionate faith, his crude enthusiasms— these stood for Life : the life that he had been told each self created for itself ; suffered for, died for. His own soul nad long breathed a diviner air than earth knew of But he would teach earth of its existence and its gifts of ecstasy He would pour out to it what had been poured into him- self, his dreams, his prayers, his enthusiasms Thus equipped for the battle of life, he bade farewell to its second landmark. Boyhood had passed, and now youth and manhood con- fronted each other on the borderland of Freedom There was no one to stay his feet, no one to check by word or deed his impulse to go forward and go far. With a calm self-sufficiency he took the first forward step He bade farewell to the mountain solitudes, the semi- monastic, studious life. It was the supreme hour. Youth alone knows it; all the wide, white high-road lies before Its eyes ; all is possible to its adventuring-or its hopes. Ihe sea had first called the spirit of the boy ; then the great solemn heights of the mountains and the whispers of the woods. Now it was the Road that led through the valley and beckoned him to essay its mysteries. He had chosen to walk to the distant town, from whence he would have to entrain for the French frontier Godfrey had promised to accompany him, but at the last moment had murmured of a previous promise to camp ^XiJJ r'^ T'^'i ?" ^^"""^^ ^^"g« in «°^Pany with Bari and two other students. He promised to join David S Jfv^ ff ^ ""^^^^ ^^*''' ^"^' ^i*h ^ «e'tain hurt dignity, the excuses were accepted. " I ought not to mind. I wonder why I do ? " reflected David as he walked through the massive wooden gate way and realized that he was quite alone; unfettered ummpeded by aught but innlir.ation, The great Sees 1 20 iie message )uld bloom rs of joy ! jilities. A him, that sage. His lusiasms — told each 3 own soul V of. But of ecstasy, into him- arewell to hood con- n. There 7 word or th a calm the semi- :. Youth ies before hopes, then the whispers ough the vn, from frontier. ; the last to camp any with in David lin hurt reflected en gate- fettered, at trees CALVARY towered around hira, the road stretched before. The noonday sun was liot, but these green shades tempered it to coolness. For a few = ^raents the boy stood looking back at the heavy gates, ^ui inevitable regret at inevi- table change possessed him. There he had been so safe, 80 happy. Would the world beyond ever grant such gifts again ? A sens(^ of profound soUtude touched him with a sense of profound loneliness. '• My soul and— God ! " ho thought. " There seems nothing else ; nothing else." His first human friend had proved faithless. How often would that lesson be repeated in the book of Experience ? With a sudden effort he pulled his cap over his eyes, seized his thick stick, and set off. Rapid motion stilled thought for a while. The music of the woods, the warm pine scents, the chequered light and shade each played their part of consolation. For half a mile or so he went swiftly on, his mind set upon reaching a quaint little village where he meant to stay the night. A turn of the road brought him to a sudden halt. Then— he gave a little gasp of joy. Loneliness and regret vanished as mists before the sun. All the green and golden loveliness around took on a magic it had not worn before. "I thought you were never coming, David," said a voice that played on the strings of his heart as a musician on his favoured instrument. They stood with clasped hands ; the Wanderer and him- self; and though the brown eyes laughed at the eager young face, there was something misty and strange in their depths. "Did you come to meet me ? Oh, how wonderful — how good ! But — how did you know I should be coming along this road ? " fee " How ? Haven't you discovered that Chance always stands my friend ? I had a presentiment you would walk back to freedom, and walk out of your prison alone; as, indeed, is the best and wisest way to greet what we call liberty. After all, it is only a promise of joys to be — never a fulfilment. But — let me look at vou. No infant Samuel any longer, are you, my David ? Youth, proud and con- 121 III! HE SCI"' '■ if r ! ill nmi • >i ;t| n CALVARY fident, sits enthroned on your brow ! But the dreams are in your eyes still. How much longer are they to dwell there, I wonder ? " " Oh, but it's good to hear you talk again ! " cried the boy. " How I have wondered about you ! Where you were ? If we should ever meet ? Not a word or sign for three whole years ! " " But I made no promise. I left you to your choice of life. Now I come to see what it has done— or left undone. I am going back with you to England. Do vou know that?" David's eyes glowed. "Ah, that is splendid news! The best I could have heard. I've been wondering whether Mr. Craddock would meet me in Paris. He hinted at it in his last letter." "Then he probably will," said the Wanderer, who looked as dusty and travel- stained and yet as much a personahty of importance as on their first meeting. " You had better make some further acquaintance with the gay Capital, my young prophet. Would you not like to see something more of it than its churches, and its Arts? There is another and very different life outside those Temples of Hypocrisy. You should bring your spiritual instincts to bear upon it." " Why ? " asked David. The only answer was a laugh ; a sudden adjustment of a well-worn knapsack; a seizure of the staff that had fallen from his grasp in the first enthusiasm of greeting. Let us proceed. I suppose Wolfberg is your destina- tion ? There is an inn there just at the junction of forest and high-road. It is no bad resting-place for a traveller." " Any place and any road is a joy in your company ! " exclaimed David. " I seem only to recognize how much I have missed you when I see you and hear you again." " That flatters my egoism," said his companion. " What a tall stripling you are, David ! Ruddy and fair as your Biblical namesake. Longing to combat a possible Goliath I doubt not ! And now tell me how you have liked your life at my College of Community. Is it not a veritable forcing-house of original virtue ? " '' Your College ? " questioned David. 122 CALVARY " I was its first Founder in Idea— if not in absolute fact. Klausthal is merely my deputy commander-in-chief. I thought it a pity that so many fine enthusiasms should be going a-begging in a cold and callous world. So I set about instituting a place for their culture. It seemed to me no mean ambition to send forth at stated periods a host of young and eager missionaries, all bent on reforming and spiritualizing humanity. From North, South, East, and West of the habitable globe I gathered them — their only passport for admission a single-minded vocation such as yours, David. But you must have discovered this unity of mission for yourself ? " " Of course. It meant our whole life— there." " Exactly. And worked well for its object. I have had few failures — as far as the College and its influence went. But when the after tests were applied " He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose it's inevi- table. Man will be man, however spiritually minded. There is an inherent grossness and brutality about the creature, only exceeded by the more subtle grossness and more refined cruelties of his feebler counterpart— Woman. Between the two most of my schemes have come to wreck- age. Yet so strong a thing is hope that I still believe. I still look for that one Faithful Messenger who shall play his appointed part, and play it unwaveringly — to the end." His voice grew strangely solemn. Its deep musical tones thrilled the young, eager heart that drank in their meaning. Would he too fail ? Would he too fall from his " high estate "—dragged earthwards by the evil within and the temptations without ? A sense of sadness crept over him, dimming the beauty of the noonday and the glory of the shadowy woods. Darkness, helplessness, loneliness— these swept to his mind like threats of future ill. They were bound to come. No life marched along in the sunlight of success, or glowed with the satisfaction of well-doing. To be earth-born was to be sin-bound. He had learnt that ; read it ; seen it. Art was tarnished with that corroding stain, and human love, and spiritual ambitions however pure. 1' Why ^ " ' You look troubled, mv voun'? I was thinking how wonderful it was that you should 123 T CALVARY have done such a noble work, and how hard that those you have helped " " Have proved but human ? That is only natural. I do not complain of the humanity of spirituality. The vessel is not accountable for the quality of the wine. It merely holds it, or gives it forth. But I complain of the hypocrisy that pretends spirituality is untainted by humanity ; that has set up an office which allows of neither criticism nor reprimand ; that works untold ill in secret, and murders more souls than it saves ! " " The office of the Church ? " asked David. " The office of those who have stripped the Church of all true meaning." " And yet you have founded this College for priests and teachers ! " exclaimed David. " No ; for individual religious training, which, if it turns out priests and teachers, shall at least turn them out on rational principles : teach them first the pure beauties of Nature, the simple austerities of life, instead of ladling out the scum and viciousness of a University town." "But" — hesitated the boy, "you yourself say this is only preliminary ? The real struggle, the real battle, is to begin when those gates close, as they closed on me to-day ? " " That is true. I asked you if the preparation was worthy of the pupil ? " " It was splendid ! We all agreed to that. I never saw a discontented face, or heard a dissatisfied expression. I think the secret was that sense of perfect freedom, and yet of wise restraint. We were not left to imagine for- bidden joys ; they were explained to us. Our reading, our teaching, our life were all in beautiful harmony —at once simple and satisfying. Body and mind seemed to work together, and " " And God saw that it was good," quoted the Wanderer softly. 124 ration was DAVID'S next experience was one of delicious idle days. Of roaming through woods and highways; sleeping in quaint inns ; rising in cool dawns to taste the joys of morning and revel in the miracle of its birth ; penetrating into mysteries of green glades for noontide rest ; tracking Nature's footpaths through aisles of forest, and listening and wondering through it all to the never-ceasing charm of his companion's talk. He read romance into everything; found chronicles of history in stone and wood, and mountain height and forest glade. He filled the hours with delight; his tongue seemed a magician that worked magic for the listener's ears, and certainly never was listener more easily pleased than David. As they neared the Austrian capital he made no secret of his regrets. From Wien to Paris meant prosaic trains ; heat and dust and noise ; no loitering by stream ; no dreaming in delicious shadow of deep woods ; no rest- ing or moving where and as one pleased to the fancy of the golden moments. But the date of Craddock's arrival in Paris was already over-strained, and David knew that he was expected. The Wanderer drove him to the hotel where he had previously stayed, and then left him to "retire to his garret and adopt civilized raiment," as he put it. He promised to return later, and join David's guardian and himself at dinner in the Place de la Madeleine, at one of the quieter restaurants. Craddock looked in astonishment at the tall stripling who had sprung into young manhood since their last meeting. " How altered you are ! " he exclaimed. " And how well you look ! " " i am well," said David, " and I suppose you do find 135 b f ls\'^ h, m it CALVARY me altered. It's two years since I saw you. I hope I've not put you to inconvenience by being so long on mv journey ? " " o & ^ly " I knew how i. would be," said the Squire. " I received an explanation which must serve as excuse. One does not expect kings to condescend to ordinary mortals " David laughed. " Was it like that ?" he said. "lean quite believe it. His will is command and excuse in one It was very kind of you to trouble about meeting me " he went on " But I could have made my wav here quite well I have learnt French and German in the best way— by hearing them constantly spoken, and being forced to speak them m return." '' You have made good use of your time," said Craddock with a quick, critical glance. " But we'll defer explana- tions for the present. Your luggage has arrived and is in your room. I should recommend a bath and a change before we go out to dinner. By the way, our friend is to call for us here, is he not ? " "He said he would dine with us at Durant's, near the Madeleine," said David. "That's well. Eight o'clock, I suppose ? Your number IS seventy-seven. Ask for the key at the bureau." -Uavid left the room, wondering somewhat at the cool- ness of his jeceptiori. He could not know how the change m him had startled his ex-guardian, and still held him wondering There was a composure, an ease about the boy quite distinct from the gaucherie or the self-assurance that usual y characterizes his age. And he was so ex- traordinarily good-looking ! The fair tints of boyhood had deepened to a warm, healthy colour. His hair had darkened from gold to bronze-a curly, sun-flecked mass that tumbled in loose waves about his head. He was as tall as Craddock himself; wiry, well knit, muscular. lout hfmtjeune hammer muttered the Squire as he Thitn ;?; nP*^''- '.' ^"^y ^"'^ «y^« ^r« unchanged. Ihe soul of the Dreamer is in them still. Will Paris waken mm, 1 wonder ? " nnSt"^.J!l.^'^'"^ '^^ favourite out-of-doors existence, ^a.es f^nci restaurants were crowded 136 the lighted avenues CALVARY were thronged with sauntering, appraising, curious men. and myiting women; an endless crowd searching and disdaining each other ; setting the stamp of a grotesque and hideous meaning upon commonplace interests of lite ; asking of pleasure what sated senses had half ex- hausted. Seated at one of the open windows of the restaurant, l^avid looked out and down upon the ever-restless, chatter- ing crowds. Craddock was opposite; the third member of the party had not yet arrived. The Squire watched the young thoughtful face with excusable curiosity. Did the boy understand more of what such scenes meant than on the occasion of hib last visit ? There was no translating that serene calm into more than just— interest : interest in something new and vivid and grotesque. For it always struck Craddock that the street life of Paris was grotesque ; a parade of indecency ; a lurid advertisement ot suggestion ; a ridiculous endeavour to please the senses at any cost, at any sacrifice. At present the city was given up to bourgeois enjoyment and to curious tourists. Hordes of Americans eager to know If French vice had anything to teach that New York or Chicago could not outrival; impassive middle-class i^nghshmen, chary of the language, but convinced that wickedness at once diabolical and amazing lurked beneath the brilhant surface of Boulevard hfe ; women extrava- gantly dressed, exquisitely painted : costly toys that any man might buy; soulless, sexless weeds cast upon this slutting sea, content with what the day or the hour might bring forth : for whom such a word as morality had pos- sessed no meaning from childhood upwards. Later on, when dinner was over, the Squu-e suggested an adjournment to the Champs Elys^es. They strolled along to one of the cafes-chantanta that are the delight of the Parisian soul. This was a new experience for David one that astonished him too utterly for expression. These lialt-nude figures, the vulgar songs, the impudent gestures, the wild, frenzied dances, were absolutely incomprehen- sible as— pleasure. They did not even amuse. The vnilfid suggusiiveness of words disgusted him ; the tawdry figures, i»7 1; 'H aiHy-m.-. ■■■■.■,■;-, . n CALV7iRY with their paint and powder and false je\vellery, were absolutely repellant. Neither curiosity nor interest awoke at such invitation : only a sense of disgust more akin to the fastidiousness of maidenhood than the dawning reck- lessness of youth. The Wanderer looked at Craddock and smiled somewhat cynically. " Parsifal wasn't in it vnth our Galahad," he said. " You will have to find more subtle temptations than these, my good St. Lucifer." An angry flush rose to Craddock's face. " Do you sup- pose that it is to tempt him we are here ? Didn't the Spartans make their slaves drunk so that their sons should be disgusted with the effects of wine ? What else am I doing ? " " Oh ! I am sure your motives are unimpeachable. To know the world, the flesh, and the — other person, is just as necessary as to avoid their acquaintance once you do know them. Well, I'm going to drink absinthe and moralize. What about you ? " They were seated at one of the numerous tables scat- tered about as hints of expected consommations. The Squire ordered iced minerals for David and himself, and the absinthe his companion desired. He watched him as he dropped the water through a perforated spoon until the green hquid became opalescent ; watched him as he sipped it with the enjoyment of the connoisseur. " What an extraordinary being you are ! " he exclaimed. "You seem to combine the primitive tastes of Arcadia with the artificial enjoyment of civilized life. How do you do it ? " David turned quickly. He, too, was marvelling at the difference between the wild Bohemian of the woods and highways, and this conventionally attired though always picturesque person, who had enjoyed a five-course dinner and smoked endless cigarettes, and now was sipping the insidious poison of the Boulevards as if it were a celestial liquor. " How do I do it ? " The strange anomaly threw back " " are I know his head and laughed softly. " Contrasts," he said. the salt of life, as some one has wisely observed. 128 CALVARY how to use that savour for the better flavouring of mv daily food. There— you have my secret." !! ^°" °^®^" *^^* monotony is death to all enjoyment ? " Exactly. And variety is enjoyment. Change and differentiation of every duty, obligation, and interest in lite IS the only way to make life an interest and a pleasure JVo two skins are alike ; no two aspects of Nature • no two loves or attractions. I have modelled my existence upon Nature's changes as upon Nature's truths. Life is for me a kaleidoscope of endless variety, its patterns for ever varying. Were I not aristocrat at heart I should not enjoy vagabondage. Were I vagabond only " "You cer^amly are not that," interrupted Craddock hastily. " Merci, monsieur ! But, with all due respect, I am— that. It IS the life I love best : the only true life for the philosopher, unless he is a crabbed Scots philosopher like our beloved Cariyle. Why did he ever essay matrimony ? No poet, or artist, or philosopher should ever marry It 18 the resource of fools. You, my friend, agree with me, 1 know, seeing that your Cornish Paradise is perfected bv no modern Eve." Craddock frowned. " I hate women," he said roughly. Ihe choicest flowers in life's garden ! Why do vou hate them ? " >' j " Why do you ? " The Wanderer shrugged his shoulders and drained his glass of absinthe slowly to its end. " I hate nothing and no one," he then said. " Hate is a very strong passion, my good Squire, though it implies an inner weakness of mind. You ought not to hate any man who has wronged you, because he is bound to suffer for that wrong sooner or later. You ought not to hate any woman for betraying you, or for not coming up to your Ideals of her imperfections, because she is too much the slave of her emotions to help herself. If you once elevated your soul one quarter of an inch above the hurrying mischievous crowd of the commonplace ants of the ant' heap you would only regard the spectacle as amusing. Lift rhft i-»l>!!<»qni">""»' Int.r"'- • 1-f *'- - '^ i. ..... "-" ,, t". I--"- ■"•'{"" ' lat.gii , ict tiic v^reator piry i It is easier to talk than to act." !! K 129 i I CALVARY *' My dear Ciaddock, what a trite and unoriginal remark ! That is the fault of iced mineral water. Take an absinthe or a 'fine champagne,' and your wits will respond to the atmosphere around, as mine do. With regard to David — we need not mind. Galahad only beheld the Grail, even at tourney and tournament. There is a good deal of both around us, I know, but to the pure in heart all is pure. I am going to have another absinthe. What about you ? " ^^ " Oh, as you please ! " exclaimed Craddock recklessly. " If I hold no higher place than that of an example in what to avoid, at least it is an easy part to play." The drinks were ordered, rather to David's surprise. Ho leant back in his chair and watched the sauntering figures. Scents of patchouli and powder filled the warm night air. Dainty skirts whisked by, held by daintily gloved hands that seemed to recognize the art of elevation as one of suggestion. There was an endless murmur of voices, an endless chorus of mirthless laughter. The lamplight fell on costly toilettes, on scented billows of chiffon and lace ; on the set smile of lips to whom smiling was a trade ; on eyes flashing provocation, or impudently appraising the worth of a glance. The boy wondered what it all meant. Here and thore a face, commonplace in com- parison with works of art, stood out of a crowd of others, as full of wonder as his own. But they were few and far between. It was the hour of Paris the Courtesan ; home- lier types of womanhood held aloof. Suddenly David was conscious of a voice in his ear — a sudden perfume floating on the air. He looked up. " Par- don, monsieur; ma dentelle — c'est entortillee par voire chaise ! " Something soft and white and gossamery was entangled about his feet. Someone stooped forward, laughing and tugging at refractory skirts. David sprang up and moved his chair. The dress was rescued ; he murmured apology. The lady in question had paused for a few moments at the next table to speak to two Frenchmen who were sitting there. Her eyes had rested on the rapt, beautiful boy-face that looked so out of keeping with such a scene as this. Subterfuge having succeeded, she went on talking. Crad- 130 V « nal remark ! an absinthe 3ond to the to David — Grail, even leal of both all is pure, ^hat about recklessly, example in y." rprise. He •ing figures. 1 night air. Dved hands as one of voices, an tiplight fell i and lace ; 3 a trade ; appraising vhat it all e in com- l of others, Bw and far m ; home- his ear — a tp. ''Par- par voire entangled ghing and Lud moved d apology, mts at the ere sitting il boy-face le as this, ig. Crad- The one with annoy- CALVARY dock and his companion looked on. ance, the other with amusement. The vivacious French voice rattled on : " Vous Hes An- gh <; on comprend cela. I know your countree. I haf been there — once — twice. Mais I like it not so well as my Paris. This— the first time you kom to Paris V Yes ? And what you think— eh ' Is it not beautiful : gay ; ador- able .? " ^ ^ " I am only just arrived," said David in careful French. *' That so ? Then you haf much to learn. Here — I come and sit beside you ; and messieurs — your friends " She wheeled swiftly round, then caught sight of the Wanderer's face under the soft slouched hat he wore. " Mon Dieu ! Sacre mille tonnerres ! But what do you here ? " she cried. " I see you last— it is two years, is it not ? The Chateau Rouge at Montmartre 1 Et ma foi, but what a night ! And you made us a discourse philoso- phique. Recall it then — so amusing and so serieux ! How we laughed and wept ! For me it was an extase ; a won- der ! You remember me — eh ? " The slouched hat was doffed with elaborate formality. " Since you say we are acquainted, I must only deplore my bad memory. Doubtless I was at the ball you mention. I am well acquainted with Montmartre and its various pleasure haunts." "All, you speak with a too excellent formahty, mon ami ! Not thus was it at the Chateau. But — n'importe I You invite me, do you not ? I will take a hock. It makes so hot, and the air is so full of dust ! " She dropped into a chair and began to fan herself with a big paper fan that hung from a ribbon at her waist. There was nothing for it but to make the best of this self- invited intruder. David seated himself again. He was amused and interested by the unceremonious methods of the woman. She was very pretty in a piquant, vivacious way ; she owed a good deal to her dress and her coiffure, and a certain restless manner of turning and looking and speaking. Her dark hair was elaborately arranged. Her hat was of the latest mode. Her dress, all airiness and laCmeSS. bore the sf.n.inn nf n. o-nnrl vnnnnotin (\r\r,'^ ani^\^A into place with the strange trio, she kept up a running fire 131 I i CALVARY of questions and remarks. Craddock's French was too rusty to permit tiim much enjoyment of the slang or the witticisms with which her rapid chatter was seasoned, besides, it amused him more to smoke and to watch David's wondering face. The boy could not keep pace with the rapid interrogations and comments that fell like rattline hailstones on his ears. His French was still somewhat laboured, and m need of dictionaries and vocabularies at critical moments. Perhaps that was as well. The Wanderer, however, appeared to enjoy this ren- contrc His friend, who re-introduced herself as Mdlle Julie Blanche, otherwise Poucette, of .he Folies Berg^res made herself quite at home. She kept recalling that eventful night of the Bal Bacchanalian, painting the scene for his two friends with all the art and aid of eyes and nands and quaint phraseology. David seemed to see it all : the crowded room ; the choking, dusty atmosphere ; the wild, dishevelled figures • and then this one man springing suddenly up in the gallerv and addressing them all in his whimsical fashion, holding the whole mad Bohemian crowd of dancers and drinkers still and silent \^hile the torrent of his arresting speech nowed on. ° ^ " Figure to yourself, then, that for one whole week I become quite good— quite pious. I go to Mass, but not to Confession. I drink but the orangeade. I make no appointments. I hve even as a recluse. I say to myself • It IS a matter of pride to be a woman ; to have the in- ttuence and the power of a woman. And when I dance my dances of a night I am sedate and convenaUe. But yes— for seven long days anu nights I live on those words, and by their light I guide myself. And then-suddenly it de- parts Itself— the whim, the resolution ! I meet the young Vicomte de Laon. Ah, he is si hon gar^on ! Bel et hrave comme le jeune monsieur pr^s de moi." (She glanced coquettishly at David.) " I take also to mvself the task of conversion. I begin tout r) fait une nouvelle methode. 1 give you my word, it is true ! We philosophize : we walk in the woods; we adore Nature; we drink the orangeade and the eau minerale ; we speak of life so great and so important ; and then " 132 CALVARY She broke off abruptly. Her wicked eyes were dancing with amusement. She looked from one face to the other. '' Continuez, mon enfant" said the Wanderer, draining his second absintlie with due solemnity. " Nom de diable I Then it happens as always. One night he say to me : 'Ah ! comme je Vadore ! Let us not play at saints any longer.' A lover cannot make life less perfect. Without love no life is perfected." " I understand," said the philosopher gravely. " My good deed fell on stony ground, and the birds of pleasure gobbled it up." " What would you ? " asked Mdlle. Poucotto, with another shrug. " Had you been at hand I should have sought your counsel. You might have helped me. But— I see you no more, though many times I go to the Chateau Rouge and promenade the Boulevard des Italicns. But no, you are vanished— gone. I haf to console myself with le petit Vicomte. He is rich and generous. And philosophy —hein ! It is but a thing of shabby clothes and scant food, and the trees and the sky " " And the approval of your conscience." " Ah ! I think I have not one. I am only sometimes a little tired ; a little — fastidious." Her glance lingered again on David's boyish face ; met the virginal radiance of his eyes. " Who is he ? What does he dans cette gaUre, eh ? " she asked the Wanderer in a fierce whisper. "He has come from the study of philosophy to the study of life ; from Ni^ture to— Paris. An odd contrast, is it not ? " " Yes," said David, breaking a long silence. " But both are part of life, and therefore part of one's education." ^ " And you like Paris ? " cried the woman quickly. ' Ah— you must ! You so young, so fresh, to whom all IS new and beautiful and exciting ! Ah ! la jeunesse, la jeunesse si adorable ! So swift to go, and never— never- never to be again ! " ^' There are better things," said the W^anderer. " For a woman— no ! Nothing better ; nothing half so good. It is the spring of life, and hfe has only one spring ! " She pushed aside her glass and her chair. " " Tenez done ! 133 ii CALVARY What betise I commit. To talk so— here ! I cannot think \vliat IS come to me ! Monsieur le Pliilosopher, I bid you adieu ! It was strange to meet you thus again. Perhaps we shall not make such a rencontre ever more. But— one good turn for another. I give you my word I mean it. lake that boy out of Paris. If I see him again " She sprang up, holding her flimsy draperies together, iookmg with envious eyes at the spiritual beauty of David's grave young face. . '• ¥,7°," ^'^^® *^^'^ y^^^^ °^^^^ I should only say ' au voir, she said. " But the high-road is long and we are marching different ways. I am sorry I met you, for you have made me think, and I did not want to do that en route to Maxim's. Well, adieu, mes amis ! I have to thank you for talking myself into one very bad humour." She laughed and waved an airy farewell, and took her- self off to another table, and another companion, who seemed to have been awaiting her. " I wonder if that is the Vicomte de Laon ? " said David suddenly. '' Possibly. Are you envious ? " asked Craddock. '' Why should I be ? " " You might desire a little more of Mdlle. Poucette's company. It as a novelty, to say the least of it." I felt very sorry for her," said David. *' JJ^y one ask why ? " inquired the Squire ironically. With all that charm, intelligence, vivacity— there was discontent. She was not happy. She was trying to stifle her soul." .1 "w^"i®^^ ^^?5J®^^ correctly, my young saint," said the Wanderer. She has her glimpses of good, her spurts of spirituality, but they do not last. Alas! can one wonder ? In such an atmosphere, such surroundmgs, and she but a bit of civilized savagery ! " " But she remembered you," said the boy. '' For how long— a week ? Seven little days sandwiched between a love dalliance and a new method of whetting an appetite already satiated. You see how hard it is to sow the seeds of Wisdom. You can scatter ^hem as plenti- fully as you please, but not one in a million will take root. 134 on ? " said CALVARY " I should like to havo seen you amongst those people — to have heard what you said." " Nom dc Dieu ! But it was a mad idea. And how it amazed them ! " " What sort of place is the Chateau Rouge V " a.ked Craddock. " I'm afraid I'm horribly ignorant of Paris, save just the neighbourhood of the Grands Boulevards and, of course, the usual parks and public buildings." "The Chateau Rouge," said the Wanderer, "holds its court at Montmartre. It constitutes the head-quarters of a local world of pleasure. There you behold the true iille de joie in all her glory and abandon ; taking no thought for the morrow, but thoroughly enjoying the to-day, or rather to-night, of her attractions. Our friend Poucctto is not vrai Montmartroise. She must have drifted there by accident on the memorable occasion of my lecture, and — pas four le bon motif. They give gala balls at the Chateau. It is an occasion for fancy dress and extravagant whimsies. Would you like to see one ? " David leant forward with sudden eagerness. "Oh, I should! " he exclaimed. "May we go ? Will you take me?" Craddock glanced at the flushed, excited young face. Was the poison working already ? Then he looked at their strange companion. Something — M'as it a shadow of pain or regret ? — had stolen the usual whimsical brightness from his e' es, and left them dark and troubled. " Will you take us ? " echoed Crac ok softly. The Wanderer looked at him. " If I refused, you would find the place for yrinrself. I had hoped you had lost the taste for mu^^ ■ hs. " They ai ,,i cessary for man as well as for — puppies," laughed Craddock. " Experiments must be proved to be successful. Come, aren't you tired of sitting here ? Let us walk homewards and discuoo plans for the week." US VI F^of Paris' fe^r/i"* ''^' '^^°^" °"^y "^^ ligJ^ter side Bois and iL « S'^* *^^!? ""^A' ««^e^n^boat8, the cafes, the IJois arid the Boulevards. On the evening of tlie third of Ve hP.r''T' T°""^^^ ^^ ^^'«"ld takf them to one marin '' ^^ ^^ ^^"' ^^ Montmartre-the Bal eilt'o'Hnn j"?i '"^^^ '"^^'y' }^'^ ^^ «<^^fli"g' ^vhen about eight o clock they sauntered up to the " Europeen » in the Boulevard des Itahens, where they were ^to dine of he'cTv^'T "'' ''rr^^^'i ^' '''"^^ '^ this qu^?:; pni fl ^' u^^ ^^""^ "^^^^^'^ °f the history of St. Denis and the Faubourg of Montmartre; a terrible historv of anarchy and revolution, of barricade anTbIood«hed ^^^^^ CS'askthrr;,"''^^ ^ '°^^^ '' realism that'mad: i^avid ask f he had been an eye-witness. revoSnat"""""'" "" ^"''"^- "' "^ °- °' «"> Craddock started. " In seventv nnr^ ? " j,^ i j " Vnii mnQf v,o,r^ u sevency-one / he asked, xou must have been a mere boy ? " II ?°^^ °^^ ^° y^" *^ake me for now ' " ^^ Certainly not more than forty-if that." woullt wrdr^thrmari^:^^^ '^^^ '^ '' ^^ ^^^ you Craddock laughed. " That is drawing on one's crcdulitv with a vengeance. One cannot quite credit you as Rn van Winkle, or the Wandering Jew, though /™t voS arejie most perplexing ind^iduai I htve e'ver co^;!!' The remark was left unanswered. A curious chanap h«^ come over the expression of the listener. "'ThatTfhouId S &!: 7^^'' ' Ph"-opher, a student of abstrut questions ! It is a compliment for which I thank vou But here comes our dinner. I have taken upon mvseff to 136 CALVARY order a special one for the occasion. I am well known here, and the chef takes a personal interest in my welfare An experience such as this of our neophyte demands care- ful preparation. More ills have been wrought in human dynasties by an ill-digested meal than by the loss of fortune ! The meal was at once so delicate and so simple that traddock found himself enjoying it with more zest than usually attended the ceremony. The wine was new to him— a cool, golden fluid delicious in flavour, iced to a nicety. As usual, David refused it. Neither argument nor persuasion were of any avail to alter his Rechabite habits. The warm summer air stole m through the open windows. The street without seemed unusually quiet. They lingered long over their coffee, the two men smoking and David, as usual, talking little, but listening with the interest of inexperience. It was nearly eleven o'clock before they sauntered up the Rue Pigalle, grateful for the cool breeze that swept down from the high Butte to cleanse the vitiated air of the streets and passages and intricate alleys of the Quartier. " I vvould rather be going up there," said the Wanderer, pointing to the heights above. " To Mona Martyrum, of holy St. Denis fame. A sorry way Paris commemorates their martyrdom here— where the name of ' saint ' and Deity IS but a jest, and all the soul's life is extinguished by the stifling fumes of lust." " Possibly those same fumes burnt on the same altars in noiy fet. Denis's time," said Craddock. "Old French chroniclers would lead us to believe it. Why do you waste laments over the world's wickedness, my friend ? Has it not always been with us since there was a world to be wicked in ? " They paused before a brilliantly lighted entrance, and then went into a large galleried room thronged with men and women. Most of them were dancing or promenading. A bar was at one end, and tables for refreshment were placed round tlie sides of the room. A band was playing a loud, swmgmg waltz, and ii looked odd to see men in nats and luornmg coats dancing witii women in fancy ^37 |!.t ■• i- 11 'IlilJ CALVARY dress. The heat was fearful, and the noise of tongues almost deafening. With some difficulty Craddoek secured a table, and they sat down and watched the strange scene with varied feelings. To David it represented an ugly and senseless confusion. He had seen no promiscuous dancing of this sort apart from the platform of an open-air theatre. There was no distinctive class marked out as in the crowds near the cafes-chanUints, or on the Boulevards. The women were mostly shop-girls, typists, or theatre employees out of work. The cocotte was not indicated by remarkable toilette or remarkable effrontery, as were her sisterhood of the other quarter. That she was there every one " in the know " knew ; but the atmosphere was less commercial than amusing. People were there for amusement, ai.d spoke and acted with natural freedom that had nothing to do with consciousness of immorahty. The noise of the music and the stamping feet made conversation almost impossible. Not that David wanted to talk. He wanted to understand what lay underneath this sort of life ; what pleasure these people could find in it. He studied their faces with interest. He was beginning to understand the French typo of face. It was usually either bourgeois and stupid, or sensual and vicious. It is rare to see a clean, healthy, honest-looking soul, even from the country or the fields. Then the women. How many of them there were, and how like a flock of chattering, in- quisitive, noisy rooks they seemed ! The type of beauty was too soulless, too frivolous to attract him. Pretty enough, gay enough, amusing enough they were ; but he wondered if they had ever realized anything in life apart from Its lighter side. '_ Suddenly he remembered what he had come here for. He wanted to see the place where his friend had delivered that extraordinary sermon ; the sort of people who had heara it ; the sort of women who had listened and laughed and wept, as Julie Blanche had done; who might also have remembered and been influenced by his words for one week. The waltz ended at last. The hot, dusty crowd surged up to the bar and ordered drinks of all descrintinns • some 138 ne " in the >nH : .?omc CALVARY very simple and innocuous— lemonade, orangeade, strop, beer. One or two girls came up to the English trio and chaffed and laughed, and demanded toll in the shape of a boire or a supper. Craddock left the parleying to the Wanderer, who explained that his friends could speak no French ; that one was a Bishop in disguise, the other a young priest preparing to take Orders. " Then why are they here ? " demanded a black-browed, flashing-eyed Pierrette who had seated herself on a corner of the table and thrown an arm round David for sup- port. "Mademoiselle," came the grave reply, "don't you know that the devil demands a place in the scheme of existence ? As he has to be reckoned with, he must be known. We came to make his acquaintance for a brief while, here — in Paris." David understood what was said, and instinctively drew away from the embracing arm. It affected him strangely — that unfamiliar touch ; that scent of musk and rose ; that saucy, impudent face so near his own. " Ah ! " said the girl quickly. " So you are prude, what one calls— fouille-au-pot. You should be with maman, n'est ce pas ? Still, you arc joli gargon — T like you. Can you not my language speak a little '/ " " Better not," said Craddock. But David paid no heed. '■ Yes, I can speak it — a little ; and understand a good > al," he said. " Ah, mon ami ! conic and dance with me," exclaimed a gay voice behind him. He saw their acquaintance of the Champs Elysees. She nodded gaily to his friends, and laid her hand on David's arm. " I can't dance," said the boy. " Can't danct ? Vous ne pouvez pas ? Impossible ! I do not believe you. Every one can dance. You know music — surely, yes ? " 'I That's a very different thing," said David calmly. " Oh, but you are fonny— you Engleesh ! Not to danse— why, it is not to live ! Not to know the greatest delight of any. Mo — I danse when I am tiny bebl, and ever since. Have you not seen mo ^/iere~but just now ? 1 am the 139 III:. i f !:( CALVARY S!«i7*-Jr ^^'\ l^ '' ^^ ^°"°"'' ^^'^^ I ask any one to n^ with me And you say-no, you cannot ! '' " Sl^lf.nfS^y " ^^ '^ ^°°^^ ^''y ^«°««^'" he added, anri »,./ ? 'u'"^ ^""^ ^"'"^"^ '°"«d' ^nd getting gidd; and hot. I can't see any pleasure in it." «» ^ /).VWl^T'^: You-you see-no-pleasure ? if on ^ t ,^^J\* strange boy. I nevare see one so strange ! It 18 absurd that you should say such things, and fay l^z^ Vu ^' \T ^"*^^ ^'^' °^ St. Sulpice. r^ savez? Will you take me to supper then, since you will ^ot^nse? I and my friend there ? Elis^ BuUant is her t !;] "^ "' somewhere, eh ? I-I am Poucette ; the other name matters not. It is not every one I ank It IS a great honour. For I like not les Anglais. lis sont ^^!!^^S~1' '^^^'^'' ^«^ cmvemUe, vous savez ' '' The Wanderer interposed. " We have but just dined w^trfh'""' ^"f ^"'* ^"^^^^ h«r«- Give us in hou? to watch this novel entertainment and admire vour own performance. Then we shall be happy to e cortTou anS your friend wherever you please." " " you ana H.rfP'' fff "l^«k« "ot yon ! " said the other giri impu- not hL l^" '^'' ^Z' '""-'^"^ y«""g Pr^de Ao knows not how to valse and cannot answer for himself ? " Bishop ! " The giri jumped off the table and snapped contemptuous fingers. " Bishop indeed ! You only mock mc-al of you ! Well, I care not. I will not go to Lpper .»he7arei"''^^' ^^"^' ^^"^^^ " ^o stiff, 'so Elise whirled herself off into the crowd; but Mdlle to iJayid, one does not behave so to a pretty girl-here m Pans. I think you are carve out of stone, you Engleesh wllrr^'"^'^' I f^^^gi^^ not. Recall i/to yoSf- when 1 have my revenge ! " rr.11^'' «J;e. too, whiried away, and was lost amidst the masks and strfinmAria oti^l t — i-„„i:^ c-,. . /""""'' i'"« ,, icvijtaotic iigurcs m uie loom. 140 any one to CALVARY Little cat ! " said the Wanderer, laughing. " I hope she won't show her claws, though. She and her friends could make it very unpleasant for us." Cradlock looked uneasy. " For my part I have had enough, he said. " The Elys^es was better. At least one was m the open air. This place is stiling. Havo vou had enough of it, David ? " " Quite," said the boy, rising from the table. " It is not amusing here— as Poucette said." The Wanderer glanced round. It would not have sur- prised him to see a deputation of indignant Montmartroises coming down the room to demand satisfaction for an insult to one of their number. He caught sight of Poucette and her friend talking eagerly to some men, and had no doubt who was the sub- ject of discussion. Suddenly the band struck up a wild gallopade. Instantly there was a thunder of feet, a whirl of skirts, stamping cries, a mad excitement. He was caught in the whirl and carried hither and thither. He lost sight of Craddock and David For some moments he could not extricate him- self. A woman caught his arm and forced him into step. Breath ess and panting, he kept up the unfamiliar motion. When lie at last escaped he had been swept to the other end of the room. It was some time before he could work * T^ *j/^^^ ^°°^ ^^^^^' ^^^^ ^® sot out at last he .^,.r™ , °°^ waiting on the pavement. He was alone. Where s David ? " he asked as the breathless figure emerged. ° " David ! Isn't he with you ? " exclaimed the Wan- derer. " No ; we got separated by the crowd. I imagined you were behind us and would have kept an eye on him." *^ Do you mean to say he didn't come out ? " " I told you he didn't come out. I've been waiting here the last ten minutes expecting you both." " We must go back and look for him, tiien. It won't do to leave him in there very long. Or— stay. You wait out here in case I miss him. One or other of us is sure to nnd. him. He entered the room again. The dance was over and 141 "V CALVARY the crowd was sauntering and chattering, and fanning it- self and laughing ecstatically over the childish antics that it had lately played. The Wanderer passed from group to group, scanning the figures with anxious eyes. He could not see David anywhere. Twice he made the tour in vain, then sought the gallery. The boy was nowhere to be found. He leant over the balustrade and searched faces and figures with strange uneasiness. True, this was not one of the wickedest of Parisian haunts. Still, there was a dangerous element— as, indeed, there is in all grades and phases of French life. If some unscrupulous courtesan had got hold of the boy ? If Poucette, angry at her rebuff, had put some of her male friends on his track with a view to subtle revenge ? Women of her class were capable of anything. Conscious of a growing uneasiness, he again went out. Craddock was still waiting ; still alone. The two men became seriously uneasy. They had given the boy no directions as to locality. He had no money, as Crfiddock always paid for everything. How would he find his way back to the hotel ? In any case it meant hours of wandering amongst the licensed dangers of the Paris streets. " He must be in there — somewhere ! " exclaimed Crad- dock. " If he had come out he'd have had the sense to wait. Let us have another look round." They turned in again. The crowd seemed to have in- creased. They were dancing still, more excitedly and noJsily and boisterously as the night grew later, and the easy familiarities of the place more assured. It was vain to penetrate through the dense, packed masses in forlorn hope of findinpr one special needle in the haystack. Crad- dock sighed ..atiently as he looked around. " We could not see im, even if he were Here. What are we to do?" " There are two courses open," answered the Wanderer. One is to follow the example of that excellent nursery rhyme and ' lenve him alone, till he do<'s come home, bring- ing his tale(?) behind him'; the other to wait on here until the^crowd begins to thin. That will give us a better chance uf diacovcry. Also — there is somethuig else to be 142 CALVARY reckoned with. He may Imve given us the slip, inten- tionally. Even saints have erred at one period or another of their— seemingly— blameless lives." " Do you really think " " My dear Squire, you were young once like myself. Cast your eyes back over the primrose path and trace your own straying footsteps. Why should you imagine our protege is going to be entirely different from ourselves ? You have chosen to try a dangerous experiment. You must not be surprised at unexpected consequences ! " Craddock was silent. His strange, heavy-lidded eyes looked out at the seething mass of humanity before him, behaving in the frenzied, irrational manner of emancipated lunatics. He wondered if, indeed, the long-ignored in- stmcts of the boy had broken loose, and he had thrown himself into the vortex of momentary excitement, with the first mad desire of youth to know what has only been as a theory— unexperienced ; dimly imagined. If such were the ease ho was chiefly to blame. It had amused him to try his young saint in the fire of temptation. Now he was angry and injured that saintship had not stood the test. url',^"^ ^^® ^^^ "° money," he suddenly exclaimed. These women would have nothing to say to any one who could not pay for their favours." "Don't be too sure. There are attractions that appeal to feminine minds even more subtly than wealth. Inno- cence is one, and beauty is another. David possesses Again Craddock was silent. They were standing in a corner of the long room, scanning every group. He began to vivisect the emotions of this vast crowd, all pursuing the same idea. Nothing else was of such value, or such interest. Here were brains turbulent with imagined joys and un- realized passions— maladies of the senses so curious and subtle that no earthly physician could diagnose their cause. Here were strange coloured lives, and strange evanescent crazes. And at one paint all the delight became discord ; all the promised fruit na dust and ash'^° ^'^ * lips. t:Ti.it.-wi 143 S, .">-? •i^'Jfeilli^'Seitofili.-. ■» f'^r III: ii CALVARY Yet what use to warn ? Every life was bent on seeing, tasting, handling its own experience. He himself had once declared man could not pay too high a price for any sen- sation. Half an hour drifted by. Sometimes they were addressed by mocking voices ; sometimes scoffed at as " tris-betes," " sacrda Anglais," or like flattering recognition of their nationaUty. Craddock grew weary and impatient. " Let us go home," he said. " He may be there." " Home ? Oh — the hotel, you mean. Very well. But you had better make up your mind for an all night sitting. Our young profligate won't be in too great a hurry to return to the husks of propriety. Philosophies melt easily before the problems of life. By the way, I have not observed Mademoiselle Poucette — have you ? " They took the first passing cab and drove to the hotel. David was not there. They went to the smoking-room and waited, beguiling the time with theories and explanations. Soul and body, body and soul ; sooner or later they were bound to have it out between themselves. The senses might sleep, but all who sleep waken at last. The body might despise degradation, but fleshly impulse and psychical weakness must at some moment decide the issue in the House of Sin. Experiments had been tried often and failed often : not a grade of life or seminary of sanctity but knew that. Men had deceived others, and tried to deceive themselves, but each knew in his secret heart how and where he had failed. Consciousness of strong motive and weak nature was at once a joy and a humiliation ; and experience was only a name man gave to his mistakes. Wearied, and with much misgiving, Craddock at last went to bed, and the wondering philosopher took himself home to his garret in Montmartre— so he said ; in reality to a certain police official whom he knew, and from whom Paris had few secrets. To him ho confided the episode of Poucette and learnt where she lived. She had not a good rejiutation, according to Monsieur Val6rin ; she was a wild, fierce Bohemienne of the ardent Southern type and Scuthem savagery ; a creature who 144 3r any sen- CALVARY would kiss and stab, and betray, and lie when and how the fancy took her. The Wanderer felt uneasy. If David had fallen into her clutches, it might be no easy matter to get him out of them. Besides, she was a very dangerous farst experience "—even of a mistake. However, there was nothing to be done but wait for his return. rience was 'Diey waited three days, and there came no sign or word of David. '45 f:'' tl VII rpHE spring was breaking into a riot of blossom and X leafage under the blue of the Cornish sky. The long waves rolled in lazily ; there was content in their lulling song. The earth was renewing its beauty and its youth, and the sea sang to it of hours as lovely, and youth as fair. Remote days of winter storm nnd wild turmoil were for- gotten. Who, looking out at that magical shimmer of azure and gold, could believe that such a sky was ever black and thunderous ; that such a hmpled, laughing sea could swell into towering billows, and rack and wreck all that came in its w'ay ? A girl sat on the cliff edge and looked out at the sea ; at the drifting sails on the horizon line, and the wheehng flocks of restless gulls. She had a serious and gentle face. Her uncovered hair shone warm and brown in the sunlight ; her eyes were grave and darkly blue as the sea itself. She had a book lying open on her lap. It was small and shabby, and bore traces of much reading. At the present moment her thoughts were occupied by other matters. And yet an echo of what she had read was in her mind, turning and twisting through the various channels of the brain, mur- muring softly : " Beware lest thou strive too earnestly after some desire ivhich thou hast conceived, unthont taking counsel of Me ; lest it repent thee afterwards. . . ." The sentence was one of many marked and read and treasured in the ever memorable De Imitatione of Thomas h Kcmpis. She was so absorbed in her dreams of all that those words might mean, that she did not hear a quick, light Btop on the soft turf, and when a figure suddenly threw itself down beside her, she started so violently that the book slipped from her lap, 146 CALVARY " Did I startle you ? I'm sorry," said a voice. "I called to you, but you didn't seem to hear." ^ He stooped and picked up the little shabby volume. How faitliful you are to our good St. Thomas, Ruth. And yet I behove you thought he savoured of Popery when I hrst mtroduced him to you." The warm, sudden colour that had flushed the girl's face began to ebb back through its natural channel. The bloom of youth and the breath of the sea were in her sun- tanned cheek and the humid softness of her eyes. ' I ^^ not think you would be liere to-day, David," she said. " Where do you preach to-morrow ' " " Only five miles off, so I put up at Trebarwick. I was gomg to see gran'fathcr Pascoe when I caught sight of your brown head above the rock there. How is it you are Idling your precious time aw&y ? " " 'Tisn't often I dew that," said the girl. '' Naw, my dear life, it 'tisn't," he mimicked, with an intlection of her accent. 1 "Po^'^niako fun of me, David. I do my best. But it's nam to talk as you want me when I see so little of you " » ; I ^^ ^^^ "^^ ^ "^"'^* ^e about my Father's business ' " All— an' that's true, David. Ye does too much of that business I in sometimes thinking. You'm s(. pale and thin and spare-hke, and think so little of theoself," she added with another lapse. He laughed. " Nonsense, child ! I'm as well and strong as anj^ one here of my age and size. The open-air life, the nllfA .f^'^'^^J'''''^ P^^^® *" P^^^^' ^""^ very good tonics. Jiesides, the endless interest and importance of it all ' " ^^ ihee St been four years at it, David." niri^"!?"^-;. ^^^ ^''^ °"^y ^^^'^ ^'^^ so many months. Uh, Ruth, Its wonderful to get one's will, and see one's dreams come true ! " . v.c uuc » II S"^ you're wonderful yourself, David " r.« f • T^° ' "^"""'^ S''*y *^at- I'm only a messenger re- peating his message. It's that that's woMerful : the same yet never the same ; an endless nfa >..;fU Zachanah Pascoe one day, and Morgan Craddock the next. 149 CALVARY The Squire's interest in him had increased rather than lessened. The boy and the youth alike possessed that charm of the mexphcable. He could not understand why Davids vision of the Truth meant all the unseen, unsub- stantial things that serve as sustenance for saints, and are so terribly indigestible for the common herd of humanity • how he could fed and realize what was only a phantasm ot the spiritual senses, not a tangible, provable fact. But lie lot the boy have his way. It cost nothing, save a roof wlien he chose to claim it. And for three parts of the year David did not do even that. For wherever he went his fame had preceded him, and food and shelter and lavish hospitality were at his choice, and honoured bv his preference. '' It was the ideal life of the faithful disciple. The life commanded for their acceptance by their beloved Master when He concluded His own earthly mission. To preach His Word ; to carry the glad tidings of Salvation wherever they went taking no heed of gain or profit ; believing in the strength of their service as proof of their own deserts : the labourer being worthy of his hire," in such matters as command bodily sustenance and shelter. So four years had passed, and now the curtain was to ring up on a change at once startling and arresting The young preacher had been heard by a certain Stephen Ormistoun himself a cleric in Anglican Orders, but one who had launched forth into strange side-issues of doc- trine that-while they drew enormous congregations- were too unorthodox to please those in authority. This mattered very little to Ormistoun, whose church was his own and whose audience swept in on wings of curiosity every Sunday that proclaimed him preacher He had been indulging in a short holidu^ in Cornwall when the fame of David Hormon reached his ears. He took the trouble of going to hear him. At first he could hardly believe it possible that a mere boy should draw such enormous crowds. Hlien he saw the young preacher bare-headed under the noonday sun, a slight, tall figure in simple cassock, he felt inchned to laugh. He expected a mixture of monkish fanaticism and tho illnirinal frpn^y ol the atiout tub-thumper. But he heai-d neither, it ISO CALVARY happened that day that David had chosen to tell of his vision on the Mount as the reason of his present mission. In glowing and poetic words he painted the scene ; the gold of the sky, the sob of the rolling waters, the majestic Figure towering against that background of the Cross. People listened spellbound. Among so many credulous hearts, in a land sown with legends and superstitions, the story of that Spiritual Call was just the story to enchant them ; to quicken spiritual instincts, and draw backsliders into the narrow path of duty. Even Stephen Ormistoun listened with quickening pulse, his ears strained to catch the melody of that beautiful voice. When the service was over he made David's ac- quaintance. For a week he saw as much of him as was possible. Finally he invited him to try his powers on a larger and more cultured audience, and with that intention the young evangelist was taking fare we'" of his ostensible home and his faithful disciple Ruth Pascoe. A strong elation mingled \vith a certain unaccountable uneasiness. Already life had had turning points, crises for him. This was a more marked and important occurrence : a stirring up of new forces ; a widening of 1 e horizon that had hitherto limited his vision. When he told Craddock of his intention, he was met M'ith a stare of incredulity. " You are going to do this for a stranger — of ^^'hom you knt)w nothing ? Wliy would you never do it for me ? " " I had not tried my powers. Besides, you offered to set me up in a chapel of my own. I don't want that. I should hate to be tied to one place, one form, one routine. Four walls and a pulpit are all very well for a change, but I should hate them as a continuance." Then he had gone to seek Ruth Pascoe, and pour out his heart to her in the frankness of their long-established intimacy. He was used to using her as confidante and helper. Often had she advised in a difficulty, soothed in a moment of impatience, roused him from fits of petu- lant despair. But now — there was to be a break — a change. One that struck at the roots of their young lives, and whose consequences lay hidden in the mists of the future. i^\ : *|l|: 151 CALVARY Silence had fallen between them. The thoughts of both, after wandering into many channels, finally drifted t<^ each other David was conscious of her presence as some- thing sweeter and nearer than any other he had known. 10 u-hom he had ever gone for sympathy; whose soul nnl.r f"* ^' '""^ ^i*^^ "^^ ^^^«« <^f comprehension, r, i «i ' P^^y^,a^e a-nd confidante of childhood-friend and confidante still. Jl ?f ^'''" -'^ ^i^ suddenly, and at the caress of the word RnfT, !? ""^'T.-i'f ^.^"''^ ^ «<^^^*^^d face to his. " Dear Ruth, dearest little friend, how I shall miss you • " this h .vTl? T^ 'T^ ^l^^"""^ ^" ^'^' ^^^-^ ; «J^e to whom this boy had always been hero and saint. Her eyes fell as they met his thoughtful gaze, and something of the strange confusion in her mind passed to him. and thrilled h"m with a vague uneasiness. She said nothing : words were impossible. There is one supreme moment in life, even as there is one supreme ovJi r- K^"""" "^r "^ «^°"fi^^ f«^l"^g «^'e«P« ^P to and hlld it L^T? 1'""'^' •^"^' cr^«hing down all that has tion T.f f ' '"^^ ^^"^ ''^^"S spirit triumph over destruc- tion That moment was Ruth's. She trembled, quivered vaited-then turned to him as he to her. For a moment they looked into each other's eyes : read the chaZ ?he mystery, the secret still unbreathed. Then David's face grew veiy pale What had chanced ? What hS come the ??nl ^"V""^ ^"^ l"^/.^"^^« ' ^^^ ^'-^ he pas^d from snherev' ?^'\^'\^i ^ff^^^^^P to this troubled atmo- Thp fl«L f T^ ^^^^ ^'^"^ ^^^ g^rl'« passionate eyes. The flame and glory of love were not for lum. Only its sanctity. And yet-how sweet she was, and fair ! other?" '" °^^ '* ""^^^ *h**^ ^^ ^«ve each anlwer^^'^'' ^1?^^ 1°^"^^.^^"' ^^^^^'" eame the simple Z I? I 1 *¥* f diff'rent. I never expected you ;ri^"i: ^S^^^^ ^^^' ^"^ ^^^'^^y --^- ^ou^are "God does not forbid human love, Ruth. He created It. as He created woman for man. And if y- a love n^e- oh, how wonderful it seems, dear ! I must think ofTt a iitxie. . . . vrny have we only just found this out ? " iSa re IS one CALVARY "Maybe because parting sharpens our senses, David. The sorrow, and the loss, and the lonehness " " Ruth, you are crying ? Don't cry for me, dear. I will come back to you. We'll be all and more than the friends we've been. I hadn't thought of it till this won- derful moment; but now I see— oh, what joyful and beautiful things I see, Ruth ! You and I together always : working for the same cause ; loving it all the more because we— love each other ? That is it, dear, is it not ? " " I think it must be, David," said the girl, " unless you change. Men do, you know ; and you are going away to a new life " " That won't mean a new heart, Ruth." " It must be as God wills, David." *' As God wills," he said reverently. His eyes turned to the sea agair. ; his beloved, beautiful sea; his sea with her changeful face, and her cool, salt breath, and her stores of song and melody. The sea whose hymn of glory had thrilled him in the summer dawns, whose messages had soothed the pulses of his unquiet heart ; whose storms had held him speechless by a power no tongue could translate; whose deepest quiet held never a note of real silence. How often it had inspired his words— poetized his speech; flowed on and into the imagery that had de- lighted his hearers, and touched them to a sense of kin- ship. He \\a8 forsaking it now for the life of towns, the murky breath of cities. Was it wise ? He thought of the peaceful years of his glad evangelism ; the joy it had been to speak to other souls of what his own soul held as life's most precious truth. He had been understood here Simple folk and homely folk, the toilers of the sea, the wayfarers of the road, the shopkeepers of the country towns— they had believed in him and loved him. But what would tliat great world beyond care for any such message ? Heed of any such messenger ? He turned to Ruth again. " Forgive me, dear. I was thinking of the past years, and all they've meant. You seem a part of them, just as '■ ~ !•" • '^ • '^ vii-jax: vniiuinii uaya. uo you rememOer Y — our rows and sails ; our picnics " 153 mi if III CALVARY And that strange, wonderful nan ! " interrupted Ruth. " What has become of him, David ? He never comes here now." A sudden shadow dimmed the youthful face. " I know. I wish he would. Oh, how I wish he would ! " " Have you never learnt his name, or who he really is ? " asked Ruth. " Never. He would never tell us. He just comes and goes in that unexplained, whimsical way of his. We know nothing of how he lives, or whether he is rich or poor, or just the Bohemian he calls himself. I was wondering if I should see him in London. It is possible. He knows it as well as he does Paris. But then— what citv or place in the world does he iwt know ? " " Perhaps he has done something wrong and wants to hide himself," said Ruth. David laughed. " You foolish child ! If you knew him as I know him you would never think that. He is wonder- ful ! And I am sure he is good. Why, do you remember that College where I was educated ? " " Yes, of course, David." " Well, he founded it himself. He must have given up all his fortune for that one object. And when he goes about the world, as he does, he is always looking for the sort of students who fill it. Without liis aid one-half of them could never have had their chance ; never have had any education at all. Look at myself " " I think God would have helped you to your ends, anyhow, David. 'Twas meant for 'ee— this life. I can't fit ye to any other." He suddenly bent and kissed her hand. It was rough and coarsened with hard work, but it seemed to him beautiful because of its usefulness, and because of her. At the light touch of his lips, she blushed softly. All, David, thee'rt treating me like a lady," she said. " And I'm only a poor fisher girl, not fit mate for thee, save that I dew love thee with all my heart and soul ! " Thank you, Ruth," he said simply. " It is a great gift you are giving me. May I be worthy of it." " Worthv ! Whv. DnviH vmi'ro aa Vllrrll nVlr.,rn »vi« no the heavens above the sea. There's no words in my heart «S4 lii CALVARY to tell thee what thou art to me. And I'm not shamed to say it, even if I dew seem over bold. For love is a pure and holy thing; and it has meant thee in my thoughts, and breathed thy name in my prayers ever since I know'd thee at all." " Is that so, Ruth ? And to think I never found it out till to-day ! " A faint, wistful smile touched the girl's lips. It was a naive confession for a lover. It showed how little depth earthly passion had in his nature. It might have told a more experienced maiden that there was more of friendly affection than of youth's ardent emotion in this sudden betrothal. But Ruth was only a simple fisher girl, as she had said. She had loved David all her life. That he should have asked her to share that life with him in some dim future was joy enough; wonder enough. At least, it meant " together " ; no other woman taking her place by his side, vanning that pure, boyish heart. For still a space they lingered there, talking softly and disjointedJy ; making promise of writing each week, and meeting as soon as the new mission was fulfilled. Then David rose. Ho had to return to the Hall ; he was sleeping there that night. For a few moments longer they lingered, hand clasped in hand; the sea murmuring at their feet; the wide, clear spaces of heaven and earth about them. Then the farev\'ell was spoken. Just for a second's space their lips touched, drawn together by some mutual im- pulse half fearful of itself. "God bless and keep you, Ruth, till we meet again." The girl's head was bent ; her eyes were full of tears ; her heart throbbed wildly. Then she felt herself released, bhe heard a quick step echoing on the rough path above. He had gone ; and her tears fell down like rain. 'P: mc as '55 /« VIII rpHJl' evening had closed in wi^sj a vhill westerly breeze. X Bi lore the fire in the big spienclid library of U* Hall the Squire and David were sitting, Cradd )ck had not altered perceptibly in the-o four ycary. His life wcs too easy ajid uneventful for emotio > 1 energy, and most human v.caknesses !ie despised He was leaning back in his deep-c'ishioned cbiilr smoking a cigar, and listening to David. " I suppose you are rigli;," he said as tiie ejvger young voice ceased. " Besides, I have never tri'sd to dinsuade you from any enterprise. Only you know nothing of this man — Ormistoun ? " " We j-re fellow-travellers on the same road." " Symy>athy and companionship do not imply honesty ox purpose." " What object could he have in placing his church at my disposal for these special services, except that of doing good and saving souls ? " The Squire suddenly leant forward. He took the cigar from between his lips, and lookcti full into the deep violet eyes of the young enthusiast. " David," he said, " do you really and truly believe that you, or any priest or preacher in the world, can save souls ? Do you realize what that cant phrase means ? " " Cant ! It is a truth — a reality ! I have proved it again and again." " You haven't. That's an impossibility. You may have proved an emotion ; a cataclysm of feeling ; a sudden return to pious obligations alike of church and chapel. But to know if a soul is saved you must know how it meets its Maker; what account it renders to Him. No mortal nan know thai, fur he cannot follow it through the gates of Death or learn its destiny." 156 s church at CALVARY " By their fruits we know them and judge them in this life." " I have known very fair-looking fruit come oflf a rotten bough. I have also known it worm-eaten at the core, despite bloom and fragrance. No, no, my dear boy ; you are just as easily deceived by spiritual sinners as by material ones. Of the two I think the spiritual arc the best hands at hypocrisy." " You believe in no spiritual good or spiritual influence, Mr. Craddock. I know that only too well." " I am ready to believe in anything you can prove to me. I have watched you grow from a visionary boy into a visionary enthusiast. You have had no check placed upon those enthusiasms. I have tried to temper them with common sense. But I have not waited till now to learn that common sense, like science, is an unknown quantity to the clerical mind." David was silent. That little chill, disturbing feehng, never far removed from companionship with this agnostic individual, crept over his heart. What could he say ? His simple arguments were worn threadbare, and had no basis of logic or subtlety such as Craddock commanded. The Squire watched the young troubled face with in- ward envy. It was still the same beautiful face of the boy; serene, unlined, with clear, fearless eyes that spoke of a clean soul ; the emotions and enthusiasms of youth shining through it as flame behind a crystal. The thought of that beauty and unworldliness at Lnst facing the battle of life rendered the Squire even more cynically curious than his wont. He wished to probe the boy's soul ; to get at the bottom of this semi-ascetic spirituality which dominated his every action and, seemingly, his every thought. He returned to the charge. "You want to attract hearers in London as you have done here ? To save souls, as you call^ it, in a place where the real meaning of the word ' soul ' is unknown. People have pleasures, emotions, transient fits of religious curiosity, transient epidemics of charity, spasms of generous hel])fulness (more or less con- ducive to the pauperizing of the race !). They may even bejionest in their dealings with their fellow -man on a Monday morning, after being called to account by a 157 .i'li ':'v. msitm\\tmMiitti\m'itti I CALVAKY spiritual Savonarola on the previous Sunday night ; but this is all they know about possessing souls — or saving them. That is where the Church of Rome has shown herself so wise. She takes the trouble off people's hands." He replaced his cigar, and stretched his hand towards a table by his side. " I have here a book," he said, " a psychological study of the life of a French priest. I think you ought to read it. The boy began as an enthusiast, a devotee like yourself. He was attached to a church which has had the training of saints and the manufacture of miracles. From quite a young child he was brought up in the duties of that church ; guarded by Jesuitical care from exterior influences ; taught and trained for a priesthood at once the most powerful and tyrannical the world has ever known. What was the result ? He found the grossest impurities where he had expected saintship ; learnt of its vices and corruptions ; saw in it only a system founded on man's ambition to play God Almighty to a cowed and submissive world ! And in order to cow them and hold them in humiliating bondage, this system, or church, or whatever you please to call it, established itself on the rotten basis of self-supremacy ; on a doctrine perpetuated for its own purpose ; proved by what in commercial circles would be called ' falsification of documents ' ! This boy strangely reminded me of you, David. That is why I give you the book. You know enough French to read it in the original. Of course, the author has been banned and ex- communicated and all the rest of the bogey rubbish that the Holy See uses for the terrifying of its disobedient children ! But he is man enough to despise them since he found out what they were. He cut himself adrift from their slimy tentacles, left the church, and married. I do not exactly commend the wisdom of that last action, but at least it must have been a refrep'.ing change from the immoralities of the Vatican circles." David took the book somewhat reluctantly. " But I have long known the faults and perfidies of the Romish Church," he said. " I do not see why you argue from that standpoint as to the spirituality of a true Faith." 158 ' niglit ; but saving them. vn herself so is." nd towards a logical study ou ought to devotee like lich has had of miracled. in the duties ■rom exterior lood at once rid has ever the grossest learnt of its tem founded a cowed and jm and hold V church, or itself on the perpetuated lercial circles ! This boy 8 why I give ead it in the med and ex- rubbish that disobedient I thcin since f adrift from irried. I do ; action, but ge from the •fidies of the y you argue ' of a true CALVARY " Because they call theirs the true Faith. The only true Church. The Mahomedan does the same ; the Buddhist the same. Christian Scientists and Plymouth Brethren declare their faith as the only reliable one, and so on, and on, in every form of religious mania ! It is more or less acute according to the constitution or surroundings of those afflicted by it." " I have heard that madmen think themselves the only representatives of sanity. Perhaps, because you have no faith yourself, you would rather prove that all faiths are worthless ? " said David. " I have faith in what I know ; what I have proved. Not in myths of bygone ages ; old fables whose origin can be traced to mythology, and have then degenerated into the hotch-potch of sects and ceremonies that men call religion ! " " Would you call Christianity a myth ? Can you honestly say that the birth and life of its Founder have not been a blessing to civilization, as well as an example ? " " We have gone over that ground before. I told you that one of the first mistakes made by chroniclers has been to prove the descent of Christ through the House of David. We get Joseph's pedigree pat with the prophecy. Ihen— the Church denies him paternity. So what was the use of that elaborate genealogical table ? We don't hear that Mary was of that House, or Root, or Stem, as they choose to call it. If your friends of cassock and gown were only logical, they would have allowed what all rational-mmded beings believe : that Christ had a natUKil father as well as a natural mother. The inference would not do away with His spiritual descent, or the facts of His unusual and— certainly blameless life. But, also, any- thing so simple and natural would not have suited the Church. Dogmatic Power was always a foremost necessity with that institution. It had to resort to miracles and improbabilities, and from a confused mixture of prophecies and dreams it produced a further deception " , "^[ please don't say any more—" broke out the Jiorrified listener. " If you only knew how it hurts me ! " Craddock shrugged his shoulders. "You see you are unable to face clear logic because it doesn't fit in wrU 159 CALVARY superstition. Natures like yours, David, at once sensuous and mystical, li ite to be brought to book for reasons of their faith ; hate to hear of anytliing that might weakfin it ; would rather hug the chains of error to thf^ir breast than loose them and go free. You choose to believe in a mission and a purpose guiding you to do what you are really in- clined by Nature to do. You are carried off your feet by enf^ Uil, ?m, and then wish to carry others along with you. iz-. ■■; scr.^i , you are no more a free agent than that poor i'rerit'i j,d v.ho entered the priesthood. The vision of God and the glories of the world to come are the main factors in your life. I have watched you very ^ iosely, because you interested rue; I am anxious to see if your Faith zvill be proved and stand fast ; if it is going to con- vince me as it '^""'- to have convinced others. Your temperamen ^t, a iugUly spiiltual one — that I grant. The ordinary weaknesses and follies of life and manhood seem to have no attraction for you. I doubt if you over note a woman's beauty, or realize that such a passion as love has swept men off their feet ever since the world began. We have your own sainted namesake as example. He played a rather low-down game, did he not, to the old Adamite i)lea of ' the woman tempted me ' ? Well, my young Puritai) believe me when I tell you that you have not reckoned with life or its fullest meaning till you have tested your strength against a woman's tempting. When I first read in the gospels the account of Satan's efforts in that lin-- I could not help smiling. L'unger was a p or thing, and princedoms and kingdoms of small account to One who despised them so utterly that he came to destrc; them. But why didn't the astute Tempter For woman as a lure ? Why in all the (thirty) years of taat extra- ordinary career do we new hear a word of her influence over His life ? Women foii^ «ed him ; women ministers' to him. Did a woman ever love liim, or he her ? If not, he never lived man's real life. Therefore he was not perfect man. Ton may argue aboi. his spirituality and (viniiy as yoi, ,ilease. . say that tradition i' '^ists upon a perfect ty])e of humanity — one knowing anii sharing its wcaVnesses, and who certainly gave proof of anger and iutoieranco and Hsrespect. Yet this same tradition has i6o CALVARY omitted the very raisov d'Ure of humanity. Give me a perfect spiritual Being, an imperfect human being, and I can credit them ; but t such a contradiction in terms as the historians of Chn t have made of his personaUty. Can you overlook the fact that it was only those historians (in the shape of his disciples) who persistently addressed him as the ' Son of God ' ? Christ always called himself the ' Son of Man.' Spiritually he knew himself as Son of the one Divine Father. But physically— or so it seems to me— he acknowledged the natural sonship of all humanity. In fact, if such were not the case, what w ^ the use of bringing in Joseph— with his careful record uf genealogy— at all ? Mary might have performed the miracle of the Immaculate Conception under perfcntly accredited conditions. As it is, the conditions lead one to draw a very natural inference." David's face had grown stem and set, as was not un- usual during these controversies. He had refused to read Strauss, or Renan, or Colenso, or any of those disturbing volumes that 'ined the Squire's bookshelves, and, in a measure, Craddock ' ad respected his prejudices. But to- night he seemed di termined to f^xhibit them in the Ught of mere human weakness : the weakness that declines to argue or investigate a subject for fear of being convinced against its will ; that clings to fallacy for fear of disturb- ance of faith. " I know you dislike my arguments," continued Crad- dock. " But, beheve me, a day will come when you mv^t think out thc3e matters on a new basis; the basis of modern thought aided by modem discoveries. When you will need to Ught your spiritual lamp with the oil of proved and provable facts, not dry-as-dust superstitions. Doubt- less it shocks you that I say it. An} hing that tears down ^he inherited belief of ages is a shocK. But that cai lot ay the pj gress of thought or of science. Accepted creeds will ve to fall, or remain rooted in error." " Christ will never fall from His high estate ! " exclaimed David. "If errors have wound themselves around his history, that is the fault of faulty human minds. Argue as you will, the ' ' that there is a worid .^ wo are men and in that worid, means tiiat there is also Creator. M i6i ^M:-:l, CALVARY His works speak for His superiority over our limited in- telligence. What are we to explain the sun, the stars, the wonders of the deep, or of that intricate mechanism which is ourselves? God was the Beginning of all. He is all. If I doubted that " He paused. Craddock had risen. He laid his hand on the boy's arm ; pressed it convulsively, " Don't doubt it ! " he exclaimed in a hoarse, shaken voice. "Keep your faith; keep your trust; keep vour clean young soul. I wish to God, David, that I had cpt mine ! " Too excited and perturbed for sleep, David went out into the grounds. He stood for long looking through that opening in tlie trees over the bay. The strong wind had roughened the sea ; it was rolling in with long, sweep- ing billows. They broke against the base of the cliflf, and foamed up to the rock-caverns below. Showers of spray were fl3dng upwards like heralds of disturbance. Storm was at hand. The drifting clouds were hurried into denser masses, then rent asunder to show faint gleam ^ of blue holding the clear crescent of a young moon. David's pulses leapt to the sound of the turmoil, and the pHng of the wind and spray : they were all familiar and beloved. Had not his childish years been nursed by them ; his earliest fancies fostered by them ; his prayers and dreams enwoven with their mystery ? And it seemed to him now that his soul rushed forth on the restless tide, seeking a haven for comfort, even as it sought one in the bay below. The great Vision of his life had come to him sensed with the awe and wonder of the sea. The restless call of its wild rebellion was the call of his own unquiet soul. For it was unquiet ; it vxis disturbed. It tried to lull itself to the old sleep and dream the old dreams, but instead it would start and quiver and stand aside ; questioning of what it had once held true as the foun- dations of the world ; waiting for an answer that never came. With the memory of that mocking voice of Craddock's, with tho sophistry of his caustic arguments sounding ever 162 bis hand on CALVARY above the tuirnoil of the waves, David turned away and began to pace to and fro the little glade. It was long since the Squire had spoken as ho spoke to-night. Usually he had contented himself with a cynical phrase, a flying sarcasm. There was a curious personal reserve about him at times, and he had devoted himself more to watching his protege's spiritual development than combating his beliefs. But this unexpected call to a wider mission and to the importance of a London audience had startled him. If David's preaching had attracted the notice of so subtle a reasoner and unorthodox a thinker as Stephen Ormistoun, there must be something in the boy. Craddock had never heard him preach. Nothing would have induced him to attend those open-air meetings, and "tramp services," as he called them, by which the young zealot had made his fame. " I'll give him rope, plenty of it," he had said to him- self. " But he's bound to hang himself when I pull it in, and show him how baseless all this rhodomontade is, from the standpoint of evolution and philosophical thought." And to-night, in a sudden fit of impatience, he had drawn in the first strand and made the first knot. The effect had been an instant's regret on his own part— a fierce and troubled resentment on David's. He was pacing to and fro in the cold spring night asking himself if there could really be one grain of truth in that cynical reasoning. He knew that Craddock had given years of study, of intense and cultured thought, to a sub- ject that he, as enthusiast, had greeted with untrained confidence: accepting improbabihties as miracles, and miracles as manifestations of God's power ; casting aside all discrepancies of evidence and testimony as not weigh- ing a feather's weight in the balance of faith ; all the crude childish ideas imbued by Zachariah Pascoe, fostered by Mr. Crouch, undisturbed by differences of opinion during his educational years. All these now arrayed themselves on one side and gave battle to a threatening foe on the other —-one with whom he had never reckoned : the awakening of his own brain ; the sudden vivification of an intellectual force inherited from some unknown ancestrv. and rfindv to combat inconsistencies oi untried experience. 163 ! 'h I! ! I CALVARY To and fro, to and fro the boy paced with fevered steps and inward agony. For the first touch of doubt is agony. Possibly that may be one reason why the kindly guardians of the Romish Church have penalized it as a sin ! He seemed to have awakened from a long sleep to find himself on a lonely rock against which the rising tide was leaping with threatening force. He turned thought and fancy back to his beloved standpoint — the Vision; the sight of that wondrous figure ; the sound of that wondrous voice. It had been the last of a series he had recounted to the mocking ears of the Wanderer, that strange being whom he, in his heart, knew as the one he loved best and trusted most in the world. Since that sunset hour when he had accepted a mission and devoted himself to its service, David had received no further spiritual Call. Often he had prayed and sought for one, but in vain. On that vision on the Mount and the hazard happenings of the opening Bible, he had based the authority for his career and the selection of his name. He had spoken as the Spirit moved him to speak, astonishing himself often by the fluency of word phrases; the ease with which Divine Love and its messages were touched into human speech, or poetized by human imagery. Now he faced a veritable earthquake of emotions. Human love had stirred his senses ; doubt had torn aside the veil by which his dreaming fancies were enveloped; prayer offered no solace ; and the voices of the night held no response. Religious passion was for once chilled. He felt as a lost soul might feel wandering outside the gates of Paradise. ^^ " ' Oh, ye of little faith ! '" he cried in sudden agony. Well mightest thou say that, my Lord and Saviour! Where is mine ? What foothold has it in this slippery quagmire of doubt ? I could not watch with Thee even one hour untouched by the treachery of my unworthy heart. Oh, pardon me ! Help me ! Do not forsake me, even if I seem to forsake Thee ! " But the moan of the sea and the sob of the breaking waves came to his ears only as sounds of terror, not us sounds of help. 164 IX STEPHEN ORMISTOUN sat in his own special den in O his quiet and comfortable flat in Westminster. It was a fine square room with one window that overlooked the river and showed him the beauty and changefulness of many sunsets — such sunsets as the atmosphere of London supplies from out its strange, misty backgrounds and wealth of shadows. To Ormistoun this view of the Em- bankment, the dull, murky waters washing its undefended shores, the river craft saiUng or steaming to and fro, and behind it all the warm rose tints of the sky, made up a picture of which his eyes never wearied. He was a strange-looking man of some fifty years, a man possessed of much wealth, and of the strongest and strangest views on matters political, social, and religious, so the world said. The world that knew him superficially, as it only knows most of those who rule or influence it. For they alone possess the secret of true individuality : how to keep to themselves that which in reality is themselves. The room was furnished with old and solid furniture. The bookcases, the writing-tables, the deep, comfortable chairs, the solid Chesterfield with its tapestried cover and cushions, the bronze and pewter and delf of decorations, all made a suitable and artistic setting for its studious occupant. A fire burnt in the old-fashioned grate, its wide hobs and polis-iod brass fender making a spot of welcome brightness amongst more sombre surroundings. Stephen Orm-otoun was lying back in his favourite chair and smoking his favourite pipe. He was an inveterate smoker, and eschewed cigarettes as only fit for conven- tional purposes. In his own home he never touched them. A knock at the door was followed bv the a"peara.nof^ o.f a solemn-looking manservant. He brought in tea and its i6s CALVARY accessories, and laid them on a small square table beside his master's chair. He lit a spirit lamp and set the water hissing in a silver kettle. The tray and the set were of old Georgian silver, massive and handsome, as Ormistoun chose that his surroundings should be. '' Shall I make the tea, sir ? " inquired the man. " No ; wait a few minutes longer. I am expecting Mr. Hermon every moment. Ah ! there's the bell. Show him in here at once. You can take his luggage to his room. It's all ready, I suppose ? " " Yes, sir. It was ready yesterday." " Well, go. Don't keep him waiting." He rose and poured some of the boiling water into the teapot. It was characteristic of Stephen Ormistoun to be almost womanishly faddish over small domestic details. With a pleasant smile he turned to welcome his visitor, conscious, as once before, of the contrast they presented— his worn face and thin, iron-grey hair and dark, sallow skin, set against that radiant youth and spirituality of David Hermon. " My dear fellow, I'm delighted to welcome you ! I was hoping you'd be here for tea : my favourite meal~I hope it's yours ? Sit down ; I'm just going to make it ; the only way to get it worth drinking. To sit here and sip my souchong and watch the panorama of those sunset effects yonder, is a treat I rarely forgo for any social temptation." " It seems a very pleasant occupation," said David. He, too, looked out of the great square window, shrouded with heavy velvcv curtains and holding like a frame the picture that Nature was painting without. " You don't know London at all, I believe ? " said Stephen Ormistoun. " No, except for passing through on my way to Paris. I have stayed in Paris a week at a time. 'Two weeks last time I was over ; but never in London." " Well, you have a great deal to see and to learn." And to do~I hope," said David, watching the slender fmgera as they carefully measured the tea into the pot. •• That, of course, depends on yourself." xic yiuscu tno na auo seatea iumHeif again. The soft- i66 CALVARY footed manservant brought in hot tea-cakes, and bread and butter, and inquired if he should Hght the lamp. " Not yet, Richards. There's too fine an illumination out there." The man withdrew, and David glanced around the room, taking in with some wonder its blend of aesthetic beauty and comfort. " I didn't think London would be like this," he said. " I had an idea there was no such thing as a view, or space, or effects hke that. It's very beautiful." The rose tints had faded to dull gold and purple. Roofs and banks and leafless trees stood out in bold relief. The slender spire of the Abbey uplifted itself on one side, and the delicate Gothic beauty of the Houses of Parliament stood out on the other. David was enchanted. Something of the spirit of the Englishman who recognizes the importance of his national government and his national religion awoke in him for the first time. It was an emotion quite new and unexpected. The venerable Abbey appealed to him more than the famous French cathedral had done. He longed to be in it ; to visit the sacred shrines of genius ; to read its history afresh in its grey stones and memorials of past ages. He said something of this in broken words. Ormistoun was touched by his feeling and enthusiasm. They appealed to his own aesthetic instincts — instincts that had moved amongst the poetry and grandeur of England's past, and put forward further claims of hopefulness in her future. They drank their tea and watched the shadows lengthen and the soft haze of twilight fade. Neither of them spoke as yet of the true reason of thin visit, or touched deeper subjects than just those on the surface of thought. It was not till the tray had been removed and the curtains drawn that the strange host and stranger guest left ex- ternal things to themselves, and drew up their chairs before the fire for a first plunge into religious confidences. Ormistoun sketched briefly his reasons for that defiance of orthodox ministration which had brought him not only into notoriety, but into disrepute. '' Uf course,** lie said, " if my church were not my own 167 h> m CALVARY I should be bound to leave it. As it is, I have a congrega- tion far exceeding those of many West End churches. Ihey support me so lavishly and warmly that I know they would follow me wherever I choose to go. It is a bold thmg to run amuck against authorized traditions, but 1 mamtam that what the extreme Ritualists do un- checked, any other churchman has an equal right to do. Ihere is a strong notion of reform going on in the heads and hearts of many who have no clear idea of what it is they want to reform. Broad Church, High Church, Low Church, and Indiiferentism all argue for greater liberty of thought and action. Amongst them stand out a few onginal thinkers, who dare to oppose past authorities and refuse to be trammelled by obsolete rules ; men who, like myself, will not preach what they do not believe, and vet may not^ preach what they do." "But— do not you preach as you believe?" asked JDavia m some perplexity. ^' Not quite ; and not yet. The time is not ripe." I cannot understand a division between thought and action," said the young enthusiast. "Possibly so. You possess the elementary frankness of the beginner. I will warrant there is very little of the theologian's cavilling in your discourses; nothing of the policy of Omissions' or the subtlety of 'Commissions' which form the text of most spiritual practices of the present day." /* r^.^T^T ^^** ^ ^^- ^^^^^y and simply a preacher of what I believe, and what I want others to accept." You do — believe, I suppose ? " David started. The blood rushed to his temples. Was .1^* ®^P°^®d *8ain to casuiaty and contradictions ? Of course I beheve," he said. " I could not preach if I once doubted." "Exactly. That is the spirit of the true evangelist: the preacher with a purpose; the missionizer with a mission That is what we want here in this great whirl- pool of doubt and lost faiths and incredible vileness. That —was why I tried to secure your help. It seems to me that the Church has crowded out all individuahtv in her miniatera. even as pMc • — i--^ j i •.. •' - . Iia « lOBt tcuch vvitli true Bpiritual 168 CALVARY instincts. Conventionality has been the death of spiritu- ality. We have an enormous amount of mental slovenliness m our modem ' Unholy Orders ' ; stupid and obdurate mmds ; rampant sacerdotalism. Belief in God has de- generated into acceptance of man's explanation of Divinity, an explanation that to my mind is as incongruous a thing as that pictured figure of the Creator in the Pope's chapel— the figure of a bearded septuagenarian supported by clouds and hurling thunderbolts ! Man has always been ham- pered by the limitation of his conceptiona. He has from the days of his savagery endeavoured to give visible form to what he felt was superior and more powerful than him- self. He has failed signally. We must ascend to spiritual comprehension. It will never descend to us." " I am afraid," said David, " that you will think me extraordmarily ignorant on all matters of theology. It has been my fate to feel so deeply a conviction of God, and of God's service to the world in the personality of His Divine Son, that I have asked for no further proof than what the Bible gives." *' That, I suppose, has been your sole text-book ? " ^" It contains all one needs ; so it seems to me." " I should like to hear exactly, if you care to give me your confidence, what induced you to take up this mis- sion ? " said Ormistoun. " My history is very simple." And, briefly, David told it. How he was found by the fasherman, David Perryn, and adopted by him and his wife ; his passion for the sea ; his odd, unchildish dreams, the visions that had seemed to him so real ; then his meet- ing with that st-ange friend whoso interest in him had been the turning-point of his life ; the intervention of Morgan CYaddock ; the change in his social condition ; his four years at the College; and then his return to Cornwall, there to begin this " tramp " preaching. Ormistoun listened with great attention, never once in- terrupting the frank recital. •'Then— you really have no idea who you are?" ho said at last. "Not the least," answered David. " Jh has fmubled me very little, though. Earthly relationships are not a 169 ■>>, CALVARY necessity ; there are more discords in families than in friendships." Ormistoun smiled. " That's very true. Still, the human family has to hold together by some social bond. One cannot always be enough for oneself, even if one feels that that self is the only thing that matters in the world at large. To be without any curiosity as to the source of your being, or who is physically responsible for yonr appearance in this troublous world, argues a very unusual self-suflSciency on your part, Mr. Hermon." " I cannot help it. Human facts and necessities have always seemed to me of such small importance beside the real things." " What exactly do you mean by the— real things ? " asked Stephen Ormistoun. David looked at the worn, ascetic face of his questioner. " I mean — what has come to my soul as spiritual truth. The living one's best ; the doing one's best for others ; thinking one's highest ; keeping to the faith pointed out to us by Christ, preached by His disciples, practised by His saints : the one and only true Faiih that leads to Life Everlasting." Ormistoun said nothing for a moment. He refilled his big German pipe, and lit it, and drew long, deep breaths of it before he answered that impassioned declaration. Then he said : " The one and only true Faith ? Have you ever thought that the world holds millions of human beings all arguing that one point ? Hundreds of Religions founded on it ? Millions of martyrs dying for it ? The one true Faith, my dear boy, is just the Faith of each devotee; each head of that section of the church which the constitution of the country or the ecclesiastical power of a powerful priesthood chooses to maintain. Every group or body of these millions is drawn together by the particular sophistry that welds such Faith into arbitrary confession. To the enthusiast it comes easier than to the materialist. To cowards religion is a refuge ; to the worldly-minded a pastime ; to self-made martyrs a torment; to the thinker a vast tract of unprovable fallacies, through which the tentacles of thouglit stray ~ '"" -".^.ti cii- trvciv auii. ui pruui, goncraiiy to 170 CALVARY find th^ nothing can be proved ; and that— for one good and sufficient reason. Wisdom is not to be justified of her children in this imperfect world." David looked troubled. Had he come here only to face another species of Morgan Craddock ; only to be disturbed and unsettled by subtle arguments he was unable to fight with any weapon of logic ? ^^ "I cannot argue with you, Mr. Ormistoun," he said. 1 imagined from what you told me in Cornwall that you were a minister of the Gospel, and therefore accepted its tenets. If you have a church and preach in it, what is it you do preach ? " '' You will hear me to-morrow," said Ormistoun, rising and proceeding to shake out the ashes of his pipe' before he laid it aside. " And now Til call a truce to discussion. I am going to take yovi out to dine. By the way, do you descend to the bondage of conventional evening dress or not ? " ® •" ■^^t~^°'^ *^® sufficient reason I don't possess a dress- suit. That 18 one of the things I am commissioned to get myself Mr. Craddock thought you might advise me on the subject." Ormistoun laughed. " I'm no stickler for conventionali- ties myself. Still, I do not take refuge in orthodox clerical garb while outwardly opposing most of its conditions. I only asked because our choice of a restaurant d.-pends on our regard of costume. A tail-coat and a white shirt are the only passports to civilized life after seven o'clock in the evening. But we will dispense with them, and possibly enjoy (Mirselves the more for doing so. I know a delightful Jittle French restaurant — what made you start like ull£tt/ / David's face grew suddenly white. " Nothing— I mean —i don t care for French places. Couldn't we go some- where English ? " » '^ l•/*J*^^^*lIi®^*^°" ®^°^^ ^ lamentable ignorance of London life, said Ormistoun. " Nothing in our hotels or restau- rants IS really English. We are run by Swiss and Italian managers; catered for by colonial or American meat purveyors; cuoked for by French or German chHs / I could not conscientiously take you to a really English 171 J ?•: ii I U CALVARY restaurant. Stay, though — there's Simpson's in the Strand. They play up to insular prejudices. The stolid joint, the rich soup, the boiled fish, and that everlasting detestable English compound — the melted butter ! Shall we go there ? " " Oh, please pardon my want of manners ! I should not have interfered with any of your arrangements. It was just a stupid prejudice on my part about French " He hesitated. " Well, the best way to fight a prejudice is not to give in to it. So we'll even go to Leicester Square, and try to believe we're not a hundred miles from the Boulevards." Again that look of annoyance, or disturbance, shadowed David's face. Ormistoun, whom nothing escaped, no- ticed it. " So," he thought to himself, " the record is not so spotless as it looks. What was it, I wonder, or when ? And is Paris responsible ? " They walked up Whitehall in the chill spring evening, Ormistoun pointing out to his companion all the interest- ing and remarkable landmarks of Time, or of memorial- ization. David's quick enthusiasm and unflagging interest amused him. It was long since he had encountered a mind so fresh and unspoilt and so singularly boyish. Apart from that one subject of his ministry David was, indeed, a mere boy ; easily pleased, quickly interested ; full of unspent energies and eager for knowledge. Charing Cross, St. Martin'3 Church, the great Hospital, the National Gallery, the memorable Square where Landseer's lions crouched under the flickering street lamps, the line of theatres, with cabs and carriages depositing their freights of delightful millinery and bored-looking men — all these were subjects of interest to the young observer. To Stephen Ormistoun they only represented a phase of London's evening life known and witnessed ad nausMm. Still, the fresh ignorance of this young mind was a delight- ful novelty. To see commonplace things in the light of an untried experience makes up one of the privileges of maturity. 173 CALVARY They reached the Restaurant Pigalle and sauntered in. ine crowded tables, the hurrying waiters, the smell of food all brought vividly back to David those weeks of his l^arisian expenences. Only the faces here were different. Urmistoun seemed well known. A smiling attend»,nt con- ducted him to a table in a quiet corner commanding a view of the room, though itself apart from it. Rose-shaded candles threw - warm light on shining glass and cutlery and damask. )avid was nothing of a gourmand, and cared httle what he ate or where he ate it. Still, there was a pleasurable sense of novelty about caf^s and restau- rants that appealed to him. He had enjoyed his brief expenence of them in Parie ; he was expecting to enjoy them m another and more matured form in thie, new world of London. Having resolved to avoid the bugbear of theological controversy, Ormistoun proved himself an amusing and delightful host. He told David interesting things of people he would meet and places where he would go. The object of the mission was lightly touched upon. So much would depend on whether the young preacher would c. u^' J^ ^® ^^' * ^^®' ^^^^ n^^gh* open to his choice. Stephen Ormistoun had engaged him for a series of six services on six Sunday evenings. The choice of subject was to be David's own. Many of Ormistoun's congrega- tion were personal friends : men and women of high social position ; representatives of art and literature ; stars of the theatncal worid, men of letters, teachers and pro- fessors from the big schools and coUeges of London. He wondered whether David would feel nervous at addressing an audience so widely different from any he had known let, when he remembered the effect his preaching had had upon himself, he felt that there was a new and unknown power to be reckoned with. The pure and spiritual magnet- ism of the boy. For boy, indeed, he looked; younger even than his twenty-one years, and with a face whose extraor^nary beauty and spirituality possessed an irre- sistible fascination. "I wonder what Lady Pamela will think of vou ? " he said suddenly. ^ David looked surprised. " Who is she ? " he asked. 173 h CALVARY " She is a very lovely and very surprising lady, and one of the shining lights of my c< ngregation. That is to say, she holds a number of sittings and has made all her frie .ds take others, and trumpets my fame and my originality ratlier more loudly than I care about. When I published the notices of the mission servicPH she was furious. It appears that most of her Sunday ' vet > tigs are devoted to Bridge ; and her conscience, or rt*fcher hat she pretends to beUeve is her conscience, is fighting with her social obligations. I don't know which will win. But I do know that she is intensely curious about you, and is determined to hear you at least once. So I lather fancy she will be at St. Ninian's to-morrow evening." David did not seem specially interested. The social world, the smart world, the world of v alth and influence, were an unknown quantity in his mini, as yet. He had just refused an entree, and was wondering why a dinner must consist of such a number of needless dishes, when one alone, was enough to satisfy either appetite or digestion. His abstinence and temperanoe astonished Orraistoun, though he had always considereu himself as a fastidious eater rather than a gourmand. " You never touch wine ? Is it a principle or a fad ? " *' Simply I don't want anything better than wa*er. It quenches my thirst, and, after all, that is the only reason why one drinks, isn't it ? " Stephen Ormistoun laughed. " Indeed, no. Most men drink because they hi it, or the stimulating effects of it. It has nothing to do with thirst. Real thirst is only excited by alcohol, never quenched by it." David's eyes were wandering to and fro, scanning the faces, watching the stream of arriving and departing couples. Here again, as in Paris, it was the same proces- sion — two and two, the man and the woman. Did the same secret underlie the companionship ? Was this social surface only a surface, after all ? A very pretty girl somewhat demodee in style was pass- ing his table. She was followed by a dark, Jewish-looking man. The girl gave David a glance that meant what most of his ace and sex would have had it mean. But the wondering gravity of his eyes gave no response. Indeed, 174 CALV..±iY he was far away in memories of another scene, another face-a mockmg voice, sajing. " Come and dance with ma I " an astonished iiation he dashed lolding the hands me ! Su lenly he started to his feet, uttej cry. V^ithoir word of apology or c vp! down the roon. aid Ormistoun saw hir of a lark, foreign-looifing man ; beardta, Ion haired, and dressed m a h>o8e v^elvet coat and wearing a slouched hat. 1 J m?" ^^^^^ ^^ *^® ^^y 8°* ^^^^ of ? " he said half aloud. Ihen he went on with his dinner. He put the stranger (lo^\^^ as some for< ign actor or artist : possibly some out-at-elbow tramp acquaint anco made iu Paris. After some five minutt^s David returned, flushed and eager. Oh ! may I bring him to our table ? " he ex- claimed. " He would like to know yo i." :n rather coldly. He thetic tastes ; he did not care for promiscuous acqua ^ces. "My friend. The man I told i about ! The cleverest and most wonderful man I have ever met. It is four years smce I have seen him. Would you mind if he jomed us ? " " Has he no name ? " inquired Ormistoun, glancing at tiie strange personality in the distance. •' None that I have ever heard. He calls himself * the Wanderer'— that. is all." Ormistoun laughed. " What an odd idea ! However, smce ho was your first benefactor, as you say, by all means let me make his acquaintance. He looks a vaga- bond, but an artistic one. I hope he is not going to prove a mere favQeur." cor "He? Who?" asked Orm was a man of reserved nature an I 175 n-',,H \M-\-h MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ 1^ US IS 2.8 3.2 ■ 4.0 1.4 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.6 ^ APPLIED IIVHGE Inc ^^ 1653 Eost Main Street S^S Rochester, New York 14609 USA 'SS: (716) 487 - 0300 - Phone ^S (716) 288- 5989 -Fox ^Iljl IT was with quite an abnormal curiosity that Stephen Ormistoun regarded the stranger. The introduction by David was informal. It never occurred to him that his old friend and his new were on a different social footing, and might prove antagonistic instead of convenable. " Enchanted, monsieur." There was a low, half-mocking bow, a quick, searching glance, and then the Wanderer was seated between them, and Ormistoun was beggmg him to take up the menu where he pleased. ^^ " Thank you—but I have dined," was the answer. A glass of wine I'll share with pleasure, and for the joy of meeting my young friend here once again. But no more. " Mr. Hermon tells me you were influential in deciding his career for him ? " observed Ormistoun as he filled the newcomer's glass with Barsao. , , j « Mr. ? " The Wanderer glanced up, then looked at David. " Oh, a thousand pardons ! I forgot you had a surname. You have found it has a use at last ? Stephen Ormistoun looked puzzled. David explained. " Then Hermon is not your name at all ? " " It is as much his name as any individual can claim. The accident of birth places us in a certain set of circum- stances, and we formulate our ideas on that accident : claim rights and privileges, and dower ourselves with importance. After all, what does a name convey ? Not the person himself, but something by which he may be singled out from a host of other persons. I was responsible for David's outer signification, or rather his spiritual chart directed its choice— eh, David ? " , " It matters very little to me," said the boy, shrugging his shoulders. " Since I shall never know who I really am, I am as content with one name as another." ^^ " I understand you have not met for some years ? observed Ormistoun. 176 CALVAEY " That is so. But report carries strange messages on occasion. I came to London to hear him preach to- morrow. I had not intended you should know, David. It was an odd chance that drove me here to-night ; as much from the association of the name, too, as anything else." Again that shadow of trouble, or annoyance, crept over David's face. Ormistoun grew curious. " The restaurant bears the name of a Paris street," he said casually ; " one in Montmartre, I beUeve ? " "That is so," observed the Wanderer. "You know Paris well, I suppose ? " " As well as casual visits allow of one knowing any place." " You mentioned Montmartre. It is not a locality where one sees gentlemen of your persuasion very often." " Possibly," said Ormistoun coolly. " But is there any hard-and-fixed rule as to the localities ' gentlemen of my persuasion ' may frequent — even in Paris ? " " Certainly not, if you choose to throw conventions overboard. If report speaks true, you have done some- thing of that sort ? " "Since you know so much you must know pretty well all. My name stands for many things, including liberal showers of abuse." " That proves you've lifted it out of the ruck of con- tributory conditions. I applaud your courage." " But tell me — do,'" interrupted David eagerly, " are you staying in London now ? Shall I be able to see you ? Did you really come to hear me ? " " I really did. And that I am staying in London is proved by that fact. With regard to seeing me " Ho looked at Ormistoun, then glanced at liis own some- what Bohemian costume. " I am plus rot que rot — more of a vagabond than ever. I hardly think it would do for you to be much in my com- pany. What do you say, my reverend sir ? " The mocking glance and mocking voice annoyed Stephen Ormistoun. He was not used to being addressed in such a fashion. " I have no control over Mr. Hermon's actions," he said curtly. " He is at liberty to do what he pleases." N 177 CALVARY "I don't fancy he will abuss his liberty. Will you, David ? " " I hope not. I am keenly interested in London. I want to see as much of it and learn as much of it as [ubolule. But " "It is to the full as dangerous as its gay sister over the water," said the Wanderer. " Some people think even worse. The veneer of h3rpocrisy is thicker, but the rotten- ness beneath is as foul ! " " That is very sweeping condemnation," said Stephen Ormistoun. " In all great cities there is a certain amount of vice and sin, as there is an inseparable amount of poverty and distress. It is part and parcel of the great social fabric. How to alter it is the problem that genera- tion after generation propounds and never answers." " The Riddle of the Universe applied to humanity in the aggregate ; the finding out the essential quality of sin and then doctoring it with Homoeopathic doses of feeble legislature. Fortunately for the world many men are better than their actions — even politicians." Stephen Ormistoun grew interested. Socialism was to him a conception of the highest good for humanity in general ; the organization of a common interet '■ in common, that is to say, universal things. But also it was a bubject so confused and so bound up with individual int^jrests that it seemed as yet a Ucopian scheme. Was this wild-eyed, bearded stranger one of the movers in the great synthesis of human purpose ? one who recognized the waste and misery of human life as curable, despite the disorder that civilization had achieved ? He forgot prejudice, he forgot aesthetic antipathies ; he burst into an eager confession of opinions, of views im- personal and collective : ideas for f 3oial grouping of mankind into a wider and more usef .)dy ; self-govern- ing, self-controlling, and self-elevating. He told of indi- vidual effort and individual failure ; he was altogether a different person from that cold and critical Stephen Ormis- toun of first introduction ; and as he unbent to opinions and exploited his views, so in like manner did that other mind open out and give back kindred opinions and exploit other views, David listened eagoriy to the fiint-and-spark 178 indi- CALVARY controversy. It was altogether novel to him. He heard wild theories discussed and innumerable authorities quoted. There would be a quick passage of arms — a sharpening of weapons on wits; but through it all ran a mutual com- prehension that went far to break down exterior prickles of caste. The discussion grew and widened into other channels, O'-^nistoun, at last conscious of the lateness of the hour, asked for his bill, and invited his new friend to come back to the flat and continue the discussion over coffee and pipes; but the invitation was refused. " It is close upon midnight already, and David should have a good night's rest as preparation for his ordeal to-morrow. Another time, another night I shall be de- lighted." So they parted at the door, and Ormistoun hailed a hansom and drove back to Westminster more excited than David imagined was possible for one so cool and critical. " Who can he be — tliat man ? " he asked again. " Cul- ture and erudition, and common sense and mad enthusiasm combined, and ycu only know him as the Bohemian he appeared and the vagabond he calls himself ! It seems incredible ! " " But as long as he is himself, vhat does it matter ? " said David. " To me he is a nuui unlike all other men, and therefore there's no reason to classify him under any special name or profession. I only know I owe him every- thing. I might have been still a fisher lad, living only the life the other boy led, had not he helped me, inspired me, directed me into the channel that seemed the best fitted for my peculiarities." " What does he do ? " asked Ormistoun. " A man must work to live, you know ; and he seems to have travelled far and wide, and met and known the most celebrated thinkers of the age. That means possessing money. Yet to look at him " David laughed. " He did look a bit uncivilized to-night. But he can be as much of a — well, to say gentleman seems absurd ! He is that — naturallv, I mean La does drfisa and look and behave conventionally sometimes." 179 CALVARY " In Paris, I suppose ? " " Yes." The brief monosyllable closed the subject. Ormistoun said no more. When they reached the flat, David asked if he might go to bed. His host took him to his room to see that all was prepared for his comfort. David noted the attention. " Do you know all this is much too fine and grand for me ? " he said. " I'm used to the plainest and simplest sort of hfe." " You are my guest," said Stephen Ormistoun, " and as such will have to put up with what is good enough for me. You will be called at eight o'clock to-morrow, or later, if you prefer ? " " Later ! Why, I'm out and about by six o'clock every day of my life." " You must do as you please about that. But town isn't country, you know, and London doesn't take down its shutters or set about its daily routine till seven or eight of the morning. On Sundays it's even later — except, of course, for Eucharistic enthusiasts. But possibly your particular form of Faith does not embrace sacraments or dispense them ? " " No," said David, " I am not a ragularly ordained minister. I do not profess the rubric of the Prayer Book, and though I have studied the Thirty-nine Articles I could never — conscientiously — subscribe to them." " I have heard many students of Divinity say t?uit" observed Ormistoun. " I said it myself, but I was forced to do violence to my own feelings at the mandate of my spiritual superiors. Now, thank God, I have broken loose from them all. Ot course, I Uve in daily expectation of being suspended by my Bishop ; but, as yet, he has seen fit to ignore my unorthodox proceedings. Well, good night. You'll hear and see for yourself to-morrow what manner of man I am ! " David stood in the centre aisle of a small and beautifully appointed church. The altar at which he gazed in sur- prise was massed with white flowers, draped in gorgeous embroideries, studded with silver vesseja. The stained- glass windows threw warm shades of violet and crimson i8o CALVARY over the chequered black-and-white pavement. Tall pillars held simulated candlesticks to which electric light was sup- plied. A sense of gorgeous simplicity and of aesthetic taste stimulated the boy's curiosity, and fed some latent sense of sestheticism within his mind. Harmony, beauty, subdued tones, an intense restfulness — these were the characteristics of St. Ninian's. The church was filling rapidly. David was shown into a seat midway in the aisle. There were rows of rush- bottomed chairs, and none of these were app'- oriated. Some half-dozen rows of cushioned seats at the i^f) of the church were let off to regular seat-holders. The rest of the congregation sat where they pleased, and contributed to the offertory. A magnificent organ pealed forth the " Gloria " of Mozart's twelfth Mass. Then the choir filed in, white- robed, graduating from boyhood to manhood, followed by Stephen Ormistoun in simple surplice and cassock, the scarlet hood of his degree adding a solitary note of colour. David held his breath in astonishment as the glorious music thrilled out upon the stillness ; sweeping over bowed heads and kneeling figures ; filling the whole build- ing with melody. Then it died away into softness, blending its closing harmonies into the opening chant of the choir. How wonderful it was ! Those lovely boy- voices ringing out in very gladness of their message, the deeper tones of the altos and bassos sustaining them ; then the lull-blended sweep of both, soaring, spreading, melting, fading, dying into an exquisite silence that left all hearts waiting for a climax ; the climax of prayer. David knew very little of the formulated English Church Service. He did not trouble to follow this special form of it by letter ; he was content to listen and observe. He was just a little anxious and a little eager to hear Stephen Ormistoun preach. The rest mattered nothing. There was a great deal of choral singing. Then, just as the last hymn before the sermon was given out, a side door to the right opened softly and some late arrivals came in. They passed to those reserved seats at the foot of the --o-vici iiutcvt Liiciii Witii u iiLtii; surpriau. xney were nearly all women, and women of a stamp he had i8i CALVARY never met as yet. Fine flowers of ultra-civilized Bociety ; dressed and coloured and jewelled to the last note of fashionable extravagance. That they be" '. a knee before the altar, or expressed the faint mockery of reverence due to the occasion, seemed both a condescension and an anomaly. Their scented laces and costly furs and gorgeous millinery looked as out of place in a church, as cassock and surplice would have looked in a theatre. Among the little crowd of fashionable beauty was one woman impossible to overlook ; not because she was beautiful, but because she struck just that right note of exquisite proportion which blends colour and attire into perfect harmony. David was in view of a curiously fasci- nating profile. He felt himself compelled to unwilUng admiration as well as unwilling criticism ; he had never seen any one like her. The soft, dusky waves of carelessly perfect hair framed a face at once provoking and elusive. The eyes that looked out on the world of men and things in general were of a deep golden hazel, shaded by unusually long and curling lashes. Strange eyes, elusive and yet ex- pectant ; windows of a soul but half awakened ; reflex of emotions set to the time and hour of any excitement that promised novelty. The name of Pamela Leaffe was a name kno\^Ti to her set, and to many reflexes and copies of that set, as a " name to conjure with." She was an attraction wherever she went ; the stiffest cordon of proprieties had opened at her bidding, and pretended to look upon her escapades as harmless eccentricities of genius. For Lady Pamela seemed able to do endless things, and to do some of them extremely well. She wrote a little and talked a great deal, and danced divinely, and sang exquisitely ; also she seemed never tired or bored, or at a loss for amusement. Possibly because she had a knack of making all things amuse her — even the most serious. Stephen Ormistoim was one of the serious things that she had lately turned to social account. She thought him delightful, both as a personality and a preacher. And it specially amused her to listen to him in hir church and then entangle him in feminine casuistries at her own luncheon-table afterwards. When that tall, impassive 182 CALVARY I1r figure passed from the altar to the pulpit she was always conscious of a little thrill of excitement. No other church and no other cleric had ever given her that thrill. And she was jealous of such rare sensations in a world where even vice was cornered by loss of inventiveness, and had had to fall back upon such poor examples as those of Sodom and Gomorrah ! She rarely troubled herself to be in time for the pre- liminary service. " I don't care about curtain raisers. Why should I bore myself with hymns and prayers ? " she told Ormistoun. And being a privileged person, and one to whom much was forgiven because she possessed much, he accepted the excuse for what it was worth. To-day he opened his note-book, as usual, to no formal text. His idea of a sermon was to speak to people of what materially concerned them. Of the topics of the day as they bore upon its events ; the sins and follies and quips and cranks of the passing show; that show in which all mankind played its part, served its end, and took its chances. He lifted his head and gave one long, direct gaze over the expectant crowd. He knew they were all there to hear him : drawn as the magnet draws the needle by that irresistible passion of curiosity which makes so largely for the success of an enterprise. " The subject I have chosen to-day," he began, " is the Mystery of Evil. It is a subject that has been largely discussed and written about and theorized about. It is probably the strongest argument that Atheism employs against Deism. Partly because evil imphes cruelty as well as sin, and the Christian theory of God is perfect sinless- ness ; partly because Omnipotence, as man translates it, implies that the will of the Creator must have been ii con- senting power to the creation of evil; therefore uoh a Creator cannot be entirely good. Another class oi heo- logians solve the mystery by saying man was granted free will, and was capable of continuing sinless had he chosen to do so. I confess this has always seemed to me like bf "Tgine the question. Because — apart from man — we have a Tempter and a Temptation presented to his sinlessness, 183 Hi, 'I ' 'i CALVARY and capable of overthrowing the fine balance of his destiny. So if man was without sin the Tempter was not, and we get back once more into the myth of Beginnings ; the dual forces at work from the very earliest history of the world down to the present moment. Just as Day is the opposite of Night, and Shadow of Sunshine, so is Evil the shadow of Good and the — seemingly — opposing force with which it has to reckon. Prolonged or everlasting daylight would be the most tiresome thing our minds can conceive : a perpetual, blinding, dazzling, fatiguing force, destroying the beauty of earth and robbing man of his artistic senses, seeing that shadow and softness tend to illustrate the mean- ing of a picture. We may use as an illustration of my point that the sun does not cast the shadow, although it is the cause of it. Therefore, why should not Good be ac- quainted with Evil without being evil ? " There is another argument of the Atheist, viz. that sin either entered the world against the will of the Creator, in which case He is not all powerful, or it entered mth His permission, in which case it is His agent, and therefore He, too, is sinful. This may be a very comforting conclu- sion for a mind that prefers darkness to light, but it is far from being a logical one. We might begin by saying that our translation of the word ' Omnipotence ' is limited by our incapacity to conceive it. There are two words that stagger the human mind when it tries to grasp their actual meaning. One is Eternity; the other is Omnipotence. These expressions, as applied to man's conception of the Almighty, have assumed most extraordinary shapes in human imagination. I maintain that omnipotence is only a force controlled by natural forces. The earth and all it contains, the heavens and all they contain, the sea and all its wonders, are but parts of one huge machine set work- ing for some purpose of which we are entirely ignorant. Show me the man who can explain the reason for a world, when no hving soul was there to desire it ; the reason for man to be created at all, when ignorance of his very nature seems to represent him as a series of experiments all more or less faulty. Show me the man who can explain this, and 1 will confess that he is second only to the God he explains. " If thei'e had been no world there would have been no 184 CALVARY sin— no evil— no cruelty— no suffering. If we had had no existence we should not now be paying a daily penalty for that existence. But we find ourselves in a world not of our own making ; part of a system we shall never understand, though we search and argue and fight over fragments of elucidation all our lives. We can only fall back upon faulty records, imperfect histories, puzzling chronology, and — Religion. " The root of religion is, of course, goodness as con- trasted with wickedness. The attempt to live up to an accepted standard of perfection. Man is for ever bolster- i ing up that standard v/ith impossible obligations of spiritu- ality, '^wd for ever falsifying it by limitations of humanity. He falls back into natural sin as often as he tries to lead an unnatural life. For Good and Evil are both parts of his nature, and since he is bound to accept that nature, he cannot escape its penalties, or its weakness. " But — for sake of argument — let me ask any of you, or let me ask myself, from whence do we get this ideal of perfect goodness ? Is it from the Bible— that disputed, imperfect, and contradictory source of our spiritual know- ledge ? Say it is. Then who can read the chronicles of the world's creation, the world's speedy fall into sin and evil and suffering, and trace in those chronicles one Perfect example of goodness ? The God of the Jews is a God of war and bloodshed ; of the most arbitrary class distinc- tions, in spite of His being the origin and original pattern of Man. I cannot even see that He is a God of Justice. In His dealings with Pharaoh, King of Egypt, He is de- scribed as preventing the King doing certain actions, and then punishing him for not doing them ! I could point to hundreds of instances throughout the Old Testament that prove the Jewish God to fall short of even our poor human conception of perfect goodness, perfect love, and perfect justice. He — to my thinking— proves for Himself, as well as for His chroniclers, that Good and Evil are dual forces, as I have already 'd, working in the Creation from the Beginning : worki ig in man, working in man's professed Redeemer, and working in order to prove that evil is necessary to produce good, just as light is necessary to manifest the contrast of darkness. 185 OALVAEY " To the primitive man there was day and there was night ; there was good when things went well with him and his enemies let him alone ; there was evil when his children displeased him and his enemies fought for his possessions, and famine and bloodshed and disaster proved that some Force he could not appease was punishing him for some reason he could not explain. " Through all the pages of the world's authority for its existence, Evil marches triumphantly along. It is in the history of Creation and the history of Redemption ; it a a stronger force and generally a more successful force than good. But, also, it is a proof of its own necessity ; for if suffering and sin are evils, they exist for the purpose of contrast with happiness and purity ; they call forth virtues that otherwise would have no place in the natural scheme of things ; they are the agents of a purpose work- ing within the world and within man's soul for a given end. What that end is we may not know. Our education is not completed here ; it only begins. Sin is part of it. Suffering is part of it. Love is part of it. And none of these are altogether good or altogether evil. Sin may bring repent- ance, and Suffering produce virtues, and Love — that strangest and briefest and most powerful of human pas- sions — may exalt us to the level of the angels, or drag us iower than the fiends of darkness themselves ! It is the custom of Puritans and sectarians of all denominations to paint Sin as a thing accursed — a fearful moral disease. It should be painted as a human attribute and a human benefactor. It shows up our small virtues as nothing else could show them. It has created the most exquisite hypocrisies, and the most remarkable code of laws to safe- guard our morals. It is alwa5^s with us, and we neither hate, nor fear, nor shun it ; neither do we attempt to understand it. It is taken for granted, and manifests itself in our first responsible action. It is life's mystery and life's taskmaster ; but, also, it is life's Teacher. " We are bruised and hurt and crushed by it, yet there are times when we come out conquerors. If the evil in us contains the germs of Death, the good escapes Death. And it is the good that will outUve the evil, once we be- come conscious that it is a better and a wiser thing. But i86 CALVARY the one is not possible without the other, and the distinc- tion between the two would be less arbitrary— possibly less harmful— if we recognized that fact instead of abusing It. Man believes in good and tries to formulate good, and lo ! when he seeks his ideal it is imperfect and beyond convincing demonstration. Platitudes we have, and texts that may be represented in a dozen different ways, and theories without end. But one formula, ' As it was in the Beginning,' has a meaning we would do well to apply to it. For what does that Beginning prove ? Chaos, and out of Chaos, Evil, and out of Evil, Good, and the mystery of the one is the mystery of the other, and both are centred in the Law of Being, which means the Law of Life. From that we proceed ; to that we hope to returr^ . But our own efforts are largely necessary. We need not think that to eat, drink, and be merry constitute the whole of our social obligations. Far from it. Because things have been wrong and still are wrong is no reason to accept wrong as a standard either of thought or of action. If wo b*»lieve in Good at all, we must believe in the Highest form of goodness, and that every effort at attainment stands for something in the eyes of that Great Power our souls must acknowledge— seeing that It is part of our souls." 11 ih'' A ;i ..: 187 XI THE deep, vibrating tones of that powerful voice ceased to rise and fall on the stillness of the church. With a sense of lessened tension on David's part, he looked around and saw that all the congregation were rising. The organ pealed out once more. The choir sang the sublime " Ave Maria " of Pergolesi, and, amidst afrou- frou of skirts, a cloud of ense, a confusion of perfume and fragrance, he found hijiself in the outer air. For a few bewildered moments he stood trying to collect his senses ; to force his thoughts back into the natural channels from whence they had been roughly driven. After faith so absolute, peace so perfect, he had been roused as by a trumpet-call. He had listened to what seemed to him the ravings of pure rationalism, and listened with a reluctant acknowledgment that he could not tight against such reasoning. He was far too ignorant on the one part, far too spiritual on the other. If Faith is " the sub- stance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, David had more than the ordinary Christian's share of it. His feelings stood to him as convictions ; he had never probed deeper for reasons of belief. Now he was thrust into a chaos of doubt. He had listened to man arraigning his Maker and proving that Maker at fault. The eternal verities were not eternal ; they had a logical beginning, a logical continuation, and would or must have a logical He could no longer close his eyes and walk blindly. Some one—something— had struck the rock of his faith, and straightway a stream of questioning and alarm poured forth. He, too, looked up at the Heaven above and the earth below and asked himself— What is Truth ? tt:_ / 4. «„^^;«/l liJm r>n onrl nn SntlHaV CrOwds WCrO passing to and fro in orderly confusion. Church doors were i88 CALVARY open ; music pealed. He heard the echo of familiar hymns such as had sounded on some Cornish moor or crowded Meeting House. He was in a world of religious faith and following; a Christian, humanized world; a world of churches and worshippers. How was it, then, that every- thing was crumbling around him ? That nothing seemed real. Nothing stood for what it had been used to stand ; neither God, no-r Christ, nor the Church, nor human souls ! Unconsciously he wandered on. He found himself amidst large and beautiful spaces ; budding trees ; spring flowers; wide stretches of grass. He was conscious of passing figures, of whirling carriages, the noise and stir of humanity. He hurried on and found a quieter nook — a place closed in by high shrubs and banks of evergreens. Seats were scattered about under the yet leafless trees ; a broad sheet of shining water flowed at his feet. With a sigh of relief he threw himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He wanted to be quite alone. Just himself and that Spirit of the Unseen with whom he was used to hold commune. Already he had recognized the fact that in all moments of supreme exaltation, as all moments of supreme de- spair, the soul is solitary ; .xiat it has to suffer alone ; to live alone ; to go through all life's deeper tragedies alone ; to die alone. And then — what next ? As he sat there and fought with the demon of Doubt, and argued and struggled for the old simplicity of divine hopes, he woke from life's apprenticeship at last ; from boyhood to manhood ; from dreams to suffering. The heritage of humanity was his, and knew at last what it had accepted. A mission that must prove up to the hilt its divine origin and its divine truth, or else sink, confounded and dismayed, into the dust of failure. How could he do it ? How ? How ? How ? He felt the hot smart of tears in his eyes ; the pangs of an unbearable agony rent his heart. He tried to cry out to that Rock of Strength, sure as the foundations of the world, and lo ! a voice whispered : " The world has no such foundation." There had been no Garden of Eden : no Adam, n.o FalL Man was like God, and God was like man— and both were 189 ••II CALVARY imoerfect Had he not himself wondered at some of those So Genesis ? Wondered that God shou d walk in a Sn and talk mth man as an equal ? S^o^^, dlowjhe great Masterpiece of Creation to be wrecked by the raachi- Sns of one of the lowest of its creatures ? Wondered at the seeming cruelty of punishing a whole world yet un- bom for the L of an imperfect piece of worl^anship ? For if God knew all, He must have known that man, though created in His own image, was bound to do wrong, aid ff HrLew it, why make him ? Why Pronounce the world and all it contained " very good." and then let it be confounded by man's first trivial error ? Why should countless generations be stUl suffering for that error? Why shoidd he, poor, faulty human egoist, be now in existence, crushed by misery and perplexed by doubt ? Fueling that righteousness, holiness, joy, love, were words for potts to sing into beautiful sentiments; but, apart from the beauty of the sentiment, were only sounding 'Te :rf o^^rSaX';essed to his burning eyes, all his brain a tumult of misery. " And I am to preach to-mght ! To preach there ! " he suddenly cried. He Ufted his head, conscious of the cruelty of the thing that had sprung on him. He had b««^/^;^;*,^f^ ^^^^ what this other man did every Sunday of his life . to tell that pleasure-sated, fashionable crowd the simple truths that every word of their own priest falsified. The position seemed farcical in the extreme He f e t he could not do it Suddenly a hand pressed his shoulder; a quiet voice was in his ear. " David " j„„fi. The boy's face crimsone'^., then grew pale as death. " Ah ' if you've come here to laugh at me—— " Nothing is further from my thoughts. I followed you because I guessed what it would be. I was there, too ! " Then you heard " ^, " I only heard what I have kno^vn more years than you can count. I only heard what half the world believes and the other half is afraid of. Have you not yourself ^ues. tioned a little, doubted a little ; translated the confession . -n^ -iu i_i.« i.;of^vJna1 f^af.imrjn V. not an inspired one : of rill Ui lilLVJ till m-rl-. — J' ^^ I think you have, David, before to-day. 190 death. CALVARY The boy was silent. His tear-stained face, his passionate ®^ff ^pu . ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^P^' ^P°^® * *^^® of mental suflFering. Ihis v/rs bound to come," went on the quiet voice beside h-ir ' I have watched and waited for its hour of darkness. . ) you fancy others have not known that hour David ; Si,ruggled through that darkness ? It only means that the story of one life is the story of all. Doubt, Suffer- mg. Pain — Release " " What release ? " "There is but one, my David, but one. Death stands at the portals of Life awaiting our entrance. He dogs our footsteps all through the weary journey, watching for his prey. It is bound to be his ; it is a law that God, ^vith all His omnipotence, cannot abolish. And, believe me it is the most merciful law of all He has framed. Man pretends to think otherwise, because few, if any, have knoum the curse of prolonged hfe. Life left desolate as generation follows generation ; life crying vainly, " Take me into nothingness, into Hell itself. 'Twere better than this ' " David looked at the speaker. Never had he seen passion so dark suffering so unutterable in any human face. Least of all this face, usually the synonym of lightness and fantasy and good humour. He trembled, and grew suddenly afraid. ^ There was a faint stir in the leafless boughs above • a sudden shadow on the water. A cold tremor thrilled the boy from head to foot. He could not speak ; he only sat motionless, gazing into another mystery of suffering for- getful of his own. The darkness deepened ; denser shadows swept the brightness from the sky ; a chiller touch was in the cool spring air. "Who— are you?" faltered David. "You talk of generations passing as if, as if " "As if I had witnessed tlieir efforts and their failures ' I'erhaps I have. Life is not a thing of once and for ever It ts for ever. God's thought created the Universe ; God's love sustains it. We are part of that universe, therefore we must be part of that love. Does that thought hold anv comfort for you ? " ■^ _ " It holds all the comfort I am capable of aasimilfliincr You must allow for an utter rout and confusion of pre- 191 ,'i 11 CALVAEY conceived ideas. They have to be readjusted, and that is not done in a moment." " Not in many moments, or in many years ; perhaps not in many Uves. Come with me now, David. I wili show you something of life's suffering and life s patience as yet unknown to you ; something that will restore your faith in Heaven so rudely disturbed by our friend the Theologian. At present you are wrestling with you know not what. Let that pass. Lay down your weapons, my young Samuel ; you do not need them— yet. It was nearly five o'clock before David returned to Westminster. He found Stephen Ormistoun waiting for him in the study, and rather uneasy at his prolonged absence. He gave him delighted welcome. " My dear fellow, I couldn't imagine what had become of vou ! I was afraid you had lost yourself. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what you have been doing all David sat down rather wearily. Something of the stress and turmoil he had undergone was visible m his face. He was utterly fagged in body and mind. Ormistoun gave him tea and asked no more questions. He saw that something had happened ; he gave a shrewd guess at its nature. Dreamers like David Hermon some- times faced a rude awakening that found them unprepared. David drank his tea thirstily. He had not tasted food since the morning, and Nature found out his weakness and forced him to confess it. Ormistoun chatted easily and indifferently on various subjects. Inwardly he was won- dering what David had prepared for the evening service, and whether he was physically strong enough to carry it through The ^^oung face was very white, the eyes of an unnatural brightness ; the hand that held his teacup was tremulous: signs of mental disturbance these, without °At last David spoke. " I think I ought to tell you that had I known what sort of preaching your congregation expects, I would never have undertaken these services. K \^ i >» Ormistoun drew a quick breatli and squared his shoulders. " So that's what's 'wrong, is it ? I suspected 192 1 that is perhaps . I will tience as are your iend the ou know pons, my urned to liting for jrolonged i become iown and doing all the stress face. He questions. a shrewd ion some- iprepared. isted food kkness and sasily and was won- ig service, ;o carry it eyes of an eacup was 3, without 11 you that ngregation services." id squared [ suspected CALVARY as much. But, my dear fellow, don't you see that it's just becaiise our views are so different that I wished you to ex- pound yours. They have had so much of the reasonable side Oi Christianity that it will be a treat to hear the emotional. You need only be just yourself. Speak as if you were addressing your Cornish congregation of the slate quarries and the fishing hamlets, and you will be doing ' 'my ' congregation, as you call it, an excellent service. I have let it drift into pleasant places and suffered its con- science to sleep. I want some one to rouse it up again. These Lenten services will do that, I am sure. I~I suppose' I rather shocked your susceptibilities this morning ? " " It was not so much the shock," hesitated David. " It was that all you said was so reasonable; so like what might be if— if only one had not been accustomed to think differently." *' Is that the only trouble ? " asked Ormistoun gently. " Only ? Surely it is enough. It means readjusting one s convictions " " Ah !^ but were they convictions ? " interrupted Ormis- toun. "Consider the subject calmly, and you will find that Religion is not a matter of conviction to most people. It is a term they apply to certain obligations of life, con- nected \^ith a special church, or parish, or set of people with whom they wish to stand well. You know the old distich — ' At church on Sundays to attend Will serve to keep the world your friend.' There never was a truer saying. The Religion of the world is a purely conventional thing. Most people are more concerned about a new Hair Restorer than about the life of their souls. If they were not roused occasion- ally to spasmodic outbursts of piety they would forget religion existed at all." *' I have been to places to-day," said David, " where religion was the mainspring of life ; where patience and self-sacrifice and helpful love spoke more than words of the reality of Christ's example." '• »" viiv Vr^^xivt naVw J'^W DCCII £ " In the backwaters of this City, amongst the poor and M: 193 CALVARY the suffering ; in homes of poverty and in homes of sin. And yet something worked within them that meant good — that was, in its way, most beautiful. The patience of the aged ; the self-sacrifice of the young ; the way they shared their poor ossessions, and nursed and cared for their sick and dying.' It was wonderful ! You could not but read the lesson ot Christ's life into it : 'If ye do it unto one of the least of these, ye do it unto Me.' " " Tell them that to-night at St. Ninian's," said Ormis- toun. " It may not do much good, but at least it may be less harmful than what they heard this morning."^^ " If it was harmful, why did you preach it ? " asked David quickly. " Why ? Because it seems to me to be true — because it is true. Only men are afraid to say it in the pulpit. The modern church is bolstered up with the lies of centuries and the mistakes of cowards. That is why it has lost all influence. Even that stern tyrant the Popish See can only keep its head above water by stringent measures : by for- bidding Doubt as a heinous sin, and confiscating any literature that throws an illuminating light upon its doc- trines and devices." David thought of that book Craddock had given him— the story of the young priest. He had not had courage to read it yet. "I have the courage to say what I think and what I believe," continued Ormistoun. " It is strong meat, I grant you, for some of the babes of orthodoxy ; but the time for feeding-bottles is over. I say nothing that I have not proved to my own satisfaction, and that every one who hears me is not at liberty to prove for himself. Much of the Scriptures are contradicted by modern evidence, rendered impossible by Science. And Science is the ex- ponent of fixed laws, not of fantasies and impossibilities. Men, both in the Church and out of it, are beginning to see that at last. Reason is the highest gift of life. If it were not intended for use we should not possess it. Unfortu- nately its first efforts are directed into wrong channels by a false system of education ; that ridiculous ' Has been — and must be ' which plays havoc with dawning conscious- ness. The young has^e been trained up in the way they 194 ; asked CALVARY should — not go. Now they are beginning to depart from it. Most of the troubles of humanity arise from early mis- understandings. They find they must get their beUefs out of hfe, not fit them to it. The world may appear the same to every one, but it is entirely different for each individu- ality. You can't generalize about it, because A's experience is different from B's ; and that of C declares A and B to bo false and improbable." " I cannot agree with you," said David. " I have been content to believe in what seemed the will and purpose of God, working through mankind for a given purpose. I have taken the story of Creation and Redemption, the Fall and the Atonement, as deep truths, not as Biblical fables. And the j Bible itself has^' been [my chief textbook; the chart of my salvation, as^it is^the chart of other souls toihng on life's weary pilgrimage." " It is refreshing to hear that," said Ormistoun gently *' It will be as a cup of cool water in the dry desert of facts to those who hear you to-night. And now you will pardon me, I am sure, but I should recommend an hour's rest before you take up your duties. Of course, you will have nothing to do with the preliminary service ; you merely preach after the anthem." David rose. " I think I will take your advice and rest," he said. " Call me when it is time to go." " One moment ! " exclaimed Ormistoun as he was leaving the room. " Will you preach in the surplice, as I do, or juGt in the simple cassock ? " " I have never worn any distinguishing vestments," David answered. " I should prefer to be just as I always am." " Very well," said Ormistoun. " By the way, we have no dinner here on Sunday evenings. It would be too early before service, and too late afterwards. Usually my man prepares a cold meal for me on my return. To-night, however, I have promised, on our joint behalf, to go to Lady Pamela Leaffe's, in Grosvenor Street, for supper. She came to the vestry this morning and insisted upon it. I hope you won't mind ? It will be a novel experience for VOU. but not fl,n nrmlftaaant, ntip SIia ia nnck r,t flia Imroli-vof — and one of the most dangerous — women in London." 195 fi CALVARY ** I am your guest," said David simply. " Of course, I will go wherever you wish." The door closed on him. For a long moment Stephen Ormistoun stood looking at it with bent brows and sombre eyes. " What a sensation for St. Ninian's ! " he muttered half aloud. " That young spiritual face with its halo of golden hair ; the simple black gown. He looks like that picture of the Young Monk — the monk whose soul is waking to the facts of a recognized martyrdom ; the soul that thought to find Heaven and faces — Hell." 196 i\': w XII [AY I come in ? ... I must come in. It's no use saying no. Oh, Mr. Hermon, I wanted to be the first to congratulate you ! You don't mind ? ... It was wonderful— wonderful ! I think I cried. In fact, I'm sure I did ! His Reverence never told mo what we were to expect. Oh, you made me feel so wicked! — and yet so good ! I don't know how to thank you ! Are you very tired ? You must be. You know you're coming homo with me, don't you ? A glass of champagne will do you all the good in the world ! Where's His Reverence ? I always call him that. Gracious ! what a boy you look. Seven- teen. Are you more than that ? I don't feel as if I could call you ' Mr.' Hermon. It seems ridiculous ! You have another name, I know. David, isn't it ? You look just what I always imagined David would look. The Star of Jesse or something, wasn't he ? Well, never mind. I know he fought Goliath, and I always pictured him as a sort of glorified Jack the Giant Killer. Ah ! Your Reverence- how are you ? I've been making friends with Mr. David. I think he's Avonderful. I'm so glad I came ! You'd better make him your curate." She stopped at last. David had not said a word. He was too astonished. It was the lovely lady of the profile who had distracted his attention that morning. He had never seen any one so marvellous : her dress, her hair, her face, her gestures, her flow of airy chatter, the strange gold gleams in her hazel eyes, the subtle perfume that blended \yith her personality, that intangible something of exquisite femininity and exquisite worldliness— these were experiences he had never faced. He stood dumb and confused, conscious of scattered senses ; of a wild desire to flee from this subtle presence ; of hot indignation with her frivolous words, and yet wondering if one phrase of 197 i-C,.* ■'« I CALVARY hie lingered in her memory ; if one word of his had really brought a tear to those dazzling eyes ? Stephen Ormistoun was speaking, a gentle rebuke in his deep tones. " Lady Pamela, I have told you I cannot have you coming round to my vestry after service. You will be scandalizing me in the eyes of my choir boys ! " " Where are they ? Dear cherubs in their little night- dresses ! Mr. David, why didn't you wear a nightdress — I beg pardon, a surplice ? Wouldn't one of yours fit him, Stephen ? Not but what I think he was more ' in the picture ' as he was. Do you know what you reminded me of ? That painting of ' the Young Monk.' Goodness, Stephen ! what's the matter ? " " It's so odd you should say that ! I thought the very same thing. He has that same look in his eyes," " Yes, he has. How funny we should botli have thought of it. Oughtn't we to touch wood, or spill salt, or some- thing ? There's a superstition aljout it, or is it only sublime unconsciousness like you told us about last Sun- day ? " Stephen Ormistoun smiled. " Subliminal consciousness, you mean — the seat of inspiration and intuition." " Yes, that's it. You explain it better, but we mean the same thing. Now, are you ready ? I'm going to whisk you back in my motor. Rue has just given me one. It's a beauty. Came direct from Paris — chauffeur and all. I've had to learn a lot of new French words in conse- quence. It's the divinest sensation. You get in and you just go ; and nothing matters, even if you were to get smashed up and fly straight to Kingdom Come ! I hope you're not shocked, Mr. David. You're so young that I expect you're half a saint — ' Trailing clouds of glory,' as some one said. Shelley, wasn't it ? It must have been, because he's the only poet I ever learnt ; the others I read. But that doesn't count. . . . Stephen, are you ever coming ? I've ordered the loveliest mayonnaise for you in case it was a fast day. You do fast in Lent, don't you ? These Church disciplines are so good for one. I always give up sugar in my tea. Mr. David looks as if he lived on manna. Come along ; I'm sure Pierrot will be tired 198 or some- lousness, CALVARY of waiting. I call him Pierrot because he's so merry. It's not his name." She was at the door : a cloud of lace, a whirlwind of h ''^ehness ; a something that sent David's wits whirling and left h'.m only conscious that he was following a will-o'- the-wisp. God was in His Heaven up there in that arc of crystal- line glory, but surely Heaven was nearer earth than it had yet seemed. When David was able to collect his senses after being whirled through streets and round corners and lamp- posts, he found himself in a large, brilliant drawing- room, where a number of women and a few men were playing cards, or standing chatting in groups. Some of the women were in evening dress, some wore hats and furs as if they had just come in from the street. Lady Pamela swept into their midst much as she had swept into the vestry of St. Ninian's. David kept close to Ormistoun. " My dear people," he heard her say, " you know I've forbidden Bridge in Lent ! At least, I meant to forbid it. You ought all to have come ^vith me to St. Ninian's. It would have done you such a lot of good ! " " Did it do you any ? " asked a man with weak hair and a blond moustache, as he leant back in his chair and surveyed the " hand out " of his turn. " Me ? Rather ! I wept a silent tear over my friends' many sins. Yours in particular, Teddy. I seemed to see them all so plainly — almost as clear as my own excellent qualities. I feel wings sprouting already ! " She went up to a mirror and began to unwind her motor veil. A maid came quietly in, and she tossed her furs and her long coat into her arms as unceremoniously as if she were in her bedroom. " That'll do, Rosalie. I'll keep on my hat. It's too chic to part with. Oh ! bless my soul, I was forgetting St. David ! Aunt Thusa, where are you ? Oh — there ! Come and be in- troduced. He's the most perfect darling you can imagine ! " " My dear Pamela, I have just heard him preach." " Oh ! of course, you were there, too. But you don't kuo.i him. I'll introduce yuu.'"' 199 ¥'M CALVARY She whirled round, and seeing David still by the door made a sign to him. A great many eyes followed that slight, boyish figure. He WM very unlike any of the usual habituds of the Gros- venor 8t/eet drawing-room, ev^n on a Sunday night, when eccentricity was if* full swing, and a Christian Scientist or an exponent of Patiour Magic were equally possible guests. The grave young face with its dark violet eyes made inbtant appeal to women's admiration ; for in every woman's heart lies a sneaking fancy for the cleric. When he is young &," '^ handsome, and half a saint, that fancy touches the exticme of fanaticism. The lady addressed as "Aunt Thusa," who in reality was the Countess of Silchester, put up her lorgnettes and examined the young man critically. He was atrociously dressed even for a clergyman, and his boots looked what they were, the product of a country bootmaker, Cornish at that ! Yet the unconscious dignity of his manners left him independent of criticism. He was not even awaru of it. ^^ " This is my aunt. Lady Silchester," said his hostess. " Mr. David Jesse— oh, no, you're Hermon, aren't you ? Mr. David Hermon of Jess&— the Countess of Silchester." David bowed gravely. The Countess returned it. Then she put out her hand. " I have so recently had the plea- sure of hearing you preach that I feel quite as if I knew you, Mr. Herman. Your name is German, I take it ? " Lady Pamela had swept off to the card table. Her aunt motioned David to take a vacant chair next herself. " German ? " he repeated. " Oh, no. It is a scriptural name, I believe." " You believe ? Surely you know ? Anything so im- portant as one's name and one's family should never be taken on faith." David smiled. " I'm afraid I have had to take mine on faith, Lady Silchester." " You astonish me. May I ask the reason ? " " I have not really any idea who I am." The Countess put up her lorgnettes and surveyed him once more. She was a portly, handsome woman of ample means and hberal opinions, who h .; a umria for getting at the root of anv'hincr that nromispd */ rv.v-iA? Tn on r.-^^ 200 CALVARY less well-bred and highly connected this weakness would have been called vulgar curiosity. In a Cxu tess it passed for sincere interest in 'ler fcUow-creatun ■. " No idea ! How very extraordinarj- ! Pray tell me all aboi *-. yourself." " 1 was picked up on the shores of a little cove in Corn- wall. The man uIk found im was a fisherman. He anu his wife adopted nu, and I lived with them for some twelve years. I believe I was one year old when I was discovered. I received my cr'ucation fn^m the i krgyman of the parish in the first instance. Afterwards I was seat to a College in the Austrian Tyrol, and there trained for the calling I had chosen." " Dear mo, how interesting !— how intensely interest- ing ! But have you never tried to find out who Mere your parents ? How you came to be saved from a w reck ? I suppose there was a wreck ? " " I really don't know," said David. "What a curious lack of interest in your antecedents ! Well, in any case you must have been 'fastened to some- thing—a spar, or raft, or whatever it is that shii wrecked people are attached to." " I believe it was a spar," said David. " Had it no name ? Usually in maritime occu.rences of this sort there is a name, or initials of a name to f unish a clue. At least, the stage always provides that. I e nnot imagine real life being less ingenious." " I never heard of any name." " No name. Dear me, how very unfortunate ! But at least, you had bome clothes on ? Were they not mark*, d ? Did not your foster-mother preserve them as proof of v< ur identity ? " f j David laughed softly. " Really, Countess, I canii .t answer any of these inquiries to your satisfaction, because I never troubled my head about them. It mattere 1 nothing to me who I was. I found myself alive and in- telligent, and I was fortunate enough to have friends wh- helped me. I only wanted one thing of life; to do mv Master's will, obey His call, preach His Word. If I can do that I ask no more." " That is a very satisfactory stale of mind — for a ciergy- 201 CALVARY f" what they ought to man," said Lady Silchester ; " qi feel. But I am afraid very few do. I was charmed with you to-night; quite charmed. Of course, you are very young and not very logical. Dear Mr. Ormistoun has set us all right upon fallacies that you crudely stated were facts. No reasonable person in the present day accepts tradition as a fact. But possibly you come of a race of enthusiasts — some dear dead, decadent poet, perhaps ! Surmise is so extremely interesting. I do wish there had been a name on your linen, though. You're quite sure on that point ? " " Not at all. I never asked and I was never informed." " Possibly your foster-mother is keeping it as a clue. Is she still alive ? " " Oh, yes. She is a lodge-keeper now on the estate of the gentleman who has been so kind to me — Squire Crad- dock. He paid for my College education, and his home is my home whenever I choose to make use of it." " That is how things should be," asserted Lady Sil- chester, " but as they rarely are : the helping hand, the kindly advice ; the ' little more and how much it is,' as dear Robert Browning says. Well, this has been most delightful. Oh, by the way, since your name isn't Herman, why do you call yourself so ? " David hesitated. He had never been put through such a personal catechism. He began to wonder if society people usually manifested this extraordinary interest in what was no concern of the social world. " My friends suggested it," he said at last. " Your friends ? This Cornish Squire, I suppose ? " "Yes." " I wonder why he selected a German name ? " she persisted. " It is not German. It was taken from the Bible. I opened it at hazard, and we agreed to select a name from the verse on which my finger rested." " It gets more and more like a play, or the plot of a novel ! " exclaimed the Countess. " The wreck, the spar, the adoption, the marked linen, the choice of a name ! And to think it's all true ; all your history — I mean all that you know of your history. I must tell Pamela. 202 i CALVARY She'll be enchanted. Oh ! and about your call. You really did feel one ? So many clergymen — I beg their pardon — priests (they do so hate to be called clergymen nowadays) — so many cler — priests don't feel any call, but just accept a living because it's in the family. So wise of the dear things. Oh ! there is Pamela making signs to us. I suppose she w^ants us to go down to supper. These Sunday suppers are quite an institution here. We are a very poor show to-night compared to what we generally have. But perhaps people remembered it is one of Reuben's evenings. He is my niece's husband, you know. She married into Finance. There he is, standing by the door." David looked in the direction indicated. He saw a swarthy, common-looking man, short and stout, with a hooked nose and dark eyes. A sort of horror swept over him. Her husband ! He the possessor of that radiant loveliness; that strange, perplexing, fascinating woman who had stepped into his life only to-day ? He had not thought of her being married at all. But to be married to a coarse, ugly Jew His thoughts were arrested by the voice and touch of the very object of those thoughts. ' Mr. Saint David," said a mocking voice, " if you will condescend to partake of anything less celestial thaii manna, will you honour my poor supper-table ? You shall take me down if you will. Oh ! I wonder if I ought to introduce you to my husband ? No, on second thoughts I won't. He'll be tracing you to the twelve lost tribes — were there twelve ? — on account of your name. His is Reuben, you know. And I believe Leaflfe is only the transubstantiation of an original Levi. I don't know which is the worst. I always call him Rue — you can guess why. But thaVs too usual a state of things in modern married life to be worth a connnent. How pale you are ! You're not feeling faint ? " " I think I am — a little," murmured David. The room seemed suddenly to rise and swirl around him. He felt as if he would fall. He was barely conscious of being sup- i^orted to a sofa, of a flutt^er of fans» an offer of smelling- salts. Then he heard Ormistoun's voice. 203 CALVARY " This is my fault. The foolish fellow hasn't touched food since nine o'clock this morning. Of course he's faint. The heat, the excitement " " He shall sit quietly here and some supper shall be sent up to him," exclaimed Lady Pamela. " Mine shall be sent up, too. We'll have it here together. I'll look after him. Stephen, do go down ; and. Auntie, you do the honours. I'm exceedingly hungry myself, so tell Yardly to let us have a nice picnic, and some cognac quick for Mr. David ! He looks as if he were going to faint again." " I'm very sorry. It's horribly foolish. I never did such a thing in my life," faltered David. " You've gone through a great deal of mental excite- ment," said Lady Pamela with sudden gravity. She was standing up waving a large fan to and fro before his face. How beautiful it was ; how saint-like the purity of the eyes, the marble of the chiselled brow, the curve of the pale young lips ! "Well may I call you Saint David," she murmured. " You look as if you had stepped straight out of Heaven ! As if you liad never committed a sin, or thought a wicked thought ! It's funny— to think of you here ; in my di.i\ ;- ing-room, alone — with me ! " 204 Lgijf: < l.-' XIII (( IT has been an exciting day for you," said Ormistoun. " Too much so, perhaps. I wish you smoked. A quiet pipe, or even a cigarette and half an hour's talk in my study would be no bad preparation for bed." " I don't smoke, but I have no objection to the half- hour's talk," said David. " The day has been exciting, as you say." " Then off with boots and coats, and let's make our- selves comfortable. Thank goodness there are no women here ! Are you sure you won't have anything ? " he asked presently, when the programme had been carried out and they were sitting in comfortable untidiness before a cheery wood fire. David shook his head. " I was made to eat all sorts of delightful things an hour ago. I can't manage another supper. I'm afraid I oflfended Lady Pamela by refusing her champagne. She seemed to think it a most extra- ordinary proceeding." " It was — for Grosvenor Street, and that set. But didn't you have any wine, really ? " " Only soda-water. I'm a natural Rechabite, I think. The very smell of wine or spirits is distasteful." " You'll not say no to my coffee, though ? Richards makes it famously." Richards appeared at the same moment, and put the coffee service and cups down beside his master. Then Ormistoun dismissed him for the night. He poured out a cup for David and handed it to him. " The idea of your fainting like that ! " he said. " It seemed very foolish. I never did such a thing be- fore. However, I'm all right again." ~" viiank their uoffcu in silence that lasted for some A lie J- restful moments David leant back in his chair, and Ormis- It 205 I i i l:U CALVARY toun lit his favourite pipe and smoked with the enjoyment of brief deprivation. " There was a time," he said suddenly, " when I gave up smoking in Lent by way of mortifying the flesh. I'm wiser now." " You think we ought not to give up thmgs we like just for an idea ? " , i -j " Certainly. And the Lenten fast is one of the ideas. Good enough, I grant, for those who are accustomed to eat and drink luxuriously; but for sober, temperate working-folk it is quite unnecessary. And now a word about your sermon. You don't mind ? " " Of course not." " I can see that you are a born enthusiast. You believe all you say because it is easier for you to believe than to doiibt. But it would have taken more than enthusiasm to create the sensation you did to-night ; to make people feel ; to draw tears from the hard, bright eyes of society beauties ! You did that. It was a very great triumph." " Butr— will it do any good ? " "I very much fear it won't. Still, as I told you, I wanted my audience to have an antidote for the poison I have been giving them. You seem to have made one convert, at all events. But I warn you she is dangerous." "Who do you mean ? " " You know— I think : Lady Pamela. Beware of her fascinations, my dear boy. She tried them on me when she first professed an interest in my preaching. And, case- hardened old celibate as I am, she gave me some very uncomfortable hours." " But she is a married woman ? " faltered David. " Well ? Does a woman cease to be fascinating because she possesses a husband ? " " Oh, no. I only mean that no honourable man would allow himself to be drawn into that fascination— once he knew*' " How young you are ! " exclaimed Ormistoun. " How little you know of the real things of life ! I suppose you have lived more emotionally to-day than in any of the ^ICVIUUB f^T you not? 4-.,.«»^4- 206 CALVARY " As far as I know." He laughed a little nervously. " I went through a cross- examination about my age and parentage from that aunt of Lady Pamela's, the Countess of Silchester. She made me tell her all about where I was found and how I was brought up. She seemed to think there should have been some clue of identification about me." "Was there nothing of the sort ? " " No. So I believe, at least. I am worse off than the recognized foundling. I am only a sea-waif. I often wonder if that accounts for my love of it. It is strange how restless I get if I am long away. It seems to call me and draw me like a living force." Ormistoun was silent. He looked thoughtfully at the boy's beautiful face ; read all its signs of race and breed- lug ; wondered that for twenty-one years he had been content to exist without inquiry of any sort as to his own identity. " So Lady Silchester cross-examined you ? " he said presently. " She is the most inquisitive woman in London. People are so frightened of her that they really tell her the truth. They find it safer in the end. She is a woman entirely without feeling, and without mercy, unless she gets her own way. Her niece has to thank her for this marriage. It's detestable. And she loathed the man ; but he is rich enough to finance royalty, and so it's all right. She seems contented enough now. I have thought that if her finer senses were ever touched she might become a really fine character. But — God help us ! the life she lives, the absurd use that she, and such as she, make of time and money and influence ! It is beneath contempt." " Wliy does she ? Those people to-night were not worthy of her attention. The men " " Yes — a queer lot, weren't they ? That blond weasel is a loathsome creature. I hate to see him there. But he goes every\vhere, because he can play Bridge magnificently and has an epigram to fit most situations in life. Also he is rich. As for Reuben Leaffe, or Levi, as he should call himself, why, the Three Balls, and the pound of flesh are stamped on every line of his swarthv areasv face ! If it were not for Lady Pam " 207 ill CALVARY He paused. " There, I'm saying too much. I suppose you think one shouldn't eat a man's bread and then abuse him ? I'm afraid that's very often done, though. I wonder if it will do you any harm to see a little of the seamy side of life, David? Pardon the slip, but one feels irresistibly compelled to use your less formal name." " Pray do. It is more my name than any other, for my foster-father had me baptized and gave it to me at the font." " Oh, is that so ? I wonder you did not call yourself only that." , . , t " Mr. Craddock and— and the other, seemed to thmk 1 should have a surname." ^^ " The other— means your friend of last night, of course ? David nodded. " A strange man," said Ormistoun thoughtfully. You have seen him to-day ? " " Yes. It was he who took me to those tenements. Ah ! I can't forget those dreadful alleys ; those miser- able dens where the poor are huddled together like animals. And in this great, rich City— it was horrible ! " " Was it your first glimpse of the poverty and wTetched- ness of a great city ? " " Yes. There's poverty in the country, of course, and in the villages and towns where I've been ; but at least it seemed a clean and self-respecting thing, not like what I saw to-day." " What made him take you ? " " I think it was to restore my shaken faith in the old simple truths that heal and console one. The strange thing was his own power ; the effect he had ; the love they seemed to bear him. Mr. Ormistoun, I should like to ask you — something." " Ask." "How can any one speak of things that happened generations ago ? How could old people recognize him who had known him when they were children ? How could men talk of thirty, forty years back, saying he had i -Ij. 1 i— iV-.-~ ~.~>«ll„.^f Anrrnnn nr\{{ trai: all fVlO f.llTIO f.r' not aituruu m tuc amancat ^tgivA.-, UHVS j-- ■-'• — person himself look scarcely forty years of age ? I have 308 CALVARY known him for nearly ten, and he looks just the same as when I first saw him." " Are you speaking of. your Peregrinator ? " asked Ormistoun, smiling. " Of course. This never occurred t j me before. But something he said to-day made me think. It was so odd. And th*^n following it came those poor, grateful creatures sobbing with delight at seeing him again ; kissing his hands and blessing him and weeping tears of joy. And some were quite old people." " It sounds rather extraordinary. But, you know, there are men and women who never seem to age, to whom Time is very kind." " How old should you say this — the Wanderer — looks ? " " About forty ; not more — even at his worst. And you must acknowledge he stamped himself Bohemian from top to toe last night." " Last night," echoed David in a sudden tired voice. " Was it only last night ? I seem to have lived years since then." " You have crowded a great deal into one day's ex- perience," said Stephen Ormistoun. " And I'm not going to let you cram any more," he added. He rose and shook out the ashes of his pipe. " I should like to see some more of your Bohemian," he said. " When do you meet again ? Could you bring him here ? " " I don't know," said David. " He wouldn't tell me if he was going to stay in London. He was in the church to-night, for I saw him. But — he is so strange. I never know when he will appear. Only I do know this. When- ever I have been in any need, any trouble, then he comes to me. It seems as if some sympathy exists between us that I have never discovered with any one else." Ormistoun gave him a quick, searching look. " I have heard of such sympathy," he said. " The curious electric affinity between soul and soul, mind and mind ; the way in which the thought of one reaches the other, the need of one cries to the other. There are truths we have yet to discover ; mysteries to which Nature still holds the "Cy. J? or vciy own paru i iiave always hcid that thougiit can exercise its influence upon those we call the dead as p 209 1.1 CALVARY well aa upon the living. Some conscious desire is in the background of our lives and in the lives of those who stand beyond the border. Why should not the thing external to our desire respond to it ? Vibrate to our passion and our prayer ? Call in secret to lost love and lost joys, and win response ? Ah, David, as time touches us and the pulse of life weakens, a new power quickens our souls. We do not fear the pathetic hopelessness of Death any longer. He comes as a friend, not a foe. The existence of the in- visible world is more real the less we have to do with the visible." David was silent. Well might he say that he had lived years since the previous night. When he was alone in his room, he drew up the blind and threw the window open. All desire for sleep had gone. He only wished to be alone with his soul and God and the quiet mysteries of the night. He longed for the sea ; for its tong and its rage and its restlessness ; for the wide, wide spaces that here were merged into narrow streets and crowded roofs and the sluggish tide of that sullen river beyond. He had indeed lived years in these last twenty-four liours. So many emotions and experiences had been crowded into them. One memory of all seemed pressing home to him as he looked out at the quiet darkness. The pain of life. The sorrow and want and degradation crowded into these streets on which he gazed, under the roofs over which he looked. " No wonder Christ came to heal it," he thought, and even as he thought it the sharp sting of the Tempter's dart stabbed home. " Did He heal it ?" " Are things any better ? Is there less sin, less suffering, less vice, less selfishness in this nineteenth century than there was eighteen hundred years ago ? Is Christ re- membered ? Is His example followed ? Is He worshipped in spirit and in truth ? Are one of His precepts held as the guiding rule of life ; social life, commercial life, domestic lie f " You know they are not," went on the voice of the 2IO CALVARY is in the ^ho stand external 3sion and joys, and and the )uls. We ly longer. 3f the in- with the since the the blind led to be steries of IQ and its lere were 1 and the ad indeed So many ito them, lim as he life. The nto these which he 5 thought, rempter's suffering, tury than Christ re- orshipped ts held as , domestic ice of the Tempter. " You know that the earth is filled with vile- ness, and the hearts of men with sin. What signify the few who are faithful ? Christ's mission was to all. It has failed. You must acknowledge that. Every one who looks out on the earth as a whole must acknowledge it. The trail of the serpent is over it all. The evil over- powers the good." And as David listened it seemed that the scheme of Creation was not faultless, and that of Atonement yet more imperfect. The idea of purchasing man's redemption by blood became a painful and tragic idea, when one really thought it out instead of respecting it as a creed. And the blood of the sinless Son seemed to cry out in reproach to the relentless Father : " My Ood ! Why hast Thou forsaken Me ? " It was more the cry of man than of Man's appointed Redeemer : the confessed weakness of humanity triumph- ing over the assertions of Divine descent. " Look at the churches erected in His name," went on that pitiless voice ; "the creeds professing His faith ; the dogmas and superstitions rioting over human souls, and bringing them into a bondage quite as terrible as the sin from which they profess to save them. Which of them are true ? Who can tell ? " And David's own mind echoed — Who can tell ? All the Christian churches believed that God's anger could only be appeased by blood; that hateful idea at which he had always shuddered; which liad kept him from taking or administering the Sacrament because of that formula which attributed reality to the material elements of commemoration. Morgan Craddock had told him long ago that the Mass of the Romish Church was but the old idea of Hebrew sacrifices and burnt offerings perpetuated by another form of priesthood. That the priests migh do something for the people which the people were forbidden m do for themselves ! Based on that simple request at Christ's last earthly meal, how had it been twisted into a mere idolatry ? Jesus had only bade His disciples " do this in remembrance of Me." He had not said : '"■ Your priests shall do this, 211 ' !■ Il«« CALVARY and you shall witness it ; and pour gold into their trea- suries, and behold them attired in magnificent raiment, blaspheming Me in their hearts by the hypocrisy of their lives ; telling you that only by this ' Mass ' of propitiation can you enter Heaven, or win forgiveness of sin." These things had not troubled David much up to this time, because the idea of his preaching was that simple form of independent effort which makes churches and altars and vestments of no account. He had a message to deliver, and he would deliver it to those who cared to hear. But to-day the whole fabric of simplicity had been rent like a cobweb. He had seen what the Church is ; what its services can be ; what a magnificent riot of sensations and effects can run through priestly ordinances. The sensuous beauty of that morning's ceremony at St. Ninian's had been with him all the ^ay. What he had said himself in that same pulpit of Stf phen Ormistoun's he scarcely knew. He only remembered looking out at a sea of faces uplifted in the subtle gloom of shaded lights ; of saying to himself : " If Christ were here ? " — He knew Christ never had preached to such a congrega- tion. He had sought the mountpin heights, the seashore, the harvest fields, the ordinary common people. The " fine flower " of civilization had never been gathered into His hands, or tied with the cords of His ministr;^. For a moment JDavid had wondered what he could say to them. His previous texv seemed inappropriate. Then suddenly the memory of his visit to those wretched hovels, the thought of the maimed and sick and suffering ones be- yond these massive doors flashed to his mind. He would preach on that ; on the charity of Christ ; the mission of Christ ; the legacy of Christ. " If ye do it to the least of these, ye do it unto Me." There had never been such an offertory siroe the doors of St. Ninian's opened to its consecration service ! And afterwards David thought of those splendid rooms, the luxury and and queries and excitement caused by his appearance ; of 1 ,,4-,, 212 i.- 1 OA.LVARY that half-hour when he had sat alone with this strange, lovely woman, and known her as all gentleness and seduc- tion. This — was what it meant to preach in London. To be gazed at, talked of, made a sensation of for some " smart " dramng-room, and then — forgotten. What had Lady Pamela said to him ? " We are a little better here than most of the un-clect. We do go to church one day a week ; at least, in Lent. But for the other six — I'm afraid there's not much to choose between us. Do help me ! I'd like to be good. I really would. And I've never met any one who believed what he preached, as you seem to believe it." And all the time she had drunk champagne, and eaten chicken salad, and macedoine and ices, and fed him with like dainties and looked so lovely and bewildering that the boy completely lost his head. Even now, at the memory of her strange eyes, of the soft fragrance of her hair, the touch of her white hand, he grew faint and sick. The pure currents of his life seemed troubled, and by no angel's presence. Impersonal feelings, indifference to sex as sex, passed into a background of puerile fancies. Womanhood was a power ; a power to be reckoned with ; a subtle, disturbing, delicious harmony stealing over the heart's manifold discords. He looked up at the dark steely sky where a few stars shone. His sensitive soul rushed heavenwards on the wings of an impassioned prayer. " She is unhappy, lonely, misunderstood ; she knows nothing of the comfort of Divine Love, the sustaining power of its great tenderness. Help me to speak of those truths so that she may know Thee and cling to Thee, and in the stormy seas of life, as life is here in this great wicked City, may preserve her soul pure and holy in Thy sight." He lifted his head, closed the window, and went within. Possibly had she for whom he prayed heard that prayer, she would have been more astonished by its crude faith in herself than touched by its appeal on her behalf. tl h 213 XIV rpHK following week was not a period calculated to re- X store David's serenity. Ormistoun took him to tailors and bootmakers ; to museums and galleries ; to London's great historic pile of St. Paul's ; through the charmed stillness and wonderful aisles of the Abbey. Midway in the week an invitation had come to them for a " Lenten dinner " on Friday night, at Lady Pamela's. " Quite small and informal," she wrote ; " a choice half- dozen kindred souls and a little music. Tell St. David I am still under the influence of last Sunday night. I have countermanded three new Paris gowns and given the money to a creche in Kensington. This — for me who hate and detest babies — speaks for itself." Ormistoun had smiled cynically as he handed the note to David. He was amused at the sudden flush, the rapid glance, the eager inquiry of uplifted eyes. " Shall we go ? " " If you like, certainly. Your dress clothes are to be ready by Thursday night. I think we may safely accept." David laughed. " Oh ! I had forgotten. Of course, I could not have dined at Grosvenor Street without them." " To our fraternity much is forgiven," said Ormistoun. " But you haven't even the organized clerical attire to excuse unconventionality. So for you, at least, the swallow- tail is necessary. By the way, has it ever occurred to you to try for a scholarship and go to one of our Universities for a year or two ? Of course, I know about St. Blasius. But it's not a recognized university. You're very young, you see, and if you wish to enter the ministry you'll have to do it by the orthodox doors." " I haven't the least wish to become an ' orthodox ' minist'er ! " exclaimed David, " or to posaesa a nhuroh, I accepted my vocation as I told you; went through our CALVARY Nonconformist ceremony, which to my conscience stands for ordination. I wn permitted to preach as soon as I felt the Call to preuoli. That is my whole story in a nut- shell." " And you do not care about taking ' Orders ' ? Ihe Church is more liberalrminded than it used to bo, and you would be a shining light in these slack days." David shook his head. " What I do I must do my own way. Christ was not ordained ; Christ had no church, no special vestments. I want to follow only on His lines ; the closer the better." ^^ " Through persecution and betrayal— to Calvary ? asked Ormistoun ironically. Sometimes David irritated him. He was so absolutely impracticable. " Even to Calvary ! But that would be too great an honour. One is given so little to do for one's Lord'in these days." " I think you would be given enough both of service and persecution if you set yourself to seek it," said Ormistoun dryly. " Have a fling at Sacerdotalism ; attack the Jesuistry of the Oxford Movement ; challenge the autho- rity of the Popish Chair. You'll find any one of these a very sufficient hornets' nest for you to stir up." " And you want me to prepare for a Church that has so many imperfections ! That can't be true even to itself ? " Ormistoun shrugged his shoulders. " You see how hard it is to escape old prejudices. I thought your name would be the better for ' Reverend ' attached to it. But I suppose you'll be teUing me that the title is a misnomer nowadays ? Our office no longer deserves reverence, however imperiously it may dema^id it?" " Then what's the use of the empty title ? " asked David. " Convention, as I said before. Just as I give the formal service, or at least a part of it, in my church ; holding to myself only the right to preach as I please. I am just dangerous enough to be safe ; a troublesome son of the Church, but still within the pale of sonship." He rose from the breakfast-table and gathered up his correspuudeiice. 215 CALVARY " I shall be busy over my letters till lunch-timo," he said. " Would you like to go out ? I think you know your bearings by this time." " Oh, I shan't lose myself," said David. " I have to write to the Squire, and then I'll go City-wards along the Embankment." " Be here at one o'clock," said Ormistoun. " I'm going to take you to Richmond this afternoon." David went to his own room and sat down before the writing-table. He felt he ought to write to Ruth. Except for a card to announce his arrival he had not yet sent her any news of himself. He wrote now at length, telling her of his Sunday ex- periences ; of the wonders of London— the full, busy hours. It was not a lover's letter, but David was very far from being a " lover " in the accepted term. He was very fond of little Ruth and she was devoted to him, and some day, as yet far distant to his preoccupied mind, he would marry her and live with her in some little nook of their beloved Cornwall. That was all their present position meant to him. Having finished the letter, he addressed a few lines to the Squire. He spoke of Ormistoun very guardedly. He also mentioned the Grosvenor Street acquaintances, and his rencontre with the Wanderer. " He has disappeared again," he added, " and I have no choice but to wait on his reappearance. Mr. Ormistoun was immensely interested, and I think as puzzled as we were at first. I preach the next five Sundays, as arranged. After that I shall return to Trebarwick, if agreeable to yourself. These Church Festivals— Lent, Easter, Whit- suntide— seem strange to me. We take no count of them save as Bible records of phases in our Lord's life, or those of His disciples. But in the Established Church ritual seems everything. It is forcing the spirit of religion into subservience to the form of it. The passionate arguments, the humiliating controversies on every petty point of pre- rogative, ecclesiasticism, and informality seem to me absolutely beneath contempt. The name of the Founder of the Christian Church is ignored. But the names of those who rule that Cliurch by virtue of office, are for ever 3l6 i CALVARY being lauded and worshipped. The Archbishops and Bishops of the Church of England are really as important in their own eyes, and those of the minor clergy, as the Pope of Rome himself. Only — so I hear — they are not obeyed so implicitly. For instance, there is a tremendous controversy raging at the present time on the authority of ' Eucharistic vestments.' I have not gone into the matter. Mr. Ormistoun merely explained a few points. But it seems to me absolutely childish to fight over what dresses the clergy are to wear, and how much embroidery and tinsel are necessary for their trimming ! Can they think that this sort of thing is pleasing to God ? God who so distinctly says : ' Man looketh at the outward appear- ance,' but He at the heart ? It is indeed bringing Him down to the level of man, and a very low level too ! Things like these make me glad I never formally enrolled myself under any banner save that of the Christ I serve; the Master I reverence." His letters finished, David went out as he had said, and proceeded up the Embankment as far as Ludgate Circus. The day was mild and spring-like, the sky as blue as those of Cornwall. Even the river looked less murky and dingy as he watched its inflowing tide. A sense of life and energy stimulated him. It seemed good to be alive and to be young, and to have an im- portant mission to fulfil. His eyes rested on the dome of the great Cathedral. How noble it looked, set there above the City streets, the warm sun shedding its radiance over the ooaring cross. That Cross. Everywhere upraised, everywhere dis- honoured : an insignia of sectarian quarrels. Its early meaning had been one of shame. Only mis- creants of the A^orst type had been condemned to its punishment. It towered now above one of the mightiest cities of the world as emblem of faith in God ; honoured where it had been dishonoured ; glorified where it had been disdained. And yet — was it not still dishonoured by its pretended followers ? Did it really stand for Christ's sovereignty in the present day ? Did these poor toiling slaves of the great City over which it stood, ever look up ai7 1 n CALVARY to it and think of Him who had borne it on His shoulders, and suffered torture for man's sinful sake ? Possibly they never thought of it at all. In these offices and marts, the Stock Exchange and business houses, what mattered that the emblem of the Crucified One stood in their midst ; overshadowed sin and usury, dis- honour and rapacity ; lifted itself to the silent heavens in silent appeal that still man might receive more mercy than he gave — or deserved ? Under the great arched bridge, amidst the thunders of traffic and trains, David went ; his eyes scanning the hurry- ing crowds, the anxious faces — never a smile on any of them. Never the brightness of youth or the peace of age ; only strain, haste, impatience, excitement. And around the magnificent structure of one of the world's greatest architects the scene was even more appalling. A wilder- ness of shops, an ever-hurrying crowd ; no wide, quiet space for reverence and solitude ; no fit surroundings for an edifice that crowned a Christian City with scarce re- membered tragedy ; only noisy streets and rushing crowds ; toihng men and women, and children with no youth in their childhood, no joy in their sunless lives ! David went slowly up the broad stone steps into the grey solitude within. There a sense of emotion and reverence held him still and speechless for many moments. He sank quietly down upon his knees. The last time he had been there was at the time of ser- vice, and Ormistoun had been with him. Now the great building was empty save for a few sightseers in the nave. It appealed to him more strongly than when he had first seen it. All its beautiful, venerable architecture ; all that had gone to the moulding of its history ; its tran- sitions and translations from bigotry and superstition, down to modern ritual . These things rushed to his mind and filled his heart with awe. A sudden passionate desire swept over him. Oh, to preach there I To stand in that wonder- ful pulpit and speak one's whole soul out to a Ustening crowd that should acknowledge the message and " repent, and be made whole " ! If such a thing might ever be ! 218 CALVARY But even as he thought, he knew the wish was vain. God's house and God's altars were fenced round with the saving grace of Sacerdotalism. The Faith of Christ was a thing of forms and pomp. The Church was, indeed, sacrosanct; keeping a strong door closed between con- formity and sincerity; shut in by might of ceremonial from all such sacrilegious intrusion as that of the un- ordained, untrained preacher. " They would not admit Christ Himself if he came here at this moment," thought David. " They would ask for His certificate of ordination ; His university. His creden- tials. Things that are true have no chance against organ- ized traditions. The believer, the enthusiast of to-day must be the official presentment of strict orthodoxy ; be sent by his superiors, not claim his own freedom. It is a mad dream that I shall ever speak to a world. Never can I touch more than one small fragment of it ! " He rose from his knees and wandered round the vast building, modelled on its famous prototype of Rome. Compared with the lavish ornamentation and tawdriness of the French churches he had seen, this place looked very bare. But it had a noble simplicity— a massive grandeur worthy of the man who had been laid to rest under its stones ; the architect whose epitaph was truer than that of most great men : ''Si monumentum requiris circum- spiced " It is a fine place—yes, but St. Peter's is finer, said a voice close to David. He turned. He saw au old man — tonsured, clean- shaven, and dressed like a foreign priest. " I speak less to myself than I fancy," he said as he met David's eyes. " I make here my first visit, though I have lived so long in this country. You, monsieur, you also look as if you were not altogether familiar with your great national church ? " " I am not. This is only the second visit I have paid to it," said David. " Is that so ? But you English are strange ! You live -.r^r^^r. V. ~ 1 * --.r^,-,-^ l.'^rnO -in 1 Til « "P 1 P fl fmilTllft Tl Of, VOIl TSfil VftS jtraio, xiaix jxjxxi. iiT\.ra ii! tv j^'ii«v^, rs.>.— .. to go and see one of your national landmarks. The Ameri- 219 CALVARY can, he teaches you more of your country than you know for yourselves." " I daresay," said David. " But I have a good excuse, for my acquaintance with London is only a matter of days." *' Is it so ? I observe you were much interested. I also noted that you said your little prayer of reverence before you make the tour of inspection. That is not usual for the young men of your country, or your age. With us of France it is dififerent. We are early trained in these little observances. It is a good fault, is it not ? " " It is not a fault at all." " I am pleased you say that. I wonder — I may be forming a mistake — but I think you have some of the signs of Church office about you ? It may be you are a student of divinity ? " David shook his head. " Not so ? A pardonable mistake. But you have the face of a spiritualist. I — I was trained in a school that knows how to read such signs." David looked at the old man with sudden interest. " You are a Catholic priest, are you not ? " " I am Pere Frangois, the priest of a little French chapel in Soho. It is many years since I left France. It has be- come a place of terror and ungodliness. Even in my little congregation I have much to do to fighfc with doubt and Atheism, and indiflFerence to the Holy Church. The poison of the upas tree is this modern Theology ; this prying into God's holy mysteries ; the denial of the Blessed Saviour's immaculate birth ! Such things arc not meant for secular discussion. Avoid them, my son, if you would have a clear conscience and a pure heart. The Great God is a God of mysteries. He does not explain himself to man, who is lower than the angels. Only by faith can these things be accepted. One should pray for faith if one has it not. You pardon that I speak thus frankly to you ? But I like your face, and in God we are all one. It is man who makes the stupid distinctions by his pride and his obstinacy." " Indeed, I am very glad you spoke to me," said David. priesthood, I only live to preach Christ's message to man." aao f M ou know I excuse, of days." I. I also 36 before usual for ith us of lese little may be e of the ou are a have the a school interest. ch chapel .t has be- my little oubt and he poison jang into Saviour's 3r secular 1 have a God is a : to man, 3an these one has it 3U? But [t is man 3 and his id David. to man." CALVARY " How ? But this is strange for a confession ! You have no ordination for such an office, and yet you take it on yourself ? " " Yes," said David simply. " Surely there is something higher that calls us to the office than the routine of a seminary, and the formalities of what is called ' ordina- tion'?" The old priest crossed himself suddenly. " My son, this seems to me an affair very serious. Al- though I am not of your faith, I know that also to the Protestant ministry there is a form to be observed; a novitiate to be undertaken. What, then, is the nature of this ' call ' of yours that supersedes all rites and restric- tions appointed by your Church ? " " Well, it is so simple a thing that one word explains it. Christ called His disciples when He needed them. He called me." The old man looked at the grave young face and won- dered if he was listening to the rhapsodies of some new saint ; if this was the outcry of real religiosity, or the mere fanaticism of ignorance ? He had heard such de- clarations, received such confessions, but never given with such calm assurance — such simple faith in themselves. " I would he were on our side," he thought. " This is what we need ; the true convert, the true enthusiast. We have so few now. Almost I begin to think our training is at fault. We forbid question ; we forbid doubt ; and the inquiry returns upon itself and feeds on its own unsatisfied desires. Then comes an hour when the smothered spark bursts into flame, and we have either a renegade or a h3rpocrite to deal with." David's voice recalled him from, his puzzled musings. " I am afraid I must wish you good day, Perc rran9ois. I have an appointment to keep. But I am glad you spoke to me." " And I am glad too, my son. I hope we may see each other yet again. Although we hold a different form of Faith, still the faith is there. Le bon Dieu, he reads the heart and kno^^'s its strength and its weakness. I do not think t.])ere 's mufh in ■"our heart that '"ou need fear to show Him." ■ ''i 231 CALVARY He raised his hand. " An old man's blessing will not harm thee, my son, and if in any stress or trouble it would comfort thee to seek spiritual advice or confess thy needs and thy sorrows to a fellow-sufferer, come to my little chapel— East Street, Soho— and ask for me. Always I shall be at thy service, if I am alive and able to fulfil my mission. Benedicat te omnipotem Deus, Pater et Filius et Sfiritus Sancius. Amen." Involuntarily David bent his head to the solemn words. He loved their sonorous music, their beautiful meaning. They went with him on his homeward way like the con- secration of a prayer. Were there many Romish priests like this, he wondered ? Large-minded, liberal, comprehending ? Peace and good- ness seemed enthroned in those kindly eyes that had met his own ; on that gentle, saintly face. Yet he had beoi told that the priests of Rome were arch-fiends in disguise. Jesuitical, untrustworthy, tyrannical. " He is none of these, I am sure, that good P^re Francois. I should like to see him again. I wonder if he would tell me about his Order— about his Church ? The real truth. ",Vhy they say they are the one and only true Church, appointed by Christ, carried on by apostolic succession ? In that book the Squire gave me the young priest tells so little : not half of what I should like to know. And that half is terrible ; all the deception that goes on ; the horrible system of spying and reporting on each other, so that the whole great fabric of Catholicism is like a web in whose centre sits an arbitrary being they call the Pope. And he, so they say, will be content with nothing less than the subjection of the whole Christian world. It is not the religion I find fault with, despite its overflow of cere- monies. It is the system. The terrible, cruel, tyrannical system; the way in which the highest and best things are sacrificed to woridly aims. A great scientist, a great writer, a great patriot would have no field for his talents if he were subservient to priestly control. Look at the darkness of the Middle Ages when Catholicism ran riot throughout the worid ! I cannot but think that if it was tile reugion unnsi rouiiucu, u it iVua luuuvicvi ^^i viu- rock of His example, it would never have been overthrown ; 222 CALVARY and in every country where it reigned we should have found tlie blessed fruits of its teaching. But we don't find them. Almost all Roman Catholic countries are poor, vicious, immoral, and untrustworthy: France, for in- stance, and Spain, and Italy and Ireland. None of ?these show the lofty principles and high aims and clean living that should and must spring from the life of God's true followers ! There is ample proof that Rome has drifted farther and farther from the pure and simple tenets of Christ's own teaching. Why has she always restrained liberty of thought and personal criticism of the Scriptures ? Forbidden the Bible itself until forced to allow a certain liberty of action by the awakening forces of civilization ? I should like to put these questions to Pdre Fran9ois. I wonder if ho could answer them — satisfactorily ? " Then he went in and found Stephen Ormistoun waiting for him, and they set off together for Richmond. 323 (i XV IT was with an extraordinary feeling of excitement that David saw himself in orthodox evening-dress waiting for Ormistoun's appearance in his study. He had been so long used to unconventional garb that the restraint of formal garments was not agreeable. But discomfort was outweighed by the thought of the gracious, bewildering woman in whose honour they were worn. "Is it right ? Will I do ? " He was blushing like any schoolboy before the criticizing glance thrown over him. "Yes, they look all right," said Stephen Ormistoun. " Let no one deny that clothes, like manners, ' makyth the mavi.' M.;; dear boy, you will be proclaimed Saint Adonis instead of Saint David." "All the same, I shall be wishing myself back in my old serge suit all the evening," said David. " Your man had to fix my collar and tie for me. I was helpless." " Oh, you'll get used to it once you begin ! " said Ormis- toun, glancing at the clock. " We'd better have a hansom round. Punctuality for dinner is the only rule that society deigns to observe." When they were shown into Lady Pamela's jrawing- room they found her the centre of a small group consist- ing of Lady Silchester, a dazzling little woman introduced as Mrs. Peter Van Hoorn from New York, a dark, strange- looking girl whose name David did not catch, and two men. One of them was the " blond weasel " who played Bridge so well ; the other, an elderly, well-preserved man, was presented as Lord Ulwell. He knew Ormistoun, but he looked at David with undisguised astonishment. " I assure you, Mr. Hermon," he said, " I have heard such extraordinary accounts of you that I have been on tenterhooks of curiosity. I missed your first lecture last 324 not CALVAFY Sunday night, but Lady Pamela has told me it made an extraordinary sensation." " So it did ! " exclaimed Lady Pamela eagerly. "I've been hearing about it wherever I went. You'll double your congregation ne.-i* Sunday night, Saint David. And the reporters and xiiterviewers will be on your heels after that." Mrs. Van Hoorn swooped down upon them before David could reply. " Why, if this isn't downright splendid ! " she exclaimed. " I've been hearing of you all the time, Mr. David Hermon, and only to-day Lady Pam said you were to be here. Come right along and talk to me. I'm from Amurrica, you know. I guess we're just keen on religion over there. I'm h..lf a Christian Scientist myself. I'd go the whole hog, but I want to clear up a point or two. Maybe you could help." She had drawn David from the immediate circle, and he found himself seated by lier side on a brocade settee without a very clear idea of how he came to be there. He had never met an American yet. The volubility of this lady's outpourings dazzled him as much as her dia- monds. She wore a black dress— as, indeed, did all the women except Lady Pamela, who had merely turned herself into a violet cloud as a concession to Lent. " Well, as I was saying," went on Mrs. Van Hoorn, " I met Lady Pam at Rumpelmyer's this afternoon, and she asked me if I'd just waive ceremony and come around to dinner. She said you'd be here. The Boy Evangelist was what she called you. My— and you do look such a kid, if you'll pardon my saying so ! What made you take up preaching ? Think you'd got a call that way ? " She did not mean to be ill-bred. It was only part and parcel of her national assets that she should be inquisitive, loud-voiced, and quaintly interesting. "I— I beg your pardon," faltered David, " but I am not accustomed to discussing serious matters in — in company." " Is that so ? Then I guess you'll never go far. Wliy, ...■U^-. T ! i-l-- "— Ci„i^^^r. T ■J.-.cif 4-r.llrorl if wliofoirpv T XViien i WU.S LUliailg up 10v;iciiv;c i jurrl' ixlir>.<.U 1!/ » !!-^ — - went. I simply had to. There's no one can enthuse like Q 225 CALVARY an Amurrican when they've got something to enthuse about ; and Christian Science has right down got hold of us for a time. Of course, you know all about it ? " I never heard of it till this moment," said David. « Never— heard— of Christian Science! My— think oi; that ! What would Mrs. Eddy say if I told her ? She just imagines every one in the four quarters of the globe knows of it. A most remarkable woman. But you ve heard of her ? Don't say "' " No," said David. ^ . . , nu • ^• •' Well, that's real funny. She's the Chnst of Christian Science. She's awfully well advertized, and her church is just going to be the church of the future. She s been awful cute. She knows that when women have a say in anything, that thing's ^ound to go. Now, women are a vurry important body in this church— see ? There must be a woman reader for the services. We were mighty tickled over that notion at first. But there's no doubt it drew Women had done most things that men do— or leave undone— but they hadn't just fixed themselves as preachers. Here was their chance. And the church is just purfectly independent. It don't take any account of governments or spiritual heads. It's just enough for Itself. And a woman founded it. A woman did it all ! Doesn t that strike you as a display of moral courage and spiritual activity ? " , . , ^ i.i r^i, • " If I could — if you would explain — what exactly unris- tian Scienr is ? " implored David feebly. " Explain ? Well, I've been doing that ! Oh, but here comes Lady Pam to take you away. My rfcar, I've had the most delightful talk with your young evangelist. He s just keen on Science. And— what ? Oh ! Lord Ulwell are you going to take me into dinner ? I call that just sweet of Lady Pam ; now, isn't it ? " David was still listening confusedly to the vibrating American accent when he felt a light touch on his arm. " Come along, you're my charge. You look quite dazed. Was Mrs. Van Hoorn too much for you ? She is rather fond of talking. But then, all Americans are. Theyd think it a sin to be silent while they had a siugie idea icii in their brains. And now, how have you been all this 226 i CALVARY to enthuse got hold of it?" David, r — think oi: her ? She »f the globe But you've of Christian her church She's been ve a say in omen are a There must ,'ere mighty no doubt it do — or leave IS preachers. ist purfectly governments elf. And a )oesri't that ,nd spiritual tactly Chris- 3h, but here ar, I've had igelist. He's Lord Ulwell, all that just he vibrating n his arm. quite dazed. 3he is rather are. They'd ngie idea left been all this week, and what have you been doing ? Have you ever thought of — me ? " They were on the staircase when she asked that ques- tion ; asked it very softly, with an upward glance from the gold-flecked eyes, and a little confidential pressure of the arm she held. David felt suddenl}' breathless. She looked so lovely in that shaded light, her throat and shoulders glowing through a veiled haze of tulle and chiffon. Only to look at T-er '"as to breathe enchantment. Here, again, was a new v^xpenence : the seduction of sex in a new aspect. Woman in the semi-nude, delicate sug- gestiveness of evening toilette — inspiring, provoking, en- chanting ; perfectly aware of suggestion and provocation, yet appearing unconscious of either. " I have thought of you a great deal," he said confusedly. " I wondered if you meant all you said last Sunday night." Lady Pamela threw her mind back with an effort. What had she said ? Ensuing days and nights had been so full of other excitements and other episodes that she could not exactly recall this special one. Fortunately their arrival at the dining-room door and the interruption of seating themselves rendered evasion easier than response. She gave a quick glance over the table. It was decorated only with violets in silver bowls. A long strip of black satin bordered thickly with the same flowers went down the centre. Tall silver candelabra shaded with orchid- colourc 1 shades threw a subdued light over snowy damask and glittering silver and crystal. The " Lenten effect," as she called it, was quite admirable. David noted that her husband was absent, and re- marked on the fact. " Oh, I don't have him except I'm obliged ! " she answered. " And he's generally got some big thing on. Public dinners and speeches, or a set of South African magnates at his club. This evening is specially for you. I hope you appreciate the compliment ? " " It is very kind of you," he said. She made a little grimace, and refused the clear soup which the footman brought. '* Hqw formal ! Don't vou ever unbend exce^^t vou set on your own ground ? " 227 It ; i 1 f, • , - i 11 CALVARY " I — I'm afraid I don't understand," he stammered. " I'm quite sure you don't. Never mind ; your educa- tion's only just begun. What did Mrs. Van Hoorn talk to you about ? Christian Science ? " " Yes," he said eagerly. " And I was obliged to confess I'd never heard of it. What really is it ? An American religion ? " " One of the nine hundred and ninety-nine that they've discovered over there," answered Lady Pamela. " But, so far, it's about the only one they've taken the trouble to transplant." " From the name I suppose it means the Science of Christianity ? " said David. " About that. I've not had time to go far into it. But, according to Mrs. Van Hoorn, they can cure every mortal illness by faith. And they're always smiling to show how happy they are at being able to do it. In fact, if you're ' in Science,' as they call it, you must be always smiling at the people who're not. It's an insignia of superiority. But she'll tell you all about it. She goes to their church in Sloane Street, and once she even testified." " Teb ified ? " " It's part of the religion. You stand up and tell the whole congregation that you had consumption, or bron- chitis, or indigestion, and applied Christian Science, and since then you've used no other, like the man with Pear's soap. I went once. I make it a point to investigate every- thing, you know. I came away thinking I'd been attend- ing a popular Patent Medicine advertising show. All sorts of people got up and told you all their complaints, and how the doctors had done no good, and so they took up Science (like Pink Pills and Liver Pads), and were quite cured ; and then they gave thanks to some one called ' Mrs, Eddy.' But you're not touching your dinner. It's only fish. I've had three tish courses, all different, so as to suit you and His Reverence." David helped himself to something that looked like frozen snow with tiny green hailstones sprinkled over it. " About this Mrs. Eddy ? " — he went on.'; " Mrs. Van Hoorn mentioned her — as verv ' cute.' whatever that means. 228 CALVARY " Mrs. Eddy is the discoverer of Christian Science — at least, she says she is But some ' cuter ' Americans found out that she had bo-rowed the idea from anoiher mental healer ; got hold of all his prescriptions and published them as her own. Of course, the ' Science people ' get mad if you say that, just as Roman Catholics get mad if you say a word against the Pope. Mrs. Eddy is the American Pope, and publishes edicts and things. She's put all these notions into a book which everybody must buy or they can't be a Christian Scientist. Oh ! but M'on't you have dry sherry ? Do. I'm not giving cham- pagne because we're all mortifying the flesh." " Thank you, I never touch wine. I told you so the other night, if you remember ? " " So you did. But it seems so funny. Water, Dawson, for this gentleman. I don't know if we have any. But look in the cistern. Oh, there's Aunt Thusa trying to attract your attention. I believe she wanted to go in to dinner with you, and I wouldn't let her. Yes, Auntie, what is it ? " " I only wished to remark that you are giving Mr. Hermon quite a wrong idea of Christian Science," said Lady Silchester loudly. " Never mind. You and Mrs. Van Hoorn can put him right after dinner. Couldn't she do a little miracle or something for us ? It would be much more convincing." David felt as if his brain wc i. give way. The manner in which Mrs. Van Hoorn and then Lady Pamela had rattled off thr ir definition of anew rdigion, bcAv 'dered him. Lady Pamela suddenly dashed off into another topic. The Kliittmg kaleidoscope of her mind was perpetually re- volving and perpetually forming new patterns. But in Lenten weeks she did try to keep within bounds of " churchy " subjects. She described a service at the Brompton Oratory, and added the information that the subdued tones of violet and black had insj^^)ired her table of to-night. David took the opportunity of relating his visit to St. Paul's and his meeting with Pere Fran9oi8. " And you talked to him ? How brave of you ! As a rule Protestant clerics shi f; Romish ones. I like them. 229 if' CALVARY I've known heaps. They're either dears, or devils. Which was P^re Fran9oi8 ? " " Certainly not a devil," said David, rather shocked at the liberality of the definition. " He was just a scholarly, gentle old man, with the kindest face I've ever seen." " And didn't he call you a heretic and ask you to confess your sins ? " " Certainly not. But he made me feel that if I ever wished to confess my sins I would like to do so to him." " Dangerous. You see how subtly they work ? Most of the converts to Rome are made by first confusing their minds, and then professing to take all the burden of doubt and disturbance off them. Have you ever been to the Oratory ? I suppose not. You've only just come to London. Get His Reverence to take you. It's so soothing. I'm awfully pleased about having incense at St. Ninian's. I gave Stephen no peace till he had it. It's so assisting. One can only wake up emotions by externals. Isn't that so. Stumps ? " She turned to her left-hand neighbour with her usual abruptness. " I didn't catch the drift of the observation," said Lord Ulwell. " Something about emotions ? " " I was telling Mr. Hermon that emotion is the readiest road to the soul. Therefore to wake our emotions all means are excusable. That's why no church is complete without music and incense and forms. The Romanists found that out long ago. They knew that people don't want to understand, only to be sensitized. I felt so good after I came back from the Oratory this afternoon that I made the florist take away all the Isright coloured flowers and bring violets. And my maid thought I was mad when I insisted on her cutting out that strip of satin from a Court gown of mine. I only wore it once because some seventy- fifth cousin of Royalty had died the week before. So in- considerate, with all the Drawing-rooms coming off — and only a Schleswig-something ! " Lord Ulwell laughed. " You are always ready for a new emotion, I know, Pam. Possibly the florist suffered more inconvenience than yourself by that change of mind." " Oh, I never thought about him ! People of that sort 330 Which )cked at iholarly, en." ) confess f I ever him." ? Most ing their of doubt 1 to the come to loothing. JJinian's. tssisting. sn't that ler usual aid Lord readiest tions all oomplete omanists ale don't so good )n that I i flowers d when I I a Court seventy- . So in- off — and I ,{1 I M CALVARY must expect to have a little trouble. What else do we pay them for ? Tradespeople are really the most inconsiderate race. They pester us with bills, and then make a fuss if we countermand an order." All of which was Greek to David. "Mr. Hermon," said a voice breaking in upon his thoughts. He glanced at his opposite neighbour, Lady Silchester. " Mr. Hermon, I've been thinking very seri- ously of that matter of the wreck. Could you furnish me with the date upon which it occurred ? " David considered a moment. " I'm afraid I can't : only the month and the year." " Well, that is something. I must say I never met with such culpable neglect of important facts as you have mani- fested. But I am determined to find out everything about you that can be found out." " Oh ! but really there's no need to trouble," stammered David, annoyed to find so many eyes turned in his direction. " Trouble ! " exclaimed the strident voice of Mrs. Van Hoorn. " Who's in trouble ? Science can help him, I guess. It's done so a good few times even in my limited experience. Mortal mind's the cause — just that. You kind of get rid of mortal mind, and the All-Good comes right away down to you in place of it. Of course, though," she went on, seeing that every one was listening perforce, " trouble don't really exist any more than pain or sick- ness. You've just got to get rid of that fallibiUty soon as ever you look into Science. Demonstrate it to yourself, and you'll find it's got no sure foundation." " Then what's the use of demonstrating it ? " asked Stephen Ormistoun. " Now, Mr. Ormistoun, I guess you're trying to have me ; and I'm too much of a tyro in Science to explain it quite clearly. They say Mi-s. Eddy herself can't do that. Any- way, her book doesn't. But if you get the book you can begin straight away at once and cure yourself of any mental or physical trouble that's afflicting you." Ormistoun smiled. ' I have read the book," he said. "A more extraordinary jumble of muddled logic and T *«A«T<-kM ^nw%#^ nr\w*^^CiC3 I i lie V CI •^diiiv nvx\-'!.'o % 231 It \'' CALVARY "Oh, now, you shouldn't say that, Mr. Ormistoun, although you are. a clergyman. It's a real fine piece of work; deep, I grant. You've got to think. And it's that that does the cure. While you're thinking the pain leaves you, and you forget you're sick, and then the sense of Infinite Love takes possession of your soul, and you feel right down good. It's a beautiful feeling and must come from a beautiful source." " Every one's beginning to talk about it," observed the strange-looking girl whom David only heard addressed as " Tucks." " A friend of a friend of mine said he was going to try it for spinal complaint. He seemed to think it would be easier than plaster of Paris." " So it would," said Mrs. Van Hoorn. " You see, they reckon the Christian Church lost its healing power some centuries ago. At least, it thinks it lost it ; but 'twas there all the time, overlaid, as it were, by unbelief of mortal mind. Now, Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy has found out that the power exists not only in the Church, but in every one who comes into Science. You can do away with pain and sick- ness of body as soon as ever you get right with your mind." " And how is that accomplished ? " asked Ormistoun, smihng. Every one was listening now, even the footmen. Mrs. Van Hoorn was in her element. " Why, you've just got to tell yourself that there's no such thing as pain or sickness / " "Then," said Ormistoun, "you discover that you possess a faculty for which there's no use. Sometliing which, after being lost to the world for centuries, has never been lost, is re-discovered in order to prove that its object is non-existent." Mrs. Van Hoorn expanded into a Christian Science smile. " Wal, put like that, Mr. Ormistoun, it does sound per- plexing. But, as I told you, I'm only a beginner. I guess it's like this. Pain and sickness do seem to exist to those who are not in Science. When you are in— why, you just see that all the rest is illusion of mortal mind. The truth wviviiuc ixicriLaiij* apjjiiuu liCixiB you or any 232 aoffi CALVARY such illusion ; teaches the non-existence of matter and the Allness of Spirit." " The non-existence of matter would be a difficult thing to prove," said Ormistoun. " In fact, it would abolish the existence of Mrs. Eddy herself. I know in her book she talks of matter as being ' self-created,' ' a human belief,* ' an error,' and various other logical impossibilities. But she can give no proof other than ' /—think it ; therefore it is so.' Still, the prophetess herself is about as mortal and fallible as her traducers or her friends. She certainly borrowed her scraps of philosophy from Spinoza, and her ideas of faith-healing from Phineas Quimby. Her doc- trines are her own — fortunately; but, like her science, they're very unconvincing," " Well," said Mrs. Van Hoorn, " I can't get up my points right away \\ithout my textbook. I only know that since I began to read up Christian Science I've never had any sort of stomach trouble, and I used to be a perfect martyr to puerile dyspepsia in Amurrica ! " This frank outburst successfully changed the subject, and, after some dallying with crystallized violets and purple grapes. Lady Pamela signalled a retreat. The three men drew their chairs closer round the pretty oval table, and lit cigarettes. David looked on. "Rum people — Americans," observed Lord Ulwell, whose passion for cricket had won for him the nickname of " Stumps." " Always ready to take up any new crank or fad that crops up. Fancy a pretty little woman like that, and as material as they make 'em (judging from the frankness of her dressmaker), talking of Christian Science as if she believed it." "Possibly she does," drawled Teddy Adair, whom Ormistoun had called a " blond weasel." " Women can make themselves believe anything they wish; even that they can wear M'hite musUn at seventy and look seven- teen ! " As this was a feat constantly attempted by Teddy's own mother, a brisk society dame well over three score and ten, it was not deemed advisable to pursue the subject. Lord Ulwell fell back on a new brand of cigarettes just 233 >M CALVARY put on the market, and plunged into the topic with Stephen Ormistoun. Adair, whom no one ever called anything but Teddy, turned to David. He laid a tliin, cold hand on his arm. " I hadn't a word with you on Sunday," he said ; ' and I was dying to ask you how you did it." " Did — what ? " inquired David. " Get hold of Lady Pam and her set. Not easy. They go in for being both smart and serious. I fancy Pam's sampled half a score of reUgions in as many years. But this seems like the real thing— two Sunday services and one weekday. You heard what she said about the Ora- tory ? " " Yes," said David, releasing his arm. *' I never knew of her going to a weekday Mass, or what- ever they call it. Vespers, isn't it ? I hope she won't ' get religion,' as the lower orders cleverly put it. There are so few amusin' women in London." " Would an interest in religion make Lady Pamela less — interesting ? " asked David. " Depends on how she took it up ; as an episode or an antidote." " An antidote," echoed David, " against life's poison, you mean ? " " Not exactly," said Adair, with an odd smile. " There]s no harm in life — considered reasonably. You know, it commenced in a pleasure garden, though it's drifted into a queer sort of pandemonium. We sensible folk are trying to get back to the pleasure garden." " You linger a long time in the pandemonium by way of preparation," interposed Ormistoun." " To give you preachin' Johnnies a chance. Eh, what ? " " Effort that'p wasted is worse than none," announced Ormistoun, turning a\vay from the sneering face he so disliked. " That's not encouraging, is it, Mr. Hermon ? By the way, have you been to any of the other shows ? " David looked puzzled. " Saint Alban's ; Cowley Fathers ; Farm Street Chapel ? Rattlin' fun, some of 'em. Crowded like a first night at the theatre. You ought to go. Actors love to see each 234 CAhVA iY other act, and preachers ought to hear each other preach. It's an object-lesson — in both cases." David was silent. This sort of conversation was beyond him. " There's a slump in religion at the present moment," continued Adair, " so you ought to catch on. And if you do, life could be made very pleasant. Why, Pam and her lot could run any church they chose. She's always doin' surprisin' things, is Pam, But her master stroke was marryin' Reuben Leaffe. You know, he's a Jew and swore he'd never marry a Christian ! He hates us and " David suddenly moved his chair. " Please don't tell me of Lady Pamela's private affairs," he said. " They are no concern of mine." Teddy Adair looked astonished. It was new to him to be snubbed for retailing other people's histoirettes. As a rule his knowledge of such matters was a passport into the " best circles," as the servants' hall has it. " You don't mean to say you are indifferent to ante- cedents ? Why, they're all that give one a clue to char- acter ! If you don't know something about a person's character you can't know tliem. I assure you what I said is public, not private, property. But possibly London is an unknown book to you. You look as if you'd just left school." He lit a fresh cigarette and helped himself to Grand Marnier. Lord Ulwell had heard that last speech and smiled with some amusement. Teddy never forgot his manners unless he was angry. What had the boy cleric done to arouse his wrath ? " You mustn't mind Adair, Mi. Hcrmon," he said. " He's our privileged Court Jester. And I hope you are old enough to believe that youth is the best tiling in life." " Only youth never believes it," said Ormistoun. " All London — I mean all that artistic and excellent side of London which frequents St. Ninian's — has been discussing two points of last Sunday's innovation. The extreme youth of the preacher ; the extreme novelty of his views. One expects much from your pulpit, Ormistoun. Yet you have outdone — expectation." " 1 have only gone back to primitive faith as a whole- 235 CALVARY some corrective of modern unbelief," said Ormistoun. *' It does people no harm to have plain bread and milk after a surfeit of rich food." "I see the idea. It would be interesting to find that Mr. Hermon could restore our lost faith and our lost ideals. The only question is what should we do with them ? We have put away childish things so long that it would seem ridiculous to take them up and play with them again." " Possibly Ormistoun thinks his church needs a little whitewashing ? " sneered Adair. " Or the Bishop has been making inquiries. If it weren't that he is one of those fortunate people who may look over the wall as well as steal the horse, he'd have been called to account long ago." Ormistoun shrugged his shoulders. " There are higher flights than mine," he said, "and as yet no shot has brought them down. I'm not afraid." " It would be rather difficult to circumscribe the area of your flight," said Lord Ulwell, rising. " It has taken so many curves and circles. I'm always wondering where it will end. You'd be too dangerous for the lawn sleeves, I'm afraid. Otherwise I might have sent a whisper to the right quarter. Shall we go upstairs ? Pam said a lot of people were coming in, and Rinaldi is to sing." 2;,6 XVI W MORE bewilderment awaited David when he found himself in the drawing-room. The party had been augmented by a small crowd of people. Lady Pamela introduced him to nearly all the women. It appeared they were all membe. s of the " serioua-smart set " and part of the congregation of St. Ninian's. Although David was ignorant of the fact, these women had gone down in a fit of sensuous aberration before the spiritual beauty of his face and the extraordinary fervour of his preaching. To meet him thus — shy, boyish, reticent — was quite a refreshing sensation. He looked like a young Christ, they told each other, with that halo of golden curls, that serene, calm young face. But they found him very impossible. David had no small change of wit and light talk to give them in exchange for their flattery or their praise. They made him uncomfortable and unnatural. Besides, it seemed to him horrible to have one's most sacred thoughts and convictions put up for show, so to say, in an assemblage of society folk. These dicolletee women and tired, dissjpated-looking men inspired him with the same disgust he had felt when Teddy Adair had clasped his arm and looked into his eyes. They were a different order of beings. Nothing could make them assimilate with himself. This bright, dazzling life, this atmosphere of wealth and luxury, these pleasure- seeking yet pleasure-sated people, all affected him with a sense of unreality. It seemed as if they could never be in earnest about anything except what ministered to their affectation of enjoyment. Their present idea of taking up Lent seriously and going every Sunday to St. Ninian's, was only part of a pose that it suited them to adopt, because Lady Pamela desired it. She was their recognized leader, and when she piped they danned= The present dance was a slow and sensuous measure 237 % m 111: :\ ill ; i n CALVARY touched by little " thrills " of godliness. It seemed de- lightful to dine to slow music, and wear only violets, ana have fish dinners every Friday. Added to this was the advent of a new evangelist with a face like the Infant Jesus, and what Teddy Adair had called " amarynthine eyes." No one was quite sure what that meant, or if it expressed colour or shape. But they all gazed into David's eyes ard thought them exquisite. Violet and black ? Quite extraordinarily appropriate to the season and their mood ! . , , There was no card-playing to-night, only some very excellent music. And Rinaldi sang divinely. David listened like one entranced, quite unaware that his own face and his rapt expression were the object of l^ady Pamela's jealous regard. Wliat a young saint he looked ! Would he '^ever come down to earth and see that it held iovs as divine, dieams as exquisite, as those of his soul t She wondered if here and there were mortals who brought to the world minds and characters that were never formed of earth's mould ; that did really seem to bear the stamp of Heaven and of purity ? u , ^ r •« u,-. " Ah ' " she thought. " If one could but live in the ignorance that is happiness, instead of craving for the en- liehtenment that is death ! " ^. i And her memory went back a long way to a time when she, too, had been ignorant and innocent ; when she had not believed that to sell oneself for wealth was a wise and laudable proceeding. And now— the irony of it all. A perpetual striving to find something new ; do some- thing startling ; stifle the ears of the soul and deaden the voice of regret. She looked back on a career of deceit and brutal abasement and foolish intrigues ; of endless hours of trivial amusements cut out on one pattern, foUowea season after season. Oh, how sick she felt of this lite- to-night ! To-night, when a face like a young samt s met her eyes ; and the rich and glorious strains of a divine melody seemed to call out something finer than her own nature to meet it. tained him as the evening Just for a few moments she dc M passed. 238 CALVARY " I can see you didn't enjoy it," she said hurriedly. " You must come and see me quietly, when there's no crowd and we can really talk. I'm generally in at five o'clock. Will you come on — Monday ? Not Mr. Ormis- toun. I don't want him ; just yourself. Say yes." " Yes," said David. " I should hke to talk with you alone, without all these people to distract and interrupt us." " You dear boy ! " she said softly, and then laughed and pressed his hand. " Oh ! why are you a saint ? " she added pettishly. David found no answer ready. She always seemed to confuse his thoughts. But she did not expect one evi- dently ; she had floated off to another set of people. A violet cloud, exquisite, unreal, intangible ; and yet — only woman to her finger tips, had he but known. David was trying to disentangle the experiences already his from the curious twists and knots of doctrinal in- tricacies that he had found in London. There had been Ormistoun's sermon and conversations ; the opinions of the old Romish priest ; the queer, jangling tune of Christian Science. And all these things meant Religion ; the worship of God ; the service of the Church. What strange things had been said to him to-night ! Wliat odd questions he had been asked ! Did they really mean what they said, these gay, rattling, restless people, whose manners and mode of speech were like an unfamiliar language to him ? " About this Christian Science," he said to Ormistoun. " I wibh you would explain it a little. I couldn't help being interested in that discussion to-night. I suppose I am fearfully out of touch with everytliing that goes for advanced thought in London ? " " That is to be expected," said Ormistoun. " People who see visions and dream dreams, and have lived between two worlds, as you have done, find it difficult to adjust their faculties to commonplace life. And with all this glitter and show which seem to you so surprising, the life of society is very commonplace. The pursuit of pleasure must be that. Of course, here and there one comes across a little knot of intellectual people, artistic people, political 339 !« 'I Hi. lii ,'ij ■i' CALVARY people. But they move in formal cliques ; are set hard and fast in special grooves. The other set— the amusing, wasteful, extravagant set— only think of enjoying them- selves at any cost. However, you want to hear something about Christian Science ? " He went over to the bookcase and brought out a thick volume in a dark, plain binding. He handed it to David, who took it eagerly. On the cover was iraprossed a gilt circle, centred by a cror/n through which a cross was thrust. Through the inner side of the circle ran a text in gilt lettering : " Heal the sick. Raise the dead. Cleanse the lepers. Cast out devils." " A large order, isn't it ? " smiled Ormistoun. " But the Founder is built on large lines. American lines. BombuHl, self-delusion, enormous energy, and unbounded assurance. She has gone so far as to claim for herself that she is the chosen successor to and equal of Christ. She as- sumes tlu title of ' Pastor Em( ritus, of the First Church of Christ, Scientist,' whatever that may mean ; and she calls that book in your hands ' A Key to the Scriptures.' Now, every sensible man or woman knows that no such •key' is possible unless the locksmith has a thorough acquaintance with the mechanism of his lock. She does not say the translation of the Scriptures. Yet, without a knowledge of Hebrew and Greek, no one has a right to assume they know the real Bible at all. Think of the years Strauss gave to his Leben Jesu ; think of the patient labour of the Fathers and the Councils, and all the authors ancient and modern, on Christian evidence. Wliy, one man of my own college has given twenty years' research to the bare testimony of one section of the Gospels. One. And an hysterical, eccentric woman makes a dash straight off into the most momentous and most puzzling of life's many mysteries, proclaims it a divine revelation, and copyrights it at a minimum price of twelve and sixpence ! She takes for granted things that have never been 'proved, and manufactures a so-called religion whose very essence is selfishness : the desire to get rid of physical ills that are inseparable from a physical existence. It was because she , 1 \e ~ «l,«-,«;^ ;v.-rrr.li'f1 ■*-hqf a\\a firaf nff.np.VlpH Vipr- self to a mental healer. First she acclaimed him as little 240 CALVARY short of divine ; then she spent niontlis in copying his manuscripts, which she is said to have appropriated after his deatli ; finally, after much juggling with facts and dates, she claims this ' Divine Revelation ' for herself." David was mechanically glancing at pages and para- graphs. " She seems to assert there is no such thing as sickness or pain ? " " Exactly. On the logical basis of denying existence so as to make it wow-existent, just as she professes to take her science from the Scriptures, yet omits to state that a certain portion of Scripture is largely concerned with heal- ing, and commands honour to a physician, for ' the Lord has created him.' " " Luke is called ' the beloved physician ' by St. Paul," observed David. " And he was one of the four evan- gelists." " True. But Christian Scientists always gloss over facts that don't fit their creed. They secure followers for two very excellent reasons. There are few things a sick person won't do if you assure him of a cure. Christian Science goes one better. It declares there is nothing to be cured ; that disease and pain are imaginary. Well, if you can believe that you can believe anything. The second appeal is even more subtle. It is the appeal to woman. Two ofilcials must conduct a Science service; a woman and a man. Man is not to have it all his own way. Women can also become Science preachers and healers, and try their prentice hands at mental and physical cures. Women may get up and testify and speechify to their hearts' con- tent before an admiring assemblage of the Faithful. And, as most women are illogical and the others emotional, this occupation suits them exactly." " But," said David, " if there was nothing in it, how could it have taken such a hold of the public mind ? " " Of the Transatlantic mind, you mean. An American would believe anything, ernecially if there's dollars in it. There have been millions of dollars in this. And the con- verts are mostly rich, hysterical malades imaginaires. Half our bodily ailments are brought about by over- feeding, careless living, or neglect of common hygienic R 241 1 1 CALVARY rules. Apply Chr«i.n Science, '^o th- -j^^wriS "" "Xr Davil'" Xo^y^o^ per-, but I do SaHho ir„:'a??a"king a crU-braincd Amcncan fadd..t "tdd\td"cfa-d Lning over the pages of the book. The first sentence of the Preface had c, >.ght his eye " To rtoseSns, on fte .^.taimnff /»/!»<««. to-day « 6.!7 m;»7^ blessings" 0, iS^ei «i«».e.A«no«rerf .;,*««, inocfa at the portals of Humanity" K^eT^' " AH you say makes me rather curious to read this book. May I take it to my room ? 'Tertainlv" «aid Ormistoun ; "and I hope you u oe able 'o const ae its meaning. Mrs. Eddy calls it a key to th; ScrTpturcs; but she might ^vm advantage have supplied readers with a key to itself. ^^ David put the book on a table by his side. I am be sinnhla to wonder," he said. " how so many faiths and f reeds spmng into existence. I wonder even more wha •ukITw result • howmanAviU defend sophistry and i'?eaching":^^^^^ I stands at the bar of the Great '^"" wLa't if there should be no Bar, and no Judge ? " "God says He will bring every secret Uung into judg- "^^1'otf l;^uf «: r doTs.^t;ry day of our lives we have to render in account. Are we not conscious of every Sf^U:' e«: knr.eTo> «od. ^L .rcalit^^of ouf bei,,^ .,_ ^ i;fw r.{ His • oneness, undividabiiity, ultimate Sy! Th; docirine'of evoh.tion is closely allied to what CALVARY 3U may t would vanity. qud non on must Science ['m not, •ut I do 1 faddist be book. ;ye : lay is big lependent he portals )T curious you'll be b a ' key ' }age have ' I am be- 'aiths and lore what listry and the Great dge ? " into judg- ir lives we IS of every may yield sciousnesa, I our being y, ultimate cd to what we term religious faith. It is at once the most reasonable and satidfactory account of human existence. A giving forth ; a slow progress ; growth to a higher height ; a greater perfection of thought and life." " Then do you say the Biblical account of Creation and man's origin is incorrect ? " Ormistoun shook the ashes out of his pipe and replacf^cl it in the rack. "To a babe in Theology like yourself, David, it is difficult to explain these matters. You see, Science is ever at war with myths. It's not enough to say a thing is. We want to know why it is, and what it is. The position of the Atheist is Denial ; of the Agnostic, Unknowablenev? , Order seems to exist everywhere in Nature. Why, then, in one of the most vital evolutions of Nature do inipot;-/- bilities me^x va and deny our right to explanation ? " " I ',ave nev>^r found it impossible to believe that God made he worh. as the Bible says. If He is omnipotent He cav. du aayti ing." " Grar -^i. " liut in that case there was no necessity to limit His powers of organization to seven days. The world could as easily have sprung into existence ready- made as by a period of sustained creative power. The fact that it required seven days, or periods, of time, seems to imply either that the historian's brain was incapable of representing it as entirely miraculous, or else that he has given an imperfect account of the event. Now, natural law simplifies all this. It means that, as far as human knowledge goes, certain events have always followed cer- tain events. Given an existing condition, it is quite provable that it enforces or is followed up by another condition. These are proven facts, as sure as that night follows day, and independent of any belief in a Deity, personal or Spiritual." " Then you agree with Darwin ? Everything was evolved slowly and continuously — species from species ? " " I agree witli him that thousands of processes have gone to the making of man. He did not spring from a heap of red earth. (You'll find Mrs. Eddy lucidly gives that definition ; having read somewhere that Adamah signi fir= in Hebrew the red colour of the ground.) He if 343 n l/TT I I CALVARY conclusion of a myriad of analogous processes, brought about by and in harmony with natural laws. Nature standing once and for all as both creator and destroyer, for ever weaving new patterns of life and for ever destroy- ing them ; bringing some to greater perfection than others, as if to prove the merits of survival. All this argues a high idea of Intelligence. We can but suppose that the force behind Nature is greater than Nature, or else that Nature has been translated into one word, ' God.' " " So far you only suggest evolution as a scheme — a chain of many links ; but you can't say how such things came about. The first Great Thought must also mean the first Great Power. That— I defy any man or any scientist to explain ! " , . . „ .j r^ • i. " I am not attempting to explam it,' said Urmistoun. " The day will come when, like myself, you will begin to question the Cause of Things. The rise and fall of Races ; the perpetuation of one form of life more than another j the rage for destruction and the passions of cruelty and vengeance. And through them all the silver thread of re- ligious faith ; exemplified in a thousand different forms and shapes, changed yet never broken ; the spiritual en- vironment for the soul as the natural environment for the body, both working harmoniously for a purpose we are not yet wise enough to explain," " It seems to me," said David bitterly, " that you could only have asked me to preach these Lenten sermons as an amusement for yourself and your congregation. What is the use of my telling them what the Bible and my sorl have taught me, when everything you say disproves the reality of either ? " , m. * " I have not disproved the reality of your soul. Ihat— is a conviction my arguments dare not touch. It is an Intelligence higher than your body; the link between yourself and the yet higher Intelligence we have called God. Man has sought to explain Him and sought in vain. Wliy ? Bec">use man is still on too low a plane of spiritual development to comprehend his ultimate conclusion." David rose and pushed aside his chair. ki At- liT- r\-.^:«4-^,iv. " !»/» ciniA " \7r>ii oro f.nr» plf>Vftr for me to follow where you lead. But answer me one thing. 244 f: »' CALVARY Does this knowledge, or belief, or deduction, whatever you call it, satisfy you ? " There was a long silence. Then Ormistoun looked up at the anxious, questioning eyes. " Candidly, David," ho said, " it does not. I would rather believe as you do in the Seven days, the Apple, and the Flood, and all the other impossibilities that fence round miracle from reason. But I know I never could beheve in them again, and so I must e'en go on my own way and work out my own evolution. And now a counter question. Does that faith, and those dreams, and that uncritical attitude towards Divine things, satisfy you ? " " They did," said David brokenly. " They did— till I met you ! " :*li H 345 XVII " "\117HAT am I to do ? What am I to believe ? God YV help me ! " It was an exceeding bitter cry : the cry of a drowning soul ; the prayer of a breaking faith. It was the culmina- tion of the spiritual conflict that had begun in the garden of Trebarwick and continued for four long, bewildering weeks. For four Sundays had David stood up in that sensuous atmosphere of St. Ninian's, and preached of the simple truths of Christianity as he believed them ; as his first teachers had believed them ; as in visions of the night and dreams of beatific beauty he had seen them ; as his Call from the mysterious Mount and his vision of the mighty Angel had sanctified them. And now, suddenly, without warning, the ground had broken from beneath his feet. He felt everything crumbling around him ; he heard above all a mocking voice, a silvery laugh — " dear Saint David, do step off your pedestal and treat me like a woman, not an angel ; because, after all, I'm not that—wov is any woman." Like a rushing torrent, there swept over him a hun- dred memories of whispers, provocations, glances ; of some subtle spell working m the dusk of a firelit boudoir where he and she sat alono and talked of deep things, serious things; he, all unconscious of the half-divine, half -infamous web that was being v en around him day by day. How often had he been here, in that flower- scented, exquisite room, furnished to suit the taste of its mistress ; altered, for those weeks of " retreat," as she named them, to something half conventual. A table which she caiied her altar stood in one corner, draped in violet velvet, covered with lilies. On it stood a tall ivory 246 CALVARY crucifix, the figure exquisitely carved, and ever present to David's mind as he reflected on the talks and scenes over which it had presided. What a mockery they seemed now ! He was alone in his room, kneeling by the bed where he had flung himself in a sudden abandonment of grief after his return from Grosvenor Street. And the cry which had burst from his agonized heart was that of his first recognition of temptation. For this interview had not been as others. On looking back at those swiftly passing weeks David wondered how that Uttlo habit of dropping in for tea in that seductive " oratory " had become almost a part of his life. Sometimes other people were there. On two occasions he had been specially asked to talk over Christian Science. But lately they had been always alone— he and Lady Pamela. And what a wondrous, magical hour it could become— that hour she kept only for him, so she said. Subtly she would draw him on from subject to sub- ject, each touched with the sensuous spirituality that w^as her present mood; fencing with danger, playing with suggestion; armed at all points where her victim was defenceless. But at last she grew impatient. Saintship was all very well, and it was amusing to see the boy's face pale, and his eyes glow, and his hand tremble as she looked at, or smiled at, or touched him. But why would he never saw anything ? Then, on this last day, she had led the conversation to Rome and the rites and ceremonies of Rome. She spoke of the power of its priesthood as contrasted with the in- significance of the English cleric. She told him stories of the Confessional, its secrets and its influence ; of what ItaUan women and French women had confided to her in rare moments of confidence. And she had murmured softly of the relief it might be to throw the burden of onejs sins and temptations aside, and by confessing lessen their power or atone for their influence. He had not liked the idea. Even in that book about the young priest, confession had been proved as very dangerous. There was something disgusting to a clean young mind in the suggestiveness and impurity of a priest's 247 ft Ifrl CALVARY questioning. Nothing was sacred from such questioning; boyhood, maidenhood ; the sweet intimacies of the family ; the relations between husband and wife, mother and child. It seemed to David's Puritan mind a very invention of the devil. A masterpiece of ingenuity, certainly, for the %vhoIe machinery of Romish supremacy could be worked by this means. Nothing was safe from espionage ; nothing too sacred for prying eyes, or sensual suggestion. Truly, to make one human mind supreme over another was the most subtle flattery that could be offered a priest ! It placed him in the position of God for the time being, seeing that the poor, indiscriminating penitent might not have access to Divine Grace save through this earthly medium. So David had refused to " play " at Confession and said some very hard and bitter things about it. And even while he said them a sudden longing had seized him for the breath of the sea ; for some wide, clear space where he and his soul might again be alone Avith God. Intimacy is a species of education, and the friendship of Stephen Ormistoun and the fascinations of Lady Pamela had taught David more of life in these brief weeks than years of his Cornish village could have done. Yet he had been unconscious of danger; he had still believed his faith was firm and his honour unsullied ; he had tried hard to remember that this lovely, dazzling syren was a married woman; that even that semi-sensuous oratory was but a room in her husband's house : all its sumptuous decorations and all her luxurious surroundings paid for by his money. True, she never spoke of him, and David rarely met him ; but he never forgot she was Reuben Leaffe's wife — a particularly irritating fact to Lady Pamela. Not that she was absolutely corrupt • but het nature * had no sure rule of guidance, and marital obligations, as concerned with marriages of convenience, were of the very flimsiest description. She had been strangely fascinated by that spiritual beauty of David. It had been a refresh- ,.„ ...... ..^.y .„_. i^vjict-iai-c 111= uxoiicJK^ajiciil; nuui sxiiu. C-ipiuiu the reality of his religious ardour. Wlien she discovered 248 CALVARY it UHis real — to him the most vital thing in life — she was conscious of a little shame, as well as of petulant anger. She wondered why Stephen Ormistoun had brought him here ? Why she herself had " taken him up " so ardently ? It seemed impossible to make him speak of his feelings, let her flatter and seduce ever so cunningly. The very youth which she deemed so plastic steeled him against self-betrayal. He had been to other houses besides hers ; had seen other women sinking virtue and intelligence in the slough of secret passions and ignoble amours. Ormistoun had not spared society's morals, nor David's innocence. Why sliould he ? ho asked himself. There were things that all men must know. And the hair shirt of ecclesiasticism was no surer safeguard than the self- erected barriers of so-called " honour " ; the honour of men of the world and women of the world. But the fruit of all this teaching and seduction was bitter in the eating. David had at last come home from a scene in that flower-scented boudoir with his whole soul sick Avith shame. There had been first that talk over the Romish Sacrament of Confession ; his plainly evinced repugnance at the idea, and her playful combating of it. And then suddenly the game seemed to become earnest. She had sunk on her knees in the firelit dusk and told him he was the priest of her heart and the keeper of her soul, and that she must and would tell him their secrets. Before he could stop her a wild torrent of speech had poured forth. She painted licr lonely, poverty-cursed girlhood ; her beauty that had made her only a thing to barter in the marriage market. How she had been sold to Reuben Leaffe ; how starved and empty was her life, despite its surface brilliance ; how she had sought spiritual comfort and found none until he had come like an angel of light, bearing that wonderful message. Then the temptation grew more subtle. She spoke of love — spiritually pure, soul-comforting : Heaven's gift to the sick and weary ones of earth. She painted its joys, its confidences, its concessions ; she filled the secret meanings. Her arms were flung over his knees, her lovely ( ■ ) f« 249 ('If! m raise her lifted her compelling, mortal to lovely face CALVARY head bent on them ; there came broken sobs, strange whispers. A medley of ungoverned feeling swept him oil" his feet. In that moment the world and life and all therein meant nothing but just that kneeUng woman, and his own wild terror, and the first tJuiif aiic^ ecstasy of waking passions. Then, in shamed confusioing lips met his, and irmocence and t-ii>, each ■lursi-dian of a sonl, fought no longer. The victory wna the woman's ; the shamo the man's. How long ago smcc those eyes hud tempted him — that kiss sealed his fate ? David knelt there in an asrony ci" abandonment. " What an T to do ? God help me ! " But why should God help him ? He had run almost wilfully into temptation, Ho could see that now. Now, when he looked back on ail these days and weeks of subtle flattery, of blind obedience to an imperious will : a will far stronger than his owi>, that had set itself to conquer, and now triumphed in the baseness of success. He had left her with an iibruptness almost rude. How he had reached Westminste; and this room he could not tell. Certainly voUtion had been a bUnd impulse. His dazed brain had acted in purely mechanical fashion. All he knew was that he had flung himself down on his knees, abased and humiliated, feeling as if every landmark of his past life had been swept away by a tempestuous sea. Life suddenly flashed before him in new colours — a mock- ery, a weariness, a lie; a huge devouring, monstrous lie that changed the soul's pure coinage into dice and played with them as gamblers play. There are moments in a man's life when all the hidden forces he has ignored seem to conspire for his destruction. David had dwelt in serene aloofness ; liad never pictured human love a.s dominating the sf»ul to the exclusion of it3 high calling. Now, it seemed to him that he was looking 250 , strange it him oil' ill therein d his own f waking raise her lifted her ►mpelling, mortal to »vely face innocence sr. raan's. lim — that , "What m almost w. Now, i of subtle 11 : a will » conquer, de. How could not iilse. His lion. wn on his landmark tuous sea. —a mock- istrous lie nd played he hidden jstruction. r pictured sion of its as looking CALVARY down into some pitiless Inferno ; for Religion and Sorrow might go hand in hand, but never Religion and Sin. And he had sinned— grievously, even if pardonably. What to do ? How to pray ? How to face the morrow I and all the endless morrows that meant the passage of I Time ? Time the gateway to Eternity. He could not pray. It seemed a mockery. Always and ever between him and his words came that witching face, those curved, sweet lips whose touch had turned him faint with longing. Between him and God she came, defihng his worship as she had defiled his soul ; standing with outstretched arms and passionate eyes — a vivid image, a mad temptation; the sorceress, ever young and ever old, who has ruled man's destiny more surely than any living force. He rose from his knees. It was almost dark. In a few moments the gong would sound and Ormistoun would be waiting for him for dinner. Oh, the bathos and mockery of life" Then suddenly he resolved to leave here— to leave at once; forego the next two Sundays; tear himself from temptation. He must not see her again ; he dare not. Surely she would regret as deeply as he did that momentary aberration of the senses; those kisses, whispers: mad suggestions of impossibilities ! Then, like the touch of a cool hand to fevered brow, came a thought. Ruth. Ruth— pure, good little Ruth ; Ruth, to whom he owed any human love that his heart might know ; Ruth, whom he had kissed by the sea in the golden twilight and promised to wed in time to come. She would save him ; she would calm him ; she would cast out this evil spirit that had taken possession of him. With her this fever of the senses would abate, and life once more become the peaceful, holy thing it had seemed till just four weeks ago. Four little weeks— a small space to measure a fall so great. Yet had not Adam fallen in a moment at the tempting of a woman ? Was it her beauty that had tempted him? That in- Bidioua. subtle, deadlv thing which saps the strength of a man and leaves him a prey to unholy desires ? Was tliat 251 iii^;' ! Ir,/ I-. (( CALVARY the meaning of the Apple— the Forbidden Fruit ? If so, no wonder he was accursed and all his race because of him. The love of the flesh — that was what it meant. A brief beauty and glory and madness, and then — Hell. The hell of one's own making; the self-torments for ever gnawing at one's heart ; the knowledge of good and evil that only comes when evil is known. Ho recognized it at last. He wondered what he should tell Ormistoun ? How get away from hero ? That he was determined to do. He would not see her again ; he would not risk another such scene. He would go back to his beloved sea and the wild moors, and the simple homely life and the old simple teaching. But could he teach ? Dare he ? The gong sounded softly as he reached that point of perturbation. He started, and remembered he had not dressed. He turned on the light and bathed his flushed, tear-stained face in cool water, and hoped that Ormistoun would not notice much amiss. But Ormistoun did — at once. The traces were too evident to be overlooked. Something had happened. Well, he had been expect- ing it. The moth had fluttered too near the candle ; he had been badly scorched, poor foolish thing ! But it was not his way to force confidence. He kept the conversation in external channels. He felt that David would explain things sooner or later. Meanwhile he pretended not to notice the rejected food, the shaking hand ; the absent replies to his questions. When dinner was over they went to the study as usual. The evenings were still chilly er.ough to excuse a fire, and Ormistoun had a cat-like affection for warmth and comfort. " It's a tieat to have an evening to ourselves," he said as he lit his pipe. " There's a meeting on at Exeter Hall, if you'd care to go ? " "Oh, no, said David wearily. "I'm glad to be in for once. I'm getting tired of so much excitement." ^There^was a long silence, while Ormistoun smoked in thoughtful content, and David cast about in his mind for some seeminglv rational excuse to get away the next day. 252 CALVARY " I see you're uncomfortable," said Ormistoun quietly. " What's happened ? " David rose and stood leaning against the mantelshelf, his eyes on the deep glow of the coals. " I want you to let me off the next two Sundays," he said huskily. " Oh ! " said Ormistoun. " I suppose you have a reason ? " " A great many. I — I can't speak as I used to speak. I don't feel as I used to feel. Something — has gone from me, Ormistoun," he added brokenly. " You may think me a fool — doubtless you do. But unless I get back to the same point of Faith from which I started, it's not possible to speak of it to others." Ormistoun was conscious of a little stab of regret. He had been very cruel. He had taken this young dreamer from the sea and the moors and the simple life of Nature, had stripped him bit by bit of his faith, his confidence, his spirituality, and given him but crude facts and scientific problems in their place. And a worse thing, too, he had done : exposed liim to the subtle temptings of a woman whom he knew to be conscienceless and merciless where her passions or her vanity were concerned. He had not even warned the boy. For, after all, he was but a boy ; a tyro in worldly matters in comparison with himself. " Ah, David," he said, " I feared an upset of s< me sort. Was it Christian Science ? " " No ! At least, that means something, though yo»: p^y it's bad theology and worse science. I don't feel equi^i to discussing my reasons. I only beg you to believe I wouldn't ask this — if it wasn't necessary." " This is Friday," observed Ormistoun. ** You give me short notice to provide a substitute." " I am sorry," faltered David. " But I couldn't preach there again. Perhaps I never shall preach again — any- where." " Oh, yes, you will. This is only a mental phase. We all go through such things at one time or another. It is one of the ironies of our calling. The life of ?'; o real is nrr^rrrpoaiiTo anri r»lianrfttfiil lilr^k flia^. nf flio hn/i t? Alan if. f" *'r. ""'*'••■' '' "•••"' ...-^, ...... ...«,. ,-...«.. ... ...... ......J. * -* has its periods of sickness and depression. You are suffer- 253 11", i| I,tj ,1 !' { i CALVARY ing from such an attack and are corrrspondingly depressed. However, I could not possibly force you to stay^ here against your will, still less to preach at St. Ninian's. I suppose you cannot — particularize your reasons ? or i ."P.riot help you ? " ']>add shook his head. " No one can help me," he said bitterly. " I am out in the wilderness, driven hither and thither liko a wandering spirit. I shall have to get quite away— b} myself, and piece up the fragments that remain, if they are worth it ; fight out the truth of my old images of thought; see Christ ' been used to see Him, or else " Rib lip quivered suddenly. He was face to face with the saddest and strangest tragedy that human souls can know— that of lost faith. And added to tliis was the memory of human passion that had met him like a lion in the way ; that demanded life or liberty. In the anguish of the sudden struggle he was cctnscious of the womanish weakness of tears. He kept his eyes averted, but they escaped and rolled down the smooth, boyish cheek, scalding it with the heart's fire. Ormistoun was touched to pity. This was more than he had meant. Ho had only proposed a gradual enlighten- ment founded on solid facts. He had not calculated on the sudden earthquake that " , J shattered pr > onceived beliefs, and left this young soul naked and desohi I "i. "Couldn't you trust me enough to tell me : w you feel ? " he s id at last. " I might he]i» ; ou." David shook his liead. "In any case, I ni sure that when you grow < lUior, when you study facts instead of accepting fallat s, you will regain you' peace of mind. The truth of Christian evidene does nut do away with the reality of Christ. He liv He fr filled a mibdion. He died. Other great and good teachers liave done the sarat Huiidrels sullered more than He did ; a longer martyrdom, crueller pain. It is all art of the reat scheme, as we are part of it. It seems p;u;iful to you because you have been nurtured in the nursery fiction of tlo Bible— tie purely traditional. But in (li 'VI y<*'! will see for yuurseif that it is imposKiole anr' unreal. ' It ill not ma^o life less valuable, or a 254 CALVARY Future state less ire. It will only place them on a more convincing budis. Evidence is surely preferable to fallacy ? " *' I cannot go through all that again — and now," said David. " I only know I came here a bcHever, and I don't know what I have become. An infidel ; a traitor ; one not worthy to take up Christ's service ! There is nothing to do but fight it out for myself. In the wilderness, with the devil perhaps, even as my Master was driver forth ! But go I must — and at once." " Are you sure there is nothing else that is driving you into the wilderness ? Only these spiritual doubts ? " A wave of scarlet swept the pallor from David's face. His eyes flashed indignant denial ; he could not betray her ; could not tell of this afternoon's mad scene — never to living soul ! " Whnt else should there be ? " he exclaimed. " Are they not enovTh ? Can't you see that I can never be the same again . Never feel as I felt when I accepted your invitation to preach here as I had been used to pre ich to my faithful Cornish folk ? " " And what will you do about them ? " asked Ormistoun. " That is hard to say. I must go to the Squire and tell him that it's been a failure. I hadn't strength enr-ugh to stand up against you as I used to stand up against him. Everything seems altered. I — most of all." " I suppose I ought to say I'm sorry, but it seems so inevitable. I believe no preacher of the Gospel, whatever his faith, or sect, or denomination, has escaped such an ordeal as you are passing through. At least, if he has, I wouldn't give much for his ^ mscience. I — mvself — but v'on't go over that. Each of us who tliivta, David, Wt carries in his heart a hell of his own making. Sometimes God pities us and drags us forth ; but ofl«>ner He lets us alone. Still, all life is His, md He who cast us into this world will assuredly know what to do witl* us when we K ave it. T and you, and thousand'^ inillions like ours( ' may find iJeath Darkness." «< T ,-1 8udd( 11 passion a Lantern of L^lit, v."ere A an Angel atil X ::u;: tO faCC, cricu But it is life that is so hard ! 255 of -th ihe CALVARY going on ; the living on ; and around one only doubt and disloyalty and shnrae ! " " You are too hard on yourself." " Not half hard enough. Ah, let me go ! Let mo fight this out alone ! Some day — who knows ? — we may meet again, and then — then " His voice broke. How could he hope fo' any good or any peace of mind? He was doubly (Udhonoured; spiritually and physically. He had been tried and found wanting. He had been false as Peter ; as great a traitor as Judas. He had failed his Master at the first tempting of evil ; had betrayed Him, if nut for talents of silver, for the false gtAd of an impure passion — at the subtle reason- ing of an unfaithful priest. The suddenness of his fall, the meanness of his betrayal, shamed him to the depths of his soul. He realized a crisis in his self-chosen career. If not the end, this was a check, a challenge. It must be met ; it must be answered. Half-dazed, hke one in a dream, he It eld out his hand to Ormistoun. " You have been very kind to me," he said, *' and very cruel. But I forgive you." But Stephen Ormistoun, sitting on alone while the night grew late and the hours slipped by unheeded, went over the events of these four weeks, and knew it would not be rnsy to forgive himself. as6 oubt and mo fight lay meet my good onoured ; nd found a traitor tempting diver, for e reason- betrayal, d a crisis It must his hand me," he PART III THE END vhile the led, went it would ■( ' ii LADY vice exciteme After that the He gave tioned it the altai offertory Lady I most int had sho^ surprise the worl( of the si of asking invitatio "Why t Steph( Hermon " I th( you coul He sir a horae 1 he wishe David's no f urth Her e mean to "He] "Whe "" rsaci immense i ^'! LADY PAMELA had just returned from morning ser- vice at St. Ninian's. She was in a state of feverish excitement and of furious rage. After the sermon Stephen Ormistoun had announced that the evening lecture would be delivered by a stranger. He gave no explanation of the alteration ; merely men- tioned it, and then left the pulpit for his usual place at the altar while the choir sang an " Agnus Dei " as the offertory was being collected. Lady Silchester was with her niece, and a dozen of her most intimate friends were near at hand. Lady Pamela had shown commendable presence of mind in evincing no surprise and no emotion. There is no school Uke that of the world for training one's nerves. But at the conclusion of the singing she hastened to the vestry on the pretence of asking Stephen Ormistoun to lunch. She gave no such invitation ; she merely shook hands and said quietly : " Why this alteration ? " Stephen did not pretend to m'.simderstand. " Mr. Hermon refuses to preach here any more," he said. " I thought he was engaged for the six services ? Surely you could h ).ve kept him ? " He smiled coldly. " Dear Lady Pamela, you can drag a horse to th the deep, dark wonder of those violet eyes ; and her heart seemed to melt withiii her breast and all her life swam out on a sea of longing and desire. She played her part at the hmcheon table as well as ever : talked the usual brilliant nonsense expected of her ; chaffed the over-faithful Teddy ; told every one she was counting the days before Sunday Bridge could be again permitted ; 261 /« i . 1 .,' CALVARY and then hinted at a new attraction put forth at St. Ninian's — the musical recitations of Mrs. Potiphar Brue. There was, as she expected, a sudden mention of David's name; a host of inquiries. With a shrug of graceful shouldera she insinuated that he had been recalled to his own parish. Rumours of St. Ninian's unorthodox services had reached his pastors and masters, and for fear of con- taminating their ewe lamb he had been snatched back into the fold. There were a few comments, a word of regret, because David had really been a preacher " to the manner bom," though with an uncomfortable knack of making people fed. But in Lent that was excusable. Then somehow the talk drifted to worldly topics ; to Mrs. Potiphar Brue and her late visit to Paris in company with a peculiarly idiotic specimen of the young aristocracy. She was, of course, old enough to be his grandmother ; but, then, she wasn't. And her serpentine graces and strange eyes were still in demand by a limited section of vacuous youth with more money than brains. From Mrs. Potiphar to the stage, and the new after-Lent productions, was an easy transition. Then Lady Pamela had pushed aside her glasses and put her elbows on the table, and smoked a cigarette and let the ball roll as it would. ^ But after luncheon she had had a very mauvais qvuH d'heure indeed ; almost the worst since her marriage night. She had wanted to rage and shriek and tear her hair, and all the time knew she must submit; wait on his next action ; live her usual life ; go on with the parlour tricks she knew as second nature. She felt a sudden loathing of them all. Life looked a great emptiness : black and void, yet charged with unimaginable horrors— shapes, images, threats that one recklessly challenged and might not always defy. How many men and women she had known had made sliipwreck of their lives for some craze or passion that suddenly seemed worth all else. And was it ? Had it ever proved so ? She did not believe it. Human beings were more or less like children chaaing butteriiies. It was pursuit that held interest, not capture. 262 m iilN Utb CAJ.VARY Capture meant only a handful of dust, a bruised, broken shape crushed in a hot hand. And when they grew older the butterflies took another form. They were pursued a^ eagerly ; but the result was still the same— satiety, weari- ness, dust. She threw herself down amongst the cushions of her couch. She shut her burning eyes and tried to recall those hours spent there with her " young Saint," as she had called him. How earnest he had been and how eloquent ! What a difference between him and every previously favoured sharer of her solitude ! That had been the attraction. The incentive to interpose herself between his spiritual dreams and his earthly ambitions ; to drag him down from his pedestal and make him worship at her feet. There are more women ambitious of playing Circe to their lovers than guardian angel. . j u For Lady Pamela there was nothing to be gained by such a conquest ; no social prestige ; no feminine envy. But she had planned in her own mind a little religious comedy with her private oratory as its stage ; the subju- gation of spiritual innocence as its plot. Probably she would have tired of it in a month, but she had not been given the chance. , ^ , , « That maddened her. The first slight, the first rebuff, is to a woman's vanity what a blow is to a man. Besides, she was suddenly confronted with a certair pui-poselessness in life. Some interest had gone, and no other was ready to take iis place. Usually ahe had taken care to provide that. But this catastrophe was unexpected as well as humiliating. tt j c v. Then she began to seek for outside causes. Had btephen Ormistoun warned David, or had David been drawn into a confession of his weakness? Either case would have produced serious results in a mind so absolutely in- nocent and unworldly. If so, Stephen must not see that she cared. It had been foolish to go to the vestry that morning ; more foolish still that tlireat of not attending St. Ninian's. How could she have so lost her head as to say sucr. a thing ! Well, she must prove it was but a momeiitary fit of petulance born of pique. 263 CALVARY Above all, she must hide this secret from her aunt. Already Lady Silchester had uttered hints as to the un- wisdom of those many visits and the boudoir seclusion. She was not more malicious than most elderly women who have few interests left in hfe, but her abnormal curiosity helped her to scent out scandals very quickly. Her imagination always outran the truth and sometimes superseded it. Again Lady Pamela thought of intervening days of silence ere explanation was possible. For some explana- tion was imperative. Things had gone too far for such a sudden break. She would write. But again difficulty faced her. She had no idea of David's address, and Cornwall was a rather vague direction. But — was there not a certain Squire, owner of a manor and estates ? She remembered her aunt speaking about him. Possibly she would know the name. And then a guardedly ex- pressed missive might be ventured upon. Of course, Stephen Ormistoun knew, but she was not going to ask Stephen Ormistoun. She would just seem to drop the subject as if it had lost all interest. She rose from her couch at last and went to her writing- table. In doing so she hod to pass the velvet-draped altar on which stood the ivory crucifix. In a sudden fit of fury she seized the flowers and trampled them under her feet. She dragged the velvet draperies roughly from their place, bringing down the silver candle- sticks and books and crucifix in pell-mell confusion. She felt that she hated this travesty of sanctity; em- blems of a mood that had passed away as hundreds of other moods and fancies had passed. As she glanced down at the havoc she had made, there came a knock at the door. For one swift moment her heart seemed to stop bcatintr Could it be Then a voice spoke. " It is I, Pamela. May I come m ? ' Her husband's voice ! She tried to calm herself, to pretend it meant nothing, but for once she felt afraid. With amazing self-control 8h6 cried out : " Of course ! The door's open." Reuben Leaffe came in and stood looking at the dibris over wiiich mho was stooping. 364 ! il in CALVARY " I am altering my oratory, you see," she said. " Lent is so nearly over that I have no further use for it ! " Pretence and acting were excellent. The sullen, heavy-looking, black-browed man stood just within the doorway, and watched her. " No further use ! " he echoed. " Is that because your young priest has left you ? " The colour rushed to her face. " What do you mean ? " she demanded sharply. He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. "Oh, nothing, of course ! I am not to see, to hear, to know. But I do see — sometimes." He bent down and picked up the ivory crucifix. " What liars you are, you Christian women ! This — set up here where your lusts and your passions and your immoralities are let loose to the tune of the moment ! " " How dare you speak Uke that ! How dare you ! " she stammered breathlessly. " I dare many things when it suits me. It suits me to come here now and give you a warning. I like that boy with the beautiful face and the simple heart. I do not choose that you should play cat-and-mouse with hira as with those others. They can take care of themselves ; he cannot. So I have come here " — he glancod around — " hero to the place you profane with your adulterous fancies, to tell you that I forbid you to receive him any more in this private way. You hear ? " " You — you forbid ! " The contempt, the increduUty of the words cut like a lash. But he stood there stolid, immovable ; the hideous landmark of her bondage ; the man who had a right to demand, to object, to rebuke. " Yes," he said, " I. You think me a fool, but I am not a fool. I give you rope. Oh, yes ; plenty. But I do not choose that you hang yourself — yet. And when you do it shall be in company despicable as yourself. Do you understanf' ? " " I think you must be mad ! " she cried furiously, " or drunk." *' Not either. I am only giving you a hint that I am still your husband, and that complaisance may not always 265 M CALVARY suit me. Why should it ? You flout me ; you insult me ; you waste my money ; you dishonour my name. We have been married but five years. My God ! Wliat years ! I do not see why I should bear another five — even another one. So I am giving you this warning. And I give it not for your sake so much as for the boy you are trying to seduce. Because — of all your lovers, of all the empty- headed, dissolute fools you bring around you and mock me with, only one has remembered I am your husband." She was too amazed to interrupt. She hstened and wondered how he could know all this ; how have taken David's measure so accurately. For it was true. He had remembered that there was a master in this establishment ; he had never insulted him or made light of him — though to her knowledge their acquaintance had been a mere formality. What was there about David that impressed people, that had won even the respect of this boor, as she called him ? This man who had seemed to have no thought for anything but money and the schemes and intricacies of a millionaire's exploits. It was incredible. As incredible as that he should stand there, with that crucifix in his hands, looking reverently down at the face of the Sacred One his race had condemned as an impostor. He — a Jew by birth, if not by religion. She let the flowers fall from her hands and gave way to hysterical laughter. It seemed so like a third-rate vaude- ville in a French theatre. " Don't laugh ! " he said harshly. " If you had a spark of shame you would hide your head and pray your God to pardon you — the God you outrage and blaspheme with mockery such as this ! Now — I have said what I came to say. Remember it. I do not give such warnings twice ! " For a few moments she stood there, wondering if the world had turned topsy-turvy ; if she were going through a nightmare ; if it could be true that this despised, un- important man whose name she bore, whose claims she loathed, had dared to arraign her conduct ? To utter a threat in her ears ? Hers ! " Talk of worms turning ! " she muttered as once more a66 CALVARY she gathered up the velvet draperies and threw them over the table. " What can it mean ? Has he begun to sus- pect ? And oh — what a bUnd mole to fix upon the only innocent victim of the lot ! " With shaking hands she put the candlesticks and the books b" in their places. Then she gathered up the crushed liiles and broken-stemmed narcissi and threw them into a waste-paper basket. That done, she stood for a few moments leaning against the table, looking at its disarranged contents. " There was something else, surely ? " she thought. Ah — the crucifix ! It was not there ; neither was it on the floor nor in the room. He had taken it away. He — Reuben Leaffe, the Jew financier ; the harsh, hard man of business who was not supposed to have a soul above public meetings and public dinners and huge financial schemes. Well, after that, surely the world must be coming to an end, or the millennium be at hand ! She rang for tea, and denied herself to any visitors. She felt she must think all this out. How had Reuben learnt oi David's constant visits ? What had made him suspect ? Had any one told him ? She did not credit him with any special perspicacity. She had so long indulged her freaks and fancies that she had begun to imagine he was in- capable of jealousy — even of suspicion. Now he was awake, indeed. Oh, the tragedy of it! the absurdity of it! She — a queen and ruler of society ; she — to whom even royalty had unbent, who was welcomed everywhere, and whose popularity was as assured as her beauty, she — to be brought to task for any action, no matter how audacious ! It really did seem incredible. Then a new idea seized her. Was this the reason of David's flight, his unexplained silence ? Had Reuben met him, or watched him, or cautioned him ? He was indelicate enough to do all or any of these. And David was sensitive on points of honour. He still argued of right and wrong ; he was not nearly educated in society's 267 % i (! I! .if m CALVARY easy laws of give and take ; of convenient blinuness and marital complaisance. Poor boy ; poor silly, frightened boy ! Of course, that accounted for everything. Tf she had been warned and threatened, no doubt he ha< sh t "ed a similar fate. Reuben might have called oii him, or met him, and dropped a hint as to those constant visits when she deni* u herself to all other callers. T^avid's innocent soul had taken alarm. He had followed the example of that other immaculate Joseph. Had fled, leaving explanations to her ! Only, unfortunately, she was not in a position to lay cause of complaint at his door. Potiphar had arraigned her. For once in her life some one had called " chor-k- mate" to her triumphant game. And that the one she least expected and had least considered all the time. As her anger cooled, a little touch of fear usurped its place. Had Reuben really meant what he said ? Was he going to give up the role of complaisai e and take that of the outraged husband — demanding Caesar's wife for Csesar only ? Pah ! It was absurd ! Society couldi' i hold to- gether a day if men behaved like that. 'I he conventions of marital life had never forbidden flirtation more or less discreet. Who was Reuben Leaffe to talk of his honour ? to threaten her with legal penalties of disgrac if she chose — occasionally — to forget she was his wife ? And yet she did not desire an expose. She looked upon divorced women as fit subjects for lunatic asylums. How badly they must have played their cards ! It was per- fectly easy to carry on an intrigue quietly and skilfully ; and the world never found fault with you if you were not indiscreet. That was what made her present position so intolerable. She had not even been — that. Her con- science assured her of complete innocence in the matter. Not a letter, not a rendezvous, not one word of love till that fatal Friday evening. Yet because of this most harmless escapade she had been threatened with all sorts of horrors ! If she only knew whether Reuben and David had met ? A little hysterical laugh escaped her as her mind linked the two names. Quite an Hebraic episode — this. Possibly that accounted for the fracas. Jewish husbands had used to exact a very severe penalty from unfaithful wives. She 268 h 'i CALVARY had laughed often over those c'mpters of Leviticus de- ,cribinf' their punishment. Ever hose primitive 'lays it was lys the woman on wl .>.c offence was visiLod ! Why iiad fhe not remember that husbands of the Semitic rac^ were extraordinarily, stri in conjugal mat- ters, however lax in others; demanding chastity ard cleanliness of life above all other domestic virtues. But Reuben t Reuben The chiming of the clock on the mantelshelf suddenly recalled her to a sense uf time. How long she had sat hero ! And yet she had arrived at no decision ; only sh(' a hundred times more i him, for he had proved she took him for. He h. accuracy. And they sto felt tl it she hated her husband ht than she had ever hated IS not the complaisant fool j)raised her with unflattering cv^^..x«v.j. .. ...^^ ^.- now in an attitude of enmity and defiance instead of on the neutral ground of indifference. She glanced at her writing-table. She had not written that intended letter to David. Should she do so ? Per- haps there was some spy on her actions ; some maid or footman told off for detective duty. Still, that would not prevent her from posting her ovm letters or receiving others. Only David would be such a fool at these sort of tricks. He would be sure to address her at her own house ; the postmark would betray him to a spy, and possibly Reuben would not hesitate to open any letter that might confirm his suspicions. Then, on the stillness of the room, across the silence of the Sunday streets, came the sound of bells ; bells ringing for evening service. She started and lifted her head. Should she go ? Might there be any chance of hearing a word of his whereabouts ? Would it seem less suspicious that she should attend the same church \nth tl ; same regularity ? She thought it A^ould. She rose to b ■!• feet and rang for her maid, and was dressed and d ve to St. Ninian's, there to go through the mockery of Divine service, knowing herself at heart only a vain and scnsupl woman who had foolishly built her house upon the sands. 269 I MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) I.I 1^ 156 ut 2.8 ilia 13.6 Z5 2.2 «£ llllll£ 1.8 A APPLIED IIVMGE Inc 1653 East Main Street Rochester. New York 14609 USA (7)6) 482 - 0300-Ptione (71b) 288 - 5989 - Fax II DAVID had not gone to Trebarwick. He felt he could not face Craddock's questions and Craddock's cynic- ism after so recent an experience as that of London. He wanted to be alone and think out this new problem. The dividing line between faith and reason had narrowed strrngely. Either they would meet and do battle with each other, or one would overleap the boundary and dis- miss the idea of combat as unnecessary. As was usual with him, he took his burdened soul to the lonely majesty of Nature. He was tramping the open country, bound for the wildest and loneliest part of the Cornish coast. The spring had not kept its early promise. Gales had been prevalent ; south-west winds charged with rain had made the land desolate, and blurred the beauty of the fields and hedgerows. But the wild storms suited David's mood and stirred his energies. They were some- thing to combat, something in touch with the waking of stormy passions, embryonic processes of thought ; that combination of unnatural knowledge and bizarre ignorance so characteristic of his early training and his later beliefs. Here by the wild sea, here amongst legend-haunted moors and cromlechs, he wandered for many days. This place of saints and hermits, and ancient altars and crosses with strange inscriptions, was to him dear and familiar. He had tramped it in his boyhood with old Zachariah Pascoe ; he had tramped it when his own " call " had sent him hither and thither, preaching the Word as it had been given unto him. Oh, happy time ! God-given hours of grace, when con- verts had flocked to hear him, and the sick and the weary had blessed his name, and far and wide had spread the ir\r\tT7£^ vie aillt: Ox IIXD CJj_'lllt.UCti l^.^' He thought of them now in an agony of shame. How 370 CALVARY he could :'8 cynic- on. problem. larrowed ttle with and dis- 1 soul to the open rt of the promise. *ged with e beauty ns suited )re some- leaking of it ; that gnorance ;r beliefs, ed moors 3 place of 3ses with liar. He I Pascoe ; sent him lad been hen con- he weary )read the le. How had he fallen from grace ; from prayer-filled heights of holi- ness ; from the deep, pure joys of Faith ! He tramped these places of past ministry with weary feet and aching heart. This was his hour of awakening. A chance word had unlocked the sluice gates barring the way to know- ledge of good and evil. To the Truth of Life as it was, not as he had imagined it. " If only I had stayed here ! If only I had never gone to London ! " he muttered ever and again as a familiar landmark met his eyes, as the wild breath of the sea swept his brow. He shunned habitations where recognition was possible, buying food at some wayside inn and eating but enough to sustain life. At night he slept in a barn or outhouse, or under the lee of some great cromlech that sheltered him from the wind or rain. And thus he fought out the pro- blems of life that a few weeks ago had seemed so simple. He had set no direct boundary to his wanderings, and one evening found himself trudging along a wild, rough road between Launceston and Boscastle. The gale was less violent, but the sky was still heavy with clouds. The long uphill road looked very desolate, straggling across the barren moor, studded by strange stone cairns under which the bones of primeval warriors lay at rest. David was very weary. His stock of food was ex- hausted ; his limbs ached from that long struggle with the wind and rain. He stood still for a few moments and looked around at the rugged range of tors ; Brown Willy and Row Tor, and farther south the dome of Hengistdun, where the warriors of Britain had made their stand against the invading Dane. How lonely it all looked ; how deso- late ! No trees, no hedges ; no village in sight ; and that endless road winding up and on as if only desirous of reaching the dull grey skies above. Nature suddenly spoke of exhaustion and fatigue. He felt as if strength had failed ; as if he could go no farther. He sank down on a rough, jagged stone and searched his pockets for the bread he had put there that morning. He ate a few mouthfuls, and as he ate there suddenly swept over his mind the memory of the warm, gay Boulevards ; of the restaurants with their ^litter and caiety. The food, the wine, the happy, idle crowds ! Could he ever have 271 i'! t 'i h CALVARY - i been amongst them ? It seemed impossible that he should be that same Da-id —ao old he felt and tired; sitting there by the roadside little bettei than a tramp, heart- weary, lost in desolate imaginings. " And if it all should lead to nothing — mean nothing ! " he cried with sudden bitterness. " What am I denying myself ? Everything : joy, pleasure, wealth, content ; all that the Squire offered me ; all that Stephen Ormistoun could have helped me to obtain. I think I must be mad ! " He covered hia face with his hands. Too spent and wretched even for tears, though the smart of them touched his eyes. When he lifted his head he looked white and haggard and aged by years. Mental conflict is Time's best ally ; nothing so wears and lines the face of Youth. A pitying gaze seemed to tell him that. As he looked up a figure was standing before him, and in a moment pain and weariness were forgotten. He sprang to his feet. The cry of welcome was half mcredulous, for only a moment before no human thng had been in sight. " God be thanked for sending you ! " — was all he could say, as hands clasped, and lips quivered. " You needed me. I am here, David." " Needed you ? That's no new thing ! But liow in the world are you here .? . . . In this wilderness of desola- tion ? " " Have I not told you I come from wandering to and fro the earth, even as Satan of old ? But, for once, I am inclined to scold you, my young Samuel. You are changed almost bey recognition." David la' d unsteadily. " I suppose I do look a bit of a vagabona. I've been on the tramp since — well, would you mind tellii.g me what day this is / " " Sdturduy — to the best of my knowledge." " Saturday ? A whole week ! " " Very foolish conduct. You are still very young, my David." " Ah ! but it's good to hear you say that ; to see your face acain. Whv did vou disan^jear from London so sud- denly ? I looked for you everywhere." 272 > that he md tired; a tramp, lothing ! " I denying content ; Ormistoun ; must be spent and m touched d haggard best ally ; he looked a moment to his feet. a moment il he could how in the of desola- ing to and once, I am re changed look a bii ivell, would young, my ■jO see your Ion so sud- CALVARY " You had other friends, other instructors. I left you in good hands." " Good ? " questioned the boy bitterly. " Yes — educationally considered. You have been pass- ing through the fires of temptation and of trial. Perhaps it did not occur to you that you were again following in the steps of your Great Exemplar ? Did not He know forty days of fasting and trial ? The temptings of evil ? " " But how in the world do you know that I " " Ah ! my David, some things are writ in the stars, and some on the faces of men. But let us be reasonable. It will soon be dark, and you look wearied out. I know of a house, not far away, where we shall find food and warmth and shelter. You look as if you needed such things. Come. Are you fit for another tramp ? " " With you for company — yes. I've forgotten I'm tired already." They started otT ; cHmbing the hill, descending again. Then they took a footpath across a wide waste of moor- land. After about an tour's walking they came in sight of a rough stone cottage built into the side of a massive rock. The hills near by had been quarried for stone, and huge masses of granite lay scattered around. The air was chill with th: breath of the sea, and salt with the spray that the wind carried landwards. The distant thunder of breaking waves sounded an endless challenge. The familiar roar of the Atlantic was sweet as music to David's ears. He had no idea where he was, but that sound sprang out of chaos and darkness with a welcome he answered in his heart. The Wanderer stopped before a rude stone wall with a gateless entrance. He passed through and opened the door of the cottage. David followed him into a paved kitchen simply furnished. A bright fire leaped up the wide chimney as if in welcome, and on the table were preparations for a meal. A wooden settle was at one side of the fii'e-place, an old-fashioned arm-chair on the other. At the opposite side some shelves formed a dresser, and were laden with plates and dishes of gay-coloured china. The one latticed window was curtained with a crimson curtain, and on the floor lay a rough, thick rug of the same T 273 if- i V. r ^R^ i'l i.' CALVARY colour. An air of cosiness and comfort made the place doubly inviting after that long week of tramping and privation. With a little pleased cry David stumbled to the fire, and held out his chilled hands to the welcome blaze. Meanwhile his companion lit a lamp and set it in the centre of the table. Then David noted various appliances for comfort and convenience that seemed strange in such a humble abode. A silver spirit-lamp and coffee-pot stood on a rough wooden table under the shelves. China cups and plates were arranged on an oak tray. Swinging from a hook in the fire-place was a large iron pot whose fragrant steam seemed a promise of good things to come. Only then did David realize how faint and hungry he was. He leant back in the chair and watched preparations for the meal with drowsy content. "Now," said the Wanderer, "if you open that door over there you'll find a bedroom, and a place to wash. There's hot water in the kettle, if you want it. When you're ready, call out and I'll dish up the gipsy stew in yonder cauldron. I've not lived the nomad's life for nothing. I can always provide a decent meal for the hungry wayfarer, and you look as if you'd be all the better for it." David rose. He felt strangely rested, strangely content. ' Do you live here ? " he asked suddenly. " Sometimes. I've not much taste for loiig residence anywhere save under the roof of Heaven. But don't stand there asking questions. The sooner you're ready, the sooner we shall enjoy our meal." The inner room into which David went was furnished as a bedroom. Two small iron bedsteads stood on either side the walls ; a thick fibre matting covered the floor ; a zinc bath, a wash-hand stand, a few deal chairs, and a table, on which stood a small square looking-glass, com- pleted the furniture. But here, again, furze and wood made a welcome blaze in the open fire-place, and threw warm light over the whitewashed walls. A large kettle swinging on an iron hook in the manner of the pot, re- minded him how long it was since he had enjoyed a bath. When he returned to the kitchen he looked a diflferent 274 CALVARY being. The smile of welcome on his host's face seemed to brace him like a tonic. The meal was ready, and he con- fessed that the joys of abstinence were as nothing to those of appetite. Supper over, they cleared away the plates and dishes. Then cofifee was made, and chairs drawn up to the fire, and the Wanderer lit his pipe and breathed a sigh of content. " I'm not going to ask questions," he said. *' I'm only going to talk. First and fore'^ \ I can see you're won- dering about my castle. It really is mine : first by an- nexation, then by inheritance. That is the story of most landed estates, if you trace them back to original posses- sion. ' Let him take who may and keep who can.' The aristocracy of England was founded by robbery, and perpetuated by injustice. Most of our great names (save the mark !) are a legacy of royal immoralities, and there is no more amusing record of unexplained heirs than the Peerage. But I digress. A far-off ancestor of my own was once seized with the idea of founding a family. He arranged matters very simply. He just annexed a few acres of waste land, fenced it with a stone fence, and threw up a protection of granite and wattle as walls and roof. He took unto himself a wife and reared children, and died in the hoary sanctity of the simple life." David smiled. " You have gone back a long way for that story," he said. " It has Dartmoor precedence. Not but what Devon and Cornwall are near enough to borrow from each other." " True. Both rejoice in a singularly wild and romantic country : one with all the attributes of legend. Where knowledge ends, guess-work begins. Well, by the time I could claim my inheritance there was very little for me but guess-work. The castle had disappeared ; so had the broad acres. I found but four broken-down walls, and out of them I rebuilt my domicile. After all, David, houses are a foolish invention. The more rooms the more style ; the more style the more menials ; the more menials the more servitude. For no one is a greater slave than he who possesses slaves. At first I concluded that one living-room was enough for my simple wants. This is it. Later — as a concession to lost travellers and vagabonds like myself — 275 m rt li ?r 1 I. 1 ■ i : 1 •i ' . P t ' '"' »:■ ( ! ill CALVAKY I built up that Rcond one. From time to time, as my tastes inclined to civilization, I added a piece of furniture or a few cups and platters. At the present time I'm far too comfortable. But we may as well look upon this as an interlude. What say you ? " " I can only echo yourself," ^aid David. He drew a deep breath of content and leant back in the chair. Hia host had claimed preference for the settle as his own seat. " Somehow," he went on, " I always do agree with you, don't I ? Our discussions are seldom adverse opinions, even if they drop into arguments." "Argument means a difference of opinion, though. How did you get on with Christian Science ? " David started. " Are you — a magician ? How on earth did you know I was reading it up ? " " I make it my business to know and learn all about those who interest me. It's quite easy when you know how to do it. Before many years are over our heads we shall send our thoughts by speaking-tubes through the air, and rule the wave-currents of the atmosphere. The un- known only eludes the ignorant. I have discovered many things that I have not gone out of my way to patent. Of them all nothing is stranger than man's blindness to his own potentialities ; his content with the sheep-like habit of following any leader instead of individualizing himself. But he is waking up a little, I fancy. He has acquired the knowledge of his own far-back incompetence, and by light of it views the travelled distance of past lives as a hopeful progression for future ones." " Still," said David, " that does not explain your know- ledge of my actions of last week." " I am not going to explain it. But if you have any- thing to say about ' false claims ' and ' mortal mind,' I am quite ready to listen to you." " I heard about them first at a dinner-party in London," said David. " The exponent of their mysteries was an American. She was enthusiastic, if not lucid." " It is not a subject on which any one can b'^ lucid," observed the Wanderer, " not even its Founders.'' " I thought there was only one — a woman ? " " Woman often carries ouib what man originates." 276 ne, as my f furniture ae I'm far on this as le drew a hair. His own seat. with you, I opinions, I, though. w on earth . all about you know : heads we igh the air, , The un- ered many )atent. Of ness to his i-like habit ng himself. 3 quired the ad by light B a hopeful >rour know- have any- il mind,' I a London," ies was an br lucid," rs." >> ates." CALVARY " I was very much struck with her book," said David thoughtfully. 'Yet there is a great deal in it that is opposed to common sense ; to the very Scriptures from which its main support is drawn. That the mind influences the body is not Mrs, Eddy's discovery. It has been the secret of miraculous cures ever since the science of heaUng became a recognized ally of physical existence. We hear of it in the old books of the Bible ; it permeates Hinduism and Buddhism; it is known to savage races whose ' medicine men ' are their only Christian Scientists ; it explains the cures of Lourdes and other so-called shrines. It is merely the stronger force of mind over matter. But if you do away with matter, there is nothing for mind to act upon." " You don't believe in it, I suppose ? " " Believe in Christian Science as interpreted by a neurotic and not too scrupulous American ! Certainly not. But the science of Faith-healing is another matter. I believe that because I have proved it. To prove a Chris- tian Science cure is a contradiction in itself. First of all, there is nothing to cure, because this extraordinary doc- trine declares sickness, accident, even Death to be purely imaginary. You deny their reality by saying there is nothing to deny ! This is not science at all. It is the ravings of lunacy." " But, leaving the physical part out," said David, " what of the religious side of the question ? " " It seems to me such a parody of religion that I should not rank it with Christianity. One must recognize the body as an important factor in life. Without it we should not know life. Fancy denying ourselves as existing in order to prove the value of the ^ oflily health which carries us through existence ! Is it re. => nable ? Is it scientific ? Is it philosophical ? This American woman claims that mental healing lay dormant from Christ's time till the nineteenth century, when she re-discovered it and turned it into a very profitable means of livelihood and — notoriety. But this is a ' false claim ' on her part. The healing powers of Nature have always existed ; and cures as miraculous as those of Christ have always been possible to the faitliful 277 I i I I iilMl (' CALVARY and the pure in heart. You, David, proved that power — once." The young man looked quickly up. " You mean " " I mean the episode which so puzzled our good Cornish Squire, and which I have not chosen to explain. There is a spiritual magnetism as well as a physical. When I heard you preach in London to that callous, worldly crowd, it was self-evident that you had hypnotized them into attention, not into belief." " That is true," said David bitterly. " The impression did not last. I felt the change in myself ; then in others. I lost power. Stephen Ormistoun had poisoned it all for me. Faith in Christ — in God, almost." \c. " I knew it was bound to come, David. Some outside influence has interfered with your visionary life. Is it not so ? " " I — I have not sinned," he faltered. " Ah, my young dreamer, do you suppose I can't recog- nize that fact ? But you had to fly from temptation ; to betake yourself to the wilderness. And the struggle has only begun. You've not conquered ; but you've made a bold stand against the arch-enemy of mankind. You've not forgotten your mission." " I wish with all my soul I had never gone to London ; never met Stephen Ormistoun ; never seen " " — Her," said the quiet voice. " It's hard ; but it's done, and can't be undone. And what's worse, my David, you're not finished with the battle. ' Get thee behind me, Satan,' was never said to a woman — with any success ! " « 378 m III DAVID awoke. It was broad daylight, and he stared at unfamUiar surroundings. Then memory came to his assidtance. All the events of the past week up to the previous evening rushed back, but he found he could re- view them calmly now. He rose and dressed, and went into the living-room where he and his strange friend had supped. The fire was blazing, the table spread. The door stood open to a wild stretch of moorland. All around was stone and granite. A few straggling trees and shrubs were twisted and bent by the fierce Atlantic gales. David stood there in the warm sunshine and drank in great draughts of the bracing air. He was not familiar with this special spot, but he guessed it was within touch of Boscastle. As he was standing there he saw the familiar figure for which he waited, approaching from the cliffs. " I've had a glorious swim," he called out. " You were sleeping so soundly I did not like to wake you. Are you ready for breakfast ? " " Where exactly are we ? " asked David. " I thought I knew most places on the coast, but I don't recognize this." " No ; and for a very good reason. The house is so built into the hill-side that at a short distance it looks like part of the rock. The quarries yonder have long been disused. If you stroll along the cliff you lose sight of my habitation at once. About a mile farther you can see ■" oscastle harbour. But come in. I want some coffee, '^ou look more like yourself than when I found you yester- day. By the way, did you see the Squire before going on tramp ? " "No. I left my luggage at the station and— then set out." 279 ! i •i: .1 CALVARY