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THE CASE OF EICHAED MEYNELL 
 
#* 
 
 "The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully' 
 
THE CASE OF 
 RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HUMPHRY WARD 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER & CO.. 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1912 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
n 
 
 TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 A BELOVED CHILD 
 
 285490 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " THE OLD SHEPHERD LOOKED AFTER HER 
 
 DOHBTFLTiLY " Frontispiece 
 
 " 'MT DEAR FELLOW ! NO WOMAN OUGHT TO 
 
 MARRY UNDER NES'ETEEN OR TWENTY ' " To face p. 16 
 
 "he shook HANDS WITH THE DEAN" . . ,, 173 
 
BOOK I 
 
 MEYNELL 
 
 " Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time." 
 
 B 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 CHAPTEK I 
 
 ' Hullo, Preston ! don't trouble to go in.' 
 
 The postman, just guiding his bicycle into the Rectory 
 drive, turned at the summons and dismounted. The 
 Rector approached him from the road, and the postman, 
 divmg into his letter-bag and uito the box of his bicycle, 
 brought out a variety of letters and packages, which he 
 placed in the Rector's hands. 
 
 The recipient smiled. 
 
 ' My word, what a post ! I say, Preston, I add to your 
 burdens pretty considerably.' 
 
 ' It don't matter, sir, I'm sure,' said the postman 
 civilly. ' There's not a deal of letters delivered in this 
 village.' 
 
 ' No, we don't trouble pen and ink much in Upcote,' 
 said the Rector ; ' and it's my belief that half the boys 
 and girls that do learn to read and write at school make 
 a pomt of forgettuig it as soon as they can — for all 
 practical purposes anyway.' 
 
 ' Well, there's a deal of newspapers read now, sir, 
 compared to what there was.' 
 
 ' Newspapers ? Yes, I do see a Reynolds' or a 
 People or two about on Sunday. Do you think anybody 
 
 3 B 2 
 
4 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 reads much else than the betting and the police news, eh, 
 Preston ? ' 
 
 Preston looked a little vacant. His expression seemed 
 to say, ' And why should they ? ' The Rector, with his 
 arms full of the post, smiled again and turned away, looking 
 back, however, to say — 
 
 ' Wife all right again ? ' 
 
 ' Pretty near, sir ; but she's had an awful bad time, 
 and the doctor — he makes her go careful.' 
 
 ' Quite right. Has Miss Puttenham been looking after 
 her?' 
 
 * She's been most kind, sir, most attentive, she have,' 
 said the postman warmly, his long hatchet face breaking 
 into animation. 
 
 * Lucky for you ! ' said the Rector, walking away. 
 * When she cuts in, she's worth a regiment of doctors. 
 Good-day ! ' 
 
 The speaker passed on through the gate of the rectory, 
 pausing as he did so with a rueful look at the iron gate 
 itself, which was off its hinges and sorely in want of a coat 
 of new paint. 
 
 * Disgraceful ! ' he said to himself ; ' must have a go at 
 it to-morrow. And at the garden, too,' he added, looking 
 round him. ' Never saw such a wilderness ! ' 
 
 He was advancing towards a small gabled house of 
 an Early Victorian type, built about 1840 by the Eccle- 
 siastical Commissioners on the site of an old clergy house, 
 of which all traces had been ruthlessly effaced. The 
 front garden lying before it was a tangle of old and for 
 the most part ugly trees ; elms from which heavy, 
 decayed branches had recently fallen ; acacias choked by 
 the ivy which had overgro\vn them ; and a crowded thicket 
 of thorns and hazels, mingled with three or four large 
 and vigorous though very ancient yews, which seemed 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 5 
 
 to have drunk up for themselves all that Ufe from the 
 soil which should have gone to maintain the ragged 
 or sickly shrubbery. The trees also had gradually en- 
 croached upon the house, and darkened all the windows 
 on the porch side. On a summer afternoon, the deep 
 shade they made was welcome enough ; but on a rainy 
 day the Rector's front-garden, with its coarse grass, its 
 few straggling rose-bushes, and its pushing throng of 
 half-dead or funereal trees, shed a dank and dripping 
 gloom upon the visitor approaching his front-door. Of 
 this, however, the Rector himself was rarely conscious ; 
 and to-day, as he wath difhculty gathered all the letters 
 and packets taken from the postman into one hand, 
 while he opened his front-door with the other, his face 
 showed that the state of his garden had already ceased 
 to trouble him. 
 
 He had no sooner turned the handle of the door than 
 a joyous uproar of dogs arose within, and before he had 
 well stepped over the threshold a leaping trio were upon 
 him — two Irish terriers and a graceful young collie, whose 
 rough caresses nearly made him drop his letters. 
 
 ' Down, Jack ! Be quiet, you rascals ! I say- 
 Anne ! ' 
 
 A woman's voice answered his call. 
 
 ' I'm just bringing the tea, sir.' 
 
 ' Any letter for me this afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' There's a note on the hall-table, sir.' 
 
 The Rector hurried into the sitting-room to the right 
 of the hall, deposited the letters and packets which he 
 held on a small, tumble-down sofa already littered with 
 books and papers, and returned to the hall-table for the 
 letter. He tore it open, read it with slightly frowning 
 brows and a mouth that worked unconsciously, then 
 thrust it into his pocket and returned to his sitting-room. 
 
6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' All right ! ' he said to himself. ' He's got an odd 
 list of " aggrieved parishioners ! " ' 
 
 The tidings, however, which the letter contained did 
 not seem to distress him. On the contrary, his aspect 
 expressed a singular and cheerful energy, as he sat a few 
 moments on the sofa, softly whistling to himself and 
 staring at the floor. That he was a person extravagantly 
 beloved by his dogs was clearly shown meanwhile by 
 the exuberant attentions and caresses with which they 
 were now loading him. 
 
 He shook them off at last with a friendly kick or two, 
 that he might turn to his letters, which he sorted and 
 turned over, much as an epicure studies his menu at the 
 Ritz, and with an equally keen sense of pleasure to come. 
 
 A letter from Jena, and another from Berlin, addressed 
 in small German handwriting and signed by names familiar 
 to students throughout the world ; two or three German 
 reviews, copies of the Revue Critique and the Revue Chre- 
 tienne, a book by Salomon Reinach, and three or four 
 French letters, one of them shown by the cross preceding 
 the signature to be the letter of a bishop ; a long letter 
 from Oxford, enclosing the proof of an article in a theo- 
 logical review ; and, finally, a letter sealed with red wax 
 and signed ' F. Marcoburg ' in a corner of the envelope, 
 which the Rector twirled in his hands a moment without 
 opening. 
 
 ' After tea,' he said at last, with the sudden breaking 
 of a smile. And he put it on the sofa beside him. 
 
 As he spoke the door opened to admit his housekeeper 
 with the tray, to the accompaniment of another orgie 
 of barks. A stout woman in a sun-bonnet, with a broad 
 face and no features to speak of, entered. 
 
 ' I'll be bound you've had no dinner,' she said sulkily, 
 as she placed the tea before him on a chair cleared with 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 7 
 
 difl&culty from some of the student's litter that filled the 
 room. 
 
 'All the more reason for tea/ said Meynell, seizing 
 thirstily on the teapot. ' And you're quite mistaken, 
 Anne. I had a magnificent bath-bun at the station.' 
 
 ' Much good you'll get out of that ! ' was the scornful 
 reply. ' You know what Doctor Shaw told you about 
 that sort 0' goin' on.' 
 
 ' Never you mind, Anne. What about that painter 
 chap ? ' 
 
 ' Gone home for the week-end.' Mrs. Wellin re- 
 treated a foot or two and crossed her arms, bare to the 
 elbow, in front of her. 
 The Rector stared. 
 
 ' I thought I had taken him on by the week to paint 
 my house,' he said at last. 
 
 ' So you did. But he said he must see his missus 
 
 and hear how his little girl had done in her music exam.' 
 
 Mrs. Wellin delivered this piece of news very fast 
 
 and with evident gusto. It might have been thought she 
 
 enjoyed inflicting it on her master. 
 
 The Rector laughed out. 
 
 ' And this was a man sent me a week ago by the 
 Birmingham Distress Committee — nine weeks out of 
 ^ork— family in the workhouse — everything up the spout. 
 Goodness gracious, Anne, how did he get the money ? 
 Return fare, Birmingham, three-and-ten.' 
 
 ' Don't ask me, sir,' said the woman in the sun-bonnet. 
 ' I don't go pryin' into such trash ! ' 
 
 ' Is he coming back ? Is my house to be painted ? ' 
 asked the Rector helplessly. 
 
 ' Thought he might,' said Anne, briefly. 
 ' How kind of him ! Music exam. '.—Lord save us ! 
 And three-and-ten thrown into the gutter on a week-end 
 
8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ticket — with seven children to keep— and all your 
 possessions gone to " my uncle." And it isn't as 
 though you'd been starving him, Anne ! ' 
 
 ' I wish I hadn't dinnered him as I have been doin' ! ' 
 the woman broke out. ' But he'll know the difference 
 next week ! And now, sir, I suppose you'll be goin' to 
 that place again to-night ? ' 
 
 Anne jerked her thumb behind her over her left 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Suppose so, Anne. Can't afford a night-nurse, and 
 the wife won't look after him.' 
 
 ' Why don't someone make her ? ' said Anne, 
 frowning. 
 
 The Rector's face changed. 
 
 ' Better not talk about it, Anne. When a woman's 
 been in hell for years, you needn't expect her to come 
 out an angel. She won't forgive him, and she won't 
 nurse him — that's flat.' 
 
 ' No reason why she should shovel him off on other 
 people as wants their night's rest. It's takin' advan- 
 tage — that's what it is,' 
 
 ' I say, Anne, I must read my letters. And just 
 light me a bit of fire, there's a good woman. July ! — 
 ugh ! — it might be February ! ' 
 
 In a few minutes a bit of fire was blazing in the grate, 
 though the windows were still wide open, and the Rector, 
 who had had a long journey that day to take a funeral 
 for a friend, lay back in sybaritic ease, now sipping his 
 tea and now cutting open letters and parcels. The 
 letter signed ' F. Marcoburg ' in the corner had been 
 placed, still unopened, on the mantelpiece now facing 
 him. 
 
 The Rector looked at it from time to time ; it might 
 have been said by a close observer that he never forgot 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 9 
 
 it ; but, all the same, he went on dipping into books and 
 reviews, or puzzling — with muttered imprecations on 
 the German tongue — over some of his letters. 
 
 ' By Jove ! this apocalyptic Messianic business is 
 getting interesting. Soon we shall know where all the 
 Pauline ideas came from — every single one of them ! And 
 what matter ? ^Vho's the worse ? Is it any less wonder- 
 ful when we do know ? The new wine found its bottles 
 ready — that's all ! ' 
 
 As he sat there he had the aspect of a man enjoying 
 apparently the comfort of his own fireside. Yet, now 
 that the face was at rest, certain cavernous hollows 
 under the eyes, and certain lines on the forehead and at 
 the corners of the mouth, as though graven by some 
 long fatigue, showed themselves disfiguringly. The 
 personality, however, on which this fatigue had stamped 
 itself was clearly one of remarkable \agour, physical and 
 mental. A massive head covered with strong black hair, 
 curly at the brows ; eyes greyish blue, small, with some 
 shade of expression in them which made them arresting, 
 commanding even ; a large nose and irregular mouth, the 
 lips flexible and kind, the chin firm — one might have 
 made some such catalogue of Meynell's characteristics ; 
 adding to them the strength of a broad-chested, loose- 
 limbed frame, made rather, one would have thought, for 
 country labours than for the vigils of the scholar. But 
 the hands were those of a man of letters — bony and long- 
 fingered, but refined, touching things with care and gentle- 
 ness. Like one accustomed to the small tools of the writer. 
 
 At last the Rector threw himself back in his chair, 
 while some of the litter on his lap fell to the floor, 
 temporarily dislodging one of the terriers, who sat up 
 and looked at him with reproach. 
 
 ' Now then ! ' he said, and reached out for the letter 
 
lo THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 on the mantelpiece. He turned it over a moment in his 
 hand and opened it. 
 
 It was long, and the reader gave it a close attention^ 
 When he had finished it he put it down and thought 
 awhile, then stretched out his hand for it again and 
 re-read the last paragraph : 
 
 ' You will, I am sure, realise from all I have said, my 
 dear Meynell, that the last thing I personally wish to 
 do is to interfere with the parochial work of a man 
 for whom I have so warm a respect as I have for you. 
 I have given you all the latitude I could, but my duty is 
 now plain. Let me have your assurance that you will 
 refrain from such sermons as that to which I have drawn 
 your attention, and that you wll stop at once the extra- 
 ordinary innovations in the ser\aces of which the par- 
 ishioners have complained, and I shall know how to 
 answer Mr. Barron and to compose this whole difficult 
 matter. Do not, I entreat you, jeopardise the noble work 
 you are doing for the sake of opinions and views which 
 you hold to-day, but which you may have abandoned 
 to-morrow. Can you possibly put what you call " the 
 results of criticism " — and, remember, these results differ 
 for you, for me, and for a dozen others I could name — in 
 comparison with that work for souls God has given you to 
 do, and in which He has so clearly blessed you ? A 
 Christian pastor is not his own master, and cannot act 
 with the freedom of other men. He belongs by his own 
 act to the Church and to the flock of Christ ; he must 
 always have in view the " little ones " whom he dare not 
 offend. Take time for thought, my dear Meynell — and time, 
 above all, for prayer — and then let me hear from you. You 
 will realise how much and how anxiously I think of you. 
 ' Yours always sincerely in Christ. 
 
 ' F. Marcoburg.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL ii 
 
 ' Good man— true Bishop ! ' said the Rector to him- 
 self, as he again put down the letter ; but even as he 
 spoke the softness in his face passed into resolution. He 
 sank once more into reverie. 
 
 The stillness, however, was soon broken up. A step 
 was heard outside, and the dogs sprang up in excitement. 
 Amid a pandemonium of noise, the Rector put his head 
 out of window. 
 
 ' Is that you, Barron ? Come in, old fellow ; come 
 in!' 
 
 A slender figure in a long coat passed the window, 
 the front-door opened, and a young man entered the 
 study. He was dressed in orthodox clerical garb, and 
 carried a couple of books under his arm, 
 
 ' I came to return these,' he said placing them 
 beside the Rector ; ' and also— can you give me twenty 
 minutes ? ' 
 
 ' Forty, if you want them. Sit down.' 
 
 The new-comer turned out various French and 
 German books from a dilapidated armchair, and obeyed. 
 He was a fresh-coloured, handsome youth, some fifteen 
 years younger than Meynell, the typical public-school 
 boy in appearance. But his expression was scarcely less 
 harassed than the Rector's. 
 
 ' I expect you have heard from my father,' he said 
 abruptly. 
 
 ' I found a letter waiting for me,' said Meynell, 
 holding up the note he had taken from the hall-table on 
 coming in. But he pursued the subject no further. 
 
 The young man fidgeted a moment. 
 
 ' All one can say is ' — he broke out at last — ' that if it 
 had not been my father, it would have been someone else — 
 the Archdeacon probably. The fight was bound to 
 come.' 
 
12 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Of course it was ! ' The Rector sprang to his 
 feet, and, with his hands under his coat-tails and 
 his back to the fire, faced his visitor. * That's what 
 we're all driving at. Don't be miserable about it, dear 
 fellow. I bear your father no grudge whatever. He is 
 under orders, as I am. The parleying time is done. It 
 has lasted two generations. And now comes war — 
 honourable, necessary war ! ' 
 
 The speaker threw back his head with emphasis, even 
 with passion. But almost immediately, the smile which 
 was the only positive beauty of the face obliterated the 
 passion. 
 
 * And don't look so tragic over it ! If your father 
 wins — and as the law stands he can scarcely fail to 
 win — I shall be driven out of Upcote. But there will 
 always be a corner somewhere for me and my books, and 
 a pulpit of some sort to prate from.* 
 
 ' Yes, but what about us ? ' said the new-comer, 
 slowly. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' The Rector's voice took a dry intonation. 
 * Yes — well ! — ^you Liberals will have to take your part, 
 and file your shot some day, of course — ^fathers or no 
 fathers.' 
 
 ' I didn't mean that. I shall fixe my shot, of course. 
 But aren't you exposing yourself prematurely — unneces- 
 sarily ? ' said the young man, with vivacity. ' It is not a 
 general's part to do that.' 
 
 ' You're wrong, Stephen. When my father was going 
 out to the campaign in which he was killed, my mother 
 said to him, as though she were half asking a question, 
 half pleading — I can hear her now, poor darling ! — 
 " John, it's right for a general to keep out of danger ? " 
 and he smiled and said, " Yes, when it isn't right 
 for him to go into it, head over ears." However, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 13 
 
 that's nonsense. It doesn't apply to me. I'm no general. 
 And I'm not going to be killed ! ' 
 
 Young Barron was silent, while the Kector prepared 
 a pipe, and began upon it ; but his face showed his 
 dissatisfaction. 
 
 ' I've not said much to father yet about my own 
 position,' he resumed ; ' but, of course, he guesses. It 
 will be a blow to him,' he added, reluctantly. 
 
 The Rector nodded, but without sho\ving any par- 
 ticular concern, though his eyes rested kindly on his 
 companion. 
 
 ' We have come to fighting,' he repeated, ' and 
 fighting means blows. Moreover, the fight is beginning 
 to be equal. Twenty years ago — in Elsmere's time — a 
 man who held his views or mine could only go. But 
 the distribution of the forces, the lie of the field, is now 
 altogether changed. / am not going till I am turned out ; 
 and there will be others with me. The world wants a 
 heresy trial, and it is going to get one this time.' 
 
 A laugh — a laugh of excitement and discomfort — 
 escaped the younger man. 
 
 ' You talk as though the prospect was a pleasant 
 
 one 
 
 ' No — but it is inevitable.' 
 
 ' It will be a hateful business,' Barron went on, im- 
 petuously. ' My father has a horribly strong will. And 
 he will think every means legitimate.' 
 
 ' I know. In the Roman Church, what the Curia 
 could not do by argimient they have done again and 
 again — well, no use to inquire how ! One must be 
 prepared. All I can say is, I know of no skeletons 
 in the cupboard at present. Anybody may have my 
 keys ! * 
 
 He laughed as he spoke, spreading his hands to the 
 
14 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 blaze, and looking round at his companion. Barron's 
 face in response was a face of hero-worship, undisguised. 
 Here plainly were leader and disciple ; pioneering will 
 and docile faith. But it might have been observed that 
 Meynell did nothing to emphasise the personal relation ; 
 that, on the contrary, he shrank from it, and often tried 
 to put it aside. 
 
 After a few more words, indeed, he resolutely closed 
 the personal discussion. They fell into talk about 
 certain recent developments of philosophy in England 
 and France ; talk which showed them as familiar com- 
 rades in the intellectual field, in spite of their difference 
 of age. Barron, a Fellow of King's, had but lately left 
 Cambridge for a small College living. Meynell — an old 
 Balliol scholar — bore the marks of Jowett and Caird 
 still deep upon him, except, perhaps, for a certain 
 deliberate throwing over, here and there, of the typical 
 Oxford tradition ; its measure and reticence, its scholarly 
 balancing of this against that. A tone as of one driven 
 to extremities ; a deep yet never personal exasperation ; 
 the poised quiet of a man turning to look a hostile host in 
 the face : again and again these made themselves felt 
 through his chat about new influences in the world of 
 thought, Bergson or James, Eucken or Tyrrell. 
 
 And to this under-note, inflections or phrases in the 
 talk of the other seemed to respond. It was as though 
 behind the spoken conversation they carried on another 
 unheard. 
 
 And the unheard presently broke in upon the 
 heard. 
 
 ' You mentioned Elsmere just now,' said Barron, in 
 a moment's pause, and with apparent irrelevance. ' Did 
 you know that his widow is now staying within a mile 
 of this place ? Some people called Flaxman have taken 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 15 
 
 Maudely End, and Mrs. Flaxman is a sister of Mrs. Elsmere. 
 Mrs. Elsmere and her daughter are going to settle 
 for the summer in the cottage near Forked Pond. Mrs. 
 Elsmere seems to have been ill for the first time in her 
 life, and has had to give up some of her work.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Elsmere ! ' said Meynell, raising his eyebrows. 
 ' I saw her once twenty years ago at the New Brother- 
 hood, and have never forgotten the vision of her face. 
 She must be almost an old woman.' 
 
 * Miss Puttenham says she is quite beautiful still — 
 in a wonderful severe way. I think she never shared 
 Elsmere's opinions ? ' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 The two fell silent, both minds occupied with the 
 same story and the same secret comparisons. Robert 
 Elsmere, the Rector of Murewell, in Surrey, had made 
 a scandal in the Church, when Meynell was still a lad, 
 by throwing up his orders under the pressure of New 
 Testament criticism, and founding a religious brother- 
 hood among London working-men for the promotion of 
 a simple and commemorative form of Christianity. 
 
 Elsmere, a man of delicate physique, had died pre- 
 maturely, worn out by the struggle to find new foot- 
 hold for himself and others ; but something in his per- 
 sonality, and in the nature of his effort — some briUiant, 
 tender note — had kept his memory alive in many hearts. 
 There were many now, however, who thrilled to it, who 
 could never speak of him without emotion, who yet felt very 
 little positive agreement with him. What he had done or 
 tried to do made a kind of landmark in the past ; but in 
 the course of time it had begun to seem irrelevant to the 
 present. 
 
 ' To-day — would he have thrown up ? — or would he 
 Jiave held oa ? ' — Meynell presently said, in a tone of 
 
l6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 reverie, amid the cloud of smoke that enveloped him. 
 Then, in another voice — ' What do you hear of the 
 daughter ? I remember her as a little reddish-haired thing 
 at her mother's side.' 
 
 * Miss Puttenham has taken a great fancy to her. 
 Hester Fox- Wilton told me she had seen her there. She 
 liked her.' 
 
 ' H'm ! ' said the Rector. ' Well, if she pleased Hester 
 — critical little minx ! ' 
 
 ' You may be sure she'll please me ! ' said Barron 
 suddenly, flushing deeply. 
 
 The Rector looked up, startled. 
 
 'I say?' 
 
 Barron cleared his throat. 
 
 ' I'd better tell you at once, Rector. I got Hester's 
 leave yesterday to tell you, when an opportunity occurred, 
 — you know how fond she is of you. Well, I'm in love 
 with her — head over ears in love with her — I believe 
 I have been since she was a little girl in the school- 
 room. And yesterday — she said — she'd marry me some 
 day.' 
 
 The young voice betrayed a natural tremor. Mean- 
 while, a strange look — a close observer would have called 
 it a look of consternation — had rushed into Meynell's 
 face. He stared at Barron, made one or two attempts to 
 speak, and, at last, said abruptly — 
 
 ' That'll never do, Stephen — that'll nevei' do ! You 
 shouldn't have spoken.* 
 
 Barron's face showed the wound. 
 
 ' But, Rector ! ' 
 
 ' She's too young,' said Meynell, with increased 
 harshness, much too young ! Hester is only seventeen. 
 No girl ought to be pledged so early. She ought to have 
 more time — time to look round her, Promise me^ my 
 
'"My dear fellow! No woman ought to marry under 
 nineteen or twenty ' " 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 17 
 
 dear boy, that there shall be nothing irrevocable — no 
 engagement ! I should strongly oppose it.' 
 
 The eyes of the two men met. Barron was evidently 
 dumb with surprise ; but the vivacity and urgency of 
 Meynell's expression drove him into speech. 
 
 ' We thought you would have sympathised,' he 
 stammered. ' After all, what is there so much against 
 it ? Hester is, you know, not very happy at home. I 
 have my living, and some income of my own, independent 
 of my father. Supposing he should object ' 
 
 ' He would object,' said Meynell quickly. ' And 
 Lady Fox-Wilton would certainly object. And so should 
 I. And, as you know, I am co-guardian of the children 
 with her.' 
 
 Then, as the lover quivered under these barbs, Meynell 
 suddenly recovered himself. 
 
 ' My dear fellow ! No woman ought to marry under 
 nineteen or twenty. And every girl ought to have time 
 to look round her. It's not right ; it's not just — it isn't, 
 indeed ! Put this thing by for a while. You'll lose nothing 
 by it. We'll talk of it again in two years.' 
 
 And, drawing his chair nearer to his companion, 
 Meynell fell into a strain of earnest and affectionate en- 
 treaty, which presently had a marked effect on the younger 
 man. His chivalry was appealed to — his consideration for 
 the girl he loved ; and his aspect began to show the force 
 of the attack. At last he said gravely — 
 
 ' I'll tell Hester what you say — of course I'll tell her. 
 Naturally we can't marry without your consent and her 
 mother's. But if Hester persists in wishing we should 
 be engaged ? ' 
 
 ' Long engagements are the deuce ! ' said the Rector 
 hotly. ' You would be engaged for three years. Mad- 
 ness ! — with such a temperament as Hester's. My dear 
 
 - ^ C 
 
1 8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Stephen ! — be advised — for her and yourself. There 
 is no one who wishes your good more earnestly than I. 
 But don't let there be any talk of an engagement for at 
 least two years to come. Leave her free — even if you 
 consider yourself bound. It is a folly to suppose that 
 a girl of such marked character knows her own mind 
 at seventeen. She has all her development to come.' 
 
 Barron had dropped his head on his hands. 
 
 ' I couldn't see anybody else courting her — with- 
 out * 
 
 ' Without cutting in. I daresay not,' said Meynell, 
 with a rather forced laugh. ' I'd forgive you that. But 
 now, look here.' 
 
 The two heads drew together again, and Meynell 
 resumed conversation, talking rapidly, in a kind, per- 
 suasive voice, putting the common-sense of the situation 
 — holding out distant hopes. The young man's face 
 gradually cleared. He was of a docile, open temper, and 
 deeply attached to his mentor. 
 
 At last the Rector sprang up, consulting his watch. 
 
 ' I must send you off, and go to sleep. But we'll talk 
 of this again.' 
 
 ' Sleep ! ' exclaimed Barron, astonished. ' It's just 
 seven o'clock. What are you up to now ? * 
 
 ' There's a drunken fellow in the village — dying — and 
 his wife won't look after him. So I have to put in an 
 appearance to-night. Be off with you ! ' 
 
 * I shouldn't wonder if the Flaxmans were of some 
 use to you in the village,' said Stephen, taking up his hat. 
 ' They're rich, and, they say, very generous.' 
 
 ' Well, if they'll give me a parish nurse, I'll crawl to 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 19 
 
 them,' said the Rector, settling himself in his chair and 
 putting an old shawl over his knees. ' And as you go 
 out, just tell Anne, will you, to keep herself to herself 
 for an hour and not to disturb me ? ' 
 
 Stephen Barron moved to the door, and as he opened 
 it he turned back a moment to look at the man in the 
 chair, and the room in which he sat. It was as though 
 he asked himself by what manner of man he had been 
 thus gripped and coerced, in a matter so intim ate and, to 
 himself, so vital. 
 
 Meynell's eyes were already shut. The dogs had 
 gathered round him, the collie's nose lay against his 
 knee, the other two guarding his feet. All round, the 
 walls were laden with books, so were the floor and the 
 furniture. A carpenter's bench filled the further end of 
 the room. Carving tools were scattered on it, and a large 
 piece of wood-carving, half -finished, was standing propped 
 against it. It was part of some choir decoration that 
 Meynell and a class of village boys were making for the 
 church, where the Eector had already carved with his own 
 hand many of the available surfaces, whether of stone or 
 wood. The carving, which was elaborate and rich, was 
 technically faulty, as an ItaUan primitive is faulty ; but 
 mutatis mutandis it had much of the same charm that 
 belongs to Italian primitive work ; the same joyous sin- 
 cerity, the same passionate love of natural things, leaves 
 and flowers and birds. 
 
 For the rest, the furniture of the room was shabby 
 and ugly. The pictmes on the walls were mostly faded 
 Oxford photographs, or outlines by Overbeck and Retsch, 
 which had belonged to Meynell's parents and were 
 tenderly cherished by him. There were none of the 
 pretty, artistic trifles, the signs of travel and easy culture, 
 which many a small country vicarage possesses in 
 
 2 
 
20 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 abundance. Meynell, in spite of his scholar's mastery 
 of half-a-dozen languages, had never crossed the Channel. 
 Barron, lingering at the door, with his eyes on the 
 form by the fire, knew why. The Kector had always 
 been too poor. He had been left an orphan while 
 still at Balhol, and had to bring up his two younger 
 brothers. He had done it. They were both in 
 Canada now and prospering. But the signs of the 
 struggle were on this shabby house, and on this 
 shabby, frugal, powerfully built man. Yet now 
 he might have been more at ease ; the living, though 
 small, was by no means amongst the worst in the diocese. 
 Ah, well ! Anne, the housekeeper and only servant, knew 
 how the money went. — and didn't go, and she had passed 
 on some of her grievances to Barron. They two knew — 
 though Barron would never have dared to show his know- 
 ledge — what a wrestle it meant to get the Rector to spend 
 what was decently necessary on his own food and clothes ; 
 and Anne spent hours of the night in indignantly guessing 
 at what he spent on the clothes and food of other people — 
 mostly, in her opinion, ' varmints.' 
 
 These things flitted vaguely through the young man's 
 sore mind. Then in a flash they were absorbed in a per- 
 ception of a wholly difierent kind. The room seemed to 
 him transfigured ; a kind of temple. He thought of the 
 intellectual Ufe which had been lived there ; the passion 
 for truth which had burnt in it ; the sermons and books 
 that had been written on those crowded tables ; the 
 pcrsonaHty and influence that had been gradually built 
 up ■ftdthin it, so that to him, as to many others, the dingy 
 study was a place of pilgrimage, breathing inspiration ; 
 and his heart went out, first in discipleship, and then 
 in a pain that was not for himself. For over his friend's 
 head he saw the gathering of clouds not now to be scattered 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 21 
 
 or dispersed ; and who could foretell the course of the 
 storm ? 
 
 The young man gently closed the door and went his 
 way. He need not have left the house so quietly. The 
 Rector got no sleep that evening. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The church clock of Upcote Minor was just striking nine 
 o'clock as Richard Meynell, a few hours later than the 
 conversation just recorded, shut the Rectory gate behind 
 him, and took his way up the village. 
 
 The night was cold and gusty. The summer this year 
 had forgotten to be balmy, and Meynell, who was an ardent 
 sun-lover, shivered as he walked along, buttoning a much- 
 worn parson's coat against the sharp air. Before him 
 lay the long, straggling street, with its cottages and small 
 shops, its post-office, and public-houses, and its occasional 
 gentlefolks' dwellings, now with a Georgian front plumb 
 on the street, and now hidden behind walls and trees. It 
 was evidently a large village, almost a country town, 
 with a considerable variety of life. At this hour of the 
 evening most of the houses were dark, for the labourers 
 had gone to bed. But behind the drawn blinds of the 
 little shops there were still lights here and there, and in 
 the houses of the gentility. 
 
 The Rector passed the fine Perpendicular church 
 standing back from the road, with its church-yard about 
 it ; and just beyond it, he turned, his pace involuntarily 
 slackening, to look at a small gabled house, surrounded 
 by a garden, and overhung by a splendid lime tree. Sud- 
 denly, as he approached it, the night burst into fragrance, 
 
 22 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 23 
 
 for a gust of wind shook the lime-blossom, and flung the 
 scent in Meynell's face ; while at the same time the dim 
 masses of roses in the garden sent out their sweetness to 
 the passers by. 
 
 A feeling of pleasure, quick, involuntary, passed through 
 his mind ; pleasure in the thought of what these flowers 
 meant to the owner of them. He had a vision of a tall 
 and slender woman, no longer young, with a delicate and 
 plaintive face, moving among the rose-beds she loved, her 
 light dress trailing on the grass. The recollection stirred 
 in him affection, and an impulse of sympathy, stronger 
 than the mere thought of the flowers, and the woman's 
 tending of them, could explain. It passed indeed 
 immediately into something else — a touch of new and 
 sharp anxiety. 
 
 ' And she's been very peaceful of late,' he said to him- 
 self ruefully, ' as far at least as Hester ever lets her be. 
 Preston's wife was a godsend. Perhaps now she'll come 
 out of her shell and go more among the people. It 
 would help her. Anyway we can't have everything rooted 
 up again just yet ! — before the time.' 
 
 He walked on, and as the further corner of the house 
 came into view, he saw a thinly ciirtained window with 
 a Ught inside it, and it seemed to him that he dis 
 tinguished a figure within. 
 
 ' Reading ? — or embroidering ? Probably, at her work. 
 She hadthat commission to finish. Busy woman ! ' 
 
 He fell to imagining the little room, the embroidery 
 frame, the books, and the brindled cat on the rug, of no 
 particular race or beauty; for use not for show; but 
 sensitive and gentle like its mistress, and like her, not to 
 be readily made friends with. 
 
 * How wise of her,' he thought, ' not to accept her 
 sister's offer since Ralph's death— to insist on keeping her 
 
24 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 little house and her independence. Imagine her ! — 
 prisoned in that house, with that family. Except for 
 Hester — except for Hester ! ' 
 
 He smiled sadly to himself, threw a last troubled 
 look at the little house, and left it behind him. 
 Before him, the village street, with its green and its pond, 
 widened under the scudding sky. Far ahead, about a 
 quarter of a mile away, among surrounding trees, certain 
 outhnes were visible through the July twilight. The 
 accustomed eye knew them for the chimneys of the Fox- 
 Wiltons' house, owned now, since the recent death of its 
 master, Sir Ealph Fox-Wilton, by his widow, the 
 sister of the lady with the cat and the embroidery, 
 and mother of many children, for the most part an 
 unattractive brood, peevish and slow-minded like their 
 father. Hester was the bright, particular star in that 
 house, as Stephen Barron had now found out. 
 
 Alack ! — alack ! The Rector's face resumed for a 
 moment the expression of painful or brooding perplexity 
 it had worn during his conversation of the afternoon with 
 young Barron, on the subject of Hester Fox- Wilton. 
 
 Another light in a window — and a sound of shouting 
 and singing. The ' Cowroast ' — a ' public ' mostly fre- 
 quented by the miners who inhabited the northern end of 
 the village — was evidently doing trade. The Rector did not 
 look up as he passed it ; but in general he turned an in- 
 dulgent eye upon it. Before entering upon the living, 
 he had himself worked for a month as an ordinary miner, 
 in the colliery whose tall chimneys could be seen to the 
 east above the village roofs. His body still vividly retained 
 the physical memory of those days — of the aching muscles, 
 and the Gargantuan thirsts. 
 
 ^At last the rows of new-built cottages attached to the 
 colliery came in view on the left ; to the right, a steep 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 25 
 
 hillside heavily wooded, and at the top of it, in the distance, 
 the glimmering of a large white house — stately and separate 
 — dominating the village, the church, the collieries, and 
 the Fox-Wiltons' plantations. 
 
 The Rector threw a glance at it. It was from that 
 house had come the letter he had found on his hall-table 
 that afternoon ; a letter in a handwriting large and 
 impressive like the dim house on the hill. The hand- 
 writing of a man accustomed to command, whether his 
 own ancestral estate, or the collieries which had been 
 carved out of its fringe, or the village spreading humbly 
 at his feet, or the church into which he walked on Sunday 
 with heavy tread, and upright carriage, conscious of his 
 threefold dignity — as Squire, magistrate, and church- 
 warden. 
 
 * It's my business to fight him ! * Meynell thought, 
 looking at the house, and squaring his broad shoulders 
 unconsciously. ' It's not my business to hate him ! — not 
 at all — rather to respect and sympathize with him. I 
 provoke the fight — and I may be thankful to have lit 
 on a strong antagonist. What's Stephen afraid of ? 
 What can they do ? Let 'em try ! ' 
 
 A smile — contemptuous and good-humoured — crossed 
 the Rector's face. Any angry bigot determined to rid his 
 parish of a heretical parson might no doubt be tempted 
 to use other than legal and theological weapons, if he could 
 get them. A heretic with unpaid bills and some hidden 
 vice, is scarcely in a position to make much of his heresy. 
 But the Rector's smile shewed him humorously conscious 
 of an almost excessive innocence of private life. The 
 thought of how little an enemy could find to lay bold on 
 in his history or present existence seemed almost to bring 
 with it a kind of shamefacedness, — as for experience 
 irrevocably foregone, warm, tumultuous, human experience, 
 
26 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 among the sinners and sufferers of the world. For there 
 are odd, mingled moments in the Uvea of the scholars and the 
 saints, when — like Renan, in his queer envy of Theophile 
 Gautier — some of them come to ask whether they have 
 not missed something irreplaceable, the student, by his 
 learning — the saint even, by his goodness ! 
 
 Here now was ' Miners' Row,' As the Rector approached 
 the cottage of which he was in search, the clouds lightened 
 in the east, and a pale moonshine, suffusing the dusk, 
 shewed in the far distance beyond the village, the hills of 
 Fitton Chase, rounded, heathy hills, crowned by giant firs. 
 Meynell looked at them with longing, and a sudden realiza- 
 tion of his own weariness. A day or two, perhaps a week 
 or two, among the Westmoreland fells, with their winds 
 and scents about him, and their streams in his ears : — he 
 must soon allow himself that, before the fight began. 
 
 No. 8, A dim light shewed in the upper window. 
 The Rector knocked at the door. A woman opened — a 
 young and sweet-looking nurse in her bonnet and long 
 cloak. 
 
 * You look pretty done ! ' exclaimed the Rector. ' Has 
 he been giving trouble ? ' 
 
 * Oh no, sir, not more than usual. It's the two of 
 them.' 
 
 ' She won't go to her sister's ? ' 
 ' She won't stir a foot, sir.' 
 
 * Where is she ? ' The nurse pointed to the living room 
 on her left. 
 
 ' She scarcely eats anything — a sup of tea sometimes. 
 And I doubt whether she sleeps at all.' 
 ' And she won't go to him ? ' 
 
 * If he were dying, and she alone with him in the house, 
 I don't believe she'd go near him.' 
 
 The Rector stepped in, and asked a few questions as to 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 27 
 
 arrangements for the night. The patient, it seemed, was 
 asleep, in consequence of a morphia injection, and likely to 
 remain so for an hour or two. He was dying of an internal 
 injury inflicted by a fall of rock in the mine some ten 
 days before. Surgery had done what it could, but signs of 
 blood-poisoning had appeared, and the man's days were 
 numbered. 
 
 The doctor had left written instructions, which the 
 nurse handed over to Meynell. If certain symptoms 
 appeared, the doctor was to be summoned. But in all 
 probability the man's fine constitution, injured though it 
 had been by drink, would enable him to hold out another 
 day or two. And the hideous pain of the first week had 
 now ceased ; mortification had almost certainly set in, and 
 all that could be done was to wait the slow and sure 
 failure of the heart. 
 
 The nurse took leave. Meynell was hanging up his hat 
 in the httle passage way, when the door of the front parlour 
 opened, after being unlocked. 
 
 Meynell looked round. 
 
 * Good evening, Mrs. Bateson. You are coming upstairs, 
 I hope, with me ? ' 
 
 He spoke gently, but with a quiet authority. 
 
 The woman in the doorway shook her head. She was 
 thin and narrow-chested. Her hair was already grey, 
 though she could not have been more than thirty-five, 
 and youth and comeliness had been long since battered from 
 her face, partly by misery of mind, partly by direct ill usage 
 of which there were evident traces. She looked steadily at 
 the Rector. 
 
 * I'm not going,' she said. ' He's nowt to me. But 
 I'd like to know what the doctor was thinkin' of 'im.' 
 
 ' The doctor thinks he may live through to-night and 
 to-morrow night — not much more. He is your husband, 
 
28 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Mrs. Bateson, and whatever you have against him, you'll 
 be very sorry afterwards if you don't give him help and 
 comfort in his death. Come up now, I beg of you, and 
 watch with me. He might die at any moment.' 
 
 And Meynell put out his hand kindly towards the woman 
 standing in the shadow, as though to lead her. 
 
 But she stepped backward. 
 
 ' I know what I'm about,' she said, breathing quick. 
 ' He made a fule o' me wi' that wanton Lizzie Short, and 
 he near killt me the last morning afore he went. And I'd 
 been a good wife to him for fifteen year, and never a word 
 between us till that huzzy came along. And she's got a 
 child by him, and he must go and throw it in my face that 
 I'd never given him one. And he struck and cursed me that 
 last morning — he wished me dead, he said. And I sat and 
 prayed God to punish him. An' He did. The roof came down 
 on him. And now he mun die. I've done wi' him — and 
 she's done wi' him. He's made his bed, and he mun lig on it.' 
 
 The Eector put up his hand sternly. 
 
 ' Don't ! Mrs. Bateson. Those are words you'll repent 
 when you yourself come to die. He has sinned towards 
 you — but remember ! — he's a young man still — in the 
 prime of life. He has suffered horribly — and he has only 
 a few hours or days to live. He has asked for you already 
 to-day, he is sure to ask for you to-night. Forgive him ! — 
 ask God to help him to die in peace ! ' 
 
 While he spoke she stood motionless, impassive. 
 Meynell's voice had beautiful inflections, and he spoke with 
 strong feeling. Few persons whom he so addressed could 
 have remained unmoved. But Mrs. Bateson only re- 
 treated further into the dreary little parlour, with its 
 wool mats and antimacassars, and a tray of untasted tea 
 on the table. She passed her tongue round her dry lips 
 to moisten them before she spoke, quite calmly. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 29 
 
 ' Thank you, sir. Thank you. You mean well. But 
 we must all judge for ourselves. If there's an}'thing you 
 want I can get for you, you knock twice on the floor — 
 I shall hear you. But I'm not comin' up.' 
 
 Meynell turned away discouraged, and went upstairs. 
 
 In the room above lay the dying man — breathing quickly 
 and shallowly under the influence of the drug that had been 
 given him. The nurse had raised him on his pillows, and 
 the window near him was open. His powerful chest was 
 uncovered, and he seemed even in his sleep to be fighting 
 for air. In the twelve hours that had elapsed since Meynell 
 had last seen him he had travelled with terrible rapidity 
 towards the end. He looked years older than in the 
 morning ; it was as though some sinister hand had 
 been at work on the face, expanding here, contracting 
 there, substituting chaos and nothingness for the living 
 man. 
 
 The Rector sat down beside him. The room was 
 small and bare, — a little strip of carpet on the boards, a few 
 chairs, and a little table with food and nourishment beside 
 the bed. On the mantelpiece was a large printed card, 
 containing the football fixtures of the winter before. Bate 
 son had once been a fine player. Of late years, however, 
 his interest had been confined to betting hea^dly on the 
 various local and county matches, and it was to his ill-luck 
 as a gambler no less than to the influence of the flimsy Uttle 
 woman who had led him astray that his moral break-up 
 might be traced. 
 
 A common tale ! — yet more tragic than usual. For the 
 bedroom contained other testimonies to the habits of a 
 ruined man. There was a hanging bookcase on the wall, 
 and the Rector sitting by the bed could just make out the 
 titles of the books in the dim light. 
 
 Mill, Huxley, a reprint of Tom Paine, various books 
 
30 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 by Blatchford, the sixpenny editions of ' Literature and 
 Dogma ' and Kenan's Life of Christ, some popular science, 
 volumes of Browning and Ruskin, and a group of well- 
 thumbed books on the birds of Mercia : — the little 
 collection, hardly earned, and, to judge from its appearance, 
 diligently read, shewed that its owner had been a man of 
 intelligence. The Rector looked from it to the figure in 
 the bed with a pang at his heart. 
 
 All was still in the Uttle cottage. Through the open 
 window the Rector could see fold after fold of the Chase 
 stretching north and west above the village. The moor- 
 land ridges shone clear under the moon, now bare, or 
 scantily plumed by gaunt trees, and now clothed in a 
 dense blackness of wood. Meynell, who knew every yard 
 of the great heath and loved it well, felt himself lifted there 
 in spirit as he looked. The ' bunchberries ' must just be 
 ripening on the high ground — nestling scarlet and white 
 amid their glossy leaves. And among them and beside 
 them, the taller, slender bilberries, golden green ; the 
 exquisite grasses of the heath, pale pink, and silver and 
 purple, swaying in the winds, clothing acre after acre with a 
 beauty beyond the looms of men ; the purple heather and 
 the ling flushing towards its bloom ; and the free-hmbed 
 scattered birch trees, strongly scrawled against the sky. 
 The scurry of the clouds over the purple sweeps of moor, 
 the beat of the wind, and then suddenly, pools of fragrant 
 air sun-steeped — he drew in the thought of it all, as he 
 might have drunk the moorland breeze itself, with a thrill 
 of pleasure, which passed at once into a movement of soul. 
 
 ' My God— my God ! ' 
 
 No other words imagined or needed. Only a leap of the 
 heart, natural, habitual, instinctive, from the imagined 
 beauty of the heath, to the ' Eternal Fountain ' of all beauty. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 31 
 
 The hand of the dying man made a faint rustling with 
 the sheet. Meyneil, checked, rebuked almost, by the 
 slight sound, bent his eyes again on the sleeper, and leaning 
 forward tried to meditate and pray. But to-night he found 
 it hard. He realised anew his physical and mental fatigue, 
 and a certain confused clamour of thought, strangely 
 persistent behind the more external experience alike of body 
 and mind ; like the murmur of a distant sea heard from 
 far inland, as the bond and background of all lesser sounds. 
 
 The phrases of the letter he had found on the hall-table 
 recurred to him whether he would or no. They were 
 mainly legal and technical, intimating that an application 
 had been made to the Bishop of Markborough to issue a 
 commission of enquiry into certain charges made by 
 parishioners of Upcote Minor, against the Eector of the 
 parish. The writer of the letter was one of the applicants, 
 and gave notice of his intention to prosecute the charges 
 named, with the utmost vigour through all the stages 
 prescribed by ecclesiastical law. 
 
 But it was, rather, some earlier letters from the same 
 hand — letters more familiar, intimate, and discursive — that 
 ultimately held the Rector's thoughts, as he kept his watch. 
 For in those letters were contained almost all the objections 
 that a sensitive mind and heart had had to grapple with 
 before determining on the course to which the Rector of 
 Upcote was now committed. They were the voice of the 
 * adversary,' the ' accuser.' Crude or conventional, as 
 the form of the argument might be, it yet represented the 
 ' powers and principaUties ' to be reckoned with. If the 
 Rector's conscience could not sustain him against it, he 
 was henceforth a dishonest and unhappy man ; and when 
 his lawyers had failed to protect him against its practical 
 result — as they must no doubt fail — he would be a 
 dispossessed priest. 
 
32 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' What discipline in life, or what comfort in death can 
 such a faith as yours bring to any human soul ? Do, I beg 
 of you, ask yourself this question. If the great miracles of 
 the Creed are not true, what have you to give the wretched 
 and the sinful ? Ought you not in common human charity 
 to make way for one who can ofier the consolations, utter 
 the warnings, or hold out the heavenly hopes from which 
 you are debarred ? ' 
 
 The Eector fixed his gaze upon the sick man. It was as 
 though the question of the letter were put to him through 
 those parched lips. And as he looked Bateson opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 ' Be that you, Rector ? ' he said, in a clear voice. 
 
 ' I've been sitting up with you, Bateson. Can you 
 take a little brandy and milk, do you think ? ' 
 
 The patient submitted, and the Rector, with a tender 
 and skilful touch, made him comfortable on his pillows 
 and smoothed the bedclothes. 
 
 ' Where's my wife ? ' he said presently, looking round 
 the room. 
 
 ' She's sleeping downstairs.' 
 
 * I want her to come up.' 
 
 ' Better not ask her. She seems ill and tired.' 
 The sick man smiled — a slight and scornful smile. 
 
 * She'll ha' time enough presently to be tired. You goa 
 an' ask her.' 
 
 ' I'd rather not leave you, Bateson. You're very ill.' 
 
 * Then take that stick then, an' rap on the floor. She'll 
 hear tha fast enough.' 
 
 The Rector hesitated, but only for a moment. He took 
 the stick and rapped. 
 
 Almost immediately the sound of a turning key was 
 heard through the small thinly-built cottage. The door 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 33 
 
 below opened and footsteps came up the stairs. But before 
 they reached the landing the sound ceased. The two men 
 listened in vain. 
 
 ' You go an' tell her as I'm sorry I knocked her aboot,' 
 said Bateson, eagerly. ' An' she can see for hersen, as I 
 can't aggravate her no more wi' the other woman.' He 
 raised himself on his elbow, staring into the Rector's face. 
 ' I'm done for — tell her that.' 
 
 ' Shall I tell her also — that you love her ? — and you want 
 her love ? ' 
 
 ' Aye,' said Bateson, nodding, with the same bright stare 
 into Meynell's eyes. ' Aye ! ' 
 
 Meynell made him drink a little more brandy, and then 
 he went out to the person standing motionless on the 
 stairs. 
 
 ' What did you want, sir ? ' said Mrs. Bateson, under 
 her breath. 
 
 * Mrs. Bateson — he begs you to come to him ! He's 
 sorry for his conduct — he says you can see for yourself 
 that he can't wrong you any more. Come — and be 
 merciful ! ' 
 
 The woman paused. The Rector could see the shiver 
 of her thin shoulders under her print dress. Then she 
 turned and quietly descended the cottage stairway. Half 
 way down she looked up. 
 
 ' Tell him I should do him nowt but harm. I ' — her 
 voice trembled for the first time — ' I doan't bear him 
 malice, I hope he'll not suffer. But I'm not comin.' 
 
 ' Wait a moment, Mrs. Bateson! I was to tell you that 
 in spite of all, he loved you — and he wanted your love.' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' It's no good talkin' that way. It'll mebbe use up his 
 strength. Tell him I'd have got Lizzie Short to come an' 
 nurse 'im, if I could. It's her place. But he knows as 
 
 D 
 
34 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 she an' her man flitted a fortnight sen, an' theer's no 
 address.' 
 
 And she disappeared. But at the foot of the stairs — 
 standing unseen — she said in her usual tone — 
 
 ' If there was a cup o* tea, I could bring you, sir — 
 or anythin' ? ' 
 
 Meynell, distressed and indignant, did not answer. He 
 returned to the sick-room. Bateson looked up as the Rector 
 bent once more over the bed. 
 
 ' She'll not coom ? ' he said, in a faint voice of surprise. 
 Well, that's a queer thing. She wasn't used to be a tough 
 'un. I could most make her do what I wanted. Well, 
 never mind, Rector, never mind. Sit tha down — mebbe 
 you'd be wanting to say a prayer. You're welcome. I 
 reckon it'll do me no harm.' 
 
 His lips parted in a smile — a smile of satire. But his 
 brows frowned, and his eyes were still alive and bright, 
 only now, as the watcher thought, with anger. 
 Meynell hesitated. 
 
 ' I will say the church prayers, if you wish it, Bateson. 
 Of course I will say them.* 
 
 ' But I doan't believe in 'em,' said the sick man, smiling 
 again, ' an' you doan't believe in 'em, noather, if folk say 
 true ! Don't tha be vexed — I'm not saying it to cheek tha. 
 But Mr. Barron, ee says ee'll make tha give up. Ee's been 
 goin' roun' the village, talkin' to folk. I doan't care about 
 that — an I've never been one o' yoiir men — not pious 
 enough, be a long way — but I'd Hke to hear — now as I 
 can't do tha no harm, Rector, now as I'm goin', an' you 
 cawn't deny me — what tha does really believe ? Will tha 
 tell me ? ' 
 
 He turned, open-eyed, impulsive, intelligent, as he had 
 always been in life. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 35 
 
 The Rector started. The inward challenge had taken 
 voice. 
 
 ' Certainly I will tell you, if it will help you — if you're 
 strong enough.' 
 
 Bateson waved his hand contemptuously. 
 
 ' I feel as strong as onything. That sup 0' brandy has 
 put some grit in me. Give me some more. Thank tha. 
 . . . Does tha believe in God, Rector 1 ' 
 
 His whimsical, half-teasing, yet, at bottom, anxious look 
 touched Meynell strangely. 
 
 ' With all my life — and with all my strength ! ' 
 
 Meynell's gaze was fixed intently on his questioner. 
 The nightlight in the basin on the further side of the 
 room threw the strong features into shadowy relief, 
 illumining the yearning kindliness of the eyes. 
 
 ' What made tha believe in Him ? ' 
 
 ' My own life — my own struggles — and sins — and suffer- 
 ings,' said Meynell, stooping towards the sick man, and 
 speaking each word with an intensity behind which lay much 
 that could never be known to his questioner. * A good man, 
 Bateson, put it once in this way, " There is something in me 
 that asks something of me." That's easy to understand — 
 isn't it ? If a man wants to be filthy, or drunken, or cruel, 
 there is always a voice within — it may be weak or it may 
 be strong — that asks of him to be — instead — pure and sober 
 and kind. And perhaps he denies the Voice, refuses it — 
 talks it down — again and again. Then the joy in his life 
 dies out, bit by bit, and the world turns to dust and ashes. 
 Every time that he says No to the Voice, he is less happy 
 — he has less power of being happy. And the Voice itself 
 dies away — and death comes. . . . But now, suppose he 
 tm-ns to the Voice and says " Lead me — I follow ! " And 
 suppose he obeys, like a child stumbling. Then every time 
 he stretches and bends his poor weak will so as to give 
 
 i>2 
 
36 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 It what it asks, his heart is happy ; and strength comes 
 — the strength to do more and do better. It asks him 
 to love — to love men and women, not with lust, but with 
 pure love ; and as he obeys, as he loves, — he knows, — he 
 knows that it is God asking, and that God has come to 
 him and abides with him. So, when death overtakes him 
 he trusts himself to God — as he would to his best 
 friend.* 
 
 ' Tha'rt talkin' riddles, Kector ! ' 
 
 ' No. Ask yourself. When you fell into sin with that 
 woman, did nothing speak to you, nothing try to stop you ? ' 
 
 The bright half-mocking eyes below Meynell's wandered 
 a Uttle — wavered in expression. 
 
 * It was the hot blood in me — aye, an' in her too. Yo 
 cawn't help them things.' 
 
 * Can't you ? When your wife suffered, didn't that 
 touch you ? Wouldn't you undo it now if you could ? ' 
 
 ' Aye — because I'm goin' — doctor says I'm done for.' 
 
 * No — well or ill — wouldn't you undo it — wouldn't 
 you undo the blows you gave your wife — the misery you 
 caused her ? ' 
 
 ' Mebbe. But I cawn't.' 
 
 ' No — not in my sense or yours. But in God's sense you 
 can. Turn your heart — ask Him to give you love — love 
 to Him, who has been pleading with you all your Ufe — 
 love to your wife, and your fellow men — love — and repent- 
 ance — and faith.' 
 
 Meynell's voice shook. He was in an anguish at what 
 seemed to him the weakness, the ineffectiveness of his 
 pleading. 
 
 A silence. Then the voice rose again from the bed. 
 
 ' Dost tha believe in Jesus Christ, Eector ? Mr. 
 Barron, he calls tha an infidel. But he hasn't read the 
 books you an' I have read, I'll uphold yer ! ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 37 
 
 The dying man raised his hand to the bookshelves 
 beside him with a proud gesture. 
 
 The Rector slowly raised himself. An expression, as 
 of some passion within, trying at once to check and to utter 
 itself, became visible on his face in the half Ught. 
 
 ' It's not books that settle it, Jim. I'll try and put it to 
 you — just as I see it myself — just in the way it comes to me.' 
 
 He paused a moment, frowning under the efiort of 
 simplification. The hidden need of the dying man seemed 
 to be mysteriously conveyed to him — the pang of lonely 
 anguish that death brings with it ; the craving for comfort 
 beneath the appaient scorn of faith ; the human cry 
 expressed in this strange catechism. 
 
 ' Stop me if I tire you,' he said at last. ' I don't know 
 if I can make it plain, — But to me, Bateson, there are two 
 worlds that every man is concerned with. There is this 
 world of everyday life — work and business, sleeping and 
 talking, eating and drinking — that you and I have been 
 hving in ; and there is another world, within it, and along- 
 side of it, that we know when we are quiet — when we listen 
 to our own hearts, and follow that voice I spoke of just 
 now. Jesus Christ called that other world the Kingdom of 
 God — and those who dwell in it, the children of God. Love is 
 the king of that world, and the law of it, — Love, which is God. 
 But different men — different races of men, give different 
 names to that Love — see it under different shapes. To us — 
 to you and me — it speaks under the name and form of Jesus 
 Christ. And so I come to say — so all Christians come 
 to say — " / believe — in Jesus Christ our Lord.'^ For it is 
 his life and his death that still to-day — as they have done 
 for hundreds of years — draw men and women into the 
 Kingdom — the Kingdom of Love — and so to God. He 
 draws us to love — and so to God. And in God alone — is 
 the soul of man satisfied ; satisfied — and at rest.' 
 
38 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The last words were but just breathed — yet they 
 carried with them the whole force of a man. 
 
 ' That's all very well, Rector. But tha's given up th' 
 Athanasian Creed, and there's mony as says tha doesn't 
 hold by tother Creeds. Wilt tha tell me, as Jesus were 
 born of a virgin ? — or that a got up out o' the grave on 
 the thkd day ? ' 
 
 The Rector's face, through all its harass, softened 
 tenderly. 
 
 ' If you were a well man, Bateson, we'd talk of that. 
 But there's only one thing that matters to you now — it's 
 to feel God with you — to be giving your soul to God.' 
 
 The two men gazed at each other. 
 
 * What are tha nursin* me for. Rector ? ' said Bateson, 
 abruptly — ' I'm nowt to you.' 
 
 * For the love of Christ,' said Meynell, steadily, taking 
 his hand — ' and of you, in Christ. But you mustn't talk. 
 Rest a while.' 
 
 There was a silence. The July night was beginning 
 to pale into dawn. Outside, beyond the nearer fields, 
 the wheels and sheds and the two great chimneys of the 
 colliery were becoming plain ; the tints and substance 
 of the hills were changing. Dim forms of cattle moved in 
 the newly shorn grass ; the sound of their chewing could 
 be faintly heard. 
 
 Suddenly the dying man raised himself in bed. 
 
 * I want my wife ! ' he said imperiously — ' I tell tha, I 
 want my wife ! ' 
 
 It was as though the last energy of being had thrown 
 itself into the cry— indignant, passionate, protesting. 
 Meynell rose. 
 ' I will bring her.' 
 Bateson gripped his hand. 
 ' Tell her to mind that cottage at Morden End — and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 39 
 
 the night we came home there first — as married folk. 
 Tell her I'm goin' — goin' fast,' 
 
 He fell back, panting. Meynell gave him food and 
 medicine. Then he went quickly downstairs, and knocked 
 at the parlour door. After an interval of evident hesitation 
 on the part of the occupant of the room, it was reluctantly 
 unlocked. MeyneU pushed it open wide. 
 
 * Mrs. Bateson ! — come to your husband — he is 
 dying ! ' 
 
 The woman, deadly white, threw back her head proudly. 
 But Meynell laid a peremptory hand on her arm. 
 
 * I command you — in God's name. Come ! ' 
 
 A struggle shook her. She yielded suddenly, and began 
 to cry. Meynell patted her on the shoulder as he might 
 have patted a child, said kind soothing things, gave 
 her her husband's message, and finally drew her from the 
 room. 
 
 She went upstairs, Meynell following, anxious about 
 the physical result of the meeting, and ready to go for 
 the doctor at a moment's notice. 
 
 The door at the top of the stairs was open. The 
 dying man lay on his side, gazing towards it, and gauntly 
 illumined by the rising light. 
 
 The woman went slowly forward, drawn by the eyes 
 directed upon her. 
 
 * I thowt tha'd come ! ' said Bateson, with a smile. 
 She sat down upon the bed, crouching, emaciated ; at first 
 
 motionless and voiceless; a spectacle little less piteous, 
 little less deathUke, than the man on the pillows. He still 
 smiled at her, in a kind of triumph ; also silent, but his 
 lips trembled. Then, groping, she put out her hand — 
 her disfigured, toil-worn hand— and took his, raising it to 
 her lips. The touch of his flesh seemed to loosen in her 
 the fountains of the great deep. She slid to her knees and 
 
40 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 kissed him — enfolding him with her arms, the two mur- 
 muiing together. 
 
 Meynell went out into the dawn. His mystical sense 
 had beheld the Lord in that small upper room ; had seen 
 as it were the sacred hands breaking to those two poor 
 creatures the sacrament of love. His own mind was for 
 the time being tranquillised. It was as though he said to 
 himself, ' I know that trouble will come back — I know 
 that doubts and fears will pursue me again ; but this hour 
 — this blessing — is from God ! ' . . . 
 
 The sun was high in a dewy world, already busy with 
 its first labours of field and mine, when Meynell left the 
 cottage. The church clock was on the stroke of eight. 
 
 He passed down the village street, and reached again 
 the little gabled house which he had passed the night 
 before. As he approached, there was a movement in the 
 garden. A lady, who was walking among the roses, holding 
 up her grey dress from the dew, turned and hastened 
 towards the gate. 
 
 ' Please come in ! You must be tired out. The 
 gardener told me he'd seen you about. We've got some 
 coffee ready for you.' 
 
 Meynell looked at the speaker in smiling astonishment. 
 
 ' What are you up for at this hour ? ' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I be up ? Look how lovely it is ! I 
 have a friend with me, and I want to introduce you.' 
 
 Miss Puttenham opened her garden gate, and drew 
 in the Rector. Behind her among the roses Meynell 
 perceived another lady, — a girl, with bright reddish hair. 
 
 * Mary ! ' said Miss Puttenham. 
 
 The girl approached. Meynell had an impression of 
 mingled charm and reticence, as she gave him her hand. 
 The eyes were sweet and shy. But the imconscious 
 dignity of bearing shewed that the shyness was the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 41 
 
 shyness of strong character, rather than of mere youth 
 and innocence. 
 
 ' This is my new friend, Mary Elsmere. You 've heard 
 they're at Forked Pond ? ' — ^Alice Puttenham said, smiling, 
 as she slipped her arm round the girl. * I captured her 
 for the night, while Mrs. Elsmere went to town. I want 
 you to know each other.' 
 
 ' Elsmere's daughter ! ' thought Meynell, with a thrill, 
 as he followed the two ladies through the open French 
 window into the little dining-room where the coSee was 
 ready. And he could not take his eyes from the young 
 face. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 'I AM in love with tlie liouse, — I adore tlie Cliase — I like 
 heretics, — and I don't think I'm ever going home again ! ' 
 Mrs. Flaxman as she spoke handed a cup of tea to a tall 
 gentleman, Louis Manvers by name, the possessor of a long 
 tanned countenance ; of thin iron-grey hair, descending 
 towards the shoulders ; of a drooping moustache, and eyes 
 that mostly studied the carpet or the knees of their owner. 
 A shy, laconic person at first sight, with the manner of one 
 to whom conversation, of the drawing-room kind, was little 
 more than a series of doubtful experiments, that seldom or 
 never came off. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman, on the other hand, was a pretty woman of 
 forty, stUl young and slender, in spite of two boys at Eton, 
 one of them seventeen, and in the Eleven ; and her talk 
 was as rash and rapid as that of her companion was the 
 reverse. Which perhaps might be one of the reasons why 
 they were excellent friends, and always happy in each 
 other's society. 
 
 Mr. Manvers overlooked a certain challenge that Mrs. 
 Flaxman had thrown out, took the tea provided, and merely 
 enquired how long the rebuilding of the Flaxmans' own 
 house would take. For it appeared that they were only 
 tenants of Maudeley House — furnished — for a year. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman replied that only the British workman 
 knew. But she looked upon herself as homeless for two 
 
 42 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 43 
 
 years, and found the prospect as pleasant as her husband 
 found it annoying. 
 
 ' As if life was long enough to spend it in one county, and 
 one house and park ! I have shaken all my duties from me 
 like old rags. No more school-treats, no more bean-feasts, 
 no more Hospital Committees, for two whole years ! 
 Think of it. Hugh, poor wretch, is still Chairman of the 
 County Council. That's why we took this place, — it is 
 within fifty miles. He has to motor over occasionally. 
 But I shall make him resign that, next year. Then we 
 are going for six months to Berlin — that's for music — my 
 show ! Then we take a friend's house in British East 
 Africa, where you can see a lion kill from the front windows, 
 and zebras stub up your kitchen garden. That's Hugh's 
 show. Then of course there'll be Japan — and by that 
 time there'll be airships to the North Pole, and we can take 
 it on our way home ! ' 
 
 ' Souvent femme varie ! ' Mr. Manvers raised a pair of 
 surprisingly shrewd eyes from the carpet. ' I remember 
 the years when I used to try and dig you and Hugh out of 
 Bagley, and drive you abroad — without the smallest success.* 
 
 ' Those were the years when one was moral and well- 
 behaved ! But everybody who is worth anything goes a 
 little mad at forty. I was forty last week ' — Rose Flaxman 
 gave an involuntary sigh — ' I can't get over it.' 
 
 ' Ah, well, it's quite time you were a little nipped by the 
 years,' said Manvers drily. ' Why should you be so much 
 younger than anybody else in the world ? When you grow 
 old there'll be no more youth ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman's eyes, of a bright greenish-grey, shone 
 gaily into his ; then their owner made a displeased mouth. 
 ' You may pay me compliments as much as you like. 
 They will not prevent me fi'om telling you that you are 
 one of the most slow-minded people I have ever met ! ' 
 
44 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * H'm ? * said Mr. Manvers, with mild interrogation. 
 Rose Flaxman repeated her remark, emphasizing it 
 
 with a little tattoo of her teaspoon on the Chippendale 
 tea-tray before her. Manvers studied her, smiling. 
 
 ' I am entirely ignorant of the grounds of this attack.' 
 
 * Oh, what hypocrisy ! ' cried his companion hotly. 
 ' I throw out the most tempting of all possible flies, and you 
 absolutely refuse to rise to it.' 
 
 Manvers considered. 
 You expected me to rise to the word " heretic " ? ' 
 
 * Of course I did ! On the same principle as " sweets 
 to the sweet." Who — I should like to know ! — should be 
 interested in heretics if not you ? ' 
 
 ' It entirely depends on the species,' said her companion 
 cautiously. 
 
 ' There couldn't be a more exciting species,' declared 
 Mrs. Flaxman. ' Here you have a Rector of a parish, 
 simply setting up another Chiurch of England, — services, 
 doctrines and all, — ofE his o^vn bat, so to speak — without a 
 " with your leave or by your leave " ; his parishioners back- 
 ing him up ; his Bishop in a frightful taking and not the least 
 knowing what to do ; the faggots all gathering to make a 
 bonfire of him, and a great black six-foot-two Inquisitor 
 ready to apply the match, — and yet — I can't get you to take 
 the smallest interest in it ! I assure you, Hugh is thrilled.' 
 
 Manvers laid the finger-tips of two long brown hands 
 lightly against each other. 
 
 ' Very sorry — but it leaves me quite cold. Heresy in 
 the Church of England comes to nothing. Our heretics 
 are never violent enough. They forget the excellent text 
 about the Kingdom of Heaven ! Now the heretics in the 
 Church of Rome are violent. That is what makes them so 
 far more interesting.' 
 
 ' This man seems to be drastic enough ! ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 45 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' said the other, gently but firmly incredulous. 
 ' Believe me — he will resign, or apologise — they always do.' 
 
 ' Believe me ! — you don't — excuse me ! — know anything 
 about it. In the first place, Mr. Meynell has got his 
 parishioners — all except a handful — behind him.' — 
 
 ' So had Voysey ' — interjected Manvers, softly. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman took no notice. 
 
 ' — And he has hundreds of other supporters — thousands 
 perhaps — and some of them parsons — in this diocese, and 
 outside it. And they are all convinced that they must fight 
 — fight to the death — and not give in. That you see is 
 what makes the difference ! My brother-in-law ' — the 
 voice speaking changed and softened — ' died twenty years 
 ago. I remember how sad it was. He seemed to be walk- 
 ing alone in a world that hardly troubled to consider him 
 — so far as the Church was concerned, I mean. There 
 seemed to be nothing else to do but to give up his living. 
 But the strain of doing it killed him.' 
 
 ' The strain of giving up your hving may be severe — but, 
 I assure you, your man will find the strain of keeping it 
 a good deal worse.' 
 
 ' It all depends upon his backing. How do you know 
 there isn't a world behind him ? ' — Mrs. Flaxman persisted, 
 as the man beside her slowly shook his head. ' Well 
 now, listen ! Hugh and I went to Church here last Sunday. 
 I never was so bewildered. First, it was crowded from end 
 to end, and there were scores of people from other villages 
 and towns — a kind of demonstration. Then, as to the 
 service — neither of us could find our way about. Instead 
 of saying the Lord's Prayer four times, we said it once ; 
 we left out half the psalms for the day, the Rector ex- 
 plaining from the Chancel Steps that they were not fit 
 to be read in a Christian Church ; we altered this prayer and 
 that prayer ; we listened to an extempore prayer for the 
 
46 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 widows and orphans of some poor fellows who have been 
 killed in a mine ten miles from here, which made me cry 
 like a baby ; and, most amazing of all, when it came to the 
 Creeds * 
 
 Manvers suddenly threw back his head, his face for the 
 first time sharpening into attention. ' Ah ! Well — what 
 about the Creeds ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman bent forward, triumphing in the capture 
 of her companion. 
 
 * "We had both the Creeds. The Rector read them — 
 turning to the congregation — and with just a word of 
 preface — " Here follows the Creed, commonly called the 
 Apostles' Creed " — or " Here follows the Nicene Creed." 
 And we all stood and Hstened — and nobody said a word. 
 It was the strangest moment ! You know — I'm not a 
 serious person — but I just held my breath.' 
 
 ' As though you heard behind the veil, the awful Voices 
 — " Let us depart hence " ? ' said Manvers, after a pause. 
 His expression had gradually changed. Those who knew 
 him best might have seen in it a slight and passing trace 
 of conflicts long since silenced, and resolutely forgotten. 
 
 ' If you mean by that, that the church was irreverent — 
 or disrespectful — or hostile — well, you are quite wrong ! ' 
 cried Mrs. Flaxman impetuously. ' It was like a moment 
 of new birth — I can't describe it — as though a Spirit 
 entered in. And when the Rector finished — there was a 
 kind of breath through the church — like the rustUng of 
 new leaves — and I thought of the wind blowing where it 
 listed. . . . And thentheRector preached on the Creeds — 
 how they grew up and why. Fascinating ! — why aren't the 
 clergy always telling us such things ? And he brought it 
 all round to impressing upon us that some day we might 
 be worthy of another Christian creed — by being faithful — 
 that it would flower again out of our Uves and souls — as 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 47 
 
 the old had done. ... I wonder what it all meant ! ' 
 she said abruptly, her light voice dropping. 
 
 Manvers smiled. His emotion had quite passed away. 
 
 ' Ah ! but I forgot ' — she resumed hurriedly — ' we left 
 out several of the Commandments — and we chanted the 
 Beatitudes — and then I found — there was a little service 
 paper in the seat, and everybody in the church but Hugh 
 and me knew all about it beforehand ! * 
 
 ' A queer performance ! ' said Manvers, ' and of course 
 childishly illegal. Your man will be soon got rid of. I 
 expect you might have applied to him the remark of the 
 Bishop of Cork on the Dean of Cork — " Excellent sermon 1 
 — eloquent, clever, argumentative ! — and not enough gospel 
 in it to save a tom-tit ! " ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman looked at him oddly. 
 
 ' Well, but — the extraordinary thing was that Hugh 
 made me stay for the second service, and it was as 
 Ritualistic as you like ! ' 
 
 Manvers fell back in his chair, the vivacity on his fac 
 relaxing. 
 
 ' Ah !— is that all T 
 
 ' Oh ! but you don't understand,' said his com- 
 panion eagerly. ' Of course Ritualistic is the wrong word. 
 Should I have said " sacramental " ? I only meant 
 that it was full of symbolism. There were lights — and 
 flowers, and music — but there was nothing priestly — or 
 superstitious,' — she frowned in her efEort to explain. ' It 
 was all poetic — and mystical — and yet practical. There 
 were a good many things changed in the Service, — bat I 
 hardly noticed — I was so absorbed in watching the people. 
 Almost everyone stayed for the second service. It was 
 quite short ; — so was the first service. And a great many 
 communicated. But the spirit of it was the wonderful 
 thing. It had all that — that magic — that mystery — which 
 
48 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 one gets out of Catholicism, even simple Catholicism, in a 
 village Church — say at Benediction ; and yet one had a sense 
 of having come out into fresh air ; of saying things that 
 were true, — true at least to you, and to the people that were 
 saying them ; things that you did believe, or could believe ; 
 instead of things that you only pretended to believe, or 
 couldn't possibly believe ! I haven't got over it yet, and 
 as for Hugh, I have never seen him so moved since — since 
 Robert died.' 
 
 Manvers was aware of Mrs. Flaxman's affection for her 
 brother-in-law's memory ; and it seemed to him natural 
 and womanly that she should be touched — artist and 
 worldling though she was — by this fresh effort in a 
 similar direction. For himself, he was touched in another 
 way ; with pity, or a kindly scorn. He did not believe 
 in patching up the Christian tradition. Either accept 
 it — or put it aside. Newman had disposed of ' Neo- 
 Christianity ' once for all. 
 
 ' Well, of course all this means a row,' he said at length, 
 with a smile. ' What is the Bishop doing ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, the Bishop will have to prosecute, Hugh says ; 
 of course he must ! And if he didn't, Mr. Barron would 
 do it for him.' 
 
 ' The gentleman who lives in the White House ? ' 
 
 ' Precisely. Ah ! ' cried Mrs. Flaxman, suddenly, rising 
 to her feet and looking through the open window beside 
 her. ' What do you think we've done ? We have evoked 
 him ! Parlez du diahle, etc. How stupid of us ! But 
 there's his carriage trotting up the drive, — I know the 
 horses. And that's his deaf daughter — poor, down-trodden 
 thing ! — sitting beside him. Now then — shall we be at 
 home ? Quick ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman flew to the bell, but retreated with a little 
 grimace. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 49 
 
 ' We must ! It's inevitable. Hugh says I can't be 
 rude to new people. Why can't I ? It's so simple.' 
 
 She sat down, however, though rebellion and a little 
 malice quickened the colour in her fair skin. Manvera 
 looked longingly at the door leading to the garden. 
 
 ' Shall I disappear ? — or must I support you ? ' 
 
 ' It all depends on what value you set on my good 
 opinion,' said Mrs. Flaxman, laughing. 
 
 Manvers re-settled himself in his chair. 
 
 ' I stay — but first, a little information. The gentleman 
 owns land here ? ' 
 
 ' Acres and acres. But he only came into it about three 
 years ago. He is on the same railway board where Hugh 
 is Chairman. He doesn't like Hugh, and he certainly 
 won't like me. But you see he's bound to be civil to us. 
 Hugh says he's always making quarrels on the board — in 
 a kind of magnificent superior way. He never loses his 
 temper — whereas the others would often like to flay him 
 alive. Now then ' — ^Mrs. Flaxman laid a finger on her 
 mouth — ' " Papa, potatoes, prunes, and prism ! " ' 
 
 Steps were heard in the hall, and the butler announced 
 * Mr. and Miss Barron.' 
 
 A tall man, with an iron-grey moustache, and a deter- 
 mined carriage, entered the room, followed by a timid and 
 stooping lady of uncertain age. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman, transformed at once into the courteous 
 hostess, greeted the new comers with her sweetest 
 smiles, set the deaf daughter down on the hearing side 
 of Mr. Manvers, ordered tea, and herself took charge of 
 Mr. Barron. 
 
 The task was not apparently a heavy one. Mrs. 
 Flaxman saw beside her a portly man of fifty-five, with 
 a penetrating look, and a composed manner ; well dressed, 
 
 £ 
 
50 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 yet with no undue display. Louis Manvers, struggling 
 with an habitual plague of shyness, and all but silenced 
 by the discovery that his neighbour was even deafer 
 than himself, watched the ' six-foot-two Inquisitor ' with 
 curiosity, but could find nothing lurid or torturous in 
 his aspect. There was indeed something about him 
 which displeased a rationalist scholar and ascetic. But 
 his information, and ability, his apparent adequacy to 
 any company were immediately evident. It seemed to 
 Manvers that he had very quickly disarmed Mrs, 
 Flaxman's vague prejudice against him. At any rate she 
 was soon picking his brains diligently on the subject of the 
 n,eighbourhood and the neighbours, and apparently enjoying 
 the result, to judge from her smiles and her questions. 
 
 Mr. Barron indeed had everything that could be ex- 
 pected of him to say on the subject of the district and its 
 population. He descanted on the beauty of the three or 
 four famous parks, which in the eighteenth century had been 
 carved out of the wild heath lands ; he shewed an intimate 
 knowledge of the persons who owned the parks, and of 
 their families, * though I myself am only a new comer here, 
 being by rights a Devonshire man ' ; he talked of the local 
 superstitions with indulgence, and a proper sense of the 
 picturesque ; and of the colliers who believed the super- 
 stitions he spoke in a tone of general good humour, tempered 
 by regret that ' agitators ' should so often lead them into 
 folly. The architecture of the district came in, of course, 
 for proper notice. There were certain fine old houses 
 near that Mrs. Flaxman ought to visit ; everything of 
 course would be open to her and her husband. 
 
 ' Oh, tell me,' said Mrs. Flaxman, suddenly interrupting 
 him, ' how far is Sandford Abbey from here ? * 
 
 Her visitor paused a moment before replying. 
 
 ' Sandford Abbey is about five miles from you — across 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 51 
 
 the park. The two estates meet. Do you know — Sir 
 Philip Meryon ? ' 
 
 Rose Flaxman shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' We know something of him — at least Hugh does. His 
 mother was a very old fiiend of Hugh's family.' 
 
 Mr. Barron was silent. 
 
 ' Is he such a scamp ? ' said Mrs. Flaxman, raising her 
 fine eyes, with a laugh in them. ' You make me quite 
 anxious to see him ! ' 
 
 Mr. Barron echoed the laugh, stiffly. 
 
 ' I doubt whether your husband will wish to bring him 
 here. He gathers some strange company at the Abbey. 
 He is there now for the fishing.' 
 
 Manvers enquired who this gentleman might be ; and 
 Mrs. Flaxman gave him a lightly touched account. A 
 young man of wealth and family, it seemed, but spoUt 
 from his earliest days, and left fatherless at nineteen, with 
 only an adoring but quite ineffectual mother to take account 
 of. Some notorious love affairs at home and abroad ; a 
 wild practical joke or two, played on prominent people, 
 and largely advertised in the newspapers; an audacious 
 novel, and a censored play : — he had achieved all these 
 things by the age of thirty, and was now almost penniless, 
 and still unmarried. 
 
 ' Hugh says that the Abbey is falling into ruin, — and 
 that the young man has about a hundred a year left out of 
 his fortune. On this he keeps apparently an army of 
 servants, and a couple of hunters ! The strange thing is 
 — Hugh discovered it when he went to call on the Rector 
 the other day — that this preposterous young man is a first 
 cousin of Mr. Meynell's. His mother, Lady Meryon, and 
 the Rector's mother were sisters. The Rector, however, 
 seems to have dropped him long ago.' 
 
 Mr. Barron still sat silent. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 'Is he really too bad to talk about? ' cried Mrs. Flaxman, 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' I tbink I had rather not discuss him,' said her visitor, 
 with decision ; and she protesting that PhUip Meryon 
 was now endowed with all the charms, both of villainy 
 and mystery, let the subject drop. 
 
 Mr. Barron returned, as though with relief, to architec- 
 ture, talked agreeably of the glories of a famous Tudor 
 house on the West side, and an equally famous Queen 
 Anne house on the East side of the Chase. But the 
 Churches of the district according to him were on the 
 whole disappointing, — inferior to those of other districts 
 within reach. Here, indeed, he shewed himself an expert ; 
 and a far too minute discourse on the relative merits of the 
 Church architecture of two or three of the midland counties 
 flowed on and on through Mrs. Flaxman's tea-making : 
 while the deaf daughter became entirely speechless ; and 
 Manvers — disillusioned — gradually assumed an aspect of 
 profound melancholy, which merely meant that his wits 
 were wool gathering. 
 
 * Well, I thought Upcote Minor Church a very 
 pretty church,' said Rose Flaxman at last, with a touch of 
 revolt. ' The old screen is beautiful — and who on earth 
 has done all that carving of the pulpit — and the reredos ? ' 
 
 Mr. Barron's expression changed. He bent towards 
 his hostess, striking one hand sharply and deliberately 
 with the glove which he held in the other. 
 
 ' You were at Church last Sunday ? ' 
 
 ' I was.* Mrs. Flaxman's eyes as she turned them upon 
 him had recovered their animation. 
 
 ' You were present then,' said ]\Ir. Barron with passionate 
 energy, ' at a scandalous performance ! I feel that I ought 
 to apologise to you and Mr. Flaxman, in the name of our 
 village and parish.* 
 
 The speaker's aspect glowed with what was clearly a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 53 
 
 genuine fire. The slight pomposity of look and manner 
 had disappeared. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman hesitated. Then she said gravely, * It 
 was certainly very astonishing. I never saw anjrthing like 
 it. But my husband and I liked Mr. Meynell. We thought 
 he was absolutely sincere.' 
 
 ' He may be. But so long as he remains clergyman of 
 this parish it is impossible for him to be honest ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman slowly poured out another cup of tea for 
 Mr. Manvers, who was standing before her in a drooping 
 attitude, like some long crumpled fly, apparently deaf and 
 blind to what was going on, his hair falling forward over his 
 eyes. At last she said evasively — 
 
 ' There are a good many people in the parish who seem 
 to agree with him. Except yourself — and a gaunt woman 
 in black who was pointed out to me — everybody in the 
 Church appeared to us to be enjoying what the Eector was 
 doing — to be entering into it heart and soul.' 
 
 Sir. Barron flushed. 
 
 ' We do not deny that he has got a hold upon the people. 
 That makes it aU the worse. When I came here three years 
 ago, he had not yet done any of these things — publicly ; 
 these perfectly monstrous things. Up to last Sunday, in- 
 deed, he kept within certain bounds as to the services ; 
 though frequent complaints of his teaching had been 
 made to the Bishop, and proceedings even had been 
 begun, it might have been very difficult to touch him. 
 
 But last Sunday ! * He stopped with a little sad gesture 
 
 of the hand as though the recollection were too painful to 
 pursue. ' I saw, however, within six months of my coming 
 here — he and I were very friendly at first — what his teach- 
 ing was, and whither it was tending. He has taught the 
 people systematic infidelity for years. Now we have the 
 results ! ' 
 
 ' He also seems to have looked after their bodies,' said 
 
54 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman, in a skirmishing tone that simply meant 
 she was not to be brought to close quarters. ' I am told 
 that it was he brought the water-supply here ; and that he 
 has forced the owners to rebuild some of the worst cottages/ 
 Mr. Barron looked attentively at his hostess. It was 
 as though he were for the first time really occupied with 
 her, — endeavouring to place her, and himself with regard 
 to her. His face stifiened. 
 
 ' That's all very well — excellent, of course. Only, let 
 me remind you, he was not asked to take vows about the 
 water-supply ! But he did promise and vow at his ordination 
 to hold the faith — to " banish and drive away strange 
 doctrines "!' 
 
 'What are "strange doctrines" nowadays?' said a 
 mild, falsetto voice in the distance. 
 
 Barron tm'ned to the speaker, — the long-haired dis- 
 hevelled person whose name he had not caught distinctly as 
 Mrs. Flaxman introduced him. His manner unconsciously 
 assumed a note of patronage. 
 
 ' No need to define them, I think, — for a Christian. 
 The Church has her Creeds.' 
 
 ' Of course. But while this gentleman shelves them — 
 no doubt a revolutionary proceeding — are there not ex- 
 cesses on the other side ? May there not be too much — 
 as well as too little ? 
 
 And with an astonishing command of ecclesiastical detail 
 Manvers gave an account — gently ironic here and there — 
 of some neo-Catholic functions of which he had lately been 
 a witness. 
 
 Barron fidgeted. 
 
 ' Deplorable, I admit — quite deplorable ! I would put 
 that kind of thing down, just as firmly as the other.' 
 Manvers smiled. 
 ' But who are " you " ? — if I may ask it philosophically 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 55 
 
 and without ofience ? The man here does not agree with 
 you — the people I have been describing would scout you. 
 Where's your authority ? What is the authority in the 
 English Church ? ' 
 
 ' Well, of course we have our answer to that question/ 
 said Barron, after a moment. 
 
 Manvers gave a pleasant little laugh. ' Have you ? ' 
 
 Barron hesitated again, then evidently found the 
 controversial temptation too strong. He plunged headlong 
 into a great gulf of cloudy argument, with the big word 
 ' authority ' for theme. But he could find no foothold in the 
 maze. Manvers drove him delicately fi-om point to point, 
 involving him in his own contradictions, rolling him in his 
 own ambiguities, till — suddenly — vague recollections began 
 to stir in the victim's mind. Manvers ? — Was that the 
 name ? It began to recall to him certain articles in the 
 reviews, the Church papers. Was there not a well-known 
 writer — a Dublin man — a man who had once been a 
 clergyman, and had resigned his orders ? — 
 
 He drew himself together with as much dignity, and 
 retreated in as good order as he could. Turning to Mrs. 
 Flaxman, who was endeavouring to make a few common- 
 places audible to Miss Barron, while throwing occasional 
 sly glances towards the field of battle, he somewhat curtly 
 asked for his carriage. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman's hand was on the bell, when the drawing- 
 room door opened to admit a gentleman. 
 
 ' Mr. Meynell ! * said the butler. 
 
 And at the same moment a young girl slipped in 
 through the open French window, and with a smiUng nod 
 to Mrs. Flaxman and Mr. Manvers went up to the tea- 
 table, and began to replenish the teapot and re-light the 
 kettle. 
 
 Mr. Barron made an involuntary movement of annoyance 
 
56 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 as the Kector entered. But a few minutes of waiting 
 before the appearance of his carriage were inevitable. 
 He stood motionless therefore in his place, a handsome 
 impressive figure, while Meynell paid his respects to Mrs. 
 Flaxman, whose quick colour betrayed a moment's ner- 
 vousness. 
 
 ' How are you, Barron ? ' said the Rector from a 
 distance, with a friendly nod. Then, as he turned to 
 Manvers, his face lit up. 
 
 ' I am glad to make your acquaintance ! 'he said cordially. 
 
 Manvers took the outstretched hand with a few mumbled 
 words, but an evident look of pleasure. 
 
 ' I have just read your Bishop Butler article in the 
 Quarterly,' said Meynell eagerly. ' Splendid ! Have you 
 seen it ? ' He turned to his hostess, with one of the rapid 
 movements that expressed the constant energy of the man. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman shook her head. 
 
 ' I am an ignoramus — except about music. I make 
 Mr. Manvers talk to me.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you must read it ! — I hope you won't mind my 
 quoting a long bit from it ? ' — the speaker turned to 
 Manvers again — ' There is a clerical Conference at Mark- 
 borough next week, at which I am reading a paper. I 
 want to make 'em all read you ! What ? — Tea ? — I should 
 think so ! * — Then, to his hostess — ' Will you mind if I 
 drink a good deal ? I have just been down a pit— and 
 the dust was pretty bad.' 
 
 * Not an accident, I hope ? ' said Mrs. Flaxman, as she 
 handed him his cup. 
 
 ' No. But a man had a stroke in the pit — while he was 
 at work. They thought he was going to die — he was 
 a great friend of mine, — and they sent for me. We got 
 him up with difficulty. He has a bed-ridden wife — 
 daughters all away, married. Nobody to nurse him aa 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 57 
 
 usual. I say ! ' — he bent forward, looking into his hostess's 
 face with his small, vivacious eyes — ' how long are you going 
 to be here — at Maudeley ? * 
 
 * We have taken the house for a year/ said Rose, 
 surprised. 
 
 ' Will you give me a parish nurse for that time ? 
 It won't cost much, and it will do a lot of good,' said the 
 Rector earnestly. ' The people here are awfully good to 
 each other — but they don't know anything — poor souls — 
 and I can't get the sick folk properly looked after. Will 
 you ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman's manner shewed embarrassment. Within 
 a few feet of her sat the Squire of the parish, silent and 
 impassive. Common report made Henry Barron a wealthy 
 man. He could, no doubt, have provided half a dozen 
 nurses for Upcote Minor if he had so chosen. Yet here 
 was she, the newcomer of a few weeks, appealed to instead ! 
 It seemed to her that the Rector was not exactly shewing tact. 
 
 ' Won't Mr. Barron help ? ' She threw a smiling 
 appeal towards him. 
 
 Barron, conscious of an irritation and discomfort he had 
 some difficulty in controlling, endeavoured nevertheless to 
 strike the same easy note as the rest. He gave his reasons 
 for thinking that a parish nurse was not really required in 
 Upcote ; the women in the village being in his opinion quite 
 capable of nursing their husbands and sons. 
 
 But all the time that he was speaking he was chafing for 
 his carriage. His conversation with Mrs. Flaxman was still 
 hot in his ears. It was all very well for Meynell to shew 
 this levity, this callous indifference to the situation. But 
 he, Barron, could not forget it. That very week, the first 
 steps had been taken which were to drive this heretical 
 and audacious priest from the office and benefice he had 
 no right to hold, and had so criminally misused. If he 
 
58 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 submitted and went quietly, well and good. But of course 
 
 lie would do nothing of tlie kind. There was a lamentable 
 amount of disloyalty and infidelity in the diocese, and he 
 would be supported. An ugly struggle was inevitable — 
 a struggle for the honour of Christ and his Church. It 
 would go down to the roots of things and was not to be 
 settled or smoothed over by a false and superficial courtesy. 
 The days of friendship, of ordinary social intercourse were 
 over. Barron did not intend to receive the Eector again 
 within his own doors, intimate as they had been at one time • 
 and it was awkward and undesirable that they should be 
 meeting in other people's drawing-rooms. 
 
 All these feelings were running through his mind, while 
 aloud he was laboriously giving Mrs. Flaxman his reasons 
 for thinking a parish nurse unnecessary in Upcote ]\Iinor. 
 When he came to the end of them, Meynell looked at him 
 with amused exasperation. 
 
 ' Well, all I know is that in the last case of typhoid we had 
 liere, — a poor lad on Reynolds' farm — his Mother got him up 
 every day while she made his bed, and fed him — whatever 
 we could say — on suet dumpling and cheese. He died, of 
 course, — what could he do ? And as for the pneumonia 
 patients, I believe they mostly eat their poultices — I can't 
 make out what else they do with them — unless I stay and see 
 them put on. Ah, well, never mind. I shall have to get 
 Mrs. Flaxman alone, and see what can be done. Now 
 tell me ' — he turned again with alacrity to Manvers — 
 what's that new German book you quote about Butler ? 
 Some uncommonly fine things in it ! — That bit about the 
 Sermons — admirable ! ' 
 
 He bent forward, his hands on his knees, staring at 
 Manvers. Yet the eyes for all their intensity looked out 
 from a face furrowed and pale — overshadowed by physical 
 and mental strain. The girl sitting at the tea-table could 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 59 
 
 scarcely take her eyes from it. It appealed at once to her 
 heart and her intelligence. And yet there were other feelings 
 in her which resisted the appeal. Once or twice she looked 
 wistfully at Barron. She would gladly have found in him a 
 more attractive champion of a majestic cause. 
 
 ' What can my coachman be about ? ' said Barron 
 impatiently. ' IVIight I trouble you, Mrs. Flaxman, to ring 
 again ? I really ought to go home.' Mrs. Flaxman rang 
 obediently. The butler appeared. ]VIr. Barron's servants, 
 it seemed, were having tea. 
 
 ' Send them round please at once,' said their master, 
 frowning. ' At once ! ' 
 
 But the minutes passed on, and while trying to keep up 
 a desultory conversation with his hostess, and with the young 
 lady at the tea-table to whom he was not introduced, 
 Mr. Barron was all the while angrily conscious of the 
 conversation going on between the Rector and Manvers. 
 There seemed to be something personally oSensive and 
 humiliating to himself in the knowledge displayed by these 
 two men — men who had deserted or were now betraying 
 the Church — of the literature of Anglican apologetics, and 
 of the thought of the great Anglican bishop. Why this 
 parade of useless learning and hypocritical enthusiasm? 
 What was Bishop Butler to them ? He could hardly sit 
 patiently through it, and it was with most evident relief 
 that he rose to his feet when his carriage was announced. 
 
 ' How pretty Mrs. Flaxman is ! ' said his daughter as 
 they drove away. ' Yet I'm sure she's forty. Papa.' 
 
 Her face still reflected the innocent pleasure that Rose 
 Flaxman's kindness had given her. It was not often that 
 the world troubled itself much about her. Her father, 
 however, took no notice. He sat absent and pondering, 
 and soon he stretched out a peremptory hand and lowered 
 
6o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the window which his daughter had raised against an east 
 wind, to protect a delicate ear and throat which had been 
 the torment of her life. It was done with no conscious 
 unkindness ; far from it. He was merely absorbed in the 
 planning of his campaign. The next all-important point 
 was the selection of the Commission of Enquiry. No efiort 
 must be spared by the Church party to obtain the right 
 men. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the drawing-room which he had left, 
 there was silence for a moment after his departure. Then 
 Meynell said — 
 
 ' I am afraid I frightened him away. I beg your pardon, 
 Mrs. Flaxman.' 
 
 Rose laughed, and glanced at the girl sitting hidden 
 behind the tea-table. 
 
 ' Oh, I had had quite enough of Mr. Barron. Mr. 
 Meynell, have I ever introduced you to my niece ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, but we know each other ! ' — said Meynell, eagerly. 
 ' We met first at Miss Puttenham's, a week ago ; and 
 since then — Miss Elsmere has been visiting a woman I 
 know.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' A woman who lost her husband some days since — a 
 terrible case. We are all so grateful to Miss Elsmere.' 
 
 He looked towards her with a smile and a sigh, then as 
 he saw the shy discomfort in the girl's face, he changed 
 the subject at once. 
 
 The conversation became general. Some feeling that 
 she could not explain to herself led Mrs. Flaxman into a 
 closer observation of her niece Mary than usual. There 
 was much affection between the aunt and the niece, but on 
 Mrs. Flaxman's side at least, not much understanding. She 
 thought of Mary as an interesting creature, with some striking 
 
I 
 
 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 6i 
 
 gifts, — amongst them her mother's gift for goodness. But 
 it seemed to the aunt that she was far too grave and reserved 
 for her age ; that she had been too strenuously brought 
 up, and in a too narrow world. Rose Flaxman had often 
 impatiently tried to enliven the girl's existence, to give her 
 nice clothes, to take her to balls and to the opera. But 
 Mary's adoration for her mother stood in the way. 
 
 ' And leally if she would only take a hand for herself * — 
 thought Mrs. Flaxman — ' she might be quite pretty ! She 
 is pretty ! ' 
 
 And she looked again at the girl beside her, wondering 
 a little, as though a veil were lifted from something familiar. 
 Mary was talking, — softly, and with a delicate and rather 
 old-fashioned choice of words, but certainly with no lack of 
 animation. And it was quite evident to an inquisitive aunt, 
 with a notorious gift for match-making, that the tired 
 heretic with the patches of coal dust on his coat found 
 her very attractive. 
 
 But as the clock struck six Meynell sprang up. 
 
 ' I must go. Miss Elsmere ' — he looked towards her — 
 ' has kindly promised to take me on to see your sister at 
 the Cottage ; and after to-day, I may not have another 
 opportunity.' He hesitated, considering his hostess — 
 then burst out — ' You were at Church last Sunday — I 
 know — I saw you. I want to tell you — that you have 
 a Church quite as near to you as the parish Church, 
 where everything is quite orthodox — the chui'ch at Haddon 
 End. I wish I could have warned you. I — I did ask 
 Miss Elsmere to warn her mother.' 
 
 Rose looked at the carpet. 
 
 ' You needn't pity us,' she said, demurely ; ' Hugh wants 
 to talk to you dreadfully. But — I am afraid I am a 
 GaUio.' 
 
 ' Of course — you don't need to be told — it was all 
 
62 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 a deliberate defiance of the law — in order to raise vital 
 questions. We have never done anything half so bad 
 before. We determined on it at a public meeting last 
 week, and we gave Barron and his friends full warning.' 
 
 * In short it is revolution,' said Manvers, rubbing his 
 hands gently, ' and you don't pretend that it isn't.' 
 
 ' It is revolution ! ' said Meynell, nodding. ' Or a 
 forlorn hope ! The laymen in the Church want a real 
 franchise, — a citizenship they can exercise — and a law of 
 their own making ! ' 
 
 There was silence a moment. Mary Elsmere took up 
 her hat, and kissed her aunt ; Meynell made his farewells, 
 and followed the girl's lead into the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Flaxman and Manvers watched them open the 
 gate of the park and disappear behind a rising ground. 
 Then the two spectators turned to each other by 
 a common impulse, smiling at the same thought. 
 Mrs. Flaxman's smUe, however, was almost immediately 
 drowned in a real concern. She clasped her hands 
 excitedly. 
 
 ' Oh ! my poor Catharine ! What would she — what 
 would she say ? ' 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Meynell and his companion had taken a footpath winding 
 gently down hill and in a north-west direction across one of 
 the most beautiful parks in England. It lay on the fringe 
 of the Chase and contained within its slopes and glades, now 
 tracts of primitive woodland whence the charcoal-burners 
 seemed to have but just departed ; now purple wastes of 
 heather, wild as the Chase itself ; or again, dense thickets 
 of bracken and fir, hiding primeval and impenetrable glooms. 
 Maudeley House behind them, a seemly Georgian pile with a 
 columnar front, had the good fortune to belong to a man 
 not rich enough to live in or rebuild it, but sufficiently 
 attached to it to spend upon its decent maintenance the 
 money he got by letting it. So the delicately faded beauty 
 of the house had survived unspoilt ; while there had never 
 been any money to spend upon the park, where the woods 
 and fences looked after themselves year by year, and colliers 
 from the neighbouring villages poached freely. 
 
 The two people walking through the ferny paths leading 
 to the cottage of Forked Pond, were not, however, paying 
 much attention to the landscape round them. Meynell 
 showed himself at first preoccupied and silent. A load of 
 anxiety depressed his vitality ; and on this particular day, 
 long hours of literary work and correspondence beginning 
 almost with the dawn and broken only by the collieiy 
 scene of which he had spoken to Mrs. Flaxman, had left 
 
 63 
 
64 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 deep marks upon him. Yet the girl's voice and manner 
 and the fragments of talk that passed between them, 
 seemed gradually to create a soothing and liberating 
 atmosphere in which it was possible to speak with frankness, 
 though without effort or excitement. 
 
 The Rector, indeed, had so far very little precise know- 
 ledge of what his companion's feeling might be towards his 
 own critical plight. He would have liked to get at it ; 
 for there was something in this winning, reserved girl that 
 made him desire her good opinion. And yet he shrank 
 from any discussion with her. 
 
 He knew of course that the outlines of what had 
 happened must be known to her. During the ten days 
 since their first meeting, both the local and London news- 
 papers had given much space to the affairs of Upcote 
 Minor. An important public meeting, in which certain 
 decisions had been taken with only three dissentients, had 
 led up to the startling proceedings in the village church 
 which Mrs. Flaxman had described to Louis Manvers. The 
 Bishop had written another letter, this time of a more 
 hurried and peremptory kind. An account of the service 
 had appeared in the Times, and columns had been devoted 
 to it in various Mercian newspapers. After years of 
 silence, during which his heart had burned within him ; after 
 a shorter period of growing propaganda and expanding 
 utterance ; Meynell realised fully that he had now let loose 
 the flood-gates. All round him was rising that wide response 
 from human minds and hearts, whether in sympathy or in 
 hostility, which tests and sifts the man who aspires to be 
 a leader of men — in religion or economics. Every Trade 
 Union leader lifted on the wave of a great strike, repre- 
 senting the urgent physical need of his fellows, knows what 
 the concentration of human passion can be in matters 
 concerned with the daily bread and the homes of men. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 65 
 
 Religion can gather and bring to bear forces as strong. 
 Meynell knew it well ; and he was like a man stepping 
 down into a rushing stream from which there is no escape. 
 It must be crossed, — that is all the wayfarer knows ; but 
 as he feels the water on his body he realises that the moment 
 is perhaps for life or death. 
 
 Such crises in life bring with them, in the case of the 
 nobler personalities, a great sensitiveness; and Meynell 
 seemed to be living in a world where not only his own 
 inner feelings and motives but those of others were magnified 
 and writ large. As he walked beside Mary Elsmere his 
 mind played round what he knew of her history and position; 
 and it troubled him to think that, both for her and her 
 mother, contact with him at this particular moment might 
 be the reviving of old sorrows. 
 
 As they paused on the top of a rising ground look- 
 ing westward he looked at her with sudden and kindly 
 decision. 
 
 * Miss Elsmere, are you sure your mother would like 
 to see me ? It was very good of you to request that I 
 should accompany you to-night — but — are you sure ? ' 
 
 Mary coloured deeply and hesitated a moment. 
 
 ' Don't you think I'd better turn back ? ' he asked her, 
 gently. ' Your path is clear before you.' He pointed to it 
 winding through the fern. ' And you know, I hope, thafc 
 anything I could do for you and your mother during your 
 stay here, I should be only too enchanted to do. The 
 one thing I shrink from doing is to interfere in any way 
 with her rest here. And I am afraid just now I might be 
 a disturbing element.' 
 
 * No, no ! please come ! ' said Mary, earnestly. Then 
 as she turned her head away, she added — * Of course — 
 there is nothing new — to her ' 
 
 * Except that my fight is waged from inside the Church 
 
 F 
 
66 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 — and your father's from outside. But that might make 
 all the difference to her.' 
 
 * I don't think so. It is ' — she faltered — ' the change 
 itself. It is all so terrible to her.' 
 
 ' Any break with the old things ? But doesn't it ever 
 present itself to her — force itself upon her — as the up welling 
 of a new life ? ' he asked, sadly. 
 
 ' Ah ! — if it didn't in my father's case ' 
 
 The girl's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 But she quickly checked herself, and they moved on 
 in silence. Meynell, with his pastoral instinct and train- 
 ing, longed to probe and soothe the trouble he divined in 
 her. A great natural dignity in the girl — delicacy of feel- 
 ing in the man — prevented it. 
 
 None the less her betrayal of emotion had altered 
 their relation ; or rather had carried it further. For he 
 had already seen her in contact with tragic and touching 
 things. A day or two after that early morning when he 
 had told the outlines of the Batesons' story to the two ladies 
 who had entertained him at breakfast, he had found her in 
 Bateson's cottage with his wife. Bateson was dead, and his 
 wife in that dumb, automaton state of grief when the human 
 spirit grows poisonous to itself. The young girl who came 
 and went with so few words and such friendly timid ways, had 
 stirred as it were the dark air of the house with a breath 
 of tenderness. She would sit beside the widow, sewing 
 at a black dress, or helping her to choose the text to be 
 printed on the funeral card ; or she would come with her 
 hands full of wUd flowers, and coax Mrs. Bateson to go in 
 the dusk to the Churchyard with them. She had shown, 
 indeed, wonderful inventiveness in filling the first week of 
 loss and anguish with such small incident as might satisfy 
 feeling, and yet take a woman out of herself. 
 
 The level sun shone full upon her as she walked beside 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 67 
 
 him, and her face, her simple dress, her attitude stole gradually 
 like a spell on the mind of her companion. It was a remark- 
 able face ; the lower lip a little prominent, and the chin 
 firmly rounded. But the smile, though rare, was youth and 
 sweetness itself, and the dark eyes beneath the full mass of 
 richly coloured hair were finely conscious and attentive — 
 disinterested also ; so that they won the spectator instead 
 of embarrassing him. She was very lightly and slenderly 
 made, yet so as to convey an impression of strength and 
 physical health. Meynell said to himself that there was 
 something cloistered in her look, like one brought up in a 
 grave atmosphere — an atmosphere of ' reccUection.' At 
 the same time nothing could be merrier — more childish 
 even — than her laugh. 
 
 Their talk flowed on, from subject to subject, yet always 
 tending, whether they would or no, towards the matter 
 which was inevitably in both their minds. Insensibly 
 the barrier between them and it broke away. Neither, 
 indeed, forgot the interposing shadow of Catharine Elsmere. 
 But the conversation touched on ideas ; and ideas, like 
 fire in stubble, spread far afield. Oxford ; the influences 
 which had worked on Elsmere, before Meynell's own youth 
 felt them ; men, books, controversies, interwoven for 
 Mary with her father's history, for Meynell with his own ; 
 these topics, in spite of misgivings on both sides, could 
 not but reveal them to each other. The growing delight 
 of their conversation was presently beyond Meynell's 
 resisting. And in Mary, the freedom of it, no less than 
 the sense of personal conflict and tragic possibilities that 
 lay behind it, awakened the subtlest and deepest feelings. 
 Poignant, concrete images rushed through her mind — a 
 dying face to which her own had been lifted, as a tiny child ; 
 the hall of the New Brotherhood, where she sat sometimes 
 beside her veiled mother ; the sad nobility of that motlier's 
 
 r 2 
 
68 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 life ; a score of trifling, heart-piercing things, that, to 
 think of, brought the sob to her throat. Silent revolts of 
 her own too, scattered along the course of her youth, 
 revolts dumb, yet violent ; longings for an ' ampler ether * 
 — for the great tumultuous clash of thought and doubt, 
 of faith and denial, in a living and daring world. And yet 
 again, times of passionate remorse, in which all movement 
 of revolt had died away ; when her only wish had been 
 to smooth the path of her mother, and to soften a misery 
 she but dimly understood. 
 
 So that presently she was swept away — as by some 
 released long-thwarted force. And under the pressure of 
 her quick, searching sympathy, his talk became insensibly 
 more personal, more autobiographical. He was but little 
 given to confession ; but she compelled it. It was as 
 though through his story she sought to understand her 
 father's — to unveil many things yet dark to her. 
 
 Thus gradually, through ways direct and indirect, the 
 intellectual story of the man revealed itself to the pure 
 and sensitive mind of the girl. She divined his home and 
 upbringing — his father an Evangelical soldier of the 
 old school, a home imbued with the Puritan and Biblical 
 ideas. She understood something of the struggle provoked 
 — after his ordination, in a somewhat late maturity — by 
 the uprising of the typical modern problems, historical, 
 critical, scientific. She pieced together much that only 
 came out incidentally as to the counsellors within the 
 Church to whom he had gone in his first urgent distress 
 — the Bishop whom he reverenced — his old teachers at 
 Oxford— the new lights at Cambridge. 
 
 And the card houses, the frail resting-places, thus 
 built, it seemed, along the route, had lasted long ; till 
 at last a couple of small French books by a French priest 
 and the sudden uprush of new life in the Roman Church 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 69 
 
 had brought to the remote English clergyman at once 
 the crystallisation of doubt and the passion of a freed 
 faith. ' Modernism '—the attempt of the modern spirit, 
 acting religiously, to re-fashion Christianity, not outside, 
 but inside the warm limits of the ancient churches — was 
 born ; and Richard Meynell became one of the first converts 
 in England. 
 
 ' Ah, if your father had but lived ! ' he said at last, 
 turning upon her with emotion. ' He died his noble 
 death twenty years ago — think of the difference between 
 then and now ! Then the Broad Church movement was 
 at an end. All that seemed so hopeful, so full of new 
 life in the seventies, had apparently died down. Stanley, 
 John Richard Green, Hugh Pearson were dead ; Jowett 
 was an old man of seventy ; Liberalism within the Church 
 hardly seemed to breathe ; the judgment in the Voysey 
 case — as much a defiance of modern knowledge as any Papal 
 Encyclical ! — though people had nearly forgotten it, had 
 yet in truth brought the whole movement to a stand. 
 All within the gates seemed lost. Your father went out 
 into the wilderness, and there, amid everything that was 
 poor and mean and new, he laid down his life. But we ! — 
 we are no longer alone, or helpless. The tide has come up 
 to the stranded ship — the launching of it depends now 
 only on the faithfulness of those within it.* 
 
 Mary was moved and silenced. The man's power, his 
 transparent purity of heart, afiected her, as they had 
 already affected thousands. She was drawn to him also, 
 unconsciously, by that something in personality which 
 determines the relations of men and women. Yet there 
 were deep instincts in her that protested. Girl as she 
 was, she felt herself more alive than he to the dead weight 
 of the World, fighting the tug of those who would fain 
 move it from its ancient bases. 
 
70 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ■ He seemed to guess at her thought ; for he passed on to 
 describe the events by which, amid his own dumb or hidden 
 struggle, he had become aware of the same forces working 
 all round him ; among the more intelligent and quick- 
 witted miners, hungry for history and science, reading 
 voraciously a Socialist and anti-Christian literature, yet 
 all the while cherishing deep at heart certain primitive 
 superstitions, and falling periodically into hot abysses 
 of Kevivalism, under the influence of Welsh preachers; 
 or among the young men of the small middle class, in whom 
 a better education was beginning to awaken a number of 
 new intellectual and religious wants ; among women, too, 
 sensitive, intelligent women — 
 
 * Ah ! but,' said Mary, quickly interrupting him, ' don't 
 imagine there are many women like Miss Puttenham ! 
 There are very, very few ! ' 
 
 He turned upon her with surprise. 
 
 ' I was not thinking of Miss Puttenham, I assure you. 
 She has taken very little part in this particular movement. I 
 never know whether she is really with us. She stands outside 
 the old things, but I can never make myself happy by 
 the hope that I have been able to win her to the new ! ' 
 
 Mary looked puzzled — interrogative. But she checked 
 her question, and drew him back instead to his narrative — 
 to the small incidents and signs which had gradually revealed 
 to him, among even his brother clergy, years before that date, 
 the working of ideas and thoughts like his own. And now — 
 
 He broke ofi abruptly. 
 
 * You have heard of our meeting last week ? ' 
 
 * Of course ! ' 
 
 * There were men there from all parts of the diocese — and 
 some from other counties. It made me think of what a 
 French Catholic Modernist said to me two years ago — 
 " Pius X may write Encyclicals as he pleases, — I could 
 show him whole dioceses in France that are practically 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 71 
 
 Modernist, where the Seminaries are Modernist, and two 
 thirds of the clergy. The Bishop knows it quite well, and 
 is helpless. Over the border, perhaps, you get an Ultramon- 
 tane diocese, and an Ultramontane bishop. But the process 
 goes on. Life and time are for us ! " He paused and 
 laughed. ' Ah, of course I don't pretend things are so here 
 — yet. Our reforms in England — in Church and state — 
 broaden slowly down. In France, reform, when it begins 
 at all, tends to be catastrophic. But in the Markborough 
 diocese alone, we have won over perhaps a fifth of the 
 clergy, and the dioceses all round are stirring. As to the 
 rapidity of the movement in the last few months it has 
 been nothing short of amazing ! 
 
 ' And what is the end to be ? Not only — oh ! not 
 only — to destroy ! ' — said Mary. The soft intensity of the 
 voice, the beauty of the look, touched him strangely. 
 
 He smiled, and there was a silence for a minute, as they 
 wandered downward through a purple stretch of heather to 
 a little stream, sun-smitten, that lay across their path. 
 Once or twice she looked at him timidly, afraid lest she 
 might have wounded him. 
 
 But at last he said — 
 
 * Shall I answer you in the words of a beloved poet ? 
 
 " What though there still need efiort, strife ? 
 
 Though much be still unwon ? 
 Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life ! 
 
 Death's frozen hour is done ! 
 The world's great order dawns in sheen 
 
 After long darkness rude, 
 Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, 
 
 With happier zeal pursued. 
 What still of strength is left, employ, 
 
 This end to help attain : — 
 One common wave of thought and joy 
 
 Lifting mankind again ! " 
 
72 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' There ' — Lis voice was low and rapid — * there is the 
 goal ! a new happiness : — to be reached through a new 
 comradeship — a freer and yet intenser fellowship. We 
 want to say to our fellow -men — " Cease from groping among 
 ruins ! — ^from making life and faith depend upon whether 
 Christ was born at Bethlehem or at Nazareth, whether 
 he rose or did not rise, whether Luke or someone else wrote 
 the Third Gospel, whether the Fourth Gospel is history or 
 poetry. The life-giving force is here, and now ! It is 
 burning in your life and mine — as it burnt in the life of 
 Christ. Give all you have to the flame of it — let it con- 
 sume the chaff and purify the gold. Take the cup of cold 
 water to the thii'sty, heal the sick, tend the dying, and feel it 
 thrill within you — the ineffable, the immortal hfe ! Let the 
 false miracle go ! — the true has grown out of it, up from it, 
 as the flower from the sheath. — Ah ! but then ' — he drew 
 himself up unconsciously ; his tone hardened — * we turn 
 to the sons of tradition, and we say, " We,jtQo must have 
 our rights in what the past has built up, the past has 
 bequeathed — as well as you ! Not for you alone, the institu- 
 tions, the buildings, the arts, the traditions, that the Christ- 
 life has so far fashioned for itself. They who made them are 
 our fathers, no less than yours, — give us our share in them ! 
 — we claim it ! Give us our share in the Cathedrals and 
 Churches of our country — our share in the beauty and 
 majesty of our ancestral Christianity. The men who led 
 the rebellion against Rome in the sixteenth century claimed 
 the plant of English CathoUcism. * We are our fathers' 
 sons, and these things are ours 1 ' they said, as they looked 
 at SaUsbury and Winchester. We say the same — with a 
 difference. Give us the rights and the citizenship that 
 belong to us ! But do not imagine that we want to attack 
 yours. In God's name, follow your own forms of faith, — 
 but allow us ours also — mthin the common shelter of the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 73 
 
 commpu Church. We are children of the same God — 
 followers of the same Master. Who made you judges and 
 dividers over us ? You shall not drive us into the desert any 
 more. A new movement of revolt has come — an hour of 
 upheaval — and the men, with it ! " ' 
 
 Both stood motionless, gazing over the wide stretch of 
 country — wood beyond wood, distance beyond distance, 
 that lay between them and the Welsh border. Suddenly, as 
 a shaft of light from the descending sun fled ghostlike 
 across the plain, touching trees and fields and farms in its 
 path, two noble towers emerged among the shadows — 
 characters, as it were, that gave a meaning to the scroll of 
 nature. They were the towers of Markborough Cathedral. 
 Meynell pointed to them as he turned to his companion, 
 his face still quivering under the strain of feeling. 
 
 ' Take the omen ! It is for them, in a sense — a spiritual 
 sense — we are fighting. They belong not to any body of 
 men that may chance to-day to call itself the English 
 Church. They belong to England — in her aspect of faith — 
 and to the English people ! ' 
 
 There was a silence. His look came back to her face ; 
 and the prophetic glow died from his own. ' I should be 
 very, very sorry,' — he said anxiously — 'if anything I have 
 said had given you pain.' 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 ' No — not to me. I — I have my own thoughts. But 
 one must think — of others,' Her voice trembled. 
 
 The words seemed to suggest everything that in her 
 own personal history had stamped her with tliis sweet 
 shrinking look. Meynell was deeply touched. But he did 
 not answer her, or pursue the conversation any further. 
 He gathered a great bunch of harebells for her, from the 
 sun-warmed dells in the heather ; and was soon making 
 her laugh by his stories of colliery life and speech, a 
 
74 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 propos of the colliery villages fringing the plain at their 
 feet. 
 
 The stream, as they nearedit, proved to be the boundary 
 between the heath land and the pastures of the lower ground. 
 It ran fresh and brimming between its rushy banks, shad- 
 owed here and there by a few light ashes and alders, but in 
 general open to the sky, of which it was the mirror. It 
 shone now golden and blue under the deepening light of the 
 afternoon ; and two or three hundred yards away, Mary 
 Elsmere distinguished two figures walking beside it, — a 
 young man apparently, and a girl. Meynell looked at them 
 absently. 
 
 ' That's one of the most famous trout streams in the 
 Midlands. There should be a capital rise to-night. If 
 that man has the sense to put on a sedge-fly, he'll get 
 a creel-full.' 
 
 ' And what is that house among the trees ? ' asked his 
 companion presently, pointing to a grey pile of building 
 about a quarter of a mile away, on the other side of the 
 stream. ' What a wonderful old place ! ' 
 
 For the house that revealed itself stood with an impres- 
 sive dignity among its stern and blackish woods. The long, 
 plain front suggested a monastic origin ; and there was 
 indeed what looked like a ruined chapel at one end. Its 
 whole aspect was dilapidated and forlorn ; and yet it 
 seemed to have grown into the landscape, and to be so 
 deeply rooted in it, that one could not imagine it away. 
 
 Meynell glanced at it. 
 
 ' That is Sandford Abbey. It belongs, I regret to say, to 
 a ne'er-do-weel cousin of mine who has spent all his time 
 since he came into it, in neglecting his duties to it. Pro- 
 vided the owner of it is safely away, I should advise you 
 and Mrs. Elsmere to walk over and see it one day. Other- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 75 
 
 wise it is better viewed at a distance. At least those are 
 my own sentiments ! ' 
 
 Mary followed the house with her eyes as they walked 
 along the bank of the stream towards the two figures on 
 the opposite bank. 
 
 A sudden exclamation from her companion caught her 
 ear — and a light musical laugh. Startled by something 
 familiar in it, Mary looked across the stream. She saw 
 on the further bank a few yards ahead a young man fishing, 
 and a young girl in white sitting beside him. 
 
 ' Hester ! — Miss Fox-Wilton ! ' — the tone showed her 
 surprise ; ' and who is that with her ? ' 
 
 Meynell, without replying, walked rapidly along the 
 stream to a point immediately opposite the pair. 
 
 ' Good afternoon, Philip. I did not know you were here 
 Hester, I am going round by Forked Pond, and then home 
 I shall be glad to escort you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! thank you, — thank you so much. But it's very 
 nice here. You can't think what a rise there is. I have 
 caught two myself. Sir Philip has been teaching me.' 
 
 ' She frames magnificently ! ' said the young man. 
 ' How d'ye do, Meynell ? A long time since we've met.' 
 
 ' A long time,' said Meynell briefly. ' Hester, will you 
 meet Miss Elsmere and me, at the bridge ? We shan't take 
 you much out of your way.' 
 
 He pointed to a tiny wooden bridge across the stream, 
 a hundred yards further down. 
 
 A look of mischievous defiance was flung at Meynell 
 across the stream. ' I'm all right, I assure you. Don't 
 bother about me. How do you do, Mary ? We don't 
 " miss " each other, do we ? Isn't it a lovely evening ? Such 
 good luck I wouldn't go with mother to dine at the White 
 House ! Don't you hate dinner parties ? I told Mr. Barron 
 that spiders were so much more refined than humans — they 
 
76 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 did at least eat their flies by themselves ! He was quite 
 angry — and I am afraid Stephen was too ! ' 
 
 She laughed again, and so did the man beside her. He 
 was a dark, slim fellow, finely made, dressed in blue serge, and 
 a felt hat, which seemed at the moment to be slipping over 
 the back of his handsome head. From a little distance he 
 produced an impression of Apollo-like strength and good 
 looks. As the spectator came closer, this impression was a 
 good deal modified by certain loose and common lines in the 
 face. But from Mary Elsmere's position only Sir Philip 
 Meryon's good points were visible ; and he appeared to 
 her a dazzling creature. 
 
 And in point of looks his companion was more than his 
 match. They made indeed a brilliant pair, framed amid 
 the light green of the river bank. Hester Fox- Wilton was 
 sitting on a log with her straw hat on her lap. In pushing 
 along the overgrown stream, the coils of her hair had been 
 disarranged and its combs loosened. The hair was of a 
 warm brown shade, and it made a cloud about her head 
 and face, from which her eyes and smile shone out triumph- 
 antly. Exceptionally tall, with clear-cut aquiline features, 
 with the movements and the grace of a wood nymph, the 
 girl carried her beautiful brows, and her full throat with 
 a provocative and self-conscious arrogance. One might 
 have guessed that fear was unknown to her ; perhaps 
 tenderness also. She looked much older than seventeen, 
 until she moved or spoke ; then the spectator soon realised 
 that in spite of her height and her precocious beauty, she 
 was a child, capable still of a child's mischief. 
 
 And on mischief she was apparently bent this afternoon. 
 Mary Elsmere, shyly amused, held aloof, while Meynell 
 and Miss Fox- Wilton talked across the stream. Meynell's 
 peremptory voice reached her now and then, and she could 
 not help hearing a sharp final demand that the truant 
 should transfer herself at once to his escort. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 77 
 
 The girl threw him an odd look ; she sprang to her feet, 
 flushed, laughed, and refused. 
 
 * Very well ! ' said Meynell. ' Then perhaps, as you won't 
 join us, you will allow me to join you. Miss Elsmere, 
 I am very sorry, but I am afraid I must put off my 
 visit to your mother. Will you give her my regrets ? ' 
 
 The fury in Hester's look deepened. She lost her smile. 
 
 ' I won't be watched and coerced ! Why shouldn't I 
 amuse myself as I please ! ' 
 
 Meanwhile Sir Philip Meryon had laid aside his 
 rod and was apparently enjoying the encounter between 
 his companion and the Rector. 
 
 ' Perhaps you have forgotten — this is my side of the river, 
 Meynell ! ' he shouted across it. 
 
 ' I am quite aware of it,' said the Rector, as he shook 
 hands with the embarrassed Mary. She was just moving 
 away with a shy good-bye to the angry young goddess on 
 the further bank, when the goddess said — 
 
 * Don't go, Mary ! Here, Sir Philip— take the fly-book ! ' 
 She flung it towards him, ' Good-night.' 
 
 And turning her back upon him without any further 
 ceremony, she walked quickly along the stream towards the 
 little bridge which Meynell had pointed out. 
 
 ' Congratulations ! ' said Meryon, with a mocking 
 wave of the hand to the Rector, who made no reply. 
 He ran to catch up Mary, and the two joined the girl 
 in white at the bridge. The owner of Sandford 
 Abbey stood meanwhile with his hand on his hip 
 watching the receding figures. There was a smile on 
 his handsome mouth, but it was an angry one ; and 
 his muttered remark, as he turned away, belied the 
 unconcern he had affected. 
 
 ' That comes you see of not letting me be engaged to 
 
78 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Stephen ! ' said Heater in a wkite heat, as the three walked 
 on together. 
 
 Mary looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 * I see no connection,' was the Rector's quiet reply. 
 * You know very well that your mother does not approve 
 of Sir Philip Meryon, and does not wish you to be in 
 his company.' 
 
 * Precisely. But as I am not to be allowed to marry 
 Stephen, I must of course amuse myself with someone else. 
 If I can't be engaged to Stephen, I won't be anything at 
 all to him. But then, I don't admit that I'm bound.' 
 
 ' At present all that you're asked ' — said Meynell drily 
 — ' is not to disobey your mother. But don't you think 
 it's rather rude to Miss Elsmere to be discussing private 
 affairs she doesn't understand ? ' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't she understand them ? Mary ! — my 
 guardian here, and my mother say that I mustn't be 
 engaged to Stephen Barron — that I'm too young — or some 
 nonsense of that kind. And Stephen — oh well, Stephen's 
 too good for this world ! If he really loved me, he'd do 
 something desperate, wouldn't he ? — instead of giving in. 
 I don't much mind, myself — I don't really care so much 
 about marrying Stephen — only if I'm not to marry him, and 
 somebody else wants to please me, why shouldn't I let him ? ' 
 
 She turned her beautiful wild eyes upon Mary Elsmere. 
 And as she did so Mary was suddenly seized with a 
 strong sense of likeness in the speaker — her gesture 
 — her attitude — to something already familiar. She 
 could not identify the something, but her gaze fastened 
 itself on the face before her. 
 
 Meynell meanwhile answered Hester's tirade. 
 
 * I'm quite ready to talk this over with you, Hester, on 
 our way home. But don't you see that you are making 
 Miss Elsmere uncomfortable ? ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 79 
 
 * Oh no, I'm not,' said Hester coolly. * You've been 
 talking to her of all sorts of grave stupid things — and she 
 wants amusing — waking up. I know the look of her. 
 Don't you ? ' She slipped her arm inside Mary's. * You 
 know, if you'd only do your hair a little differently — fluff 
 it out more — you'd be so pretty ! Let me do it for you. 
 And you shouldn't wear that hat — no, you really shouldn't. 
 It's a brute ! I could trim you another in half an hour. 
 Shall I ? You know — I really like you. He shan't make 
 us quarrel ! ' 
 
 She looked with a young malice at Meynell. But her 
 brow had smoothed, and it was evident that her temper 
 was passing away. 
 
 ' I don't agree with you at all about my hat,' said Mary 
 with spirit. ' I trimmed it myself, and I'm extremely 
 proud of it.' 
 
 Hester laughed out — a laugh that rang through the trees. 
 
 * How foolish you are ! — isn't she, Rector ? No ! — 
 I suppose that's just what you like. I wonder what you 
 have been talking to her about ? I shall make her tell me. 
 Where are you going to ? ' 
 
 She paused, as Mary and the Rector, at a point where 
 two paths converged, turned away from the path which 
 led back to Upcote Minor. Mary explained again that Mr. 
 Meynell and she were on the way to the Forked Pond 
 cottage, where the Rector wished to call upon her mother. 
 
 Hester looked at her gravely. 
 
 * All right ! — but your mother won't want to see me. 
 No ! — really it's no good your saying she will. I saw 
 her in the village yesterday. I'm not her sort. Let me 
 go home by myself.' 
 
 Mary half laughed, half coaxed her into coming with 
 them. But she went very unwillingly ; fell completely 
 silent, and seemed to be in a dream all the way to the 
 
8o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 cottage. Meynell took no notice of her ; though once or 
 twice she stole a furtive look towards him. 
 
 The tiny house in which Catharine Elsmere and her 
 daughter had settled themselves for the summer stood on a 
 narrow isthmus of land belonging to the Maudeley estate, 
 between the Sandford trout-stream and a large rushy 
 pond of two or three acres. It was a very lonely and a 
 very beautiful place, though the neighbourhood generally 
 pronounced it damp and rheumatic. The cottage, sheltered 
 under a grove of firs, looked straight out on the water, and 
 over a bed of water-HUes. All round was a summer murmur 
 of woods, the call of water-fowl, and the hum of bees ; for, 
 at the edges of the water, flowers and grasses pushed thickly 
 out into the sunlight from the shadow of the woods. 
 
 By the waterside, with a book on her knee, sat a lady 
 who rose as they came in sight. 
 
 Meynell approached her, hat in hand, his strong irregular 
 face, which had always in it a touch of naivete, of the child, 
 expressing both timidity and pleasure. The memory of her 
 husband was enshrined deep in the minds of all religious 
 liberals ; and it was known to many that while the husband 
 and wife had difiered widely in opinion, and the wife had 
 suffered profoundly from the husband's action, yet the love 
 between them had been, from first to last, a perfect and a 
 sacred thing. 
 
 He saw a tall woman, very thin, in a black dress. Her 
 brown hair, very lightly touched mth grey and arranged 
 with the utmost simplicity, framed a face in which the 
 passage of years had emphasized and sharpened all the main 
 features, replacing also the delicate smoothness of youth 
 by a subtle network of small Hnes and shadows, which 
 had turned the original whiteness of the slcin into ra 
 brownish ivory, full of charm. The eyes looked steadily 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 8i 
 
 out from their deep hollows ; the mouth, austere and 
 finely cut, the characteristic hands, and the unconscious 
 dignity of movement : — these personal traits made of 
 Elsmere's wife, even in late middle age, a striking and 
 impressive figure. 
 
 Yet Meynell realised at once, as she just touched his 
 offered hand, that the sympathy and the homage he would so 
 gladly have brought her, would be unwelcome ; and that 
 it was a trial to her to see him. 
 
 He sat down beside her, while Mary and Hester — who, 
 on her introduction to Mrs. Elsmere, had dropped a little 
 curtsey learnt from a German governess, and full of a 
 proud grace — wandered off along the water-side. Meynell, 
 struggling with depression, tried to make conversation ; 
 on anything and everything that was not Upcote Minor, 
 its parish, or its church. Mrs. Elsmere's gentle courtesy 
 never failed ; yet behind it he was conscious of a steely 
 withdrawal of her real self from any contact with his. 
 He talked again of Oxford, of the great college where he 
 had learnt from the same men who had been Elsmere's 
 teachers ; of current books, of the wild flowers and birds 
 of the Chase ; he did his best ; but never once was there 
 any Uving response in her quiet rephes, even when she 
 smiled. 
 
 He said to himself that she had judged him, and that 
 the judgments of such a personality once formed were 
 probably irrevocable. Would she discourage any acquaint- 
 ance with her daughter ? It startled him to feel how much 
 the unspoken question hurt. 
 
 Meanwhile the eyes of his hostess pursued the two girls, 
 and she presently called to them, greeting their reappearance 
 with an evident change and relaxation of manner. She made 
 Hester sit near her, and it was not long before the child, 
 throwing oti her momentary awe, was chattering fast and 
 
 G 
 
82 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 freely, yet, as Mary perceived, witli a tact, conscious or 
 unconscious, that kept the chatter within bounds. 
 
 Mrs. Elsmere watched the girl's beauty with evident 
 delight, and when Meynell rose to go, and Hester with him, 
 she timidly drew the radiant creature to her and kissed her. 
 Hester opened her big eyes with surprise. 
 
 Catharine Elsmere sat silent a moment watching the 
 two departing figures ; then as Mary found a place in the 
 grass beside her, she said, with some constraint — 
 
 ' You walked with him from Maudeley ? * 
 
 ' Mr. Meynell ? Yes, I found him there at tea. He 
 was very anxious to pay his respects to you ; so I brought 
 him.' 
 
 ' I can't imagine why he should have thought it 
 necessary.* 
 
 Mary coloured brightly and suddenly, under the 
 vivacity of the tone. Then she slipped her hand into 
 her mother's. 
 
 ' You didn't mind, dearest ? Aunt Kose likes him 
 very much, and — and I wanted him to know you ! ' She 
 smiled into her mother's eyes — ' But we needn't see him 
 any more, if ' 
 
 Mrs. Elsmere interrupted her. 
 
 ' I don't wish to be rude to any friend of Aunt Rose's,' 
 she said, rather stiffly. ' But there is no need we should 
 see him, is there ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Mary, her cheek dropped against her 
 mother's knee, her eyes on the water. ' No — not that I 
 know of.' After a moment she added with apparent 
 inconsequence — ' You mean because of his opinions ? ' 
 
 Catharine gave a rather hard little laugh. 
 
 ' Well, of course he and I shouldn't agree ; I only 
 meant we needn't go out of our way — ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 83 
 
 ' Certainly not. Only I can't help meeting him some- 
 times ! * 
 
 Mary sat up, smiling, with her hands round her knees. 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 A pause. It was broken by the mother — as though 
 reluctantly. 
 
 ' Uncle Hugh was here while you were away. He 
 told me about the service last Sunday. Your father 
 would never — never — have done such a thing ! ' 
 
 The repressed passion with which the last words were 
 spoken startled Mary. She made no reply, but her face 
 now once more turned towards the sunlit pond had visibly 
 saddened. Inwardly she found herself asking — ' If father 
 had lived ? — if father were here now ? ' 
 
 Her reverie was broken by her mother's voice — softened 
 — breathing a kind of compunction. 
 
 ' I daresay he 's a good sort of man.' 
 
 * I think he is,' said Mary, simply. 
 
 They talked no more on the subject, and presently 
 Catharine Elsmere rose, and went into the house. 
 
 Mary sat on by the water-side thinking. Meynell's 
 aspect, Meynell's words were in her mind — little traits too 
 and incidents of his parochial life that she had come across 
 in the village. A man might preach and preach ; and be 
 a villain ! But for a man — a hasty, preoccupied, student 
 man — so to live, through twenty years, among these 
 vigorous, quick-tempered, sharp-brained miners, as to 
 hold the place among them Richard Meynell held, was not 
 to be done by any mere pretender, any spiritual charlatan. 
 How well his voice pleased her ! — his tenderness to children 
 — his impatience — his laugh. 
 
 The thoughts too he had expressed to her on their 
 walk, ran kindling through her mind. There were in her 
 iii;my half recognised thirsts and desu-es of the spirit that 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 seomed to have become suddenly strong and urgent, 
 under the spur of his companionship. 
 
 She sat dreaming ; then her mother called her to the 
 evening meal, and she went in. They passed the evening 
 together, in the free and tender intimity which was their 
 habitual relation. But in the mind of each there were 
 hidden movements of depression or misgiving not known 
 to the other. 
 
 Meanwhile the Rector had walked home with his ward. 
 A stormy business ! For much as he disliked scolding any 
 young creature, least of all, Hester, the situation simply 
 could not be met without a scolding — by Hester's guardian. 
 Disobedience to her mother's wishes ; disloyalty towards 
 those who loved her, including himself ; deceit, open 
 and unabashed, if the paradox may be allowed — all these 
 had to be brought home to her. He talked, now tenderly, 
 now severely, dreading to hurt her, yet hoping to make his 
 blows smart enough to be remembered. She was not to 
 make friends with Sir Philip Meryon. She was not to 
 see him or walk with him. He was not a fit person for 
 her to know ; and she must trust her elders in the matter. 
 
 ' You are not going to make us all anxious and miserable, 
 dear Hester ! ' he said at last, hoping devoutly that he was 
 nearly through with his task, ' Promise me not to meet 
 this man any more ! ' He looked at her appealingly. 
 
 ' Oh dear no, I couldn't do that,' said Hester cheerfully. 
 
 • Hester ! ' 
 
 * I couldn't. I never know what I shall want to do. 
 Why should I promise ? ' 
 
 ' Because you are asked to do so by those who love you, 
 and you ought to trust them.' 
 
 Hester shook her head. 
 
 ' It's no good promising. You'll have to prevent 
 me.* 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 85 
 
 Meynell was silent a moment. Then he said not 
 without sternness — 
 
 ' We shall of course prevent you, Hester, if necessary. 
 But it would be far better if you took yourself in hand.' 
 
 ' Why did you stop my being engaged to Stephen ? ' 
 she cried, raising her head defiantly. 
 
 He saw the bright tears in her eyes, and melted at once. 
 
 ' Because you are too young to bind yourself, my child. 
 Wait a while, and if in two years you are of the same 
 mind, nobody will stand in your way.' 
 
 ' I shan't care a rap about him in two years,' said Hester 
 vehemently. ' I don't care about him now. But I should 
 have cared about him, if I had been engaged to him. 
 Well now, you and Mamma have meddled : — and you'll 
 see ! ' 
 
 They were nearing the opening of the lane which led 
 from the main road to North Leigh, Lady Fox- Wilton's 
 house. As she perceived it Hester suddenly took to 
 flight, and her light form was soon lost to view in the 
 summer dusk. 
 
 The Rector did not attempt to pursue her. He turned 
 back towards the Rectory, perturbed and self-questioning. 
 But it was not possible, after all, to set a tragic value on 
 the love affair of a young lady who, within a week of its 
 breaking ofE, had already consoled herself with another 
 swain. Anything less indicative of a broken heart than 
 Hester's behaviour during that week the Rector could 
 not imagine. Personally he beheved that she spoke the 
 simple truth when she said she no longer cared for Stephen. 
 He did not beUeve she ever had cared for him. 
 
 Still he was troubled, and on his way towards the 
 Rectory he turned aside. He knew that on his table 
 he should find letters waiting that would take him half 
 the night. But they must lie there a bit longer. At Miss 
 
86 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Puttenham's gate, lie paused, hesitated a moment, then 
 went straight into the twilight garden where he imagined 
 that he should find its mistress. 
 
 He found her, in a far corner, among close-growing trees 
 and with her usual occupations, her books and her 
 embroidery, beside her. But she was neither reading nor 
 sewing. She sprang up to greet him, and for an hour of 
 summer twDight they held a rapid low-voiced conversation. 
 
 When he pressed her hand at parting, they looked at each 
 other, still overshadowed by the doubt and perplexity which 
 had marked the opening of their interview. But he tried 
 to reassure her. 
 
 * Put from you all idea of immediate difficulty,' he said 
 earnestly. ' There really is none — none at all. Stephen is 
 perfectly reasonable, and as for the escapade to-day ' 
 
 The woman before him shook her head. 
 
 ' She means to marry at the earliest possible moment — 
 simply to escape from Edith — and that house. We shan't 
 delay it long. And who knows what may happen if we 
 thwart her too much ? ' 
 
 ' We must delay it a year or two, if we possibly can, — for 
 her sake — and for yours,' said Meynell firmly. ' Good- night, 
 my dear friend. Try and sleep — put the anxiety away. 
 When the moment comes, — and of course I admit it must 
 come — ^you will reap the harvest of the love you have sown. 
 She does love you ! — I am certain of that.' 
 
 He heard a low sound — was it a sobbing breath ? — as 
 Alice Puttenham disappeared in the darkness which had 
 overtaken the garden. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Breakfast at the White House, Upcote Minor, was an 
 affair of somewhat minute regulation. 
 
 About a fortnight after Mr. Barron's call on the new 
 tenants of Maudeley Hall, his deaf daughter Theresa 
 entered the dining-room as usual on the stroke of half- 
 past eight. She glanced round her to see that all was in 
 order, the breakfast table ready, and the chairs placed 
 for prayers. Then she went up to a side-table on which 
 was placed a large Bible and prayer-book, and a pile of 
 hymn-books. She looked at the lessons and psalms for 
 the day and placed markers in the proper places. Then 
 she chose a hymn, and laid six open hymn-books one upon 
 another. After which she stood for a moment looking 
 at the first verse of the psalm for the day. * I will lift 
 up mine eyes to the hills — whence cometh my help.' The 
 verse was one of her favourites, and she smiled vaguely, 
 like one who recognises in the distance a familiar musical 
 phrase. 
 
 Theresa Barron was nearly thirty. She had a long 
 face with rather high cheek-bones, and timid grey eyes. 
 Her complexion was sallow, her figure awkward. Her 
 only beauty indeed lay in a certain shy and fleeting charm 
 of expression, which very few people noticed. She passed 
 generally for a dull and plain woman, ill-dressed, with a 
 stoop that was almost a deformity, and a deafness that 
 
 87 
 
88 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 made her socially useless. But the young servants whom 
 she trained, and the few poor people on her father's estate to 
 whom she was allowed to minister, were very fond of ' Miss 
 Theresa.* But for her, the owner of Upcote I\Iinor Park 
 would have been even more unpopular than he was, indoors 
 and out. The wounds made by his brusque or haughty 
 manner to lus inferiors were to a certain extent healed by 
 the gentleness and the good heart of his daughter. And a 
 kind of glory was reflected on him by her unreasoning 
 devotion to him. She sufiered under his hardness or his 
 self-will, but she adored him all the time ; nor was her 
 ingenuity ever at a loss for excuses for him. He always 
 treated her carelessly, sometimes contemptuously ; but he 
 would not have known how to get through life without her, 
 and she was aware of it. 
 
 On this August morning, having rung the bell for the 
 butler, she placed the Bible and prayer-book beside her 
 father's chair, and opening the door between the library 
 and the dining-room she called ' Papa ! ' 
 
 Through the further door into the hall, there appeared 
 along procession of servants, headed by the butler, majestic- 
 ally carrying the tea-urn. Something in this daily procession, 
 and its urn-bearer, had once sent Stephen Barron, the 
 eldest son, — then an Eton boy just home from school, — 
 into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which had cost him 
 his father's good graces for a week. But the procession 
 had been in no way affected, and at this later date Stephen 
 on his visits home took it as gravely as anybody else. 
 
 The tea-urn, pleasantly hissing, was deposited on the 
 white cloth ; the servants settled themselves on their 
 chairs, while Theresa distributed the open hymn-books 
 amongst them ; and when they were all seated, the master 
 of the house, like a chief actor for whom the stage waits, 
 appeared from the hbrary. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 89 
 
 He read a whole chapter from the Bible. It told the 
 story of Gehazi, and he read it with an emphasis which 
 the footman opposite to him secretly though vaguely 
 resented ; then Theresa at the piano played the hymn, 
 in which the butler and the scullery-maid supported the 
 deep bass of Mr. Barron and the uncertain treble of his 
 daughter. The other servants remained stolidly silent, 
 the Scotch cook in particular looking straight before her 
 with dark-spectacled eyes and a sulky expression. She 
 was making up her mind that either she must be excused 
 from prayers in future, or Mr. Barron must be content 
 with less cooking for breakfast. 
 
 After the hymn, the prayer lasted about ten minutes. 
 Stephen, a fervently religious mind, had often fidgeted 
 under the minute and detailed petitions of it, which seemed 
 to lay down the Almighty's precise course of action towards 
 mankind in general for the ensuing day. But Theresa, 
 who was no less spiritual, under other forms, took it all 
 simply and devoutly, and would have been uncomfortable 
 if any item in the long catalogue had been omitted. When 
 the Amen came, the footman, who never knew what to do 
 with his legs during the time of kneeling, sprang up with 
 particular alacrity. 
 
 As soon as the father and daughter were seated at 
 breakfast — close together, for the benefit of Theresa's 
 deafness — Mr. Barron opened the post-bag and took out 
 the letters. They arrived half an hour before breakfast, 
 but were not accessible to anyone till the master of the 
 house had distributed them. 
 
 Theresa looked up from hers with an exclamation. 
 
 ' Stephen hopes to get over for dinner to-night ! ' 
 
 ' Unfortunate — as I may very probably not see him,' 
 said her father, sharply. ' I am going to Markborough, 
 and may have to stay the night ! ' 
 
90 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * You are going to see the Bishop ? ' asked his daughter, 
 timidly. Her father nodded ; adding after a minute, as 
 he began upon his egg — 
 
 ' However, I must have some conversation with Stephen 
 before long. He knows that I have not felt able to stay 
 my hand to meet his wishes ; and perhaps now he will 
 let me understand a little more plainly than I do, what his 
 own position is.' 
 
 The speaker's tone betrayed bitterness of feeling. 
 Theresa looked pained. 
 
 ' Father, I am sure ' 
 
 ' Don't be sure of anything, my dear, with regard to 
 Stephen ! He has fallen more and more under Meynell's 
 influence of late, and I more than suspect that when the 
 time comes, he will take sides openly with him. It will 
 be a bitter blow to me, but that he doesn't consider. I 
 don't expect consideration from him, either as to that — 
 or other things. Has he been hanging round the Fox- 
 Wiltons lately as usual ? ' 
 
 Theresa looked troubled. 
 
 * He told me something the other night, father, I ought 
 to have told you. Only ' 
 
 ' Only what ? I am always kept in the dark between 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh no, father ! but it seems to annoy you, when — 
 when I talk about Stephen, so I waited. But the Rector 
 and Lady Fox-Wilton have quite forbidden any engage- 
 ment between Stephen and Hester. Stephen did propose 
 — and they said — not for two years at least.* 
 
 ' You mean to say that Stephen actually was such a 
 fool ! ' said her father violently, staring at her. 
 
 Theresa nodded. 
 
 ' A girl of the most headstrong and frivolous character ! 
 — a trouble to everybody about her. Lady Fox- Wilton has 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 91 
 
 often complained to me that she is perfectly unmanageable 
 with her temper, and her vanity ! — The worst conceivable 
 
 wife for a clergyman ! Really, Stephen ' 
 
 The master of the house pushed his plate away from 
 him in speechless disgust. 
 
 * And both Lady Fox-Wilton and the Rector have 
 always taken such trouble about her — much more than 
 about the other children ! ' murmured Theresa, helplessly. 
 
 ' What sort of a bringing up do you think Meynell 
 can give anybody ? ' said her father, turning upon 
 her. 
 
 Theresa only looked at him silently, with her large 
 mild eyes. She knew it was of no use to argue. Besides, 
 on the subject of the Rector she very much agreed with her 
 father. Her deafness and her isolation had entirely 
 protected her from Meynell's personal influence. 
 
 ' A man with no reUgious principles, — making a god 
 of his own intellect — steeped in pride and unbelief — what 
 can he do to train a girl like Hester ? What can he do 
 to train himself ? ' thundered Barron, bringing his hand 
 down on the table-cloth. 
 
 * Everyone says he is a good man,' said Theresa, 
 timidly. 
 
 ' In outward appearance. What's that ? A man like 
 Meynell who has thrown over the Christian faith may fall 
 into sin at any moment. His unbelief is the result of 
 sin. He can neither help himself — nor other people — and 
 you need never be surprised to find that his supposed 
 goodness is a mere sham and delusion. I don't say it is 
 always so, of course,* — he added. 
 
 Theresa made no reply, and the subject dropped. 
 Barron returned to his letters, and presently Theresa saw 
 his brow darken afresh over one of them. 
 
 'Anything wrong, father ? ' 
 
92 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * There's always somethiing wrong on this estate. Crawley 
 (Crawley was the headkeeper) has caught those boys of 
 John Broad again, trespassing and stealing wood in the 
 west plantation ! Perfectly abominable ! It's the second or 
 third time. I shall give Broad notice at once, and we 
 must put somebody into that cottage who will behave 
 decently.' 
 
 ' Poor Broad ! ' said Theresa, with her gentle scared 
 look. * You know father there isn't a cottage to be had in 
 the village — and those boys have no mother — and John 
 works very hard.* 
 
 ' Let him find another cottage all the same,' said 
 Barron briefly. ' I shall go round, if I do get back from 
 Markborough, and have a talk with him this evening.' 
 
 There was silence for a little. Theresa was evidently 
 sad. 'Perhaps Lady Fox- Wilton would find him some- 
 thing,' she said anxiously at last. * His mother was her 
 maid long ago. First she was their schoolroom maid, — 
 then she went back to them, when her husband died 
 and John married, and was a kind of maid housekeeper. 
 Nobody knew why Lady Fox- Wilton kept her so long. 
 They tell you in the village she had a shocking temper, 
 and wasn't at all a good servant. Afterwards I believe 
 she went to America and I think she died. But she was 
 with them a long while. I daresay they'd do something 
 for John.' 
 
 Barron made no reply. He had not been listening, and 
 was already deep in other correspondence. 
 
 One letter still remained unopened. Theresa knew 
 very well that it was from her brother Maurice, in London. 
 And presently she pushed it towards Barron. 
 
 ' Won't you open it ? I do want to know if it's all right.* 
 
 Barron opened it, rather unwilUngly. His face cleared, 
 however, as he read it. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 93 
 
 * Not a bad report. He seems to like the work, and 
 says they treat him kindly. He would like to come down 
 for the Sunday, — but he wants some money.' 
 
 * He oughtn't to ! ' cried Theresa, flushing. ' You 
 gave him plenty.' 
 
 * He makes out an account,' said her father, glancing 
 at the letter ; ' I shall send him a small cheque. I must 
 say, Theresa, you are always rather inclined to a censorious 
 temper towards your brother.' 
 
 He looked at her vdth. an unusual vivacity in his hard 
 handsome face. Theresa hastily excused herself, and the 
 incident dropped. But when breakfast was over and her 
 father had left the room, Theresa remained sitting idly 
 by the table, her eyes fixed on the envelope of Maurice's 
 letter, which had fallen to the floor. Maurice's behaviour 
 was simply disgraceful ! He had lost employment after 
 employment by lazy self-indulgence, trusting always 
 to his father's boundless affection for him, and abusing 
 it time after time. Theresa was vaguely certain that he 
 was besmirched by all sorts of dreadful things — drinking, 
 and betting — ^if not worse. Her woman's instinct told 
 her much more than his father had ever discovered 
 about him. Though at the same time she had the good 
 sense to remind herself that her own small knowledge of 
 the world might lead her to exaggerate Maurice's mis- 
 doings. And for herself and Stephen, no less than for her 
 father, Maurice was still the darling and Benjamin of the 
 family, commended to them by a precious mother, whose 
 death had left the whole moral structure of their common 
 life insecure. 
 
 She was still absorbed in uneasy thoughts about her 
 brother, when the library door opened violently and 
 her father came in with the Markhorough Post in his 
 hand. 
 
94 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 His face was discomposed ; his hand shook. Theresa 
 sprang up. 
 
 ' What is the matter, father ? ' 
 
 He pointed to the first page of the paper, and to 
 the heading — ' Extraordinary meeting at Markborough. 
 Proceedings against the Rector of Upcote. Other clergy 
 and congregations rally to his support.' 
 
 She read the account with stupefaction. It described 
 a meeting summoned by the * Reformers' Club ' of Mark- 
 borough to consider the announcement that a Commission 
 of Enquiry had been issued by the Bishop of Markborough, 
 in the case of the Rector of Upcote Minor, and that legal 
 proceedings against him for heretical teaching and un- 
 authorised services would be immediately begun by certain 
 promoters, as soon as the Bishop's formal consent had 
 been given. 
 
 The meeting, it seemed, had been so crowded and 
 tumultuous that adjournment had been necessary from 
 the rooms of the Reformers' Club to the Town Hall. And 
 there, in spite of a strong orthodox opposition, a resolu- 
 tion in support of the Rector of Upcote had been passed, 
 amid scenes of astonishing enthusiasm. Three or four 
 well-known local clergy had made the most outspoken 
 speeches, declaring that there must be room made within 
 the Church for the liberal wing, as well as for the Ritualist 
 wing ; that both had a right to the shelter of the common 
 and ancestral fold ; and that the time had come when the 
 two forms of Christianity now prevailing in Christendom 
 should be given full and equal rights within the Church 
 of the nation. 
 
 Meynell himself had spoken, urging on the meeting the 
 profound responsibility resting on the Reformers — the 
 need for gentleness no less than for courage ; bidding them 
 remember the sacredness of the groundthey were treading, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 95 
 
 the tenacity and depth of the roots they might be thought 
 to be disturbing. 
 
 ' Yet at the same time we must jight ! — and we must 
 fight with all our strength. For over whole classes of 
 this nation, Christianity is either dying or dead ; and 
 it is only we — and the ideas we represent — that can 
 save it.' 
 
 The speech had been received with deep emotion 
 rather than applause ; and the meeting had there 
 and then proceeded to the formation of a ' Reformers' 
 League ' to extend throughout the diocese. * It is already 
 rumoured,' said the Post, ' that at least sixteen or 
 eighteen beneficed clergy, with their congregations, have 
 either joined, or are about to join, the Reformers. The 
 next move now Hes with the Bishop, and with the orthodox 
 majority of the diocese. If we are not mistaken, Mr. 
 Meynell and his companions in heresy will very soon find 
 out that the Church has still power enough to put down 
 such scandalous rebellions against her power and authority 
 as that of the Rector of Upcote ; and to purge her borders 
 of disloyal and revolutionary priests.' 
 
 Theresa looked up. Her face had grown pale. ' How 
 lerrihle, father ! Did you know they were to hold the 
 meeting ? ' 
 
 * I heard something about a debate at this precious Club. 
 What does that matter ? Let them blaspheme in private 
 as they please, it hurts nobody but themselves. But a 
 pubUc meeting at the Bishop's very door — and eighteen 
 of his clergy ! ' 
 
 He paced the room up and down, in an excitement he 
 could hardly control. ' The poor, poor Bishop ! ' said 
 Theresa, softly, the tears in her eyes. 
 
 * He will have the triumph of his life ! ' exclaimed 
 Barron, looking up. * If there are dry bones on our side 
 
96 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 this will put life into them. Those fellows have given 
 themselves into our hands ! ' 
 
 He paused in his walk, falling into a profound reverie, 
 in which he lost all sense of his daughter's presence. She 
 dared not rouse him ; and indeed the magnitude of the 
 scandal and distress left her speechless. She could only 
 think of the Bishop — their frail, saintly Bishop whom 
 everyone loved. At last a clock struck. She said gently — 
 
 ' Father, I think it is time to go.' 
 
 Barron started, drew a long breath, gathered up the 
 newspaper, and took a letter from his pocket. 
 
 ' That is for Maurice. Put in anything you like, but 
 don't miss the morning post.' 
 
 ' Do you see the Bishop this morning, father ? ' 
 
 ' No — this afternoon. But there will be plenty to do 
 this morning.' He named two or three heads of the church 
 party in Markborough on whom he must call. He must 
 also see his solicitor, and find out whether the counsel 
 whom the promoters of the suit against Meynell desired to 
 secure had been already retained. 
 
 He kissed his daughter absently and departed, settling 
 all his home business before he left the house in his usual 
 peremptory manner, leaving behind him indeed in the 
 minds of his butler and head gardener, who had business 
 with him, a number of small but smarting wraths, which 
 would ultimately have to be smoothed away by Theresa. 
 
 But when Theresa explored the open envelope he had 
 given her for her brother, she found in it a cheque for £50, 
 and a letter which seemed to Maurice's sister — unselfish 
 and tender as she was — deplorably lacking in the scolding 
 it ought to have contained. If only her father had ever 
 shewn the same affection for Stephen ! 
 
 Meanwhile as Barron journeyed to Markborough, under 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 97 
 
 the shadow of the great Cathedral quite another voice 
 than his was in possession of the Episcopal ear. Precisely at 
 eleven o'clock, Richard Meynell appeared on the doorstep of 
 the Palace, and was at once admitted to the Bishop's study. 
 As he entered the large book-Kned room, his name was 
 announced in a tone which did not catch the Bishop's 
 attention, and Meynell, as he hesitatingly advanced, became 
 the spectator of a scene not intended for his eyes. On the 
 Bishop's knee sat a little girl of seven or eight. She was 
 crying bitterly, and the Bishop had his arms round her 
 and was comforting her. 
 
 * There was bogeys, grandfather ! — there was ! — and 
 Nannie said I told lies — and I didn't tell lies.' 
 
 * Darling, there aren't bogeys anywhere, — but I'm sure 
 you didn't tell lies. What did you think they were hke ? ' 
 
 ' Grandfather, they was all black — and they jumped 
 — and wiggled — and spitted — 0-0-oh ! * 
 
 And the child went off in another wail, at which moment 
 the Bishop perceived Meynell. His delicate cheek flushed, 
 but he held up his hand, in smiling entreaty ; and Meynell 
 disappeared behind a revohang bookcase. 
 
 The Bishop hastily returned to the charge, endeavouring 
 to persuade his little grand-daughter that the * bogey ' had 
 really been ' cook's black cat,' generally condemned to the 
 kitchen and blackbeetles, but occasionally let loose to 
 roam the upper floors in search of nobler game. The child 
 dried her eyes, and listened, gravely weighing his remarks. 
 Her face gradually cleared, and when at the end he said 
 slyly, ' And even if there were bogeys, little girls shouldn't 
 throw hairbrushes at their Nannies ! ' she nodded a 
 judicial head, adding plaintively — 
 
 * But then Nannies mustn't talk all the time, grand- 
 father ! Little girls must talk a itty itty bit. If Nannieg 
 not let them, little girls must frow somefing at Nannie*.' 
 
 H 
 
98 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The Bishop laughed — a low soft sound, from which 
 Meynell in the distance caught the infection of mirth. A 
 few murmured words — no doubt a scolding — and then — 
 
 * Are you good, Barbara ? ' 
 
 ' Ye-s,' said the child, slowly — ' not very,' 
 
 * Good enough to say you 're sorry to Nannie ? ' 
 The child smiled into his face. 
 
 * Go along then, and say it ! ' said the Bishop, ' and 
 mind you say it nicely.' 
 
 Barbara threw her arm round his neck, and hugged him 
 passionately. Then he set her down, and she ran happily 
 away, through a door at the further end of the room. 
 
 Meynell advanced, and the Bishop came to meet him. 
 Over both faces, as they approached each other, there 
 dropped a sudden shadow — a tremor as of men who knew 
 themselves on the brink of a tragical collision, — decisive 
 of many things. And yet they smiled, the presence of the 
 child still enwrapping them. 
 
 ' Excuse these domesticities ! ' said the Bishop — * but 
 there was such woe and lamentation just before you came. 
 And childish griefs go deep. Bogeys — of all kinds — have 
 much to answer for ! ' 
 
 Then the Bishop's smile disappeared. He beckoned 
 Meynell to a chair, and sat down himself. 
 
 Francis Craye, Bishop of Markborough, was physically 
 a person of great charm. He was small, — not more than 
 five foot seven; but so slenderly and perfectly made, so 
 graceful and erect in bearing, that his height, or lack of it, 
 never detracted in the smallest degree from his dignity, 
 or from the reverence inspired by the innocence and un- 
 worldliness of his character. A broad brow, overshadowing 
 and overweighting the face, combined with extreme delicacy 
 of feature, a touch of emaciation, and a pure rose in the 
 alabaster of the cheeks, to produce the aspect of a most 
 human ghost — a ghost which had just tasted the black 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 99 
 
 blood, and recovered for an hour all the vivacity of life. 
 The mouth, thin-lipped and mobile to excess, was as apt 
 for laughter as for tenderness ; the blue eyes were frankness 
 and eagerness itself. And when the glance of the spectator 
 pursued the Bishop downwards, it was to find that his legs, 
 in the episcopal gaiters, were no less ethereal than his face ; 
 while his silky white hair added the last touch of refinement 
 to a personality of spirit and fire. 
 
 Meynell was the first to speak. 
 
 ' My lord ! let me begin this conversation by once 
 more thanking you — from my heart — for all the personal 
 kindness that you have shown me in the last few months, 
 and in the correspondence of the last fortnight.' 
 
 His voice wavered a little. The Bishop made no sign. 
 
 ' And perhaps,' Meynell resumed, ' I felt it the kindest 
 thing of all that — after the letters I have written you this 
 week — after the meeting of yesterday — you should have 
 sent me that telegram last night, saying that you wished 
 to see me to-day. That was like you — that touched me 
 indeed ! ' He spoke with visible emotion. 
 
 The Bishop looked up. 
 
 ' There can be no question, Meynell, of any personal 
 enmity between yourself and me,' he said gravely. * I 
 shall act in the matter entirely as the responsibilities of 
 my office dictate — that you know. But I have owed you 
 much in the past — much help — much affection. This 
 diocese owes you much. I felt I must make one last 
 appeal to you — terrible as the situation has grown. You 
 could not have foreseen that meeting of yesterday ! ' he 
 added impetuously, raising his head. 
 
 Meynell hesitated. 
 
 ' No, I had no idea we were so strong. But it might 
 have been foreseen. The forces that brought it about have 
 been rising steadily for many years.' 
 
 H 2 
 
loo THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 There was no answer for a moment. The Bishop sat 
 with clasped hands, his legs stretched out before him, his 
 white head bent. At last, without moving, he said — 
 
 * There are grave times coming on this diocese, Meynell 
 — there are grave times coming on the Church ! ' 
 
 * Does any living Church escape them ? ' said Meynell, 
 watching him, — with a heavy heart. 
 
 The Bishop shook his head. 
 
 * I am a man of peace. Where you see a hope of victory 
 for what you think, no doubt, a great cause, I see above 
 the tnelee, Strife and Confusion and Fate, — " red with the 
 blood of men." What can you — and those who were at 
 that meeting yesterday — hope to gain by these proceedings ? 
 If you could succeed, you would break up the Church — 
 the strongest weapon that exists in this country against 
 sin and selfishness — and who would be the better ? ' 
 
 * Believe me — we shan't break it up.* 
 
 * Certainly you wall ! Do you imagine that men who 
 are the spiritual sons and heirs of Pusey and Liddon are 
 going to sit down quietly in the same church with you 
 and the eighteen who started this League yesterday ? 
 They would sooner die.' 
 
 Meynell bore the onslaught quietly. 
 
 ' It depends upon our strength, — ' he said, slowly — 
 * and the strength we develope, as the fight goes on.' 
 
 ' Not at all ! — a monstrous delusion ! ' The Bishop raised 
 an indignant brow. ' If you overwhelmed us — if you got the 
 State on your side, as in France at the Revolution — you would 
 still have done nothing towards your end — nothing whatever ! 
 We refuse — we shall always refuse — to be unequally yoked 
 with those who deny the fundamental truths of the faith ! ' 
 
 'My Lord, you are so yoked at the present moment,' said 
 Meynell firmly — the colour had flashed back into his cheeks 
 — ' It is the foundation of om: case that half the educate^ 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYiNELL loi 
 
 men and women we gather into our churches to-day are — 
 in our belief — ^Modernists abready. Question them ! — they 
 are with us — not with you. That is to say they have 
 tacitly shaken ofi the old forms — the Creeds and formularies 
 that bind the visible, the legal church. They do not even 
 think much about them. Forgive me if I speak plainly ! 
 They are not grieving about the old. Their soul — those of 
 them, I mean, that have the gift of religion — is travailing — 
 dumbly travailmg — with the new. Slowly, irresistibly, they 
 are evolving for themselves new forms, new creeds ; whether 
 they know it or not. You — the traditional party — you, the 
 Bishops and the orthodox majority — can help them, or 
 hmder them. If you deny them organised expression and 
 outlet, you prolong the dull friction between them and the 
 current Christianity. You waste where you might gather — 
 you quench where you might kindle. But there they are — in 
 the same church with you — and you cannot drive them out ! ' 
 
 The Bishop made a sound of pain. 
 
 ' I wish to drive no one out,' he said, lifting a diaphanous 
 hand, ' To his own master let each man stand or fall. But 
 you ask us — us, the appointed guardians of the faith — the 
 ccclesia docens — the historic episcopate — to deny and betray 
 the Faith ! You ask us to assent formally to the effacing 
 of all difference between Faith and Unfaith — ^you bid us 
 tell the world pubhcly that belief matters nothmg — that a 
 man may deny all the Divine Facts of Redemption, and 
 still be as good a Christian as anyone else. History alone 
 might tell you — and I am speaking for the moment as a 
 student to a student — that the thing is inconceivable ! ' 
 
 ' Unless — solvitur vivendo ! ' said Meynell in a low voice. 
 ' What great change in the religious life of men has not 
 seemed inconceivable — till it happened ? Think of the 
 great change that brought this EngUsh church into being ! 
 Within a couple of generations men had to learn to be 
 
I02 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 baptised, and married, and buried, with rites unknown to 
 their fathers, — to stand alone and cut oS from the great 
 whole of Christendom — to which they had once belonged — 
 to see the Mass, the cult of Our Lady and the Saints, 
 disappear from their lives. What change that any 
 Modernist proposes could equal that ? But England lived 
 through it ! — England emerged ! — she recovered her equili- 
 brium. Looking back upon it all now, we see — you and I 
 agree there ! — that it was worth while — that the energising, 
 revealing power behind the world was in the confusion and 
 the dislocation; and that England gained more than she 
 lost when she made for herself an English and a national 
 Church in these islands, out of the shattered debris of the 
 Roman system.' 
 
 He bent forward, and looked intently into the Bishop's 
 face. — ' What if another hour of travail be upon us ? And 
 is any birth possible without pain ? ' 
 
 * Don't let us argue the Reformation ! ' said the Bishop, 
 with a new sharpness of note. * We should be here all night. 
 But let me at least point out to you that the Church kept 
 her Creeds ! — the Succession ! — the four great Councils ! — 
 the unbroken unity of essential dogma. But you ' — he 
 turned with renewed passion on his companion — ' what 
 have you done \\dth the Creeds ! Every word in them 
 steeped in the heart's blood of generations ! — and you put 
 them aside as a kind of theological bric-a-brac that concerns 
 us no more. Meynell ! — you have no conception of the 
 forces that this movement of yours, if you persist in it, 
 will unchain against you ! — You are like children playing 
 with the lightning ! ' 
 
 Denunciation and warning sat with a curious majesty on 
 the little Bishop as he launched these words. It was with 
 a visible efiort that Meynell braced himself against them. 
 
 ' Perhaps I estimate the forces for and against, difierently 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 103 
 
 from yourself, Bishop. But when you prophesy wax, I 
 agree. There will be war ! — and that makes the novelty 
 of the situation. Till now there has never been equality 
 enough for war. The heretic has been an excrescence to 
 be cut away. Now you will have to make some terms 
 with him ! For the ideas behind him have invaded youi 
 inmost life. They are all about you and around you — 
 and when you go out to fight him, you will discover that 
 you are half on his side ! ' 
 
 ' If that means,' said the Bishop impatiently — ' that 
 the Church is accessible to new ideas — that she is now, as 
 she has always been, a learned Church, — the Church of 
 Westcott and Lightfoot, of a host of younger scholars who 
 are as well acquainted with the ideas and contentions of 
 Modernism — as you call it — as any Modernist in Europe — 
 and are still the faithful servants and guardians of Christian 
 dogma — why then, you say what is true ! We perfectly 
 understand your positions ! — and we reject them.' 
 
 Through Meynell's expression there passed a gleam — 
 slight and gentle — of something like triumph. 
 
 ' Forgive me ! — but I think you have given me my point. 
 Let me recall to you the French sayings — " Comprendre, 
 c'est pardonner — Comprendre, c'est aimer." It is because 
 for the first time you do understand them ! — that, for the 
 first time, the same arguments play upon you as play upon 
 us — it is for that very reason that we regard the field as 
 half won, before the battle is even joined.' 
 
 The Bishop gazed upon him with a thin dropping lip — 
 an expression of suffering in the clear blue eyes. 
 
 ' That Christians ' — he said under his breath, — ' should 
 divide the forces of Christ — with the sin and misery of this 
 world devouring and defiling our brethren day by day ! ' 
 
 ' What if it be — not " dividing " — but doubUng — the 
 forces of ChriBt ! ' said Meynell, with pale resolution. ' All 
 
ro4 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 that we ask is the Church should recognise existing 
 facts — that organisation should shape itself to reality. In 
 our eyes, Christendom is divided to-day — or is rapidly 
 dividing itself — into two wholly new camps. The division 
 between Catholic and Protestant is no longer the supreme 
 division ; for the force that is rising affects both Protestant 
 and Catholic equally. Each of the new divisions has a 
 philosophy and a criticism of its own ; each of them has an 
 immense hold on human life, though Modernism is only now 
 slowly realising and puttiug out its power. Two camps ! — 
 two systems of thought ! — both of them, Christian thought. 
 Yet one of them, one only, is in fossession — of the churches, 
 the forms, the institutions ; the other is everywhere knock- 
 ing at the gates. " Give us our portion ! " — we say, — " in 
 Christ's name." But only our portion ! We do not dream 
 of dispossessing the old — it is the last thing, even, that 
 we desire. But for the sake of souls now wandering and 
 desolate, we ask to live side by side with the old — in 
 brotherly peace, in equal right — sharing what the past has 
 bequeathed ! Yes, even the loaves and fishes ! — they ought 
 to be justly divided out hke the rest. But, above all, the 
 powers, the opportunities, the trials, the labours of the 
 Christian Church ! ' 
 
 ' In other words, so far as the English Church is con- 
 cerned, you propose to reduce us within our own borders 
 to a peddling confusion of sects, held together by the mere 
 physical Imk of our buildings and our endowments ! ' 
 said the Bishop, as he straightened himself m. his chair. 
 
 He spoke with a stern and contemptuous force which 
 transformed the small body and sensitive face. In the old 
 room, the library of the Palace, with its rows of calf-bound 
 folios, and its vaulted fifteenth century roof, he sat as the 
 embodiment of ancient, inherited things, his gentleness 
 lost in that collective, that corporate pride, which has 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 105 
 
 been at once the noblest and the deadliest force in 
 history. 
 
 Meynell's expression changed, in correspondence. It, 
 too, grew harder, more challenging. 
 
 ' My Lord — is there no loss already to be faced, of another 
 kin d ? — is all well with the Chixrch ? How often have I 
 found you here — forgive me ! — grieving for the loss of souls 
 — the decline of faith — the empty churches — the dwmdUng 
 communicants — the spread ot secularist literature — the 
 hostihty of the workmen. And yet what devotion, what 
 zeal, there is in this diocese, beginnmg with our Bishop ! 
 Have we not often asked ourselves what such facts could 
 possibly mean ! — why God seemed to have forsaken us ? ' 
 
 ' They mean IvLxury and selfishness — the loss of discipline 
 at home and abroad,' said the Bishop, with bitter emphasis. 
 ' It is hard indeed to turn the denial of Christ into an 
 argument asaiast His Gospel ! ' 
 
 T.eyneii was silent. His heart was burning within him, 
 with a passionate sense, at once of the vast need and hungry 
 unrest, so sharply dismissed by the Bishop, and of the 
 efficacy of that ' new teaching ' for which he stood. But 
 he ceased to try and convey it by argument. After a few 
 moments, he began in his ordinary voice, to report various 
 developments ot the movement m the diocese, of which he 
 beUeved the Bishop to be still ignorant. 
 
 ' We wish to conceal nothing from you,' he said at last 
 with emotion ; ' and consistently with the trial of strength 
 that must come, we desire to lighten the burden on oui 
 bishop as much as we possibly can. This will be a solemn 
 testing of great issues, — we on our side are determined to do 
 nothmg to embitter or disgrace it 'i ' 
 
 The Bishop, now grown very white, looked at him intently. 
 
 ' I make one last appeal, Meynell, to your obedience ! — 
 and to the promises of your ordination.' 
 
loO THE CASE OF RICHARD^MEYNELL 
 
 * I was a boy then ' — said Meynell slowly — ' I am a man 
 now. 1 took those vows sincerely, in absolute good faith ; 
 and all the changes in me have come about, as it seems 
 to me, by the inbreathing of a spirit not my own — partly 
 from new knowledge — partly in trying to help my people 
 to hve — or to die. They represent to me things lawfully — 
 divmely — learnt. So that in the change itself, I cannot 
 acknowledge or feel wrong-doing. But you remind me — as 
 you have every right to do — that 1 accepted certain rules 
 and conditions. Now that I break them, must 1 not resign 
 the position dependent on them ? Clearly, if it were a 
 question of any ordinary society. But the Christian Church 
 is not an ordinary society ! It is the sum of Christian hie ! ' 
 
 The Bishop raised a hand of protest, but without 
 speaking. Htleyueii resumed — 
 
 ' And that Life makes the Church — moulds it afresh, from 
 age to age. There are times — we hold — when the Church 
 very nearly expresses the Life ; there are others when there 
 are great discordances between the Life, and its expression 
 in the Church. We beheve that there are such discordances 
 now; because — once more — of a New Learmng. And we 
 believe that to withdraw from the struggle to make the 
 Church more fuhy represent the Life, would be sheer dis- 
 loyalty and cowardice. We must stay it out, and do our 
 best. We are not dishonest — for unlike many Liberals of the 
 past and the present — we speak out ! We are inconsistent 
 indeed with a past pledge ; but are we any more inconsistent 
 than the High Churchman who repudiates the "blasphemous 
 fables " of the Mass when he signs the Articles, and then 
 encourages adoration of the Reserved Sacrament in his 
 church 't ' 
 
 The Bishop made no immediate reply. He was at 
 that moment involved in a struggle \nth an incumbent in 
 Markborough itself, who under the very shadow of the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 107 
 
 Cathedral had been celebrating the Assumption of the 
 Blessed Virgin, in flat disobedience to his diocesan. His 
 mind wandered for a minute or two to this case. Then 
 rousing himself, he said abruptly, with a keen look at 
 Meynell — 
 
 ' I know of course that, in your case, there can be no 
 question of clinging to the money of the Church.' 
 
 Meynell flushed. 
 
 ' I had not meant to speak of it — but your lordship 
 knows that all I receive from my living is given back to 
 Church purposes. I support myself by what I write. 
 There are others of us who risk much more than I — who 
 risk indeed their all ! ' 
 
 ' You have done a noble work for your people, Meynell.* 
 The Bishop's voice was not unlike a groan. 
 
 ' I have donenothingbut what wasmyboundenduty todo.' 
 
 ' And practically your parish is with you in this terrible 
 business ? ' 
 
 ' The church people in it, by an immense majority — and 
 some of the dissenters. Mr. Barron, as you know, is the chief 
 complainant, and there are of course some others with him.' 
 
 ' I expect to see Mr. Barron this afternoon,' remarked 
 the Bishop, frowning. 
 
 Meynell said nothing. 
 
 The Bishop rose. 
 
 ' I understand from your letter this morning that you 
 have no intention of repeating the service of last Sunday ? ' 
 
 ' Not at present. But the League will go to work at 
 once on a revised service-book.' 
 
 ' Which you propose to introduce on a given Sunday — 
 in all the Reformers' churches ? ' 
 
 * That is our plan.' 
 
 ' You are quite aware that this whole scheme may lead 
 to tumults — breaches of the peace ? ' 
 
io8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL ■ 
 
 * It may/ said Meynell reluctantly. 
 ' But you risk it ? ' 
 
 * We must/ said Meynell, after a pause. 
 
 ' And you refuse — I ask you once more — to resign your 
 living, at my request.' 
 
 ' I do — for the reasons I have given.' 
 
 The Bishop's eyes sparkled. 
 
 ' As to my course/ he said, drily — ' Letters of Request 
 will be sent at once to the Court of Arches preferring 
 charges of heretical teaching, and unauthorised services 
 against yourself and two other clergy, I shall be repre- 
 sented by so-and-so,' — he named the lawyers. 
 
 They stood, exchanging a few technical informations 
 of this kind for a few minutes. Then Meynell took up his 
 hat. The Bishop hesitated a moment, then held out his hand. 
 
 Meynell grasped it, and suddenly stooped and kissed 
 the episcopal ring. 
 
 ' I am an old man ' — said the Bishop brokenly — ' and 
 a weary one. I pray God that He will give me strength 
 to bear this burden that is laid upon me.' 
 
 Meynell went away, with bowed head. The Bishop 
 was left alone. He moved to the window and stood looking 
 out. Across the green of the quadrangle rose the noble 
 mass of the Cathedral. His hps moved in prayer ; but all 
 the time it was as though he saw beside the visible structure, 
 — its ordered beauty, its proud and cherished antiquity — 
 a ruined phantom of the great church, roofless and fissured, 
 its sacred places open to the winds and rains, its pavements 
 broken and desolate. 
 
 The imagination grew upon him ; and it was only with 
 a great effort that he escaped from it. 
 
 ' My bogeys are as foolish as Barbara's ! ' he said to 
 himself with a smile, as he went back to the daily toil of his 
 letters. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Mey NELL left the Palace shaken and exhausted. He carried 
 in his mind the image of his Bishop, and he walked in bitter- 
 ness of soul. The quick optiniistic imagination which had 
 alone made the action of these last weeks possible had for the 
 moment deserted him, and he was paying the penalty of his 
 temperament. 
 
 He turned into the Cathedral, and knelt there some time, 
 conscious less of articulate prayer than of the vague in- 
 fluences of the place ; the warm grey of its shadows, the 
 relief of its mere space and silence ; the beauty of the creep- 
 ing sunlight — gules, or, and purple — on the spreading pave- 
 ments. And vaguely — while the Bishop's grief stUl, as it 
 were, smarted within his own heart — there arose the sense 
 that he was the mere instrimient of a cause ; that personal 
 shrinking and compunction were not allowed him ; that he 
 was the guardian of nascent rights and claims far beyond 
 anything affecting his own life. Some such conviction is 
 essential to the religious leader — to the enthusiast indeed 
 of any kind ; and it was not withheld from Richard Meynell. 
 
 "When he rose and went out, he saw coming towards him 
 a man he knew well, — Fenton, the Vicar of a chiurch on the 
 outskirts of Markborough, famous for its ' high ' doctrine 
 and services ; a young boyish fellow, curly-haired, in whom 
 the ' gaiety ' that Catholicism, Anglican or Roman, pre- 
 scribes to her most devout children was as conspicuous as an 
 
 109 
 
no THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ascetic and laborious life. Meynell loved and admired him. 
 At a small clerical meeting the two men had once held an 
 argument that had been long remembered — Fenton main- 
 taining hotly the doctrine of an intermediate and purgato- 
 rial state after death, basing it entirely on a vision of Saint 
 Perpetua recorded in the Acta of that Saint. Impossible, 
 said the fair-haired, frank-eyed priest — who had been one of 
 the best wicket-keeps of his day at Winchester — that so 
 solemn a vision, granted to a martyr, at the moment almost 
 of death, could be misleading. Purgatory therefore must 
 be accepted and believed ; even though it might not be 
 expedient to proclaim it publicly from an Anglican pulpit. 
 ' Since the evening when I first read the Acta of SS. Perpetua 
 and Felicitas/ said the speaker, with an awed sincerity, 
 ' I have never doubted for myself, nor have I dared to 
 hide from my penitents what is my own opinion.' 
 
 In reply, Meynell, instead of any general argument, had 
 gently taken the very proof offered him, i.e. the vision ; dis- 
 secting it, the time in which it arose, and the mind in which 
 it occurred, with a historical knowledge, and a quick and 
 tender penetration which had presently absorbed the little 
 company of listeners. Till Fenton said abruptly, with a 
 frown of perplexity — 
 
 ' In that way, one might explain anything — the Trans- 
 figuration for instance — or Pentecost.' 
 
 Meynell looked up quickly. 
 
 ' Except — the mind that dies for an idea ! ' 
 
 Yet the encounter had left them friends ; and the two 
 men had been associated not long afterwards in an heroic 
 attempt to stop some dangerous rioting arising out of a 
 strike in one of the larger collieries. 
 
 Meynell watched the young figure of Fenton approaching 
 through the bands of light and shadow in the great nave. 
 As it came nearer, some instinct made him stand still, as 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL tii 
 
 though he became the mere spectator of what was about to 
 happen. Fenton lifted his head ; his eyes met Meynell's, 
 and without the smallest recognition, his gaze fixed on the 
 pavement, he passed on towards the east end of the Cathedral. 
 
 Meynell straightened himself for a minute's ' recollec- 
 tion,' and went his way. On the pavement outside the 
 western portal he ran into another acquaintance, — a Canon 
 of the Cathedral, hurrying home to lunch from a morning's 
 work in the Cathedral library. Canon France looked up, 
 saw who it was, and Meynell, every nerve strained to its 
 keenest, perceived the instant change of expression. But 
 there was no ignoring him; though the Canon did not 
 offer to shake hands. 
 
 * Ah ! Meynell, is that you ? A fine day at last ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, we may save the harvest yet I * said Meynell, 
 pausing in his walk. 
 
 A kind of nervous curiosity bade him try and detain 
 the Canon, But France — a man of sixty-five, with a 
 large Buddha-like face, and a pair of remarkably shrewd 
 and humorous black eyes — looked him quickly over from 
 top to toe, and hurried on, throwing a ' good-bye ' over his 
 shoulder. When he and Meynell had last met, it had been 
 to talk for a friendly hour over Monseigneur Duchesne's 
 last book, and its bearing on TJltramontane pretensions ; 
 and they had parted with a cordial grip of the hand, pro- 
 mising soon to meet again. 
 
 ' Yet he knew me for a heretic then ! ' thought 
 Meynell. ' I nevei made any secret of my opinions.' 
 
 All the same, as he walked on, he forced himself 
 to acknowledge to the full the radical change in the 
 situation. Acts of war suspend the normal order ; and 
 no combatant has any right to complain. 
 
 Then a moment's weariness seized him, of the whole train 
 of thought to which his days and nights were now committed ; 
 
112 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and he turned with eagerness to look at the streets of Mark- 
 borough, full of a market-day crowd, and of ' the great 
 mundane movement/ Farmers and labourers were walking 
 up and down, oxen and sheep in the temporary pens of the 
 market-place were waiting for purchasers ; there was a 
 Socialist lecturer in one corner, and a Suffragist lady on a 
 waggon in another. The late August sun shone upon the 
 ruddy faces and broad backs of men to whom certainly 
 it did not seem to be of great importance whether the 
 Athanasian Creed were omitted from the devotions of 
 Christian people or no. There was a great deal of chaffering 
 going on ; a little courting, and some cheating. Meynell 
 recognised some of his parishioners, spoke to a farmer 
 or two, exchanged greeting with a sub-agent of the miners* 
 union, and gave some advice to a lad of his choir who 
 had turned against the pits, and come to ' hire ' himself at 
 MarkboTough. 
 
 It was plain to him however, after a little, that although 
 he might wish to forget himself among the crowd, the crowd 
 was on the contrary rather sharply aware of the Rector of 
 Upcote. He perceived as he moved slowly up the street 
 that he was in fact a marked man. Looks followed him ; 
 and the men he knew greeted him with a difference. 
 
 A little beyond the market-place, he turned down a 
 narrow street leading to the mother church of the town, — 
 an older foundation even than the cathedral. Knocking at 
 the door in the wall he was admitted to an old Rectory 
 house, adjacent to the church, and in its low-ceiled dining- 
 room he found six of the already famous ' eighteen ' 
 assembled ; among them the two other clergy who with 
 himself had been singled out for the first testing prosecution. 
 A joint letter was being drawn up for the press. 
 
 Meynell was greeted with rejoicing — a quiet rejoicing, 
 as of men occupied with grave matters, that precluded any 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 113 
 
 ebullience of talk. With Meynell's appearance, the meeting 
 became more formal, and it was proposed to put the vicar ol 
 the ancient church under whose shadow they were gathered, 
 into the chair. The old man, Treherne by name, had been a 
 double-first in days when double-firsts were everything, 
 and in a class-list not much more modern than Mr. Glad- 
 stone's. He was a gentle, scholarly person, silent and timid 
 in ordinary life, and his adhesion to the ' eighteen ' had 
 been an astonishment to friends and foes. But he was 
 not to be inveigled into the * chair ' on any occasion, least 
 of all in his own dining-room. 
 
 * I should keep you here all night, and you would get 
 nothing done,' he said with a smiling wave of the hand. 
 ' Besides — excludat jurgia -finis I — let there be an age-limit in 
 all things ! Put Meynell in. It is he that has brought 
 us all into this business.' 
 
 So, for some hours or more, Meynell and the six grappled 
 with the letter that was to convey the challenge of the re- 
 volted congregations to the general public through the 
 Times. It was not an easy matter, and some small jealousies 
 and frictions lifted their heads that had been wholly 
 lost sight of in the white-hot feeling of the inauguration 
 meeting. 
 
 Yet on the whole the seven men gathered in this room 
 were not unworthy to lead the ' forlorn hope ' they 
 had long determined on. Darwen, — young, handsome, 
 spiritual, a First Classman, and a Chancellor's mednllist; 
 — Waller, his Oxford friend, a man of the same type, both 
 representing the recent flowing back of intellectual forces 
 into the church which for nearly half a century had 
 abandoned her ; Petitot, S\vis3 by origin, small, black-eyed, 
 irrepressible, ■vv-ith a great popularity among the hosiery 
 operatives of whom his parish was mainly composed ; 
 Derrick, the Socialist, of humble origin and starved 
 
 I 
 
114 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 education, yet possessed of a natural sway over men, 
 given him by a pair of marvellous blue eyes, a character 
 of transparent simplicity, a tragic honest)'' and the bitter- 
 sweet gift of the orator ; Chesham, a man who had left 
 the army for the Church, had been grapphng for ten years 
 with a large parish of secularist artisans, and was now 
 preaching Modernism with a Franciscan fervour and 
 success ; and Rollin, who owned a slashing literary style, 
 was a passionate Liberal in all fields, had done excellent 
 work in the clearing and cleaning of slums, with much 
 loud and unnecessary talk by the way, and wrote occa- 
 sionally for the Daily Watchman. Chesham and Darwen 
 were Meynell's co-defendants in the suit brought by the 
 Bishop. 
 
 Rollin alone seemed out of place in this gathering of 
 men drawing tense breath under a new and almost unbear- 
 able responsibility. He was so in love with the sensational, 
 notoriety side of the business, so eager to pull wires, and 
 square editors, so frankly exultant in the * big row ' coming 
 on, that Meynell, with the Bishop's face still in his mind, 
 could presently hardly endure him. He felt as Renan 
 towards Gavroche. Was it worth while to go through so 
 much that Rollin might cut a figure, and talk at large about 
 ' modern thought ' ? 
 
 However Darwen and Waller, Derrick also, were 
 just as determined as Meynell to keep down the frothy 
 self-advertising element in the campaign to the minimum 
 that human nature seems unable to do without. So that 
 Rollin found himself gradually brought into line, being not 
 a bad fellow, but only a common one ; and he abandoned 
 with much inward chagrin the project of a flaming ' inter- 
 view ' for the Daily Watchman on the following day. 
 
 And indeed as this handful of men settled down to the 
 consideration of the agenda for a large Conference to be 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 115 
 
 held in Markborough the following week, there might have 
 been discerned in six of them, at least, a temper that glorified 
 both them and their enterprise ; a temper of serious- 
 ness, courage, unalterable conviction ; with such delicacy 
 of feeling as befits men whose own brethren and familiar 
 companions have become their foes. They were all pastors 
 in the true sense ; and every man of them knew that in a 
 few months he would probably have lost his benefice and 
 his prospects. Only Treherne was married ; and only he 
 and Eollin had private means. 
 
 Meynell was clearly their leader. Where the hopefulness 
 of the others was intermittent his was constant ; his know- 
 ledge of the English situation generally, as well as of the 
 lie of forces in the Markborough district, was greater than 
 theirs ; and his ability as a writer made him their natural 
 exponent. It was he who drew up the greater part of theii 
 ' encyclical ' for the press ; and by the time the meeting was 
 over he had so heightened in them the sense of mission, so 
 cheered them with the vision of a wide response from the 
 mind of England, that all lesser thoughts were sunk, and 
 they parted in quietness and courage. 
 
 Meynell left the outskirts of Markborough by the 
 Maudeley road, meaning to walk to Upcote by Forked 
 pond and Maudeley park. 
 
 It was now nearly a fortnight since he had seen Mary 
 Elsmere, and for the first time, almost, in these days of 
 storm and stress, could the mind make room for some 
 sore brooding on the fact. He had dined at Maudeley, 
 making time with infinite difiiculty ; Mrs. Elsmere and her 
 daughter were not there. He had asked Mrs. Flaxman to 
 tea at the Rectory, and had suggested that she should bring 
 her sister and her niece. Mr. and Mrs. Flaxman appeared — 
 without companions. Once or twice he had caught sight 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 of Mary Elsmere's figure in the distance of Miss Puttenham's 
 garden. Yet he had not ventured to intrude upon the two 
 friends. It had seemed to him by then that it must be her 
 will to avoid him ; and he respected it. 
 
 As to other misgivings and anxieties, they were many. 
 As Meynell entered the Maudeley lane, with the woods of 
 Sandf ord Abbey on his left, and the little trout-stream flash- 
 ing and looping through the water meadows on his right, 
 his mind was often occupied by a conversation between 
 himself and Stephen Barron which had taken place the night 
 before. Meynell could not but think of it remorsefully. 
 
 * And I can explain nothing — to make it easier for the 
 poor old fellow — nothing ! He thinks if we had allowed 
 the engagement, it would all have come right — he would 
 have got a hold upon her, and been able to shape her. Oh 
 my dear boy — my dear boy ! Yet, when the time comes, 
 Stephen shall have any chance, any help I can give him — 
 unless indeed she has settled her destiny for herself by 
 then, without any reference to us. And Stephen shall 
 know — what there is to know ! ' 
 
 As to Hester herself, she seemed to have been keeping 
 the Fox- Wilton household in perpetual fear. She went 
 about in her mocking, mysterious way, denying that she 
 knew anything about Sir Philip Meryon, or had any deal- 
 ings with him. Yet it was shrewdly suspected that letters 
 had passed between them, and Hester's proceedings were 
 so quick-silverish and incalculable, that it was impossible 
 to keep a constant watch upon her. In the wilderness of 
 Maudeley Park, which lay directly between the two houses, 
 they might quite well have met ; they probably had met. 
 Meynell noticed and rebuked in himself a kind of settled 
 pessimism as to Hester's conduct and future. ' Do what you 
 will,' it seemed to say — ' do all you can — but that life has in 
 it the ferments of tragedy.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 117 
 
 Had they at least been doing all they could ? — he asked 
 himself anxiously, vowing that no public campaign must or 
 should distract him from a private trust much older than 
 it, and no less sacred. In the midst of the turmoil of these 
 weeks, he had been corresponding on Lady Fox-Wilton's 
 behalf with a lady in Paris, to whom a girl of Hester's age 
 and kind might be safely committed, for the perfecting of 
 her French and music. It had been necessary to warn the 
 lady that in the case of such a pensionnaire as Hester the 
 male sex might give trouble ; and Hester had not yet 
 signified her gracious consent to go. 
 
 But she would go — she must go — and either he or 
 Alice Puttenham would take her over and instal her. 
 Good Heavens, if one had only Edith Fox- Wilton to 
 depend on in these troubles ! 
 
 As for Philip Meryon, he was, of course, now and always, 
 a man of vicious habits and no scruples. He seemed to be 
 staying at Sandford with the usual crew of flashy disreput- 
 able people, and to allow Hester to run any risks with 
 regard to him would be simply criminal. Yet with so 
 inefficient a watch-dog as Lady Fox-Wilton, who could 
 guarantee anything ? Alice, of course, thought of nothing 
 else than Hester, night and day. But it was part of the 
 pathos of the situation that she had so little influence on 
 the child's thoughts and deeds. 
 
 Poor, lonely woman ! In Alice's sudden friendship 
 for Mary Elsmere, her junior by some twelve years, the 
 Rector, with an infinite pity, read the confession of a need 
 that had become at last intolerable. For these seventeen 
 years he had never known her make an intimate friend, and 
 to see her now with this charming responsive girl was to 
 realise what the long hunger for affection must have been. 
 Yet even now, how impossible to satisfy it, as other women 
 could satisfy it ! What ghosts and shadows about the 
 path of friendship. 
 
ii8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * A dim and perilous way ' his mind went sounding 
 back along the intricacies of Alice Puttenham's story. The 
 old problems arose in connection with it, — problems now 
 of ethics, now of expediency. And interfused with them 
 a sense of dull amazement and yet of intolerable repetition 
 — in this difficulty which had risen with regard to Hester. 
 The owner of Sandford —an^ Hester I When he had first 
 seen them together, it had seemed a thing so sinister, that 
 his mind had refused to take it seriously. A sharp word 
 to her, a word of warning to her natural guardians — and 
 surely all was mended. PhiUp never stayed more than 
 three weeks in the old house ; he would very soon be gone, 
 and Hester's fancy would turn to something else. 
 
 But that the passing shock should become anything 
 more ! There rose before Meynell's imagination a vision 
 of the two by the river, not in the actual brightness of 
 the August afternoon, but bathed, as it were, in angry 
 storm-light ; behind them, darkness, covering ' old unhappy 
 far-off things.' From that tragical gloom it seemed as 
 though their young figures had but just emerged, unnaturally 
 clear ; and yet the trailing clouds were already threatening 
 the wild beauty of the girl. 
 
 He blamed himself for lack of foresight. It should have 
 been utterly impossible for those two to meet! Meryon 
 generally appeared at Sandford three times a year, 
 for various sporting purposes. Hester might easily 
 have been sent away during these descents. But the 
 fact was she had grown up so rapidly, — yesterday a 
 mischievous child, to-day a woman in her first bloom — 
 that they had all been taken by surprise. Besides who 
 could have imagined any communication whatever between 
 the Fox- Wilton household, and the riotous party at 
 Sandford Abbey ? 
 
 As to the girl herself, Meynell was always conscious of 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 119 
 
 being engaged in some long struggle to save and protect 
 his ward against her will. There were circunistances 
 connected with Hester that should have stirred in the few 
 people who knew them a special softness of heart in regard 
 to her. But it was not easy to feel it. The Eector had 
 helped two women to watch over her upbringing ; he 
 had brought her to her first communion, and tried hard, 
 and quite in vain, to instil into her the wholesome mysticisms 
 of the Christian faith ; and the more efforts he made, the 
 more sharply was he aware of the hard egotistical core of 
 the girl's nature, of Hester's fatal difference from other girls. 
 
 And yet, as he thought of her with sadness and per- 
 plexity, there came across him the memory of Mrs. Els- 
 mere's sudden movement tov^ards Hester ; how she had 
 drawn the child to her and kissed her — she, so unearthly 
 and so spiritual, whose very aspect shewed her the 
 bondswoman of Christ. 
 
 The remembrance rebuked him, and he fell into fresh 
 plans about the chUd. She must be sent away at once ! — 
 and if there were really any sign of entanglement he must 
 himself go to Sandford, and beard Philip in his den. 
 There was knowledge in his possession that might be used 
 to frighten the fellow. He thought of his cousin with loathing 
 and contempt. 
 
 But — to do him justice — Meryon knew nothing of 
 those facts that gave such an intolerable significance to 
 any contact whatever between his besmirched life and 
 that of Hester Fox- Wilton. 
 
 Meryon knew nothing — and Stephen knew nothing — 
 nor the child herself. Meynell shared his knowledge with 
 only two other persons — no ! — three. Was that woman, 
 that troublesome excitable woman, whose knowledge had 
 been for years the terror of three lives — was she alive 
 still ? Ralph Fox-Wilton had originally made it wel 
 
cao THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 worth her while to go to the States. That was in the days 
 when he was prepared to pay anything. Then for years 
 she had received an allowance, which, however, Meynell 
 believed had stopped some time before Sir Ralph's death. 
 Meynell remembered that the stopping of it had caused 
 some friction between Ralph and his wife. Lady Fox- 
 Wilton had wished it continued. But Ralph had obstin- 
 ately refused to pay any more. Nothing had been heard 
 of her, apparently, for a long while. But she had still a 
 son and grand-children living in Upcote village. 
 
 Meynell opened the gate leading into the Forked pond 
 enclosure. The pond had been made by the damming of 
 part of the trout stream at the point where it entered the 
 Maudeley estate, and the diversion of the rest to a new 
 channel. The nai'row strip of land between the pond 
 and the new channel made a little waterlocked kingdom 
 of its own for the cottage, which had been originally a 
 fishing hut, built in an Isaac Walton -ish mood, by one of the 
 owners of Maudeley. But the public footpath through the 
 park ran along the further side of the pond, and the doings 
 of the inhabitants of the cottage, thick though the leafage 
 was, could sometimes be observed from it. 
 
 Involuntarily Meynell's footsteps lingered as the little 
 thatched house became visible, its windows set wide to 
 the sounds and scents of the September day. There was 
 conveyed to him a sense of its warm loneliness in the summer 
 nights, of the stars glimmering upon it through the trees, 
 of the owls crying round it. And within — in one of those 
 upper rooms — those soft deep eyes, at rest in sleep ? — 
 or looking out, perhaps, into the breathing glooms 
 of the wood ? — the sweet face propped on the slender 
 hand. 
 
 He felt certain that the inner life of such a personality 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 121 
 
 as Mary Elsmere was ricli and passionate. Sometimes, 
 in these lonely hours, did she think of the man who had 
 told her so much of himself on that, to him, memorable 
 walk ? Meynell looked back upon the intimate and 
 autobiographical talk into which he had been led with 
 some wonder, and a hot cheek. He had confessed himself 
 partly to Elsmere's daughter, on a hint of sympathy ; 
 as to one entitled to such a confidence, so to speak, by 
 inheritance, should she desire it ; but still more — he owned 
 it — to a delightful woman. It was the first time in 
 Meynell's strenuous life, filled to the brim with intellectual 
 and speculative effort on the one hand, and by the care of 
 his parish on the other, that he had been conscious of any 
 such feeling as now possessed him. In his first manhood 
 it had been impossible for him to marry, because he had 
 his brothers to educate. And when they were safely out 
 in the world, the Eector, absorbed in the curing of sick 
 bodies, and the saving of sick souls, coidd not dream of 
 spending the money thus set free on a household for 
 himself. 
 
 He had had his temptations of the flesh, his gusts of 
 inclination, like other men. But he had fought them down 
 victoriously, for conscience sake ; and it was long now since 
 anything of the sort had assailed him. 
 
 He paused a moment among the trees, just before the 
 cottage passed out of sight. The sun was sinking in a 
 golden haze, the first prophecy of autumnal mists. Broad 
 lights lay here and there upon the water, to be lost again 
 in depths of shadow, wherein woods of dream gave back 
 the woods that stooped to them from the shore. Every- 
 thing was so still, he could hear the fish rising, the run of 
 a squirrel along a branch, the passage of a coot through 
 the water. 
 
 The very profundity of nature's peace suddenly 
 
122 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 shewed liim to himself. A man engaged in a struggle 
 beyond his power ! — committed to one of those tasks that 
 rend and fever the human spirit even while they ennoble 
 it ! He had talked boldly to Stephen and the Bishop of 
 * war ' — ' inevitable ' and * necessary war.' At the same 
 time there was no one who would suffer from war more 
 than he. The mere daily practice of Christianity, as a 
 man's life-work, is a daily training in sensitiveness, involves 
 a daily refining of the nerves. When a man, so trained, 
 so refined, takes up the public tasks of leadership and 
 organisation, in this noisy hard-hitting world, his nature is 
 set at enmity with itself. Meynell did not yet know 
 whether the mystic in him would allow the fighter in him 
 to play his part. 
 
 If the memory of Fenton's cold, um-ecognizing eyes 
 and rigid mouth, as they passed each other in the silence 
 of the cathedral, had power to cause so deep a stab of pain, 
 how was he to brace himself in the future to what must 
 come ? — the alienation of friend after friend, the condemna- 
 tion of the good, the tumult, the poisoned feeling, the 
 abuse, public and private ? 
 
 Only by the help of that Power behind the veil of things, 
 perceived by the mind of faith ! ' " Thou, Thou art being 
 and breath / "—Thine is this truth, which, like a living 
 hand, bridles and commands me. Grind my life as corn 
 in Thy mill ! — but forsake me not ! Nay, Thou wilt not, 
 Thou canst not forsake me ! ' 
 
 No hope for a man attempting such an enterprise as 
 Meynell's but in this simplicity, this passion of self- 
 surrender. Without it no adventure in the spiritual fight 
 has ever touched and fired the heart of man. Meynell 
 was sternly and simply aware of it. 
 
 But how is this temper, this passion kindled ? 
 
 The answer flashed. Everywhere the divine ultimate 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 123 
 
 Power mediates itself through the earthly elements and 
 forces, speaks through small childish things, incarnates 
 itself in lover, wife, or friend — flashing its mystic fire 
 through the web of human relations. It seemed to 
 Meynell, as he stood in the evening stillness by the pond, 
 hidden from sight by the Ught brushwood round him, that, 
 absorbed as he had been from his youth in the symbolism 
 and passion of the religious life, as other men are absorbed 
 in art or science, he had never really understood one of 
 these great words by which he imagined himself to live 
 — Love, or Endurance, 01 Sacrifice, or Joy — because he 
 had never known the most sacred, the most intimate 
 things of human life out of which they grow. 
 
 And there uprose in him a sudden yearning — a sudden 
 flame of desire — for the revealing love of wife and child. 
 As it thrilled through him, he seemed to be looking 
 down into the eyes — so frank, so human — of Mary 
 Elsmere. 
 
 Then while he watched, lost in feeling, yet instinctively 
 listening for any movement in the wood, there was a flicker 
 of white among the trees opposite. A girl, book in hand, 
 came down to the water's edge, and paused there a little, 
 watching the glow of sunset on the water. Meynell 
 retreated further into the wood ; but he was still able 
 to see her. Presently she sat down, propping herself 
 against a tree, and began to read. 
 
 Her presence, the grace of her bending neck, informed 
 the silence of the woods with life and charm. Meynell 
 watched her a few moments in a trance of pleasure. But 
 memory broke in upon the trance and scattered all his 
 pleasure. What reasonable hope of winning the daughter 
 of that quiet indomitable woman who, at their first meeting, 
 had shewn him with such icy gentleness the gulf between 
 himself and them ? 
 
124 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 And yet, between himself and Mary, lie knew that there 
 was no gulf ! Spiritually she was her father's child, and 
 not her mother's. 
 
 But to suppose that she would consent to bring back 
 into her mother's life the same tragic conflict, in new form, 
 which had already rent and seared it, was madness. He 
 read his dismissal in her quiet avoidance of him ever 
 since she had been a witness of her mother's manner 
 towards him. 
 
 No. Such a daughter would never inflict a second 
 sorrow, of the same kind, on such a mother. Meynell 
 bowed his head, and went slowly away. It was as though 
 he left youth and all delightfulness behind him, in the 
 deepening dusk of the woods. 
 
 While Meynell was passing through the woods of 
 Forked Pond, a very different scene, vitally connected with 
 the Rector and his fortunes, was passing, a mile away 
 in a workman's cottage at Upcote Minor. 
 
 Barron had spent an agitated day. After his inter- 
 view with the Bishop in which he was rather angrily con- 
 scious that his devotion and his zeal were not rewarded 
 with as much gratitude, or as complete a confidence on 
 the Bishop's part as he might have claimed, he called on 
 Canon France. 
 
 To him he talked long and emphatically on the situation, 
 on the excessive caution of the Bishop, who had entirely 
 refused to inhibit any one of the eighteen, at present, 
 lest there should be popular commotions ; on the measures 
 that he and his friends were taking, and on the strong feel- 
 ing that he believed to be rising against the Modernists. 
 It was evident that he was discontented with the Bishop, 
 and believed himself the only saviour of the situation. 
 
 Canon France watched him, sunk deep in his armchair, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 125 
 
 the plump fingers of one hand playing ^vith certain charter 
 rolls of the fourteenth century, with their seals attached, 
 which lay in a tray beside him. He had just brought them 
 over from the Cathedral Library, and was longing to be 
 at work on them. Barron's conversation did not interest 
 him in the least, and he even grudged him his second cup 
 of tea. But he did not show his impatience. He prophesied 
 a speedy end to a ridiculous movement ; wondered what 
 on earth would happen to some of the men, who had 
 nothing but their livings, and finally said, with a humorous 
 eye, and no malicious intention : 
 
 * The Romanists have always an easy way of settling 
 these things. They find a scandal or invent one. But 
 Meynell I suppose is inamaculate.' 
 
 Barron shook his head. 
 
 * Meynell's life is absolutely correct, outwardly,* he 
 said slowly. ' Of course the Upcote people whom he has 
 led away think him a saint.' 
 
 'Ah well,' said the Canonsmiling, ' no hope then — thatway. 
 I rejoice, of course, for Meynell's sake. But the goodness of 
 the unbeliever is becoming a great puzzle to mankind.' 
 
 ' Apparent goodness,' said Barron hotly. 
 
 The Canon smiled again. He wished — and this time 
 more intensely — that Barron would go, and let him get to 
 his charters. 
 
 And in a few minutes Barron did take his departure. 
 As he walked to the inn to find his carriage he pondered 
 the problem of the virtuous unbeliever. A certain Bampton 
 lecture by a well-known and learned Bishop recurred to 
 him, which most frankly and drastically connected ' Un- 
 belief ' with * Sin.' Yet somehow the view was not borne 
 out, as in the interests of a sound theology it should have 
 been, by experience. 
 After all, he reached Upcote in good time before dinner, 
 
126 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and remembering that lie had to inflict a well-deserved 
 lecture on the children who had been caught injuring trees 
 and stealing wood in his plantations, he dismissed the carriage 
 and made his way, before going home, to the cottage which 
 stood just outside the village, on the way from Maudeley to 
 the Rectory and the Church. 
 
 He knocked peremptorily. But no one came. He 
 knocked again, chafing at the delay. But still no one 
 came, and after going round the cottage, tapping at one 
 of the ^vdndows, and getting no response, he was just going 
 away, in the belief that the cottage was empty, when there 
 was a rattling sound at the front door. It opened, and 
 an old woman stood in the doorway. 
 
 * You 've made a pretty noise,' she said grimly, ' but 
 there 's no one in but me.' 
 
 ' I am Mr. Barron,' said her visitor, sharply. ' And I 
 want to see John Broad. My keepers have been complain- 
 ing to me about his children's behaviour in the woods.' 
 
 The woman before him shook her head irritably. 
 
 ' What 's the good of asking me ? I only came off the 
 cars here last night.' 
 
 ' You 're a lodger, I suppose ? ' said Barron, eyeing her 
 suspiciously. He did not allow his tenants to take in 
 lodgers. 
 
 And the more he examined her the stranger did her 
 aspect seem. She was evidently a woman of seventy 
 or upwards, and it struck him that she looked haggard 
 and ill. Her greyish-white hair hung untidily about a 
 thin bony face; the eyes hollow and wavering, infected 
 the spectator with their own distress ; yet the distress was 
 80 angry that it rather repelled than appealed. Her dress 
 was quite out of keeping with the labourer's cottage in 
 which she stood. It was a shabby blue silk, fashionably 
 cut and set off by numerous lockets and bangles. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 127 
 
 She smiled scornfully at Barron's question. 
 
 ' A lodger ? Well I dare say I am. I 'm John's mother/ 
 
 ' His mother ? ' said Barron, astonished. ' I didn't 
 know he had a mother alive.* But as he spoke some vague 
 recollection of Theresa's talk in the morning came back 
 upon him. 
 
 The strange person in the doorway looked at him oddly. 
 
 ' Well I dare say you didn't. There 's a many as would 
 say the same. I 've been away this eighteen year, come 
 October.' 
 
 Barron, as she spoke, was struck with her accent, and 
 recalled her mention of ' the cars.' 
 
 ' Why you 've been in the States,' he said. 
 
 ' That's it — eighteen years.' Then suddenly, pressing 
 her hand to her forehead, she said angrily — ' I don't know 
 what you mean. What do you come bothering me for? 
 I don't know who you are, — and I don't know nothing 
 about your trees. Come in and sit down. John '11 be in 
 directly.' 
 
 She held the door open, and Barron, impelled by a 
 sudden curiosity, stepped in. He thought the woman was 
 half-witted ; but her silk dress, and her jewellery, above 
 all her sudden appearance on the scene as the mother of a 
 man whom he had always supposed to be alone in the 
 world, with three motherless neglected children, puzzled 
 him. 
 
 So as one accustomed to keep a sharp eye on the morals 
 and affairs of his cottage tenants, he began to question her 
 about herself. She had thrown herself confusedly on a 
 chair, and sat with her head thrown back, and her eyes 
 half-closed, — as though in pain. The replies he got from 
 her were short and grudging, but he made out from them 
 that she had married a second time in the States, that she 
 had only recently written to her son, who for some years 
 
128 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had supposed her dead, and had now come home to him, 
 havmg no other relation left in the world. 
 
 He soon convinced himself that she was not normally 
 sane. That she had no idea as to his own identity was 
 not surprising, for she had left Upcote for the States years 
 before his succession to the White House estate. But her 
 memory in all directions was confused, and her strange 
 talk made him suspect drugs. She had also, it seemed, 
 the usual grievances of the unsound mind, and beUeved 
 herself to be injured and assailed by persons to whom 
 she darkly alluded. 
 
 As they sat talking, footsteps were heard in the road 
 outside. Mrs. Sabin — so she gave her name — at once 
 hurried to the door and looked out. The movement 
 betrayed her excited, restless state — the state of one just 
 returned to a scene once familiar, and trying with a clouded 
 brain, to recover old threads and clues. 
 
 Barron heard a low cry from her, and looked round. 
 
 ' What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 He saw her bent forward, and pointing, her wrinkled 
 face expressing a wild astonishment. 
 
 ' That's her !— that 's my Miss Alice ! ' 
 
 Barron, following her gesture, perceived through the 
 half-open door two figures standing in the road on the 
 further side of a bit of village green. Meynell, who had 
 just emerged from Maudeley Park upon the highroad, had 
 met Alice Puttenham on her way to pay an evening visit 
 to the Elsmeres, and had stopped to ask a question about 
 some village affairs. Mise Puttenham's face was turned 
 towards John Broad's cottage ; the Rector had his back 
 to it. They were absorbed in what they were talking 
 about, and had of course no idea that they were watched. 
 
 ' Why do you say my Miss Alice ? ' Barron enquired, in 
 astonishment. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 129 
 
 Mrs. Sabin gave a low laugh. And at the moment, 
 Meynoll turned so that the level light now flooding the 
 village street shone full upon him. Mrs, Sabin tottered 
 back from the door, with another stifled cry, and sank into 
 her chair. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of her head. 
 • But — but they told me he was dead. He '11 have married 
 her then ? ' 
 
 She raised herself, peering eagerly at her companion. 
 
 ' Married whom ? ' said Barron, utterly mystified, but 
 afiected himself, involuntarily, by the excitement of his 
 strange companion. 
 
 ' Why — Miss Alice ! ' she said gasping. 
 
 ' Why should he marry her ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Sabin tried to control herself. ' I 'm not to talk 
 about that — I know I 'm not. But they give me my 
 money for fifteen year — and then they stopped giving it>— 
 three year ago. I suppose they thought I 'd never be 
 back here again. But John 's my flesh and blood, all the 
 same. I made Mr. Sabin write for me to Sir Ralph. But 
 there came a lawyer's letter and fifty pounds, — and that 
 was to be the last, they said. So when Mr. Sabin died — I 
 said I 'd come over and see for myself. But I 'm ill — you 
 see— and John 's a fool— and I must find some one as 'ull 
 tell me what to do. H you 're a gentleman living here ' — 
 she peered into his face — ' perhaps you '11 tell me ? Lady 
 Fox- Wilton '3 left comfortable, I know. Why shouldn't 
 she do what's handsome ? Perhaps you '11 give me a word 
 of advice. Sir ? But you mustn't tell ! — not a word to any- 
 body. Perhaps they '11 be for putting me in prison ? * 
 
 She put her finger to her mouth ; and then once more 
 she bent forward, passionately scrutinising the two people 
 in the distance. Barron had grown white. 
 
 ' If you want my advice you must try and tell me 
 plainly what all this means,' he said, sternly. 
 
I30 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 She looked at him — with a mad expression flickering 
 between doubt and desire. 
 
 ' Then you must shut the door, Sir/ she said at last. 
 Yet as he moved to do so, she bent forward once more to 
 look intently at the couple outside. 
 
 ' And what did they tell me that he for V she repeated, 
 in a tone half perplexed, half resentful. Then she turned 
 peremptorily to Barron. 
 
 ' Shut the door ! ' 
 
 Half an hour later, Barron emerged into the road, from 
 the cottage. He walked like a man bewildered. All that was 
 evil in him rejoiced ; all that was good sorrowed. He felt 
 that God had arisen, and scattered his enemies ; he also felt 
 a genuine horror and awe in the presence of human frailty. 
 
 All night long he lay awake, pondering how to deal with 
 the story which had been told him ; how to clear up its 
 confusions and implications ; to find some firm foothold in 
 the mad medley of the woman's talk — some reasonable 
 scheme of time and place. Much of what she had told 
 him had been frankly incoherent ; and to press her had 
 only made confusion worse. He was tolerably certain 
 that she was suffering from some obscure brain trouble. 
 The efiort of talking to him had clearly exhausted her ; 
 but he had not been able to refrain from making her talk. 
 At the end of the half hour he had advised her — in some 
 alarm at her ghastly look — to see a doctor. But the 
 suggestion had made her angry, and he had let it drop. 
 
 In the morning news was brought to him from 
 Broad's cottage that John Broad's mother, Mrs. Richard 
 Sabin, who had arrived from America only forty-eight 
 hours before, had died suddenly in the night. The bursting 
 of an unsuspected aneurism in the brain was, according to 
 the doctor called in, the cause of death. 
 
BOOK II 
 
 HESTER 
 
 " Light as the flying seed-balls is their play, 
 The silly maids ! " 
 
 " Who see in mould the rose unfold, 
 The soul through blood and tears." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ' I cannot get this skirt to hang as Lady Edith's did,' said 
 Sarah Fox- Wilton discontentedly. 
 
 ' Spend twenty guineas on it, my dear, as Lady Edith 
 did on hers, and it '11 be all right,' said a mocking voice. 
 
 Sarah frowned. She went on pinning and adjusting a 
 serge skirt in the making, which hung on the dummy before 
 her. ' Oh, we all know what you would like to spend on 
 your dress, Hester ! ' she said angrily, but indistinctly, as 
 her mouth was full of pins. 
 
 ' Because really nice frocks are not to be had any other 
 way,' said Hester coolly. ' You pay for them — and you 
 get them. But as for supposing you can copy Lady 
 Edith's frocks for nothing, why of course you can't, and 
 you don't ! ' 
 
 ' If I had ever so much money,' said Sarah severely, 
 ' I shouldn't think it right to spend what Lady Edith does 
 on her dress.' 
 
 ' Oh wouldn't you ! ' said Hester with a laugh, and a 
 yawn. ' Just give me the chance — that 's all ! ' Then she 
 turned her head — ' Lulu ! — you mustn't eat any more 
 toffy ! ' — and she flung out a mischievous hand and captured 
 a box that was lying on the table, before a girl, who was 
 sitting near it with a book, could abstract from it another 
 square of toffy. 
 
 ' Give it me ! ' said Lulu, springing up, and making 
 133 
 
134 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 for her assailant. Hester laughingly resisted, and they 
 wrestled for the box a little, till Hester suddenly let it go. 
 
 ' Take it then — and good luck to you ! I wouldn't 
 spoil my teeth and my complexion as you do — not for tons 
 of sweets. Hullo ! — ' the speaker sprang up — ' the rain 's 
 over, and it 's quite a decent evening. I shall go out for a 
 run and take Roddy.' 
 
 ' Then I shall have to come too,' said Sarah, getting up 
 from her knees, and pulling down her sleeves. ' I don't 
 want to at all, but Mamma says you are not to go out alone.' 
 
 Hester flushed. ' Do you think I can't escape you 
 all — if I want to ? Of course I can. What geese you are ! 
 None of you will ever prevent me from doing what I want 
 to do. It really would save such a lot of time and trouble 
 if you would get that into your heads.' 
 
 ' Where do you mean to go ? ' said Sarah stolidly, 
 without taking any notice of her remark. ' Because if 
 you '11 go to the village, I can get some binding I want.' 
 
 ' I have no intention whatever of going out for your 
 convenience, thank you ! ' said Hester, laughing angrily. 
 ' I am going into the garden, and you can come or not as 
 you please.' She opened the French window as she spoke 
 and stepped out. 
 
 ' Has Mamma heard from that Paris woman yet ? ' asked 
 Lulu, looking after Hester, who was now standing on the 
 lawn playing with a terrier-puppy she had lately brought 
 home, as a gift from a neighbouring farmer, — much to Lady 
 Fox- Wilton's annoyance. Hester had an absurd way of 
 making friends with the most unsuitable people, and they 
 generally gave her things. 
 
 ' The Rector expected to hear to-day.' 
 
 ' I don't believe she '11 go,' said Lulu, beginning again 
 on the toffy. She was a hea\'ily made girl of twenty, with 
 sleepy eyes and a dull complexion. She took littJe exercise, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 13.5 
 
 was inordinately fond of sweet things, helped her mother a 
 little in the housekeeping, and was intimately acquainted 
 with all the gossip of the village. So was Sarah ; but her 
 tongue was sharper than Lulu's, and her brain quicker. 
 She was therefore the unpopular sister ; while for Lulu her 
 acquaintances felt rather a contemptuous indulgence. 
 Sarah had had various love afEairs, which had come to 
 nothing, and was regarded as ' disappointed ' in the village. 
 Lulu was not interested in young men, and had never yet 
 been observed to take any trouble to capture one. So 
 long as she was allowed sufficient sixpenny novels to read, 
 and enough sweet things to eat, she was good-humoured 
 enough, and could do kind things on occasion for her friends. 
 Sarah was rarely known to do kind things ; but as her 
 woman friends were much more afraid of her than of Lulu, 
 she was in general treated with much more consideration. 
 
 Still it could not be said that Lady Fox-Wilton was to 
 be regarded as blessed in either of her two elder daughters. 
 And her sons were quite frankly a trouble to her. The 
 eldest, Sarah's junior by a year and a half, had just left 
 Oxford suddenly and ignominiously, without a degree, and 
 was for the most part loafing at home. The youngest, a 
 boy of fifteen, was supposed to be deUcate, and had been 
 removed from school by his mother on that account. He 
 too was at home, and a tutor, who lodged in the village, 
 was imderstood to be preparing him for the Civil Service. 
 He was a pettish and spiteful lad, and between him and 
 Hester existed perpetual feud. 
 
 But indeed Hester was at war with each member of 
 the family in turn ; sometimes with all of them together. 
 And it had been so from her earliest childhood. They 
 all felt instinctively that she despised them, and the slow 
 lethargic temperament which was in most of them an 
 inheritance from a father cast in one of the typical moidda 
 
136 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 of British Philistinism. There was some insurmountable 
 difference between her and them. In the first place her 
 beauty set her apart from the rest ; and beside her, 
 Sarah's sharp profile, and round apple-red cheeks, or 
 Lulu's clumsiness, made, as both girls were secretly aware, 
 an even worse impression than they need have made. 
 And in the next, there were in her strains of romantic 
 egotistic ability to which nothing in them corresponded. 
 She could play, she could draw — brilliantly, spontaneously 
 — up to a certain point, when neither Sarah nor Lulu 
 could stumble through a ' piece,' or produce anything 
 capable of giving the smallest satisfaction to their drawing- 
 master. She could chatter, on occasion, so that a room 
 full of people instinctively listened. And she had read 
 voraciously, especially poetry, where they were content 
 with pictire-papers, and the mildest of novels, Hester 
 brought nothing to perfection ; but there could be no 
 question that in every aspect of life she was constantly 
 making, in comparison with her family, a dashing or 
 dazzling eSect all the more striking because of the un- 
 attractive milieu out of which it sprang. 
 
 The presence of Lady Fox-Wilton, in particular, was 
 needed to shew these contrasts at their sharpest. 
 
 As Hester still raced about the lawn, with the dog, 
 that lady came round the corner of the house, with a shawl 
 over her head, and beckoned to the girl at play. Hester 
 carelessly looked round. 
 
 * What do you want. Mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Come here. I want to speak to you.' 
 
 Hester ran across the lawn in wide curves, playing 
 with the dog, and arrived laughing and breathless beside 
 the new-comer. Edith Fox-Wilton was a small withered 
 woman, in a widow's cap, who more than looked her age, 
 which was not far from fifty. She had been pretty in youth, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 137 
 
 and her blue eyes were still appealing, epecially when she 
 smiled. But she did not smile often, and she had the ex- 
 pression of one perpetually protesting against all the 
 agencies — this-worldly or other-worldly — which had the 
 control of her existence. Her weak fretfulness depressed 
 all the vitalities near her ; only Hester resisted. 
 
 At the moment, however, her look was not so much 
 fretful as excited. Her thin cheeks were much redder 
 than usual ; she constantly looked round as though 
 expecting or dreading some interruption ; and in a hand 
 which shook she held a just opened letter. 
 
 ' What is the matter, mamma ? ' asked Hester, a sharp 
 challenging note in her gay voice. ' You look as though 
 something had happened.' 
 
 ' Nothing has happened,' said Lady Fox-Wilton, hastily. 
 * And I wish, you wouldn't romp with the puppy in that 
 way, Hester. He 's always doing some damage to the 
 flowers. I 'm going out, and I wished to give you a 
 message from the Rector.* 
 
 ' Is that from Uncle Richard ? ' said Hester, glancing 
 carelessly at the letter. 
 
 Lady Fox- Wilton crushed it in her hand. 
 ' I told you it was. Why do you ask unnecessary 
 questions ? The Rector has heard from the lady in Paris 
 and he wants you to go as soon as possible. Either he or 
 Aunt Alice will take you over. We have had the best 
 possible recommendations. You will enjoy it very much. 
 They can get you the best lessons in Paris, they say. They 
 know everybody.' 
 
 'H'm — ' said Hester, reflectively. Then she looked 
 at the speaker—' Do you know, Mamma, that I happen 
 to be eighteen this week ? ' 
 
 ' Don't be silly, Hester! Of course I know ! ' 
 Well, you see, it 's rather important. Am I, or am I 
 
138 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 uot obliged to do what you and Mr. Meynell want me to 
 do ? I believe I 'm not obliged. Anyway I don't quite 
 see how you 're going to make me do it, if I don't want to.' 
 
 ' You can behave like a naughty, troublesome girl, 
 without any proper feeling, of course ! — if you choose,' 
 said Lady Fox-Wilton warmly. ' But I trust you will 
 do nothing of the kind. We are your guardians till you 
 are twenty-one ; and you ought to be guided by us.' 
 
 ' Well, of course I can't be engaged to Stephen, if you 
 say I mayn't — because there 's Stephen to back you up. 
 But if Queen Victoria could be a queen at eighteen, I don't 
 see why I shouldn't be fit at eighteen to manage my own 
 wretched afiairs ! Anyway — I — am — not — going to Paris 
 — unless I want to go. So I don't advise you to promise 
 that lady just yet. If she keeps her room empty, you 
 might have to pay for it ! ' 
 
 ' Hester, you are really the plague of my life ! ' cried 
 Lady Fox-Wilton helplessly. ' I try to keep you — the 
 Rector tries to keep you — out of mischief that any girl 
 ought to be ashamed of — and ' 
 
 ' What mischief ? ' demanded Hester peremptorily. 
 Don't run into generalities, Mamma.' 
 
 ' You know very well what mischief I mean ! ' 
 
 ' I know that you think I shall be running away some 
 day with Sir Philip Meryon ! ' said the girl laughing, but 
 with a fierce gleam in her eyes. ' I have no intention at 
 present of doing anything of the kind. But if anything 
 could make me do it, it would be the foolish way in which 
 you and the others behave. I don't believe the Rector 
 ever told you to set Sarah and Lulu on to dog me wherever 
 I go!' 
 
 ' He told me you were not to be allowed to meet 
 that man. You won't promise me not to meet him 
 — and what can we do ? You know what the Rector 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 139 
 
 feels. You know that he spent an hour j^esterday, 
 arguing and pleading with you, when he had been up 
 most of the night, preparing papers for this Commission. 
 What's the matter with you, Hester ! Are you quite in 
 your right senses ? ' 
 
 The girl had clasped her hands behind her back, and 
 stood with one foot forward — ' on tiptoe for a flight,' her 
 young figure and radiant look expressing the hot will which 
 possessed her. At the mention of Meynell's name, she 
 clearly hesitated, a frown crossed her eyes, her lip twitched. 
 Then she said with vehemence — 
 
 ' Who asked him to spend all that time ? Not I. Let 
 him leave me alone. He does not care twopence about me, 
 and it 's mere humbug and hypocrisy all his pretending to 
 care.' 
 
 ' And your Aunt Alice ! — who 's always worshipped you ? 
 Why she 's just miserable about you ! ' 
 
 ' She says exactly what you and Uncle Kichard tell her 
 to say — she always has ! Well, I don't know about Paris, 
 Mamma — I '11 think about it. If you and Sarah will just 
 let me be, I '11 take Koddy for a stroll, and then after tea I '11 
 tell you what I'll do.' And turning, she beckoned to a fine 
 colUe lazily sunning himself on the drawing-room steps, and 
 he sprang up, gambolling about her. 
 
 ' Promise you won't meet that man ! ' said Lady Fox- 
 Wilton, in agitation. 
 
 ' I beUeve he went up to Scotland to-day,' said Hester 
 laughing. ' I haven't the smallest intention of meeting 
 him. Come, Roddy ! ' 
 
 The eyes of the two met, — in those of the older 
 
 woman, impatience, a kind of cold exasperation ; in Hester's, 
 
 defiance. It was a strange look to pass between a mother 
 
 and daughter. Hester turned away, and then paused : — 
 
 ' Oh ! — by the way, Mamma — where are you going ? * 
 
I40 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Lady Fox- Wilton hesitated unaccountably. 
 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 Hester opened her eyes. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I ? Is it a secret ? I wanted you to 
 tell Aunt Alice something if you were going that way,' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' 
 
 Sarah suddenly emerged from the schoolroom window 
 and ran excitedly across the lawn towards her mother, — 
 
 * Have you heard this extraordinary story about John 
 Broad's mother ? Tibbald has just told me.' 
 
 Tibbald was the butler, and Sarah's special friend and 
 crony. 
 
 ' What story ? I msh you wouldn't allow Tibbald to 
 gossip as you do, Sarah ! ' said Lady Fox- Wilton angrily. 
 But a close observer might have seen that her bright 
 colour precipitately left her. 
 
 ' Why what harm was it ? ' cried Sarah, wondering. 
 
 * He told me, because it seems Mrs. Sabin used to be a 
 servant of ours long ago. Do you remember her. Mamma ? ' 
 
 Again Lady Fox-Wilton stumbled perceptibly in reply- 
 ing. She turned away, and with the garden scissors at 
 her waist she began vaguely to clip ofi some dead roses 
 from some bushes near her. 
 
 ' We once had a maid — for a very short time,' she said 
 over her shoulder, ' who married someone of that name. 
 What about her ? * 
 
 ' Well, she came back from America two days ago. 
 John Broad thought she was dead. He hadn't heard of 
 her for four years. But she tui'ned up on Tuesday — the 
 queerest old woman ! — she sat there boasting and chatter- 
 ing — in a silk dress with gold bracelets ! — they thought 
 she was going to make all their fortunes. But she must 
 just have been off her head — for she died last night in her 
 sleep, and there were only a few shillings on her — not 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 141 
 
 enough to biiry her. There 's to be an inquest this evening, 
 they say.' 
 
 ' Don't spend all your time chattering in the village, 
 Sarah,* said Lady Fox- Wilton, severely, as, still with her 
 back towards the girls, she moved away in the direction of 
 the drive. ' You '11 never get your dress done if you do.' 
 
 ' I say — what '3 wrong with mamma ? * said Hester, 
 coolly, looking after her. ' I suppose Bertie 's been 
 getting into some fresh bother/ 
 
 Bertie was the elder brother, who was Sarah's special 
 friend in the family. So that she at once resented the remark. 
 
 ' If she 's worrying about anything, she 's worrying 
 about you,' said Sarah tartly, as she went back to the 
 house. ' We all know that.' 
 
 Hester, with her dog beside her, went strolling leisurely 
 through the village street, past Miss Puttenham's cottage 
 on the one hand and the Rectory gates on the other, 
 making for a footpath that led from the back of the village, 
 through fields and woods, on to the Chase. 
 
 As she passed beneath the limes that overhung Miss 
 Puttenham's railings, she perceived some distant figures 
 in the garden. Uncle Richard ! — with Mamma and Aunt 
 Alice on either side of him. They were walking up and 
 down in close conversation ; or rather Uncle Richard 
 seemed to be talking earnestly, addressing now one lady, 
 now the other. 
 
 What a confabulation ! No doubt all about her own 
 crimes and misdemeanours. What fun to creep into the 
 garden and play the spy. ' That 's what Sarah would do : 
 — but I 'm not Sarah.' Instead, she turned into the foot- 
 path, and began to mount towards the borders of the 
 Chase. It was a brilliant September afternoon, and the 
 new grass in the shorn hayfields was vividly green. In 
 
142 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 front rose the purple hills of the Chase, while to the left, on 
 the far borders of the village, the wheels and chimneys of 
 two collieries stood black against a blaze of sun. But the 
 sharp emphasis of light and colour, which in general would 
 have set her own spirits racing, was for a while lost on 
 Hester. As soon as she was out of sight of the village, or 
 any passers by, her aspect changed. Once or twice she 
 caught her breath in what was very like a sob ; and there 
 were moments when she could only save herself from the 
 disgrace of tears by a wild burst of racing with Roddy. It 
 was evident that her brush with Lady Fox- Wilton had not 
 left her as callous as she seemed. 
 
 Presently the path forsook the open fields and entered 
 a plantation of dark and closely woven trees where the 
 track was almost lost in the magnificence of the bracken. 
 Beyond this, a short climb of broken slopes, and Hester 
 was out on the bare heath with the moorland wind 
 blowing about her. 
 
 She sat down on a bank beneath a birch tree twisted and 
 tortured out of shape by the north-westerly gales that swept 
 the heath in winter. All round her a pink and purple wilder- 
 ness, with oases of vivid green and swaying grass. Nothing 
 in sight but a keeper's hut, and some grouse butts far away ; 
 an ugly red building on the horizon, in the very middle of 
 the heath, the Markborough isolation hospital ; and round 
 the edge of the vast undulating plateau in all directions the 
 faint smoke of the colliery chimneys. But the colour of the 
 heath was the marvel. The world seemed stained in crim- 
 son, and in every shade and combination of it. Close at 
 hand the reds and pinks were diapered with green and gold 
 as the bilberries and the grasses ran in and out of the 
 heather ; but on every side the crimson spread and billowed 
 to the horizon, covering the hollows and hills of the Chase, 
 absorbing all lesser tones into itself. After the rain of the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 143 
 
 morning, the contours of the heath, the distances of the 
 plain, were unnaturally clear ; and as the sunshine, the high 
 air, the freshly mo\4ng wand, played upon Hester, her 
 irritation passed away in a sensuous delight. 
 
 ' Why should I let them worry me ? I won't ! I am 
 here ! I am alive ! — I am only eighteen — I am going to 
 manage my life for myself — and get out of this coil. Now 
 let me think ! ' 
 
 She slid downwards among the heather, her face propped 
 on her hands. Close beneath her eyes was an exquisite 
 tuft of pink bell-heather intergrown with bunchberries. 
 And while a whole vague series of thoughts and memories 
 passed through her mind she was still vividly conscious 
 of the pink bells, the small bright leaves. Sensation in 
 her was exceptionally keen, whether for pleasure or pain. 
 She knew it, and had often coolly asked herself whether 
 it meant that she would wear out — life and brain — 
 quicker than other people — bum faster to the socket. 
 So much the better if it did. 
 
 "What was it she really wanted ?— what did she mean to 
 do ? Proudly, she refused to admit any other will in the 
 matter. The thought of Meynell, indeed, touched some 
 very sore and bitter chords in her mind, but it did not melt 
 her. She knew veiy well that she had nothing to blame her 
 guardian for ; that year after year from her childhood up 
 she had repelled and resisted him, that her whole relation to 
 him had been one of stubbornness and caprice. Well, there 
 were reasons for it ; she was not going to repent or change. 
 
 Of late his conduct with regard to Stephen's proposal 
 had stirred in her a kind of rage. It was not that she 
 imagined herself in love with Stephen ; but she had chosen 
 to be engaged to him ; and that anyone should affect to 
 control her in such a matter, should definitely and decidedly 
 cross her will, was intolerable to her wild pride. If Stephen 
 
144 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had rebelled with her, she might have fallen fiercely in love 
 with him — for a month. But he had submitted — though 
 it was tolerably plain what it had cost him ; and all her 
 careless liking for him, the fruit of years of very poorly 
 requited devotion on his part, seemed to have disappeared 
 in a night. 
 
 Why shouldn't she be engaged at seventeen — within 
 two months of eighteen, in fact ? Heaps of girls were. It 
 was mere tyranny and nonsense. She recalled her inter- 
 view with Meynell, in which the Eector had roused in her 
 a new and deeper antagonism than any she had yet felt 
 towards his efiorts to control her. It was as though he 
 did not altogether believe in his own arguments ; as though 
 there were something behind which she could not get at. 
 But if there were something behind, she had a right to know 
 it. She had a right to know the meaning of her father's 
 extraordinary letter to Meynell— the letter attached to his 
 will, in which she had been singled out by name as needing 
 the special tutelage of the Eector. So far as the Rector's 
 guardianship of the other children was concerned, it was 
 almost a nominal thing. Another guardian had been named 
 in the will, Lady Fox-Wilton's elder brother, and practically 
 everything that concerned the other children was settled 
 by him, in concert with the mother. The Rector never 
 interfered, was never indeed consulted, except on purely 
 formal matters of business. But for her — for her only — 
 Uncle Richard — as she always called her guardian — was to be 
 the master — the tyrant ! — close at hand. For so Sir Ralph 
 had laid it down, in his testamentary letter — ' I commend 
 Hester to your special care. And in any difficulties that 
 may arise in connection with her, I beg for our old friend- 
 ship's sake that you will give my wife the help and counsel 
 that she will certainly need. She knows it is my wish 
 she should rely entirely upon you.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 145 
 
 Why had he vn-itten such a letter ? Since Sir Ralph's 
 death two years before, the story of it had got about; 
 and the injustice, as she held, of her position under it had 
 sunk deep into the girl's passionate sense, and made her 
 infinitely more difiicult to manage than she had been 
 before. Of course everybody said it was because of her 
 temper ; because of the constant friction between her and 
 her father ; people believed the hateful things he used 
 sometimes to say about her. 
 
 Nor was it only the guardianship — there was the money 
 too ! Provision made for all of them by name — and nothing 
 for her ! She had made Sarah shew her a copy of the will — 
 she knew ! Nothing indeed for any of them — the girls at 
 least — till Lady Fox- Wilton's death, or till they married ; 
 but nothing for her, under any circumstances. 
 
 ' Well, why should there be ? ' Sarah had said, ' You 
 know you'll have Aunt AHce's money. She won't leave a 
 penny to us.' 
 
 All very well ! The money didn't matter ! But to be 
 singled out and held up to scorn by your own father ! 
 
 A flood of bitterness surged in the girl's heart. And 
 then they expected her to be a meek and obedient drudge 
 to her mother and her elder sisters ; to open her mouth 
 and take what they chose to send her. She might not 
 be engaged to Stephen — for two years at any rate; and 
 yet if she amused herself with anyone else she was to be 
 packed off to Paris, to some house of detention or other, 
 under lock and key. 
 
 Her cheeks flamed. When had she first come across 
 Phihp Meryon ? Only the day before that evening when 
 Uncle Richard had found her fishing with him. She 
 knew very well that he was badly spoken of ; trust Upcote 
 for gossip and scandal ! Well, so was she ! — they were 
 outcasts together. Anyway he was more amusing to walk 
 
 L 
 
146 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and talk with than her sisters, or the dreadful young men 
 they sometimes gathered about them. Why shouldn't she 
 walk and talk with him ? As if she couldn't protect 
 herself ! As if she didn't know a great deal more of the 
 world than her stupid sisters did, who never read a book 
 or thought of anything beyond the tittle-tattle of their few 
 local friends. 
 
 But Philip Meryon had read lots of books, and liked those 
 that she liked. He could read French too, as she could. 
 And he had lent her some French books, which she had read 
 eagerly — at night, or in the woods — wherever she could be 
 alone and unobserved. Why shouldn't she read them ? 
 There was one among them — ' JuUe de Trecoeur,' by Octave 
 Feuillet, that still seemed running, like a great emotion, 
 through her veins. The tragic leap of Julie, as she sets her 
 horse to the cliff and thunders to her death, was always in 
 Hester's mind. It was so that she herself would like to die ; 
 spurning submission and patience, and all the humdrum 
 virtues. 
 
 She raised herself, and the dog beside her sprang up and 
 barked. The sun was just dropping below a bank of 
 fiery cloud ; and a dazzling and garish light lay on the 
 red undulations of the heath. As she stood up she 
 suddenly perceived the figure of a man about a hundred 
 yards off emerging from a gully ; a sportsman with his 
 gun over his shoulder. He had apparently just parted 
 from the group with whom he had been shooting, who 
 were disappearing in another direction. 
 
 Philip Meryon ! Now she remembered ! He and two 
 other men had taken the shooting on this side of the Chase. 
 Honestly she had forgotten it ; honestly her impression 
 was that he had gone to Scotland. But of course none of her 
 faniily would ever believe it. They would insist she had 
 simply come out to meet him. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 147 
 
 What was she to do ? She was in a white serge dress, 
 and with Roddy beside her, on that bare heath, she was an 
 object easily recognised. Indeed as she hesitated, she heard 
 a call in the distance, and saw that Meryon was waving to 
 her, and quickening his pace. Instantly, with a leaping 
 pulse she turned and fled, Roddy beside her, barking his 
 loudest. She ran along the rough track of the heath, as 
 though some vague wild terror had been breathed into her 
 by the local Pan. She ran fleet and light as air, — famous 
 as a runner from her childhood. But the man behind her 
 had once been a fine athlete ; and he gained upon her fast. 
 Soon she could hear his laugh behind her, his entreaties to 
 her to stop. She had reached the edge of the heath, where 
 the wood began, and the path ran winding down it, with 
 banks of thick fern on either hand. 
 
 If it had not been for the dog, she could have slipped 
 under the close-set trees, whence the light had already 
 departed, and lain close among the fern. But with 
 Roddy — no chance ! She suddenly turned towards her 
 pursuer, and with her hand on the dog's neck awaited him: 
 'Caught — caught! — by Jove!' — cried Philip Meryon, 
 plunging to her through the fern. 'Now what do you 
 deserve — for running away ? ' 
 
 * A gentleman would not have tried to catch me ! ' she 
 said haughtily, as she faced him, with dilating nostrils. 
 
 ' Take care ! — don't be rude to me — I shall take my 
 revenge ! ' 
 
 As he spoke, Meryon was fairly dazzled, intoxicated by 
 the beauty of the vision before him; this angry wood- 
 nymph, half-vanishing like another Daphne into the deep 
 fern amid which she stood. But at the same time he was 
 puzzled — and checked— by her expression. There was no 
 mere provocation in it, no defiance that covers a yieldint^ 
 mind; but rather, an energy of will, a concentrated force, 
 
 l2 
 
148 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 that held at bay a man whose vnU was the mere register of 
 his impulses. 
 
 ' You forget,' said Hester coolly, ' that I have Roddy 
 with me.' And as she spoke the dcg couching at her side 
 poked up his slender nose through the fern and growled. 
 He did not like Sir Philip. 
 
 Meryon looked upon her smiling — his hands on his sides. 
 ' Do you mean to say that when you ran, you did not mean 
 me to follow ? * 
 
 ' On the contrary, if I ran, it was evidently because 1 
 wished to get away.' 
 
 * Then you were very ungrateful and unkind ; for I 
 have at this moment in my pocket a book you asked 
 me to get for you. That's what I get for trying to 
 please you.' 
 
 * I don't remember that I asked you to get anything 
 for me.* 
 
 * Well you said you would Uke to see some of George 
 Sand's novels, which — for me — was just the same. So 
 when I went to London yesterday I managed to borrow 
 it, and there it is.' He pointed triumphantly to a yellow 
 paper-bound volume sticking out of his coat pocket. ' Of 
 course you know George Sand is a sort of old Johnnie 
 now; nobody reads her. But that's your affair. Will 
 you have it ? ' He ofiered it. 
 
 The excitement, the wild flush in the girl's face had 
 subsided. She looked at the book, and at the man holding 
 it out. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' She stooped to read the title—* Mauprat.' 
 * What 's it about ? ' 
 
 ' Some nonsense about a cad tamed by a sentimental 
 young woman.' He shrugged his shoulders. * I tried to 
 read it, and couldn't. But they say it 's one of her best. 
 If you want it, there it is.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 149 
 
 She took it reluctantly, and moved on along the down- 
 ward path, he following, and the dog beside them. 
 ' Have you read the other book ? * he asked her. 
 
 * " JuUe de Trecoeur " ? Yes.' 
 ' What did you think of it ? ' 
 
 * It was magnificent ! ' she said shortly, with a quickened 
 breath. * I shall get some more by that man.' 
 
 'Well, you'd better be careful!' He laughed. 'I've got 
 some others ; but I didn't want to recommend them to you. 
 Lady Fox- Wilton wouldn't exactly approve.' 
 
 ' I don't tell Mamma what I read.' The girl's young 
 voice sounded sharply beside him in the warm autumnal 
 dusk. ' But if you lent me anything you oughtn't to lend 
 me, I would never speak to you again ! ' 
 
 Meryon gave a low whistle. 
 
 * My goodness ! — I shall have to mind my p's and q's. 
 I don't know that I ought to have lent you ' Julie de 
 Trecceur ' if it comes to that.* 
 
 ' Why not ? ' Hester turned her great astonished eyes 
 upon him. ' One might as well not read Byron as not read 
 that.' 
 
 ' H'm — I don't suppose you read all Byron.' 
 
 He threw her an audacious look. 
 
 ' As much as I want to,' she said, indifferently. * Why 
 aren't you in Scotland ? ' 
 
 * Because I had to go to London instead. Beastly nuis- 
 ance ! But there was some business I couldn't get out of.' 
 
 ' Debts ? ' she said, raising her eyebrows. 
 
 The self-possession of this child of eighteen was really 
 amazing. Not a trace in her manner of timidity or tremor. 
 In spite of her flight from him, he could not flatter himself 
 that he had made any impression on her nerves. Whereas 
 her beauty and her provocative way were beginning to tell 
 deeply on his own. 
 
I50 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * Well, I daresay ! ' His laugh was as frank as her 
 question. * I 'm generally in straits/ 
 
 ' Why don't you do some work, and earn money 1 ' she 
 asked him frowning. 
 
 ' Frankly — because I dislike work.' 
 
 * Then why did you write a play 1 ' 
 
 * Because it amused me. But if it had been acted and 
 made money, and I had had to write another, that would 
 have been work ; and I should probably have loathed it.' 
 
 * That I don't believe,' she said, shaking her head. 
 ' One can always do what succeeds. It 's like pouring petrol 
 into the motor.' 
 
 ' So you think I 'm only idle because I 'm a failure ? ' he 
 asked her, his tone betraying a certain irritation. 
 
 * I wonder why you are idle — and why you are a 
 failure ? ' she said, turning upon him a pair of considering 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Take care, Mademoiselle \ ' he said, gasping a little. 
 I don't know why you allow yourself these franchises ! ' 
 
 ' Because I am interested in you — rather. Why won't 
 the neighbourhood call on you — why do you have disreput- 
 able people to stay with you 1 It is all so foolish ! ' she 
 said, with childish and yet passionate emphasis ; ' you 
 needn't do it ! ' 
 
 Meryon had turned rather white. 
 
 ' When you grow a Uttle older,' he said severely, ' you 
 will know better than to beUeve all the gossip you hear. 
 I choose the friends that suit me — and the Hfe too. My 
 friends are mostly artists and actors — they are quite content 
 to be excluded from Upcote society — so am I. I don't 
 gather you are altogether in love with it yourself.' 
 
 He looked at her mockingly. 
 
 ' If it were only Sarah — or Mamma — ' she said doubt- 
 fully. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 151 
 
 ' You mean I suppose that Meynell — your precious 
 guardian — my very amiable cousin — allows himself to 
 make all kinds of impertinent statements about me. 
 Well, you '11 understand some day that there 's no such 
 bad judge of men as a clergyman. When he 's not ignorant 
 he 's prejudiced — and when he '3 not prejudiced he 's 
 ignorant.' 
 
 A sudden remorse swelled in Hester's mind. 
 
 ' He 's not prejudiced ! — he 's not ignorant ! How 
 strange that you and he should be cousins ! ' 
 
 ' Well, we do happen to be cousins. And I 've no 
 doubt that you would like me to resemble him. Unfor- 
 tunately I can't accommodate you. If I am to take 
 a relation for a model, I prefer a very different sort of 
 person — the man from whom I inherited Sandford. But 
 Richard, I am sure, never approved of him either.' 
 
 ' Who was he ? — I never heard of him.' And, with the 
 words, Hester carelessly turned her head to look at a 
 squirrel that had run across the glade and was now peeping 
 at the pair from the first fork of an oak tree. 
 
 ' My uncle ? Well, he was an awfully fine fellow — what- 
 ever Meynell may say. If the abbey wasn't taboo, I could 
 shew you a portrait of him there — by a Frenchman — 
 — a superb thing. He was the best fencer in England 
 — and one of the best shots. He had a beautiful voice — 
 he could write — he could do anything he pleased. Of 
 course he got into scrapes — such men do — and if Richard 
 ever talked to you about him, of course he'd crab him. 
 All the same, if one must be hke one's relations — which 
 is, of course, quite unnecessary — I should prefer to take 
 after Neville than after Richard.' 
 
 ' What was his name ? ' 
 
 ' Neville— Neville Flood.' 
 
 Hester looked puzzled. 
 
152 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 'Well! — if you want the wtole genealogical tree — here 
 it is! There was a certain Ralph Flood, my grand- 
 father, an old hunting squire, a regular bad lot — 
 I can tell you the family history doesn't give 7ne much 
 chance ! — he came from Lincolnshire originally, having 
 made the county there too hot to hold him, and bought 
 the Abbey, which he meant to restore and never did. He 
 worried his wife into her grave, and she left him three 
 children : Neville, who succeeded his father ; and two 
 daughters : — Meynell's mother, who was a good deal older 
 than Neville and married Colonel Meynell, as he was 
 then ; and my mother, who was much the youngest, and 
 died three years ago. She was Neville's favourite sister, 
 and as he knew Richard didn't want the Abbey, he left it to 
 me. A precious white elephant ! — not worth a fiver to any- 
 body. I was only thirteen when Neville was drowned ' 
 
 ' Drowned ? ' 
 
 Meryon explained that Neville Flood had lost his 
 life in a storm on an Irish lough ; a queer business, which 
 no one had ever quite got to the bottom of. Many people 
 had talked of suicide. There was no doubt he was in 
 very low spirits just before it happened. He was unhappily 
 married, mainly through his own fault. His wife could 
 certainly have got a divorce from him if she had applied 
 for it. But very soon after she separated from Flood, 
 she became a Cathohc, and nothing would induce her 
 to divorce him. And against her there was never a 
 breath. It was said of course that he was in love with 
 someone else, and broken-hearted that his wife re- 
 fused to lend herself to a divorce. But nobody knew 
 anything. 
 
 ' And by Jove, I wonder why I 'm telUng you all these 
 shady tales. You oughtn't to know anything about such 
 things,' Meryon broke off suddenly. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 153 
 
 Hester's beautiful mouth made a scornful movement. 
 
 ' I 'm not a baby — and I intend to know what 's true. 
 I should like to see that picture.' 
 
 ' What — of my uncle Neville ? ' 
 
 Meryon eyed her curiously, as they strolled on through 
 the arched green of the woodland. Every now and then 
 there were openings, through which poured a fiery sun, 
 illuminating Hester's face and form. 
 
 ' Do you know ' — he said at last—' there is an uncom- 
 monly queer likeness between you and that picture ? ' 
 
 ' Me ! ' Hester opened her eyes in half-indifierent 
 astonishment. ' People say such absurd things. Heaps of 
 people thmk I am like Uncle Kichard — not complimentary, 
 is it ? I hope his cousin was better looking. And anyway 
 I am no relation of either of them.' 
 
 ' Neville and Richard were often mistaken for one 
 another — though Neville was a deal handsomer than old 
 Richard. However nobody can account for likenesses. 
 If you come to think of it, we are all descended from 
 a small number of people. But it has often struck 
 
 me ' He looked at her again attentively. ' The 
 
 setting of the ear — and the upper lip, — and the 
 shape of the brow. — I shall bring you a photograph of 
 the picture.' 
 
 ' What does it matter ! ' said Hester impatiently. 
 * Besides I am going away directly — to Paris.' 
 
 ' To Paris ! — why and wherefore ? ' 
 
 ' To improve my French — and * — she turned and 
 looked at him in the face, laughing — ' to make sure I don't 
 go walks with you ! ' 
 
 He was silent a moment, twisting his lip. 
 
 ' When do you go ? ' 
 
 ' In a week or two — when there 's room for me.' 
 
 He laughed. 
 
154 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Oh ! come then — there 's time for a few more talks. 
 Listen — you think I 'm such an idle dog. I 'm nothing 
 of the sort. I Ve nearly finished a whole new play. Only 
 — well, I couldn't talk to you about it — it 's not a play for 
 jeunes files. But after all I might read you a few scenes. 
 That wouldn't do any harm. You 're so deuced clever ! 
 — your opinion would be worth having. I can tell you the 
 managers are all after it ! I 'm getting letters by every 
 post asking for parts. What do you say ? Can you meet 
 me somewhere ? I '11 choose some of the best bits. Just 
 name your time ! * 
 
 Her face had kindled, answering to the vivacity, the 
 peremptoriness, in his. Her vanity was flattered at last; 
 and he saw it. 
 
 * Send me a word ! ' he said under his breath. ' That 
 little schoolroom maid — is she safe ? ' 
 
 ' Quite ! ' said Hester, also under her breath, and smiling. 
 
 ' You beautiful creature ! ' — he spoke with low in- 
 tensity — ' You lovely, wild thing ! ' 
 
 ' Take care ! ' Hester sprang away from him as he put 
 out an incautious hand. ' Come, Roddy ! — Good-night ! ' 
 
 In a flash, the gloom of the wood closed upon her, and 
 she was gone. 
 
 Meryon walked on laughing to himself, and twisting 
 his black moustache. After some years of bad company 
 and easy conquests, Hester's proud grace, her reckless 
 beauty, her independent satiric ways had sent a new stimulus 
 through jaded nerves. Had he met her in London on equal 
 terms with other men he knew instinctively that he would 
 have had but small chance with her. It was the circum- 
 stances of this quiet country place, where young men of 
 Hester's class were the rarest of apparitions, and where 
 Philip flying from his creditors, and playing the part of a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 155 
 
 needy Don Juan amid the picturesque dilapidations of 
 the Abbey, was gravelled day after day for lack of occupa- 
 tion : — it was these surroundings that had made the flirta- 
 tion possible. Well ! — she was a handsome dare-devil 
 little minx. It amused him to make love to her, and in 
 spite of his parsonical cousin, he should continue to do so. 
 And that the proceeding annoyed Richard Meynell made 
 it not less but more enticing. Parsons, cousins or no, must 
 be kept in their place. 
 
 Hester ran home, a new laugh on her lip, and a new red 
 on her cheek. Several persons turned to look at her in the 
 village street, but she took no notice of anyone till just as 
 she was nearing the Cow Roast, she saw groups round the 
 door of the little inn, and a stream of men coming out. 
 Among them she perceived the Rector. He no sooner 
 saw her, than with an evident start he altered his course 
 and came up to her. 
 
 ' Where have you been, Hester ? ' 
 
 She chose to be offended by the inquiry, and answered 
 pettishly that for once she had been out by herself without 
 a keeper. He took no notice of her tone, and walked on 
 beside her, his eyes on the ground. Presently she wondered 
 whether he had heard her reply at all, he was so e\adently 
 thinking of something else. In her turn she began to ask 
 questions. 
 
 ' What 's happening in the village ? Why are those 
 people coming out of the Cow Roast ? * 
 
 ' There 'b been an inquest there.' 
 
 ' On that old woman who was once a servant of ours ? ' 
 
 The Rector looked up quickly. 
 
 ' Who told you anything about her ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Sarah heard from Tibbald — trust him for gossip I 
 Was she off hor head ? ' 
 
156 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' She died of disease of the brain. They found her 
 dead in her bed.' 
 
 ' Well, why shouldn't she ? An excellent way to die ! 
 Good-night, Uncle Richard — good-night ! You go too 
 slow for me,' 
 
 She walked away with a defiant air, intended to shew 
 him that he was in her black books. He stood a moment 
 looking after her, compunction and sad aiiection in his 
 kind eyes. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Meanwhile, for Catharine Elsmere and Mary these days 
 of early autumn were passing in a profound external quiet 
 which bore but small relation to the mental history of 
 mother and daughter. 
 
 The tranquillity indeed of the little water-locked cottage 
 was complete. Mrs. Flaxman at the big house took all 
 the social brunt upon herself. She set no limit to her own 
 calls, or to her readiness to be called upon. The Flaxman 
 dinner and tennis parties were soon an institution in the 
 neighbourhood ; and the distinguished persons who 
 gathered at Maudeley for the Flaxman week-ends shed a re- 
 flected lustre on Upcote itself. But Rose Flaxman stoutly 
 protected her widowed sister. Mrs. Elsmere was delicate 
 and in need of rest ; she was not to be expected to take 
 part in any social junketings, and callers were quite 
 plainly warned off. 
 
 For all of which Catharine Elsmere was grateful to a 
 younger sister, grotesquely unlike herself in temperament 
 and character, yet brought steadily closer to her by the 
 mere passage of life. Rose was an artist and an optimist. 
 In her youth she had been an eager and exquisite 
 musician ; in her middle life she was a loving and a happy 
 woman ; though she too had known a tragic moment 
 in her first youth. Catharine, her elder by some years, 
 still maintained, beneath an exquisite refinement, the 
 strong north-country characteristics of the Westmore- 
 
 ^57 
 
158 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 land family to which the sisters belonged. Her father 
 had been an Evangelical scholar and headmaster ; the 
 one slip of learning in a rude and primitive race. She 
 had been trained by him ; and in spite of her seven 
 years of married life beside a nature so plastic and sensi- 
 tive as Elsmere's, and of her passionate love for her 
 husband, it was the early influences on her character 
 which had in the end proved the more enduring. 
 
 For years past she had spent herself in missionary 
 work for the Church, in London ; and though for Robert's 
 sake she had maintained for long a slender connection that 
 no one misunderstood ^vith the New Brotherhood, the 
 slow effect of his withdrawal from her Ufe made itself in- 
 evitably felt. She stiffened and narrowed intellectually ; 
 while for all sinners and sufferers, within the lines of sympathy 
 she gradually traced out for herself, she would have willingly 
 given her body to be burned, so strong was the Franciscan 
 thirst in her for the self-effacement and self-sacrifice that 
 belong to the Christian ideal, carried to intensity. 
 
 So long as Mary was a child, her claim upon her mother 
 had to some extent balanced the claims of what many 
 might have thought a devastating and depersonalising 
 charity. Catharine was a tender though an austere 
 mother ; she became and deserved to become the idol of 
 her daughter. But as Mary grew up she was drawn 
 inevitably into her mother's activities ; and Catharine, in 
 the blindness of her ascetic faith, might have injured the 
 whole spring of the girl's youth by the tremendous strain 
 thus put upon it by affection on the one hand, and pity on 
 the other. 
 
 Mercifully, perhaps, for them both, Catharine's nerve and 
 strength suddenly gave way ; and udth them that abnormal 
 exaltation and clearness of spiritual vision which had 
 carried her through many sorrowing years. She entered 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 159 
 
 upon a barren and darkened path ; the Christian joy 
 deserted her ; and there were hours and days when little 
 more than the Christian terrors remained. It was her per- 
 ception of this which roused such a tender and desperate 
 pity in Mary. Her mother's state fell short indeed of 
 religious melancholy ; but for a time, it came within sight 
 of it. Catharine dreaded to be found herself a cast- 
 away ; and the memory of Robert's denials of the faith — 
 magnified by her mental state, like trees in mist — had 
 now become an ever haunting misery which tortured 
 her unspeakably. Her mind was possessed by the 
 parables of judgement — the dividing of the sheep from 
 the goats, the shutting of the door of salvation on those 
 who had refused the heavenly offers ; and by all those 
 sayings of the early Church that make ' faith ' the only 
 passport to eternal safety. 
 
 Her saner mind struggled in vain against what was 
 partly a physical penalty for defied physical law. And 
 Mary also, her devoted companion, whose life depended 
 hour by hour on the aspects and changes of her mother, 
 must needs be drawn within the shadow of Catharine's 
 dumb and phantom-ridden pain. The pain itself was dumb, 
 because it concerned the deepest feelings of a sternly reserved 
 woman. But mingled with the pain were other matters — 
 resentments, antagonisms — the expression of which often 
 half consciously relieved it. She rose in rebellion against 
 those sceptical and deadly forces of the modern world 
 which had swept her beloved from the narrow way. She 
 fled them for herself ; she feared them for Mary, in whom 
 she had very early divined the working of Robert's aptitudes 
 and powers. 
 
 And now — by ill-fortune — a tired and suffering woman 
 had no sooner found refuge and rest in the solitude of 
 Forked Pond than, thanks partly to the Flaxmans' new 
 
i6o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 friendship for Upcote's revolutionary parson, and partly 
 to all the public signs, not to be escaped, of the commotion 
 brewing in the diocese, and in England generally, the 
 same agitations, the same troubles which had destroyed her 
 happiness and peace of mind in the past, came clattering 
 about her again. 
 
 Everyone talked of them ; everyone took a passionate 
 concern in them ; the newspapers were full of them. The 
 personality of Meynell, or that of the Bishop ; the characters 
 and motives of his opponents ; the chances of the struggle, — 
 and the points on which it turned : — even in the little 
 solitary house between the waters Catharine could not 
 escape them. The Bishop, too, was an old friend ; before 
 his promotion, he had been the incumbent of a London 
 parish in which Catharine had worked. She was no sooner 
 settled at Forked Pond than he came to see her ; and what 
 more natural than that he should speak of the anxieties 
 weighing upon him to one so able to feel for them ? 
 
 Then ! — the first involuntary signs of Mary's interest in, 
 Mary's sympathy with the offender ! In Catharine's mind 
 a thousand latent terrors sprang at once to life. For a 
 time — some weeks— she had succeeded in checking all 
 developments. Invitations were refused ; meetings were 
 avoided. But gradually the situation changed. Points 
 of contact began inevitably to multiply between Mary and 
 the disturber of Christ's peace in Upcote. Mary's growing 
 friendship for Alice Puttenham ; her chance encounters with 
 Meynell there, or in the village, or in the Flaxmans' drawing- 
 room, were all distasteful and unwelcome to Catharine 
 Elsmere. At least her Robert had sacrificed himself — had 
 done the honest and honourable thing. But this man — 
 wounding the Church from within i — usmg the opportunities 
 of the Church for the destruction of the Church ! — who could 
 make excuses for such a combatant ? 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL i6i 
 
 And the more keenly she became aware of the widening 
 gulf between her thoughts and Mary's — of Mary's involun- 
 tary, instinctive sympathy with the enemy — the greater was 
 her alarm. 
 
 For the first time in all her strenuous, self-devoted life, 
 she would sometimes make much of her physical weakness in 
 these summer days, so as to keep Mary with her, to prevent 
 her from becoming more closely acquainted with Meynell and 
 Meynell's ideas. And in fact this new anxiety interfered 
 with her recovery ; she had only to let herself be ill, and 
 ill most genuinely she was. 
 
 Mary understood it all, and submitted. Her mother's 
 fears were indeed amply justified ! Mary's secret mind 
 was becoming absorbed, from a distance, in Meynell's 
 campaign ; Meynell's personality, through all hindrance and 
 difficulty — nay, perhaps, because of them ! — was gradually 
 seizing upon and mastering her own ; and processes of 
 thought that, so long as she and her mother were, so to 
 speak, alone in the world together, were still immature 
 and potential, grew apace. The woods and glades of 
 Maudeley, the village street, the field paths, began to 
 be for her places of magic, whence at any moment 
 might spring flowers of joy known to her alone. To 
 see him pass at a distance, to come across him in a 
 miner's cottage, or in Miss Puttenham's drawing- 
 room — these rare occasions were to her the events of the 
 summer weeks. Nevertheless, when September arrived, 
 she had long since forbidden herself to hope for anything 
 more. 
 
 Meanwhile, Rose Flaxman was the only person who 
 ever ventured to feel and shew the irritation of the natural 
 woman towards her sister's idiosyncrasies. 
 
 * Do for Heaven's sake stop her reading these books I ' 
 she said impatiently one evening to Mary, when she had 
 
 M 
 
i62 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 taken leave of Catharine, and her niece was strolling back 
 with her towards Maudeley. 
 * What books ? ' 
 
 ' Why, lives of bishops and deans and that kind of 
 thing ! I never come but I find a pile of them beside her. 
 It should be made absolutely illegal to write the life of a 
 clergyman ! My dear, your mother would be well in a week, 
 if we could only stop it and put her on a course of Gaboriaii ! ' 
 Mary smiled rather sadly. 
 
 ' They seem to be the only things that interest her 
 now.' 
 
 ' What, the deans ? I know. It 's intolerable. She 
 went to speak to the postman just now while I was with 
 her, and I looked at the book she had been reading with her 
 mark in it. I should like to have thrown it into the pond ! 
 Some tiresome canon or other writing to a friend about 
 Eternal Punishment. What does he know about it, I 
 should like to ask! I declare I hope he may know 
 something more about it some day ! There was your 
 mother as white as her ruffles, with dark lines imder her 
 eyes. I tell you clerical intimidation should be made a 
 pimishable offence. It 's just as bad as any other ! ' 
 
 Mary let her run on. She moved silently along the 
 grassy path, her pretty head bent, her hands clasped behind 
 her. And presently her aunt resumed : — ' And the strange 
 thing is, my dear, saving your presence — that your beloved 
 mother is quite lax in some directions, while she is so strict 
 in others. I never can make her pay the smallest attention 
 to the things I tell her about Philip Meryon, for instance, 
 that Hugh tells me. " Poor fellow ! " she always calls him, 
 as though his abominable ways were like the measles — 
 something you couldn't help. And as for that wild minx 
 Hester ! — she has positively taken a fancy to her. It 
 reminds me of what an old priest said to me once in 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 163 
 
 Rome — '■ Sins, Madame ! — the only sins that matter are 
 those of the intellect ! " There ! — send me ofi — before I 
 say any more mconvenances.^ 
 
 Mary waved farewell to her vivacious aunt, and walked 
 slowly back to the cottage. She was conscious of inner 
 smart and pain ; conscious also for the first time of a 
 critical mind towards the mother whose will had been the 
 law of her life. It was not that she claimed anything for 
 herself ; but she claimed justice for a man mis-read. 
 
 ' If they could only know each other ! ' — she found herself 
 saying at last — aloud — with an impetuous energy ; and then, 
 with a swift return upon herself — ' Mother, darling ! — 
 Mother, who has no one in the world — but me ! ' 
 
 As the words escaped her, she came in sight of the 
 cottage, and saw that her mother was sitting in her usual 
 place beside the water. Catharine's hands were resting on 
 a newspaper they had evidently just put down, and she 
 was gazing absently across the lights and shadows, the 
 limpid blues and browns of the tree-locked pool before her. 
 
 Mary came to sit on the grass beside her. 
 
 ' Have you been reading, dearest ? ' 
 
 But as she spoke she saw, with discomfort, that the 
 newspaper on her mother's knee was the Church Guardian, 
 in which a lively correspondence on the subject of Meynell 
 and the Modernist movement generally was at the moment 
 proceeding. 
 
 ' Yes, I have been reading,' said Catharine slowly — 
 ' and I have been very sad.' 
 
 ' Then I wish you wouldn't read ! ' cried Mary, kissing 
 her hand. ' I should like to burn all the newspapers ! ' 
 
 ' What good would that do ? ' said Catharine, trying to 
 smile. ' I have been reading Bishop Craye's letter to the 
 Guardian. Poor Bishop ! — what a cruel, crurl position ! ' 
 
 The words were spoken with a subdued but passionate 
 
 u2 
 
1 64 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 energy, and when Mrs. Elsmere perceived that Mary made 
 no reply, her hand slipped out of her daughter's. 
 
 There was silence for a little, broken by Catharine 
 speaking with the same quiet vehemence : — 
 
 ' I cannot understand how you, Mary, or anyone else 
 can defend what this man — Mr, Meynell — is doing. If he 
 cannot agree with the Church, let him leave it. But 
 to stay in it — giving this scandal — and this ofEence ! ' 
 
 Her voice failed her. Mary collected her thoughts as 
 best she could. 
 
 At last she said, with difficulty: — 
 
 ' Aren't you thinking only of the people who may be 
 hurt — or scandalised ? But after all, there they are in 
 the Church, with all its privileges and opportunities — with 
 everything they want. They are not asked to give any- 
 thing up — nobody thinks of interfering with them — they 
 have all the old dear things, the faiths and the practices 
 they love — and that help them. They are only asked to 
 tolerate other people who want different things. Mr. 
 Meynell — stands — I suppose — for the people — who are 
 starved — whose souls wither — or die — for lack of the 
 only food that could nourish them.' 
 
 ' " / am the bread of life," ' said Catharine with an 
 energy that shook her slight frame — * The Church has no 
 other food to give. Let those who refuse it go outside. 
 There are other bodies, and other means.' 
 
 ' But mother, this is the national church ! ' pleaded 
 Mary, after a moment. ' The Modernists too say — don't 
 they ? — that Christ — or what Christ stands for — is the 
 bread of life. Only they understand the words — differently 
 
 from you. And if ' she came closer to her mother, 
 
 and putting her hands on Catharine's knee, she looked 
 up into the elder woman's face — 'if there were only a 
 few here and there, they could of course do nothing ; 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 165 
 
 they could only suffer, and be silent. But there are 
 80 many of them — so many ! What is the " Church " but 
 the living souls that make it up ? And now thousands 
 of these living souls want to change things in the 
 Church. Their consciences are hiirt — they can't believe 
 what they once believed. What is the justice of driving 
 them out — or leaving them starved — for ever ? They 
 were born in the Church ; baptised in the Church ! They 
 love the old ways, the old buildings, the old traditions. 
 " Comfort our consciences ! " they say ; " we will never 
 tyrannise over yours. Give us the teaching and the 
 expression we want ; you will always have what you want ! 
 Make room for us — beside you. If your own faith is strong 
 it will only be the stronger because you let ours speak and 
 live — because you give us our bare rights, as free spirits, 
 in this Church that belongs to the whole English people." 
 Dear mother, you are so just always — so loving — doesn't 
 that touch you — doesn't it move you — at all ? * 
 
 The girl's charming face had grown pale. So had 
 Catharine's. 
 
 ' This, I suppose, is what you have heard Mr. Meynell 
 say,' she answered slowly. 
 
 Mary turned away, shading her eyes with her hand. 
 
 ' Yes ' — she said, with shrinking ; ' at least I know 
 it is what he would say.* 
 
 ' Oh, Mary, I wish we had never come here ! ' It was 
 a cry of bitterness, almost of despair. Mary turned and 
 threw her arms round the speaker's neck. 
 
 ' I will never hurt you, my beloved ! you know I won't.' 
 
 The two gazed into each other's eyes, questions and 
 answers, unspoken yet understood, passing between them 
 Then Catharine disengaged herself, rose, and went away. 
 
 During the night that followed Mary slept little. She 
 was engaged in trying to loosen and tear away those 
 
1 66 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELT- 
 
 tendrils of the heart that had begun to climb and spread 
 more than she knew. Towards the early dawn it seemed 
 to her she heard slight sounds in her mother's room. But 
 immediately afterwards she fell asleep. 
 
 The next day, Mary could not tell what had happened ; 
 but it was as though, in some inexplicable way, doors had 
 been opened and weights lifted ; as though fresh winds had 
 been set blowing through the House of Life. Her mother 
 seemed shaken and frail ; Mary hovered about her with 
 ministering tenderness. There were words begun and 
 left unfinished, movements and looks that strangely 
 thrilled and bewildered the younger woman. She had no 
 key to them ; but they seemed to speak of change, — 
 of something in her mother that had been beaten down, 
 and was still faintly, pitifally striving. But she dared 
 say nothing. They read, and wrote letters, and strolled 
 as usual ; till in the evening, while Mary was sitting by the 
 water, Catharine came out to her and stood beside her, 
 holding the local paper in her hand. 
 
 * I see there is to be a meeting in the village next 
 Friday — of the Reformers' League. Mr. Meynell is to 
 speak.' 
 
 Mary looked up in amazement. 
 
 'Yes?' 
 
 ' You would perhaps like to go. I will go with you.' 
 
 * Mother ! ' Mary caught her mother's hand and kissed 
 it, while the tears sprang to her eyes. ' I want to go 
 nowhere — to do nothing — that gives you pain ! ' 
 
 ' I know that,' said Catharine quietly. ' But I — I 
 should Uke to understand him.' 
 
 And with a light touch of her hand on Mary's red-gold 
 hair, she went back into the house. Mary wandered away 
 by herself into the depths of the woods, weeping, 
 she scarcely knew why. But some sure Lastinct, lost 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 167 
 
 in wouder as slie was, bade her ask her mother no 
 questions ; to let time shew. 
 
 The day of the League meeting came. It happened 
 also to be the date on which the Commission of Enquiry 
 into the alleged heresies and irregularities of the Rector 
 of Upcote was holding its final meeting at Markborough, 
 
 The meetings of the Commission were held in the Library 
 of the Cathedral, once a collegiate church of the Cistercian 
 order. All trace of the great monastery formerly connected 
 with it had disappeared ; except for the Library and a 
 vaulted room below it which now made a passage-way 
 from the Deanery to the north transept. 
 
 The Library offered a worthy setting for high themes. 
 The walls were, of course, wreathed in the pale golds and 
 dignified browns of old books. A light gallery ran round 
 three sides of the room, while a large Perpendicular window 
 at the further end contained the armorial bearings Oi 
 various benefactors of the see. Beneath the window was 
 a bookcase containing several chained books — a Vulgate, 
 a Saint Augustine, the Summa of St. Thomas ; precious 
 possessions, and famous in the annals of early printing. 
 And wherever there was a space of wall left free, pictures or 
 engravings of former bishops and dignitaries connected with 
 the Cathedral, enforced the message and meaning of the 
 room. 
 
 A seemly, even beautiful place — pleasantly scented with 
 old leather, and filled on this September afternoon with the 
 sunshine which, on the Chaae, was at the same moment 
 kindling the heather into a blood-red magnificence. Here 
 the light slipped in gently ; subdued to the quiet note and 
 standard of the old library. 
 
 The Dean was in the Chair. He was a man of seventy 
 who had only just become an old man ; submitting with 
 
1 68 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 difficulty, even with resentment, to the weight of his years. 
 He wore a green shade over his eyes, beneath which his long 
 sharp nose and pointed chin — in the practical absence of the 
 eyes — showed with peculiar emphasis. He was of heavy 
 build, and suffered from chronic hoarseness. In his youth 
 he had been a Broad churchman, and a Liberal ; and had then 
 passed, through stages mysterious to his oldest friends, into 
 an actively dogmatic and ecclesiastical phase. It was 
 rumoured that he had had strange spiritual experiences ; 
 a ' vision ' was whispered ; but all that was really known 
 was that from an ' advanced ' man, in the Liberal sense, he 
 had become the champion of high orthodoxy in the Chapter, 
 and an advocate of disestablishment as the only means of 
 restoring ' Catholic liberty ' to the Church. 
 
 The Dean's enemies, of whom he had not a few, 
 brought various charges against him. It was said that 
 he was a worldling with an undue leaning to notabili- 
 ties. And indeed in every gathering, social or eccle- 
 siastical, the track of the Dean's conversation sufficiently 
 indicated the relative importance of the persons present. 
 Others declared that during his long tenure of a country 
 living he had left the duties of it mainly to a curate, and 
 had found it more interesting to live in London, con- 
 ferring with Cabinet Ministers on educational reform ; 
 while the women-folk of the Chapter pitied his wife, 
 whose subdued or tremulous aspect certainly suggested 
 that the Dean's critical and sarcastic temper sharpened 
 itself at home for conflicts abroad. 
 
 On the Dean s right hand sat Canon Dornal, a man barely 
 forty, who owed his canonry to the herculean work he had 
 done for fourteen years in a South London parish, work 
 that he would never have relinquished for the comparative 
 ease of the Markborough precincts, but for a sudden failure 
 in health, which had pulled him up in mid-career, and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 169 
 
 obliged him to tliink of his wife and children. He had 
 insisted however on combining with his canonry a small 
 living in the town, where he could still slave as he pleased ; 
 and his sermons in the Cathedral were generally held to 
 be, next to the personality of the Bishop, all that was 
 noblest in Markborough Christianity. His fine head, 
 still instinct with the energy of youth, was covered with 
 strong black hair ; dark brows shadowed Cornish blue 
 eyes, simple, tranquil, almost naif, until of a sudden there 
 rushed into them the passionate or tender feeling that was 
 in truth the heart of the man. The mouth and chin were 
 rather prominent, and when at rest, severe. He was 
 a man in whom conscience was a gadfly, remorseless and 
 tormenting. He was himself overstrained, and his influ- 
 ence sometimes produced in others a tension on which they 
 looked back with resentment. But he was a saint ; open, 
 pure, and loving as a child ; yet often tempest-driven with 
 new ideas, since he possessed at once the imagination 
 that frees a man from tradition, and the piety which clings 
 to it. 
 
 Beside him sat a University Professor, the young holder 
 of an important chair, who had the face, the smile, the 
 curly hair of a boy of twenty ; or appeared to have them, 
 till you came to notice the subtleties of the mouth and the 
 crow's-feet which had gathered round the eyes. And the 
 paradox of his aspect only repeated the paradox within. 
 His ' Synoptic Difficulties,' recently pubUshed, would have 
 earned him excommunication under any Pope ; yet no 
 one was a more rigid advocate of tests and creeds, or 
 could be more eloquent in defence of damnatory clauses. 
 The clergy who admired and applauded him did not read 
 his books. It was rumoured indeed that there were many 
 things in them which were unsound ; but the rumour only 
 gave additional zest to the speeches in which at Church 
 
I70 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Congresses and elsewhere he flattered clerical prejudice, 
 and encouraged clerical ignorance. To him there was no 
 naore ' amusing ' study — using ' amusing ' in the French 
 sense as meaning something that keeps a man intellectually 
 happy and awake — than the study of the Gospels. They 
 presented an endless series of riddles, and riddles were what 
 he liked. But the scientific treatment of these riddles 
 had, according to him, nothing to do with the discipline 
 of the Church ; and to the discipline of the Church this 
 young man, with the old eyes and mouth, was rigorously 
 attached. He was a bachelor and a man of means ; facts 
 which taken together with his literary reputation and his 
 agreeable aspect made him welcome among women ; of 
 which he was well aware. 
 
 The Archdeacon, Dr. Froswick, and the Rural Dean, 
 Mr. Brathay, who completed the Commission of Enquiry, 
 were both men of middle age ; the Archdeacon, fresh- 
 coloured, and fussy, a trivial kindly person of no great 
 account ; the Rural Dean, broad-shouldered and square- 
 faced, a silent, trustworthy man, much beloved in a small 
 circle. 
 
 A pile of books, MSS., and letters lay to the Chairman's 
 right hand. On the blotting-pad before him was the 
 voluminous written report of the Commission which only 
 awaited the signatures of the Commissioners, and — as to 
 one paragraph in it — a final interview with Meynell himself, 
 which had been fixed for noon. Business was now practi- 
 cally over till he arrived, and conversation had become 
 general. 
 
 ' You have seen the leader in the Orade this morn- 
 ing ? ' asked the Archdeacon, nervously biting his quill. 
 Perfectly monstrous, I think ! I shall withdraw my 
 subscription.* 
 
 ' With the Oracle' said the Professor, ' it will be a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 171 
 
 mere question of success or failure. At present they are 
 inclined to back the rebellion.* 
 
 * And not much wonder ! * put in the Dean's hoarse 
 voice. ' The news this morning is uncommonly bad. Four 
 more men joined the League here — a whole series of 
 League meetings in Yorkshire ! — half the important news- 
 papers gone over or neutral, — and a perfectly scandalous 
 speech from the Bishop of Dunchester ! ' 
 
 ' I thought we should hear of Dunchester before long ! ' 
 said the Professor, with a sarcastic lip. ' Anything that 
 annoys his brethren has his constant support. But if the 
 Church allows a Socinian to be put over her, she must take 
 the consequences ! ' 
 
 ' What can the Church do ? ' said the Dean shrugging 
 his shoulders. ' If we had accepted Disestablishment 
 years ago, Dunchester would never have been a bishop. 
 And now we may have missed our chance.' 
 
 ' Of what ? ' — Canon Dornal looked up — ' of Disestablish- 
 ment ? ' 
 
 The Dean nodded. 
 
 ' The whole force of this Liberal movement ' — he said 
 slowly — ' will be thrown against Disestablishment. There 
 comes the dividing line between it and the past. I say 
 again, we have missed our chance. If the High Churchmen 
 had known their own minds — if they had joined hands 
 boldly with the Liberation Society, and struck ofi the 
 State fetters — we should at least have been left in quiet 
 possession of what remained to us. We should not have 
 been exposed to this treachery from within. Or at least, 
 we should have made short work of it.' 
 
 ' That means, that you take for granted we should have 
 kept our endowments and our churches ?' said Canon Dornal. 
 
 The Dean flushed. 
 
 'We have been called a nation of shopkeepers ' — he said 
 
172 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 veiiemently — ' but nobody has ever called us a nation of 
 thieves.' 
 
 The Canon was silent. Then his eye caught the bulky 
 MS. report lying before the Dean, and he made a restless 
 movement as though the sight of it displeased him. 
 
 ' The demonstrations the papers report this morning are 
 not all on one side,' said the Rural Dean slowly, but 
 cheerfully, as though from a rather unsatisfactory reverie 
 this fact had emerged. 
 
 ' No — there seems to have been something like a riot at 
 Darwen's church,' observed the Archdeacon. ' What can 
 they expect ? You don't outrage people's dearest feelings 
 for nothing. The scandal and misery of it! Of course 
 we shall put it down — but the Church won't recover for a 
 generation. And all that this handful of agitators may 
 advertise themselves and their opinions ! ' 
 
 Canon Dornal frowned and fidgeted. 
 
 ' We must remember,' he said, ' that — unfortunately 
 — they have the greater part of European theology behind 
 them.' 
 
 ' European theology ! ' cried the Archdeacon, ' I 
 suppose you mean German theology ? ' 
 
 ' The same thing — almost,' said the Canon, smiling a 
 little sadly. 
 
 ' And what on earth does German theology matter to 
 us ? ' retorted the Archdeacon. ' Haven't we got theo- 
 logians of our own ? What have the Germans ever done 
 but set up one mare's nest after another, for us to set right ? 
 They've no sooner launched some cocksure theory or other 
 than they have to give it up. I don't read German,' said 
 the Archdeacon, hastily, 'but that's what I understand 
 from the Church papers.' 
 
 Silence a moment. The Professor looked at the ceiling, 
 a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. The green 
 
'He shook hands with the Dean" 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 173 
 
 shade concealed the Dean's expression. He also knew no 
 German, but it did not seem necessary to say so. Canon 
 Dornal looked uncomfortable. 
 
 ' Do you see who it was that protected Darwen from the 
 roughs outside his church ? ' he said presently. 
 
 Brathay looked up. 
 
 * A party of Wesleyans ? — class-leaders ? Yes, I saw. 
 Oh ! Darwen has always been on excellent terms with the 
 Dissenters ! ' 
 
 ' Meynell too,' said the Professor. ' That of course is 
 their game. Meynell has always gone for the inclusion of 
 the Dissenters.' 
 
 ' Well, it was Arnold's game ! ' said the Canon, his look 
 kindling. ' Don't let 's forget that. Meynell's dream is not 
 unUke his — to include everybody that would be included.' 
 
 ' Except the Unitarians,' said the Professor with em- 
 phasis — ' the deniers of the Incarnation. Arnold drew the 
 line there. So must we.' 
 
 He spoke with a crisp and smiling decision ; as of one in 
 authority. All kinds of assumptions lay behind his manner 
 Dornal looked at him with a rather troubled and hostile eye. 
 This whole matter of the coming trial was to him deeply 
 painful. He would have given anything to avoid it; but 
 he did not see how it could be avoided. The extraordinary 
 spread of the Movement indeed had made it impossible. 
 
 At this moment, one of the vergers of the Cathedral 
 entered the room to say that Mr. Meynell was waiting below. 
 The Dean directed that he should be shown up, and the 
 whole Commission dropped their conversational air and sat 
 expectant. 
 
 Meynell came in, rather hastily, brushing his hair back 
 from his forehead. He shook hands with the Dean and the 
 Archdeacon, and bowed to the other members of the Com- 
 mission. As he sat down, the Archdeacon who was very 
 
174 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 sensitive to such things, and was himself a model of spick- 
 and-span-uess, noticed that the Rector's coat was frayed, 
 and one of the buttons loose. Ann indeed was not a very 
 competent valet of her master ; and nothing but a certain 
 aesthetic element in Meynell preserved him from a degree of 
 personal untidiness which might perhaps have been excused 
 in a man alternating, hour by hour, between his study-table 
 and the humblest practical tasks among his people. 
 
 The other members of the Commission observed him 
 attentively. Perhaps all in their different ways and 
 degrees were conscious of change in him ; the change 
 wrought insensibly in a man by some high pressure of 
 emotion and responsibility ; the change that makes a 
 man a leader of his fellows, consecrates and sets him apart. 
 Canon Dornal watched him with a secret sympathy and 
 pity. The Archdeacon said to himself with repugnance 
 that Meynell now had the look of a fanatic. 
 
 The Dean took a volume from the pile beside him, and 
 opened it at a marked page. 
 
 ' Before concluding our report to the Bishop, Mr. 
 Meynell, we wished to have your explanation of an import- 
 ant passage in one of your recent sermons ; and you have 
 been kind enough to meet us with a view to giving us that 
 explanation. Will you be so good as to look at the passage ? ' 
 
 He handed the book to Meynell, who read it in silence. 
 The few marked sentences concerned the Resurrection. 
 
 ' These resurrection-stories have for our own days 
 mainly a symbolic, perhaps one might call it — a sacra- 
 mental importance. They are the " outward and visible " 
 sign of an inward mystery. As a simple matter of fact 
 the continuous life of the spirit of Christ in mankind began 
 with the death of Jesus of Nazareth. The Resurrection- 
 beliefs, so far as we can see, were the natural means by 
 which that Life was secured.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 175 
 
 ' Are we right in supposing, Mr. Meynell/ said the Dean, 
 slowly, ' that in those sentences you meant to convey that 
 the Resurrection-narratives of the New Testament were 
 not to be taken as historical fact, but merely as mythical — 
 or legendary ? ' 
 
 ' The passage means, I think, what it says, Mr. Dean.' 
 ' It is not strictly speaking, logically incompatible,' 
 said the Professor, bending forward with a suave suggestive- 
 ness, ' with acceptance of the statement in the Creed ? ' 
 
 Meynell threw him a slightly perplexed look, and did 
 not reply immediately. The Dean sharply interposed. 
 
 ' Do you in fact accept the statements of the Creed ? 
 In that case we might report to the Bishop that you felt 
 you had been misinterpreted; and would withdraw the 
 sermon complained of, in order to allay the scandal it has 
 produced ? ' 
 
 Meynell looked up. 
 
 ' No,' he said quietly, ' no, I shaU not withdraw the 
 sermon. Besides ' — the faintest gleam of a smile seemed 
 to flit through the speaker's tired eyes — ' that is only one 
 of so many passages.' 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Canon Dornal 
 said — 
 
 ' Many things, — many different views — as we all know, 
 are permitted, must be permitted, nowadays. But the 
 Resurrection — is vital ! ' 
 
 ' The physical fact ? ' said Meynell gently. His look 
 met that of Dornal ; some natural sympathy seemed to 
 establish itself at once between them. 
 
 * The historical fact. If you could see your way to 
 withdraw some of the statements in these volumes on this 
 particular subject — much relief would be given to many — 
 many wounded consciences.' 
 
 The voice was almost pleading. The Dean moved 
 
176 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 abruptly in his chair. Dornal's tone was undignified and 
 absurd. Every page of the books teemed with heresy ! 
 
 But Meynell was for the moment only aware of his 
 questioner. He leaned across the table as though address- 
 ing him alone. 
 
 ' To us too — the Resurrection is vital, — the transposi- 
 tion of it, I mean — from the natural, or physical — to the 
 spiritual order.' 
 
 Dornal did not of course attempt to argue. But as 
 Meynell met the sensitive melancholy of his look, the 
 Rector remembered that during the preceding year Dornal 
 had lost a little son, a delicate gifted child, to whom he had 
 been peculiarly attached. And Meynell's quick imagina- 
 tion realised in a moment the haunted imagination of the 
 other — the dear ghost that lived there — and the hopes that 
 grouped themselves about it. 
 
 A long wrestle followed between Meynell and the Pro- 
 fessor. But Meynell could not be induced to soften or 
 recant anything. He would often say indeed with an eager 
 frown, when confronted with some statement of his own — 
 ' That was badly put ! — It should be so-and-so.' And 
 then would follow some vivid correction or expansion, which 
 sometimes left the matter worse than before. The hopes 
 of the Archdeacon, for one set of reasons, and of Dornal for 
 another, that some bridge of retreat might be provided by 
 the interview died away. The Dean had never hoped 
 anything, and Mr. Brathay sat open-mouthed and aghast, 
 while Meynell's voice and personality drove home ideas 
 and audacities which on the printed page were but dim 
 to him. Why had the Anglican world been told for the 
 last fifteen years that the whole critical onslaught — 
 especially the German onslaught — was a beaten and dis- 
 credited thing V It seemed to him terribly alive ! 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 177 
 
 The library door opened again, and Meynell disappeared, 
 — ceremoniously escorted to tlie threshold by the 
 Professor. When that gentleman was seated again, the 
 Dean addressed the meeting. 
 
 ' A most unsatisfactory interview ! There is nothing for 
 it I fear but to send in our report unaltered to the Bishop, 
 I must therefore ask you to append your signatures.' 
 
 All signed, and the meeting broke up. 
 
 ' Do you know at all when the case is likely to come on ? ' 
 said Dornal to the Dean. 
 
 ' Hardly before November. The Letters of Request 
 are ready. Then, after the Arches, will come the appeal 
 to the Privy Council. The whole thing may take some 
 time.' 
 
 ' You see the wild talk in some of the papers this 
 morning,' said the Professor interposing, * about a national 
 appeal to Parhament to " bring the Articles of the Church 
 of England into accordance with modern knowledge." If 
 there is any truth in it, there may be an Armageddon 
 before us.' 
 
 Dornal looiced at him with distaste. The speaker's 
 light tone, the note of reUsh in it, as of one delighting in the 
 drama of life, revolted him. 
 
 On coming out of the Cathedral Library, Dornal walked 
 across to the Cathedral and entered. He found his way to 
 a little chapel of St. Oswald on the north side where he was 
 often wont to sit or kneel for ten minutes' quiet in a busy 
 day. As he passed the north transept, he saw a figure 
 sitting motionless in the shadow, and reaUsed that it was 
 Meynell. 
 
 The silence of the great Cathedral closed round him. 
 He was conscious of nothing but his own personality, and, 
 as it seemed, of Meynell's. They two seemed to be alone 
 together in a world outside the living world. Dornal 
 
 N 
 
178 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 could not define it, save that it was a world of reconciled 
 enmities and contradictions. The sense of it alternated 
 with a disagreeable recollection of the table in the Library, 
 and the men sitting round it, especially the cherubic face 
 of the Professor ; the thought also of the long, signed 
 document which reported the ' heresy ' of Meynell. 
 
 He had been quite right to sign it. His soul went out 
 n a passionate adhesion to the beliefs on which his own 
 life was built. Yet still the strange reconciling sense 
 flowed in and round him, like the washing of a pure stream. 
 He was certain that the Eternal Word had been made 
 flesh in Jesus of Nazareth, had died and risen, and been 
 exalted ; that the Church was now the mysterious channel 
 of His risen life. He must, in mere obedience and loyalty 
 do battle for that certainty — guard it as the most precious 
 thing in life for those that should come after. Neverthe- 
 less he was conscious that there was in him none of the 
 righteous anger, none of the moral condemnation that his 
 father or grandfather might have felt in the same case. As 
 far as feeling went, nothing divided him from Meynell. 
 They two across the Commission table — as accuser and 
 accused — had recognised, each in the other, the man of 
 faith. The same forces played on both ; mysteriously 
 linking them ; as the same sea links the headland which 
 throws back its waves, with the harbour which receives them. 
 
 Meynell, too, was conscious of Dornal as somewhere 
 near him in the still, beautiful place, but only vaguely. 
 He was storm-beaten by the labour and excitement of the 
 preceding weeks, and these moments of rest in the cathedral 
 were sometimes all that enabled him to go through his day. 
 He endeavoured often at such times to keep his mind 
 merely vacant, and passive, avoiding especially the active 
 religious thoughts which were more than,_brain and heart 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 179 
 
 could continuously bear. ' One cannot always think of 
 it — one must not ! ' he would say to himself impatiently. 
 And then he would offer himself eagerly to the mere sen- 
 suous impressions of the Cathedral — its beauty, its cool 
 prismatic spaces, its silences. 
 
 He did so to-day, though always conscious beyond the 
 beauty, and the healing quiet, of the mysterious presence 
 on which he ' propped his soul.' . . . 
 
 Conscious, too, of a dear human presence, closely inter- 
 woven now with his sense of things ineffable. 
 
 Latterly, as we have seen, he had not been without some 
 scanty opportunities of meeting Mary Elsmere. In Miss 
 Puttenham's drawing-room, whither the common anxiety 
 about Hester had drawn him on many occasions, he had 
 chanced once or tmce on Miss Puttenham's new friend. 
 In the village Mrs. Flaxman was beginning to give him 
 generous help ; the parish nurse was started. And some- 
 times when she came to consult, her niece was with her, 
 and Meynell, while talking to the aunt, either of his 
 people or of the progress of the heresy campaign, was 
 always keenly aware of the girlish figure beside her — of 
 the quick, shy smile — the voice and its tones. 
 
 She was with him in spirit — that he knew — passionately 
 knew. But the barriers between them were surely in- 
 surmountable. Her sympathy with him was like some 
 warm, stifled thing ; some chafing bird * beating up against 
 the wind.* 
 
 For a time, indeed, he had tried to put love from him, 
 in the name of his high enterprise, and its claims upon 
 him. But as he sat tranced, in the silence of the 
 cathedral that attempt finally gave way. His longing was 
 hopeless, but it enriched his life. For it was fused with 
 all that held him to his task ; all that was divinest and 
 sincerest in himself. 
 
 H 2 
 
i8o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 One of the great bells of the cathedral struck the 
 quarter. His moment of communion and of rest broke up. 
 He rose abruptly and left the cathedral for the crowded 
 streets outside, thinking hard as he walked of quite other 
 things. 
 
 The death of Mrs. Sabin in her son's cottage had been 
 to Meynell like a stone flung into some deep shadowed 
 pool ; the ripples from it had been spreading through the 
 secret places of life and thought ever since. 
 
 He had heard of the death on the morning after it occurred. 
 John Broad, an inarticulate, secretive fellow, had come to 
 the Rectory in quest of the Rector within a few hours of 
 its occurrence. His mother had returned home, he said, 
 unexpectedly, after many years of wanderings in the 
 States ; he had not had very much conversation with her, 
 as she had seemed ill and tired and ' terrible queer ' when 
 she arrived. He and his boys had given up their room to 
 her for the night, and she had been very late in coming 
 downstairs the following morning. He had had to go to 
 his work, and when he came back in the evening, he found 
 her in great pain, and unable to talk to him. She would 
 not allow him to call any doctor, and had locked herself in 
 her room. In the morning he had forced the door, and had 
 found her dead. He did not know that she had seen 
 anybody but himself and his boys since her arrival. 
 
 But she had seen someone else. As the Rector walked 
 along the street, he had in his pocket a cutting from the 
 Markhorough Post, containing the report of the inquest. 
 From which it appeared — the Rector of course was well 
 aware of it — that Mr. Henry Barron of the White House, 
 going to the cottage to complam of the conduct of 
 the children in the plantation, had found her there, and 
 had talked to her for some time. ' I thought her excited 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD xMEYNELL i8i 
 
 — and overtired — no doubt by the journey/ he had said 
 to the coroner. ' I tried to persuade her to let me send in 
 a woman to look after her, but she refused.' 
 
 In Barron's evidence at the inquest, to which Meynell 
 had given close attention, there had been no hint what- 
 ever as to the nature of his conversation with Mrs. Sabin. 
 Nor had there been any need to inquire. The medical 
 evidence was quite clear as to the cause of death — 
 advanced brain disease, fatally aggravated by the journey. 
 
 Immediately after his interview with John Broad, the 
 Rector had communicated the news of Mrs. Sabin's un- 
 expected arrival and sudden death to two other persons in 
 the village. He still thought with infinite concern of 
 the effect it had produced on one of them. Since his 
 hurried note telling her of Barron's evidence before the 
 coroner, and of his own impressions of it, he had not seen 
 her. But he must not leave her too much to herself. 
 A patient and tender pity, as of one on whom the 
 burden of a struggling and suffering soul has long been 
 thrown, dictated all his thoughts of her. He had himself 
 perceived nothing which need alarm her in Barron's 
 appearance at the inquest. Barron's manner to himself 
 had been singularly abrupt and cold when they happened 
 to run across each other, outside the room in which the 
 inquest was held ; but all that was sufficiently explained 
 by the position of the heresy suit. 
 
 Still anxiously pondering, Meynell passed the last 
 houses in the Cathedral Close. The last of all belonged to 
 Canon France, and Meynell had no sooner left it behind him 
 than a f\ill and portly figure emerged from its front door. 
 Barron — for it was he — stood a moment looking after 
 the retreating Rector. A hunter's eagerness gave sharpen- 
 ing, a grim sharpening, to the heavy face ; yet there was 
 perplexity mixed with the eagerness. His conversation 
 
i82 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 with France had not been very helpful. The Canon's 
 worldly wisdom, and shrewd contempt for enthusiasts 
 had found their natural food in the story which Barron 
 had brought him. His comments had been witty and 
 pungent enough. But when it had come to the practi- 
 cal use of the story, France had been of little assist- 
 ance. Hjs advice inclined too much to the Melbourne 
 formula — ' Can't you let it alone ? ' He had pointed out 
 the risks, difficulties, and uncertainties of the matter with 
 quite unnecessary iteration. Of course there were risks 
 and difficulties ; but was a man of the type of Richard 
 Meynell to be allowed to play the hypocrite, as the rapidly 
 emerging leader of a religious movement, — a movement 
 directed against the unity and apostolicity of the English 
 Church — when there were those looking on, who were 
 aware of the grave suspicions resting on his private life 
 and past history ? 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 On the same afternoon which saw the last meeting of the 
 Commission of Enquiry at Markborough, the windows of 
 Miss Puttenham's cottage in Upcote Minor were open to the 
 garden, and the sun stealing into the half -darkened drawing- 
 room, touched all the many signs it contained of a woman's 
 refinement and a woman's tastes. The room was a little 
 austere. Not many books, but those clearly the friends 
 and not the passing acquaintance of its mistress ; not 
 many pictures, and those rather slight suggestions on the 
 dim blue walls than finished performances ; a few 
 ' notes ' in colour, or black and white, chosen from one 
 or other of those moderns who can in a sensitive line or 
 two convey the beauty, or the harshness, of nature. Over 
 the mantelpiece there was a pencil drawing by Domenichino, 
 of the Madonna and Child ; a certain ecstatic languor in 
 the Madonna, and, in all the lines of form and drapery, 
 an exquisite flow and roundness. 
 
 The little maidservant brought in the afternoon letters 
 and with them a folded newspaper — the Markborough Post. 
 A close observer might have detected that it had been 
 already opened, and hurriedly re-folded in the old folds. 
 There was much interest felt in Upcote Minor in the 
 inquest held on John Broad's mother ; and the kitchen 
 had taken toll before the paper reached the drawing-room. 
 
 As though the maid's movement downstairs had been 
 immediately perceived by a Ustening ear overhead, there 
 was a quick sound of footsteps. Miss Puttenham ran 
 
 183 
 
184 THE^CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 downstairs, took the letters and the newspaper from the 
 hands of the girl, and closed the door behind her. 
 
 She opened the paper with eagerness, and read the 
 account it gave of the coroner's enquiry held at the Cow 
 Roast a week before. The newspaper dropped to the 
 ground. She stood a moment, leaning against the mantel- 
 piece, every feature in her face expressing the concentration 
 of thought which held her ; then she dropped into a chair, 
 and raising her two hands to her eyes, she pressed the 
 shut Uds close; Ufting her face as though to some unseen 
 misery, while a little sound — infinitely piteous — escaped 
 her. 
 
 She saw a bedroom in a foreign inn — a vague form in 
 the bed — a woman mo^^llg about in nurse's dress, the 
 same woman who had just died in John Broad's cottage — 
 and her sister Edith sitting by the fire. The door leading to 
 the passage is ajar, and she is watching ... Or is it the 
 figure in the bed that is watching ? — a figure marred by 
 illness and pain ? Through the door comes hastily a 
 form — a man. With his entrance, movement and Ufe, 
 like a rush of mountain air, come into the ugly shaded 
 room. He is tall, with a long face, refined and yet \dolent, 
 instinct with the character and the pride of an old hectoring 
 race. He comes to the bed, kneels down, and the figure 
 there throws itself on his breast. There is a soimd of bitter 
 sobbing, of low words. — 
 
 Alice Puttenham's hands dropped from her face — and 
 lay outstretched upon her knee. She sat, staring before 
 her, unconscious of the garden outside, or of the passage 
 of time. In some ways, she was possessed of more beauty 
 at thirty-seven than she had been at twenty. And yet 
 from childhood her face had been a winning one — with 
 its childish upper lip and its thin oval, its delicate brunette 
 colour, and the lovely clearness of its brown eyes. In 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 185 
 
 youth its timid sweetness had been constantly touched 
 with laughter. Now it shrank from you and appealed 
 to you in one. But the departure of youth had but 
 emphasized a certain distinction, a certain quality. Laughter 
 was gone, but grace and character remained ; imprinted 
 also on the fragile body, the beautiful arms and hands. 
 The only marring of the general impression came from an 
 efEect of restlessness and constraint. To live with Alice 
 Puttenham was to conceive her as a creature subtly ill at 
 ease ; doing her best with a life which was, in some hidden 
 way, injured at the core. 
 
 She thought herself quite alone this quiet afternoon, 
 and likely to remain so. Hester, who had been lunching 
 with her, had gone shopping into Markborough with the 
 schoohoom maid, and was afterwards to meet Sarah and Lulu 
 at a garden party in the Cathedral Close. Lady Fox- Wilton 
 had just left her sister's house after a long, querulous, 
 excited visit, — the latest of many during the past week. 
 How could it be her — Alice's fault, that Judith Sabin 
 had come home in this sudden mysterious way ? Yet 
 the event had re-opened all the old wounds in Edith's 
 mind, redoubled all the old grievances and terrors. 
 Strange that a woman should be capable of one supreme 
 act of help and devotion, and should then spend her whole 
 after Life in resenting it ! 
 
 ' It was you and your story— that shocking thing we 
 had to do for you — that have spoilt my life — and my 
 husband's. Ralph never got over it — and I never shall. 
 It will all come out some day — and then what '11 be the 
 good of all we 've suffered ! ' 
 
 That was Edith's attitude ; the attitude of a small, 
 vindictive soul. It never varied year by year ; it shewed 
 itself both in trifles and on great occasions ; it hindered all 
 
186 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 sisterly affection ; and it was the explanation of her 
 conduct towards Hester, — it had indeed made Hester what 
 she was. 
 
 Again the same low sound of helpless pain broke from 
 Alice Puttenham's lips. The sense of her unloved, soli- 
 tary state, of all that she had borne and must still bear, 
 roused in her anew a flame of memory. Torch-like it 
 ran through the past, till she was shaken with anguish and 
 revolt. She had been loved once ! It had brought her to 
 black depths of shame. She only knew, at moments 
 of strong reaction or self-assertion like the present, that 
 she had once had a man at her feet who had been the 
 desired and adored of his day ; that she had breathed her 
 heart out in the passion of youth on his breast ; that 
 although he had wronged her, he had suffered because of 
 her, had broken his heart for her ; and had probably died 
 because circumstances denied him the power to save and 
 restore her, and he was not of the kind that bears patiently 
 either thwarting from without or reproach from within. 
 
 For his selfish passion, his weakness and his sufiering, 
 and her own woman's power to make him suffer ; for 
 his death, no less selfish indeed than his passion, for it had 
 taken from her the community of the same air, and the 
 same earth with him, the sense that somewhere in the 
 world his warm life beat with hers, though they might 
 be separated in bodily presence for ever : — for each and 
 all of these things she had loved him. And there were 
 still times when, in spite of the years that had passed away, 
 and of other, and perhaps profounder feelings that had 
 supervened, she felt within her again the wild call of her 
 early love ; responding to it like an unhappy child, in vain 
 appeal against her soUtude, her sister's unkindness, and 
 the pressure of irrevocable and imforgotten facts. 
 
 Suddenly, she turned towards a tall and narrow chest 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 187 
 
 of drawers that stood at her left hand. She chose a key from 
 her watch chain, a small gold key that in their childhood 
 had been generally mistaken by her nieces and nephews 
 for one of the bunch of charms they were allowed to play with 
 on ' Aunt Aisle's ' lap. With it she unlocked a drawer 
 within her reach. Her hand sUpped in ; she threw a hasty 
 look round her, at the window, the garden. Not a sound 
 of anything, but the evening A^ind, which had just risen, 
 and was making a smart rustling among the shrubs just 
 outside. Her hand, a white, furtive thing, withdrew itself, 
 and in it lay a packet, wrapped in some faded, green 
 velvet. Hurriedly — with yet more pauses to listen and 
 to look — the wrapping was undone ; the case within fell 
 open. 
 
 It contained a miniature portrait of a man, — French 
 work, by an excellent pupil of Meissonier. The detail of 
 it was marvellous ; so, in Alice Puttenham's view, was the 
 likeness. She remembered when and how it had been 
 commissioned — the artist, and hia bare studio in a street on 
 the island, near Notre Dame ; the chestnuts in the Luxem- 
 bourg garden, as they walked home ; the dust of the 
 falling blossoms, and the children playing in the alleys. 
 And through it all, what passionate, guilty happiness — 
 what dull sense of things irreparable ! — what deUberate 
 shutting out of the future ! 
 
 It was as good a likeness, really, as the Abbey picture, 
 only more literal, less ' arranged.' The Abbey picture, also 
 by a French artist of another school, was younger, and had 
 a fine, romantic, Rene-like charm. ' Rene ' had been her 
 laughing name for him — her handsome, melancholy, 
 eloquent poseur ! Like many of his family, he was proud 
 of his French culture, his French accent, and his knowledge 
 of French books. The tradition that came originally from 
 a French marriage had been kept up from father to son. 
 
1 88 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 They were not a learned or an industrious race ; but their 
 tongue soon caught the accent of the Boulevards, — of the 
 Paris they loved and frequented. 
 
 Her hand lifted the miniature the better to catch the 
 slanting light. 
 
 As she did so she was freshly struck with a resemblance 
 she had long ceased to be conscious of. Familiarity with a 
 living face, as so often happens, had destroyed for her its 
 likeness — likeness in difference — to a face of the dead. 
 But to-night she saw it — was indeed arrested by it. 
 
 ' And yet Richard was never one-tenth as good-looking ! ' 
 
 The portrait was set in pearls, and at the foot was an 
 inscription in blue enamel — 
 
 ' A tna mie ! ' 
 
 But before she could see it she must with her cold 
 quick fingers remove the fragment of stained paper that 
 lay upon it like a veil. The half of a page of MoUere — 
 turned down — Uke that famous page of Shelley's Sophocles 
 — and stained with sea water, as that was stained. 
 
 She raised the picture to her Hps and kissed it — not with 
 passion — but cUngingly, as though it represented her only 
 wealth, amid so much poverty. Then her hand, holding 
 it, dropped to her knee again ; the other hand came to 
 close over it ; and her eyes shut. Tears came slowly 
 through the lashes. 
 
 Amazing ! — that that woman should have come back — 
 and died — within a few hundred yards, and she, AUce, 
 know nothing ! In spite of all Richard's persuasions she 
 tortured herself anew with the thought of the interview 
 between Judith and Mr. Barron. What could they have 
 talked about — so long ? Judith was always an excitable 
 hot-tempered creature. Her silence had been heavily and 
 efficiently bought for fifteen years. Then steps had been 
 taken — insisted upon — by Sir Ralph Fox- Wilton. His 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 189 
 
 wife and his sister-in-law had opposed him in vain. And 
 Ralph had after all triumphed in Judith's apparent 
 acquiescence. 
 
 Supposing she had now come home, perhaps on a 
 sudden impulse, ^\ath a view to further blackmail, would 
 not her wisest move be to risk some indiscretion, some 
 partial disclosure, so that her renewed silence afterwards 
 might have the higher price ? An hour's tete-d-tete, with 
 that shrewd, hard-souled man, Henry Barron ! Alice 
 Puttenham guessed that her own long-established dislike 
 of him as acquaintance and neighbour was probably re- 
 turned with interest; that he classed her now as one of 
 ' Meynell's lot ' ; and would be only too glad to find himself 
 possessed of any secret information that might, through her, 
 annoy and harass Richard Meynell, her friend and counsellor. 
 
 Was it conceivable that nothing shoiild have been said 
 in that lengthy interview as to the causes for Judith's 
 coming home ? — or of the reasons for her original departure ? 
 What else could have accounted for so prolonged a con- 
 versation between two persons, so different in social grade, 
 and absolute strangers to each other ? 
 
 Richard had told her indeed, and she saw from the 
 Post, that at the inquest Barron had apparently accounted 
 for the conversation. ' She gave me a curious history of 
 her life in the States. I was interested by her strange 
 personality — and touched by her physical condition.' 
 
 Richard was convinced that there was no reasonable 
 cause for alarm. But Richard was always the consoler — 
 the optimist — where she was concerned. Could she have 
 lived at all — if it had not been so ? 
 
 And then, for the second time, the rush of feeling rose, 
 welling up, not from the springs of the past, but from the 
 deepest sources of the present. 
 
 Richard l— 
 
I90 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 That little villa on the Cap Martin — the steep pathway 
 to it — and Richard moimting it, with that pale look, 
 those tattered, sea-stained leaves in his hand, and the 
 tragedy that had to be told, in his eyes, and on his lips. 
 Could any other human being have upheld her as he did 
 through that first year — through the years after ? Was 
 it not to him that she owed everything that had been 
 recovered from the wreck; the independence and freedom 
 of her daily life ; protection from her hard brother-in-law, 
 and from her sister's reproaches; occupation — hope — the 
 gradual heaUng of intolerable wounds — the gradual awaken- 
 ing of a spiritual being ? 
 
 Thus — after passion ! — she had known friendship ; 
 its tenderness, its disinterested affection and care. 
 
 Tenderness ? Her hand dashed away some more 
 impetuous tears ; then locked itself in the other, the 
 tension of the muscles answering to the inward effort for 
 self-control. Thank God, she had never asked him for 
 more ; had often seemed indeed to ask him for much less ; 
 had made herself irresponsive, difficult, remote. At 
 least she had never lost her dignity in his eyes — (ah ! in 
 whose eyes but his had she ever possessed it ?) — she had 
 never forfeited — never risked even — her sacred place in 
 his life, as the soul he had helped through dark places, true 
 servant as he was of the Master of Pity. 
 
 The alarms of the week died away, as this emotion 
 gained upon her. She bethought her of certain central and 
 critical years, when after long dependence on him as com- 
 rade and friend, suddenly, she knew not how, her own 
 pulse had quickened, and the sharpest struggle of her life 
 had come upon her. It was the crisis of the mature 
 woman, as compared with that of the innocent and ignorant 
 girl ; and in the silent mastering of it, she seemed to have 
 parted with her youth. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 191 
 
 But she had never parted with self-control and self- 
 respect. She had never persuaded herself that the false 
 was true. She had kept her counsel, and her sanity. And 
 the wage of it had not been denied her. She had 
 emerged more worthy of his friendship, more capable 
 of rewarding it. 
 
 Yes, but \\ith a clear and sad perception of the necessities 
 laid upon her; of the sacrifices involved. 
 
 He believed her — she knew it — indifferent to the great 
 cause of rehgious change and reform which he had at 
 heart. In these matters indeed she had quietly, unwaver- 
 ingly held aloof. There are efforts and endurances that 
 can only be maintained — up to a point. Beyond that 
 point resistance breaks. The life that is fighting emotion 
 must not run too many risks of emotion. At the root of 
 half the rehgious movements of the world lies the appeal 
 of the preacher and the prophet — to women. Because 
 women are the creatures and channels of feeling ; and 
 feeling is to rehgion as air to hfe. 
 
 But she — must starve feeling — not feed and cherish it. 
 Richard's voice was too powerful with her already. To 
 hear it dealing with the most intimate and touching things 
 of the soul, would have tested the resistance of her will too 
 sorely. Courage and honour alike told her that she would 
 be defeated and undone did she attempt to meet and follow 
 him — openly — in the paths of religion. Entbehren sollst 
 du — sollst entbehren ! 
 
 So, long before this date, she had chosen her line of action. 
 She took no part in the Movement; and she rarely set 
 foot in the village church, which was close to her gates. 
 Meynell sadly believed her unshakeable ; one of the 
 natural agnostics or pessimists of the world who cannot 
 be comforted through religion. 
 
 And meanwhile secretly, ardently, she tracked all the 
 
192 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 footsteps of his tliouglits ; reading what lie read ; tliinking 
 as far as possible what he thought ; and revealing nothing. 
 
 Except that, lately, she had been indiscreet sometimes 
 in talk with Mary Elsmere. Mary had divined her, had 
 expressed her astonishment that her friend should declare 
 herself and her sympathies so Uttle ; and Alice had set up 
 some sort of halting explanation. 
 
 But in this nascent friendship it was not Mary alone who 
 had made discoveries. . . . 
 
 Ahce Puttenham sat very still, in the quiet shadowy 
 room, her eyes closed, her hands crossed over the miniature, 
 the Markborough paper lying on the floor beside her. 
 As the first activity of memory, stirred and goaded by an 
 untoward event, lost its poignancy ; as she tried in obedi- 
 ence to Meynell to put away her terrors with regard to the 
 past, her thoughts converged ever more intensely on the 
 present, — on herself — and Mary. , . . 
 
 There was in the world, indeed, another personaKty rarely 
 or never absent from Ahce Puttenham's consciousness. One 
 face, one problem, more or less acutely realised, haunted her 
 Ufe continuously. But this afternoon they had, for the 
 moment, receded into the background. Hester had been, 
 surely, more reasonable, more affectionate lately. Philip 
 Meryon had now left Sandford ; a statement to that effect 
 had appeared in the Post ; and Hester had even shewn some 
 kindness to poor Stephen. She had at last declared her 
 willingness to go to Paris ; and the arrangements were all 
 made. The crisis in her of angry revolt, provoked apparently 
 by the refusal of her guardian to allow her engagement to 
 Stephen, seemed to be over. 
 
 So that for once Ahce Puttenham was free to think and 
 feel for her own life and what concerned it. From the 
 events connected with Judith Sabin's death ; through the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 193 
 
 long history of Meynell's goodness to her ; the mind of this 
 lonely woman travelled on, to be filled and arrested by the 
 great new fact of the present. She had made a new friend. 
 And at the same moment she had found in her — at last — the 
 rival with whom her own knowledge of Ufe had threatened 
 her these many years. A rival so sweet — so unwitting ! 
 Alice had read her. She had scarcely yet read herself. 
 
 Alice opened her eyes to the quiet room, and the 
 windy sky outside. She was very pale, but there were no 
 tears. ' It is not renouncing ' — she whispered to herself — 
 ' for I never possessed. It is accepting — loving — giving— 
 all one has to give.' 
 
 And vaguely, there ran through her mind immortal 
 words — ' good measure — 'pressed down, and running over.' 
 
 A smile trembled on her lip. She closed her eyes again, 
 lost in one of those spiritual passions accessible only to those 
 who know the play and heat of the spiritual war. The wind 
 was blowing briskly outside and from the wood-shed in 
 the back garden came a sound of sawing. Miss Puttenham 
 did not hear a footstep approaching on the grass outside. 
 
 Hester paused at the window — smiling. There was 
 wildness — triumph — in her look ; as though for her this 
 quiet afternoon had seen some undisclosed adventure. Her 
 cheek was hotly flushed, her loosened hair made a glory in 
 the evening sun. Youth, selfishly pitiless, — youth, the 
 supplanter and destroyer — stood embodied in the beautiful 
 creature looking down upon Alice Puttenham, on the still 
 intensity of the plaintive face, the closed eyes, the hands 
 holding the miniature — 
 
 Mischievously the girl came closer. She took the still- 
 ness before her for sleep. 
 
 ' Auntie ! — Aunt Alsie ! ' 
 
 With a start, Alice Puttenham sprang up. The miniature 
 
 O 
 
194 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 dropped from her hands to *^^he loor, opening as it fell. 
 Hester looked at it astonished ; and her hand stooped for it, 
 before Miss Puttenham had perceived her loss. 
 
 ' Were you asleep, Aunt Alsie ? ' she asked, wondering ; 
 * I got tired of that stupid party — and I — well, I just 
 slipped away ' — the clear high voice had grown conscious — 
 ' and I looked in here, because I left a book behind me — 
 Auntie : — who is it ? ' She bent eagerly over the miniature, 
 trying to see it in the dim light. 
 
 Miss Puttenham's face had faded to a grey-white. 
 
 * Give it to me, Hester ! ' She held out her hand 
 imperiously. 
 
 ' Mayn't I know even who it is ? * asked Hester, as 
 she unwillingly returned it. In the act, she caught the 
 inscription and her face kindled. 
 
 Impetuously throwing herself down beside Miss Putten- 
 ham, the girl looked up at her with an expression half 
 mockery, half sweetness ; while Alice with unsteady fingers, 
 replaced the case, and locked the drawer. 
 
 * What an awfully handsome fellow ! ' said Hester, in a 
 low voice — 'though you wouldn't let me see it properly. 
 I say, Auntie — won't you tell me — ? * 
 
 ' Tell you what ? ' 
 
 ' Who he was — and why I never saw it before ? I 
 thought I knew all your things by heart — and now you 've 
 been keeping something from me ! ' — the girl's tone had 
 clxanged to one of curious resentment — ' You know how you 
 scold me, when you think I 've got a secret.' 
 
 ' That is quite different, Hester.' 
 
 Miss Puttenham tried to rise, but Hester who was 
 leaning against her knee prevented it. 
 
 ' Why is it different ? ' she said, audaciously. ' You 
 always say you — you — want to be everything to me — and 
 then you hide things from me — and I ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 195 
 
 She raised herself, sitting upright on the floor, her hands 
 round her knees ; and spoke with extraordinary animation 
 and sparkling eyes. 
 
 ' Why, I should have loved you twice as much, Aunt 
 Alice — and you know I do love you ! — if you 'd told me 
 more about yourself. The people / care about are the people 
 who live — and feel — and do things ! There 's a verse in one 
 of your books ' — she pointed to a little book-shelf of poets on 
 a table near — ' I always happen to think of it, when Mamma 
 reads the " Christian Year " to us on Sunday evenings! — 
 
 ' " Out of dangers, dreams, disasters 
 We arise, to be your masters ! " 
 
 We — the people who want to know, and feel, and fight ! We 
 who loathe all the humdrum bourgeois talk — " don't do 
 this — don't do that ! " Aunt Alsie, there 's a German line, 
 too, you know it — " Was uns alle hdndigt, das Gemeine" — 
 don't you hate it too — das Gemeine ! ' — the word came with 
 vehemence through the white teeth — ' And how can we 
 escape it — we women ! — except through freedom — through 
 asserting ourselves — through love, of course ! It all comes 
 to love ! — love that Mamma says one ought not to talk 
 about. I wouldn't talk about it, if it only meant what it 
 means to Sarah and Lulu — I 'd scorn to ! ' 
 
 She stopped — and looked with her blazing and wonder- 
 ful eyes at her companion — her lips parted. Then she 
 suddenly stooped and kissed the cold hand trying to 
 withdraw itself from hers. 
 
 ' Who was he, dear ? ' — she laid the hand caressingly 
 against her cheek — ' I 'm good at secrets ! ' 
 
 Alice Puttenhara wrenched herself free, and rose 
 tottering to her feet. 
 
 * He is dead, Hester — and you mustn't speak of it to me 
 — or anyone — again.' 
 
 o 2 
 
igb THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 She leant against the mantelpiece trying to recover 
 herself — but in vain. 
 
 * I 'm rather faint,' she said at last, putting out a 
 groping hand. — ' No, don't come ! — I 'm all right — I '11 go 
 upstairs and rest. I got overtired this morning.' 
 
 And she went feebly towards the door. 
 
 Hester looked after her, panting and wounded. Aunt 
 Alsie repel — refuse her ! — Aunt Alsie ! — who had always 
 been her special possession and chattel. It had been 
 taken for granted in the family, year after year, that if no 
 one else was devoted to Hester, Aunt Alsie's devotion, at 
 least, never failed. Hester's clothes were Miss Puttenham's 
 special care ; it was for Hester that she stitched and 
 embroidered. Hester was to inherit her jewels and her money. 
 In all Hester's scrapes it was Aunt Alice who stood by her, 
 — who had often carried her off bodily out of reach of the 
 family anger, to the Lakes, to the sea — once, even, to Italy. 
 
 And from her childhood Hester had coolly taken it all 
 for granted, had never been specially grateful, or much 
 more amenable to counsels from Aunt Alice than from any- 
 body else. The slender graceful woman, so gentle, plaintive 
 and reserved, so easily tyrannised over, had never seemed 
 to mean much to her. Yet now, as she stood looking at the 
 door through which Miss Puttenham had disappeared, the 
 girl was conscious of a profound and passionate sense of 
 grievance ; and of something deeper beneath it. The 
 sensation that held her was new, and unbearable. 
 
 Then in a moment her temperament turned pain into 
 anger. She ran to the window, and down the steps into the 
 garden 
 
 ' If she had told me ' — she said to herself, with the 
 childish fury that mingled in her with older and maturer 
 things, — ' I might have told her. Now — I fend for 
 myself ! ' 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Meanwhile, in the room upstairs, Alice Puttenham, lying 
 with her face pressed against the back of the chair into 
 which she had feebly dropped, heard Hester run down the 
 steps, tried to call, or rise, and could not. Since the death 
 of Judith Sabin she had had little or no sleep, and much 
 less food than usual, with — all the while — the pressure of a 
 vague corrosive terror on nerve and brain. The shock of 
 that miniature in Hester's hands had just turned the scale ; 
 endurance had given way. 
 
 The quick footsteps receded. Yet she could do nothing 
 to arrest them. Her mind floated in darkness. 
 
 Presently out of the darkness, emerged a sound, a touch 
 — a warm hand on hers. 
 
 ' Dear — dear Miss Puttenham ! ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 Her voice seemed to herself a sigh — the faintest — from 
 a great distance. 
 
 * The servants said you were here. EUen came up to 
 knock, and you did not hear. I was afraid you were ill — 
 BO I came in — you'll forgive me.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Silence for a while. Mary brought cold water, chafed 
 her friend's hands, and rendered aU the services that women 
 in such straits know how to la\ash on a sufferer. Gradually 
 Alice mastered herself, but more than a broken word or two 
 still seemed beyond her, and Mary waited in patience. She 
 was well aware that some trouble of a nature unknown to her 
 
 197 
 
198 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had been weighing on Miss Puttenham for a week or more ; 
 and she realised too, instinctively, that she would get no 
 light upon it. 
 
 Presently there was a knock at the door, and Mary went 
 to open it. The servant whispered, and she returned at 
 once. 
 
 ' Mr. Meynell is here,' she said, hesitating. ' You will 
 let me send him away ? ' 
 
 AUce Puttenham opened her eyes. 
 ' I can't see him. But please — give him some tea. 
 He'll have walked — from Markborough.' 
 Mary prepared to obey. 
 ' I'll come back afterwards.' 
 Alice roused herself further. 
 
 ' No — there is the meeting afterwards. You said you 
 were going.' 
 
 * I'd rather come back to you.* 
 
 ' No, dear — no. I'm — I'm better alone. Good night, 
 kind angel. It's nothing ' — she raised herself in the chair — 
 ' only bad nights ! I'll go to bed— that'll be best. Go 
 down— give him tea. And Mrs. Flaxman 's going with 
 you?' 
 
 ' No. Mother said she wished to go,' said Mary, slowly. 
 * She and I were to meet in the village.* 
 
 Alice nodded feebly, too weak to shew the astonishment 
 she felt. 
 
 ' Just time. The meeting is at seven.* 
 Then with a sudden movement—' Hester !— is she 
 gone ? ' 
 
 ' I met her and the maid — in the village — as I came in.' 
 A silence — till Alice roused herself again — ' Go dear, 
 don't miss the meeting. I — I want you to be there. Good 
 night.' 
 
 And she gently pushed the girl from her, putting up her 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 199 
 
 pale lips to be kissed, and asking that the little parlour- 
 maid should be sent to help her undress. 
 
 Mary went unwillingly. She gave Miss Puttenham's 
 message to the maid, and when the girl had gone up to her 
 mistress she lingered a moment at the foot of the stairs, her 
 hands lightly clasped on her breast, as though to quiet the 
 stir within. 
 
 Meynell, expecting to see the lady of the house, could 
 not restrain the start of surprise and joy with which he 
 turned towards the incomer. He took her hand in his — 
 pressing it involimtarily. But it slipped away ; and 
 Mary explained with her soft composure why she was 
 there alone ; that Miss Puttenham was suffering from a 
 succession of bad nights and was keeping her room ; that 
 she sent word the Rector must please rest a little before 
 going home, and aDow Mary to give him tea. 
 
 Meynell sank obediently into a chair by the open 
 window, and Mary ministered to him. The lines of his 
 strong worn face relaxed. BQs look returned to her again 
 and again, wistfully, involimtarily ; yet not so as to cause 
 her embarrassment. 
 
 She was dressed in some thin grey stuS that singularly 
 became her ; and with the grey dress, she wore a collar 
 or ruffle of soft white that gave it a slight ascetic touch. 
 But the tumbling red-gold of the hair, the frank dignity 
 of expression, belonged to no mere cloistered maid. 
 
 Meynell heard the news of Miss Puttenham's collapse 
 with a sigh — checked at birth. He asked few questions 
 about it ; so Mary reflected afterwards. He would come 
 in again on the morrow, he said, to enquire for her. 
 Then, with some abruptness, he asked whether Hester 
 had been much seen at the cottage during the preceding 
 week. 
 
200 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Mary reported that she had been iu and out as usual, 
 and seemed reconciled to the prospect of Paris. 
 
 ' Are you — is Miss Puttenham sure that she hasn't still 
 been meeting that man ? ' 
 
 Mary turned a startled look upon him. 
 
 ' I thought he had gone away ? ' 
 
 ' There may be a stratagem in that. I have been 
 keeping what watch I could — but at this time — what use 
 am I?' 
 
 The Rector threw himself back wearily in his chair, 
 his hands behind his head. Mary was conscious of some 
 deep throb of feeling that must not come to words. Even 
 since she had known it the face had grown older — the lines 
 deeper — the eyes finer. She stooped forward a little. 
 
 ' It is hard that you should have this anxiety too. 
 Oh ! but I hofe there is no need ! ' 
 
 He raised himself again with energy. 
 
 ' There is always need with Hester. Oh ! don't suppose 
 I have forgotten her ! I have Avritten to that fellow, 
 my cousin. I went, indeed, to see him the day before 
 yesterday, but the servants at Sandford declared he had 
 gone to town, and they were packing up to follow. Lady 
 Fox-Wilton and Miss Alice here have been keeping a close 
 eye on Hester herself, I know ; but if she chose, she could 
 elude us all ! ' 
 
 ' She couldn't give such pain — such trouble ! ' cried 
 Mary indignantly. 
 
 The Rector shook his head sadly. Then he looked 
 at his companion. 
 
 ' Has she made a friend of you ? I wish she would.' 
 
 * Oh ! she doesn't take any account of me,' said Mary, 
 laughing. ' She is quite kind to me — she tells me when 
 she thinks my frock is hideous — or my hat's impossible — 
 or she corrects my French accent. She is quite kind, but 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 201 
 
 she would no more think of taking advice from me than from 
 the sofa-cushion.' 
 
 Meynell shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * She has no bump of respect — never had ! ' and he 
 began to give a half-humorous account of the troubles and 
 storms of Hester's bringing-up. ' I often ask myself 
 whether we haven't all — whether I, in particular, haven't 
 been a first-class bungler and blunderer all through with 
 regard to Hester. Did we choose the wrong governesses ? 
 They seemed most estimable people. Did we thwart her 
 unnecessarily ? I can't remember a time when she didn't 
 have everything she wanted ! ' 
 
 ' She didn't get on very well with her father ? ' suggested 
 Mary timidly. 
 
 Meynell made a sudden movement, and did not answer 
 for a moment. 
 
 ' Sir Ralph and she were always at cross-purposes,' he 
 said at last. ' But he was kind to her — according to his 
 lights ; and — he said some very sound and touching things 
 to me about her — on his death-bed.' 
 
 There was a short silence. Meynell had covered his 
 eyes with his hand. Mary was at a loss how to continue 
 the conversation, when he resumed — 
 
 ' I wonder if you will understand how strangely this 
 anxiety weighs upon me — just now.' 
 
 ' Just now ? ' 
 
 ' Here am I preaching to others,' he said slowly, 
 ' leading what people call a religious movement, and 
 this homely elementary task seems to be all going wrong. 
 I don't seem to be able to protect this child confided 
 to me.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you will protect her ! cried Mary, ' you will ! 
 She mayn't seem to give way — when you talk to her ; 
 but she has said things to me — to my mother too ' 
 
202 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' That show her heart isn't all adamant ? Well, well ! — 
 you're a comforter, but ' 
 
 ' I mean that she knows — I'm sure she does — what 
 you've done for her — how you've cared for her,' said 
 Mary, stammering a little. 
 
 ' I have done nothing but my plainest, simplest duty. 
 I have made innumerable mistakes ; and if I fail with her, 
 it's quite clear that I'm not fit to teach or lead anybody ! ' 
 
 The words were spoken with an impatient emphasis to 
 which Mary did not venture a reply. But she could not 
 restrain an expression in her grey eyes which was a balm 
 to the harassed combatant beside her. 
 
 They said no more of Hester. And presently, Mary's 
 hunger for news of the Reform Movement could not be hid. 
 It was clear she had been reading everything she could on 
 the subject, and feeding upon it in a loneliness, and under 
 a constraint, which touched Meynell profoundly. The 
 conflict in her between a spiritual heredity — the heredity 
 of her father's message — and her tender love for her 
 mother, had never been so plain to him. Yet he could 
 not feel that he was abetting any disloyalty in allowing the 
 conversation. She was mature. Her mind had its 
 own rights ! 
 
 Mary indeed, unknown to him, was thrilling under a 
 strange and secret sense of deliverance. Her mother's 
 spiritual grip upon her had relaxed ; she moved and spoke 
 with a new though still timid sense of freedom. 
 
 So once again, as on their first meeting, only more 
 intimately, her sympathy, her quick response led him on. 
 Soon lying back at his ease, his hands behind his head, he 
 was painting for her the progress of the campaign ; its 
 astonishing developments ; the kindling on all sides 
 of the dry bones of English religion. 
 
 The new — or re-written — Liturgy of the Reform was, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 203 
 
 it seemed, almost completed. From all parts ; from the 
 Universities ; from cathedral cloisters ; from quiet country 
 parishes ; from the clash of life in the great towns — men 
 had emerged, as though by magic, to bring to the making 
 of it their learning and their piety, the stored passion of 
 their hearts. And the mere common impulse, the mere 
 release of thoughts and aspirations so long repressed, had 
 brought about an extraordinary harmony, a victorious self- 
 lessness, among the members of the Commission charged 
 with the task. The work had gone with rapidity, yet with 
 sureness ; as in those early years of Christianity, which 
 saw so rich and marvellous an upgro\vth from the old soil 
 of humanity. With surprising ease and spontaneity the 
 old had passed over into the new ; just as in the first 
 hundred years after Christ's death the psalms and hymns 
 and spiritual songs of the later Judaism had become, with 
 slight change, the psalms and hymns of Christianity ; and 
 a new sacred literature had flowered on the stock of 
 the old. 
 
 ' To-night — here ! — we submit the new marriage service 
 and the now burial service to the Church Council. And the 
 same thing will be happening, at the same moment, in all 
 the churches of the Reform — scattered through England.' 
 
 ' How many churches now ? ' she asked, with a quickened 
 breath. 
 
 ' Eighteen in July ; this week, over a hundred. But 
 before our cases come on for trial there will be many 
 more. Every day new congregations come in from new 
 dioceses. The beacon fire goes leaping on, from point to 
 point ! ' 
 
 But the emotion which the phrase betrayed was 
 mstantly replaced by the business tone of the organiser, 
 as he went on to describe some of the practical develop- 
 ments of the preceding weeks ; the founding of a newspaper ; 
 
204 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the collection of propagandist funds ; the enrolment of 
 teachers and missionaries, in connexion with each Modernist 
 church. Yet, at the end of it all, feeling broke through 
 again. 
 
 ' They have been wonderful weeks ! — wonderful ! Which 
 of us could have hoped to see the spread of such a force in 
 the dusty modern world ! You remember the fairy story of 
 the prince whose heart was bound with iron bands — and 
 how, one by one, the bands gave way ? I have seen it like 
 that — in life after life.' 
 
 ' And the fighting ? ' 
 
 She had propped her face on her hands ; and her eyes, 
 with their eager sympathy, their changing lights, rained 
 influence on the man beside her ; an influence insensibly 
 mingling with, and colouring the passion for ideas which held 
 them both in its grip. 
 
 ' — Has been hot — will be of course infinitely hotter still ! 
 But yet, again and again, with one's very foes, one grasps 
 hands. They seem to feel with us " the common wave " — 
 to be touched by it — touched by our hope. It is as though 
 we had made them realise at last how starved, how shut 
 out, we have been — we, half the thinking nation ! — for 
 so long ! ' 
 
 ' Don't — don't be too confident ! ' she entreated. 'Aren't 
 you — isn't it natural you should miscalculate the forces 
 against you ? Oh ! they are so strong ! and — and so noble.* 
 
 She drew in her breath ; and he understood her. 
 
 ' Strong indeed,' he said gravely. ' But ' 
 
 Then a smile broke in. 
 
 ' Have I been boasting ? You see some signs of swelled 
 head ? Perhaps you are right. Now let me tell you what 
 the other side are doing. That chastens one ! There is a 
 conference of Bishops next week ; there was one a week 
 ago. There are of course thundering resolutions in Convoca- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 205 
 
 tion. The English Church Union has an Albert Hall 
 meeting ; it will be magnificent. A " League of the 
 Trinity " has started against us, and will soon be campaign- 
 ing all over England. The orthodox newspapers are all 
 in full cry. Meanwhile the Bishops are only waiting for the 
 decision of my case — the test case — in the lower Court to 
 take us all by detachments. Every case, of course, will go 
 ultimately to the Supreme Court — the Privy Council. A 
 hundred cases — that will take time ! Meanwhile — from us — 
 a monster petition — first to the Bishops for the assembling 
 of a full Council of the English Church ; then to Parliament 
 for radical changes in the conditions of membership of the 
 Church, clerical and lay.' 
 Mary drew in her breath. 
 ' You can't win ! you can't win ! ' 
 And he saw in her clear eyes her sorrow for him, and 
 her horror of the conflict before him. 
 
 ' That,' he said quietly, ' is nothing to us. We are but 
 soldiers under command.' 
 
 He rose ; and, suddenly, she realised with a fluttering 
 heart how empty that room would be when he was gone. 
 He held out his hand to her. 
 
 ' I must go and prepare what I have to say to-night. 
 The Church Council consists of about thirty people — 
 two-thirds of them will be miners.' 
 
 ' How is it possible that they can understand you ? ' 
 she asked him, wondering. 
 
 ' You forget that half of them I have taught from their 
 childhood. They are my spiritual brothers, or sons, — 
 picked men — the leaders of their fellows — far better 
 Christians than I. I wish you could see them — and hear 
 them.' He looked at her a little wistfully. 
 ' I am coming,' she said, looking down. 
 His start of pleasure was very evident. 
 
2o6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * I am glad,' he said simply ; ' I want you to know 
 these men.' 
 
 * And my mother is coming with me.' 
 
 Her voice was constrained. Meynell felt a natural 
 surprise. He paused an instant, and then said with 
 gentle emphasis — 
 
 ' I don't think there will be anything to wound her. 
 At any rate, there will be nothing new — or strange — to 
 her — in what is said to-night.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' Then, after a moment's awkwardness, she 
 said, ' We shall soon be going away.' 
 
 His face changed. 
 
 ' Going away ? I thought you would be here for the 
 winter ! ' 
 
 ' No. Mother is so much better ; we are going to our 
 little house in the Lakes ; in Long Whindale. We came 
 here because mother was ill — and Aunt Rose begged ua. 
 But ' 
 
 ' Do you know ' — ^he interrupted her, impetuously, — 
 ' that for six months I 've had a himger for just one fort- 
 night up there among the fells.' 
 
 ' You love them ? ' Her face bloomed wth pleasure. 
 ' You know the dear mountains ? ' 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 ' It doesn't do to think of them, does it ? You should 
 see the letters on my table ! But I may have to take a 
 few days' rest, some time. Should I find you in Long 
 Whindale — ^if I dropped down on you — over Goat Scar ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — ^from December till March ! ' Then she suddenly 
 checked the happiness of her look and tone. ' I needn't 
 warn you that it rains.* 
 
 ' Doesn't it rain ! And everybody pretends it doesn't. 
 The lies one teUs ! ' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 207 
 
 They stood looking at each other. An atmosphere 
 seemed to have sprung up round them in which every tone 
 and movement had suddenly become magnified — significant. 
 
 Meynell recovered himself. He held out his hand in 
 farewell, but he had scarcely turned away from her, when 
 she made a startled movement towards the open window. 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 There was a sound of shoutiag and running in the 
 street outside. A crowd seemed to be approaching. 
 Meynell ran out into the garden to listen. By this time 
 the noise had grown considerably, and he thought he dis- 
 tinguished his own name among the cries. 
 
 ' Something has happened at the colliery ! ' he said to 
 Mary, who had followed him. 
 
 And he hurried towards the gate, bare-headed, just as a 
 grey -haired lady in black entered the garden. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' cried Mary, in amazement. 
 
 Catharine Elsmere paused — one moment ; she looked 
 from her daughter to Meynell. Then she hurried to the 
 Rector. 
 
 ' You are wanted ! ' she said, struggling to get her 
 breath. ' A terrible thing has happened. They think 
 four lives have been lost — some accident to the cage — 
 and people blame the man in charge. They 've got him 
 shut up in the colliery office — and declare they'll kill him. 
 The crowd looks dangerous — and there are very few police. 
 I heard you were here — someone, the postman, saw you 
 come in. You must stop it. The people will listen to you.' 
 
 Her fine pale face, framed in her widow's veil, did not 
 so much ask as command. He replied by a gesture ; then 
 by two or three rapid enquiries. Mary — bewildered — saw 
 them for an instant as allies and equals, each recognising 
 the other. Then Meynell ran to the gate, and was at once 
 swallowed up in the moving groups which had gathered 
 
2o8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 there and seemed to carry him back with them towards the 
 colliery. 
 
 Catharine Elsmere turned to follow — Mary at her side. 
 Mary looked at her in anxiety, dreading the physical strain 
 for one, of late, so frail. 
 
 ' Mother darling ! — ought you ? ' 
 
 Catharine took no heed whatever of the question. 
 
 ' It is the women who are so terrible,' she said in a low 
 voice, as they hurried on ; ' their faces were like wild 
 beasts. They have telephoned to Cradock for police. If 
 Mr. Meynell can keep them in check for half an hour, there 
 may be hope.' 
 
 They ran on, swept along by the fringe of the crowd till 
 they reached the top of a gentle descent at the farther end 
 of the village. At the bottom of this hill lay the colliery, 
 with its two huge chimneys, its shed and engine houses, 
 its winding machinery, and its heaps of refuse. Within 
 the enclosure, from the height where they stood, could be 
 seen a thin line of police surrounding a small shed — the 
 pay-office. On the steps of it stood the Manager ; and 
 the Rector, to be recognised by his long coat and his bare 
 head, had just joined him. Opposite to the police, and 
 separated from the shed by about ten yards and a wooden 
 paling, was a threatening and vociferating mob, which 
 stretched densely across the road and up the hill on either 
 side ; a mob largely composed of women — dishevelled, 
 furious women —their white faces gleaming amid the coal- 
 blackened forms of the miners. 
 
 ' They '11 have 'im out,' said a woman in front of Mary 
 Elsmere. ' Oh, my God ! — they '11 have 'im out ! It was 
 he caused the death of the boy — yo mind 'im — young 
 Jimmy Ragg — a month sen ; though the crowner's jury 
 did let 'im off, more shame to them ! And now they say 
 as how he signalled for 'em to bring up the men from the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 209 
 
 Albert Pit, afore he'd made sure as the cage in the Victory 
 pit was clear ! * 
 
 ' Explain to me, please/ said Mary, touching the 
 woman's arm. 
 
 Half a dozen turned eagerly upon her. 
 
 ' Why, you see, Miss, as the two cages is like buckets in 
 a well — the yan goes down, as the other cooms up. An' 
 there 's catches as yo mun knock away to let un go down 
 — An* this banksman — ee's a devil ! — he niver so much as 
 walked across to the other shaft to see — and there was the 
 catches fast, — and instead o' goin' down, there was the 
 cage stuck, and the rope uncoilin' itsel', and fallin' off 
 the drum, — and foulin' the other rope — And then all of 
 a suddent, just as them poor fellows wor nearin' top, — the 
 drum began to work t' other way — run backards, you 
 unnerstan ? — and the engineman lost 'is head and niver 
 thowt to put on t' breaks — and — oh ! Lord save us ! — 
 whether they was drownt at t' bottom i' the sump, or killt 
 afore they got there — theer's no one knows yet. They 're 
 getten of 'em up now.' 
 
 As she spoke, a great shout which became a groan ran 
 through the crowd. Men climbed up the railings at the 
 side of the road that they might see better. Women stood 
 on tiptoe. A confused clamour came from below, and in 
 the colliery yard there could be seen a gruesome sight ; 
 fouj stretchers, borne by colliers, their burdens covered 
 from view. Beside them were groups of women and 
 children, and in fiont of them the crowd made way. Up the 
 hill they came, a great wail preceding and surrounding 
 them ; behind them the murmurs of an ungovernable 
 indignation. 
 
 As the procession neared them Mary saw a grey-haired 
 woman throw up her arm, and heard her cry out in a voice 
 harsh and hideous with excitement — 
 
 P 
 
2IO THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Let 'im as murdered them pay for 't ! Wliat 's t' 
 good o' crowner's juries ? — Let 's settle it oursels ! ' 
 
 Deep murmurs answered her. 
 
 ' And it 's this same Jenkins,' said another fierce voice, 
 ' as had a sight to do vn' bringing them blacklegs down 
 here, in the strike, last autumn. He 's been a great man 
 sense, has Jenkins, wi' the masters ; but he shan't 
 murder our husbinds and sons for us, while he 's loafin' 
 round an' playin' the lord— not he ! Have they got 
 un safe ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, he 's in the pay-house safe enough,' shouted 
 another — a man. * An' if them as is defendin' of un 
 won't give un up, there 's ways o' makin' them.' 
 
 The procession of the dead approached ; all the men 
 baring their heads, and the women wailing. In front 
 came a piteous group ; a young half-fainting wife, supported 
 by an older woman with children dinging to her skirts. 
 Catharine went forward, and lifted a baby of two that was 
 being dragged along the ground. Mary took up another 
 child, and they both joined the procession. 
 
 As they did so, there was a shout from below. 
 
 Mary, white as her dress, asked an elderly miner beside 
 her, who had shown no excitement whatever, to tell her 
 what had happened. He clambered up on the bank to 
 look, and came back to her. 
 
 ' They 've Deaten un back. Miss,' he said in her ear. 
 ' They 've got the surface men to help, and Muster Meynell, 
 he 's doing his best ; if there 's anybody can hold 'em, he 
 can ; but there 's terrible few on 'em. It is time as the 
 Cradock men came up. They'll be trying fire before 
 long, an' the women is like devils.' 
 
 On went the procession into the village, leaving the 
 fight behind them. In Mary's heart, as she was pushed 
 and pressed onward, burnt the memory of Meynell on the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 211 
 
 steps — speaking, gesticulating — and the surging crowd in 
 front of him. 
 
 There was that to do, however, which deadened fear. 
 In the main street the procession was met by hurrying 
 doctors and nurses. For those broken bodies indeed — 
 young men in their prime — nothing could be done, save 
 to straighten the poor limbs, to wash the coal-dust from 
 the strong faces, and cover all with the white linen of death. 
 But the living — the crushed, stricken living — taxed every 
 energy of heart and mind. Catharine, recognised at once 
 by the doctors as a pillar of help, shrank from no office and 
 no sight, however terrible. But she would not permit 
 them to Mary, and they were presently separated. 
 
 Mary had a trio of sobbing children on her knee, in the 
 living-room of one of the cottages, when there was a sudden 
 tramp outside. Everybody in Miners' Row, including 
 those who were laying out the dead, ran to the windows. 
 
 ' The police from Cradock ! ' — fifty of them. 
 
 The news passed from mouth to mouth, and even those 
 who had been maddest half an hour before felt the relief 
 of it. 
 
 Meanwhile detachments of shouting men and women 
 ran clattering at intervals through the village streets. 
 Sometimes stragglers from them would drop into the cottages 
 alongside ; and from their panting talk, what had happened 
 below became roughly clear. The police had arrived only 
 just in time. The small band defending the office was 
 worn out, the Rector had been struck, the palings torn 
 down, in another half-hour the rioters would have set the 
 place on fire and dragged out the man of whom they were 
 in search. 
 
 The narrator's story was broken by a howl. — 
 
 ' Here he comes ! ' And once again, as though by a rush 
 of muddy water, the street filled up, and a strong body of 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 police came througli it, escorting the banksman who had 
 been the cause of the accident. A hatless, hunted creature, 
 with white face and loosened limbs, he was hurried along 
 by the police, amid a grim silence that had suddenly 
 succeeded to the noise. 
 
 Behind came a group of men, officials of the colliery, and 
 to the right of them walked the Rector, bareheaded as before, 
 a bandage on the left temple. His eyes ran along the 
 cottages, and he presently perceived Mary Elsmere standing 
 at an open door, with a child that had cried itself to sleep 
 in her arms. 
 
 Stepping out of the ranks, he approached her. The 
 people made way for him, a few here and there with sullen 
 faces, but in the main with a friendly and remorseful 
 eagerness. 
 
 ' It 's all over,' he said in Mary's ear. ' But it was 
 touch and go. An unpopular man— suspected of telling 
 Union secrets to the masters last year. He was concerned 
 in another accident to a boy — a month ago ; they all think 
 he was in fault, though the jury exonerated him. And 
 now — a piece of abominable carelessness ! — manslaughter 
 at least. Oh ! he '11 catch it hot ! But we weren't going 
 to have him murdered on oui' hands. If he hadn't got 
 safe into the office, the women alone would have thrown 
 him down the shaft. By the way, are you learned in 
 " first aid " ? ' 
 
 He pointed, smiling, to his temple, and she saw 
 that the wound beneath the rough bandage was bleeding 
 afresh. 
 
 ' It makes me feel a bit faint,' he said, with annoyance ; 
 ' and there is so much to do ! ' 
 
 ' May I see to it ? ' said her mother's voice behind her. 
 And Catharine, who had just descended from an upper 
 room, went quickly to a nurse's wallet which had been left 
 
tHE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 213 
 
 on a table in the kitchen, and took thence an antiseptic 
 dressing and some bandaging. 
 
 Meynell sat down by the table, shivering a little from 
 shock and strain while she ministered to him. One of the 
 women near brought him brandy ; and Catharine deftly 
 cleaned and dressed the wound. Mary looked on, handing 
 what was necessary to her mother, and, in spite of herself, 
 a ray of strange sweetness stole through the tragedy of 
 the day. 
 
 In a very few minutes Meynell rose. They were in the 
 cottage of one of the victims. The dead lay overhead, 
 and the cries of wife and mother could be heard through 
 the thin flooring. 
 
 ' Don't go up again ! * he said peremptorily to Catharine. 
 ' It is too much for you.' 
 
 She looked at him gently. 
 
 * They asked me to come back again. It is not too 
 much for me. Please let me.' 
 
 He gave way. Then, as he was following her upstairs, 
 he turned to say to Mary : — 
 
 ' Gather some of the people, if you can, outside. I 
 want to give a notice when I come down.' 
 
 He mounted the ladder-stairs leading to the upper 
 room. Violent sounds of wailing broke out overhead, 
 and the murmur of his voice could be heard between. 
 
 Mary quietly sent a few messengers into the street. 
 Then she gathered up the sleeping child again in her 
 arms, and sat waiting. In spirit she was in the room 
 overhead. The thought of those two — her mother and 
 Meynell — beside a bed of death together, pierced her heart. 
 
 After what seemed to her an age, she heard her mother's 
 step, and the Rector following. Catharine stood again 
 beside her daughter, brushing away at last a few quiet 
 tears. 
 
214 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' You oughtn't to face this any more, indeed you 
 oughtn't — ' said Meynell, with urgency, as he joined them. 
 * Tell her so, Miss Mary. But she has been doing wonders. 
 My people bless her ! ' 
 
 He held out his hand, involuntarily ; and Catharine 
 placed hers in it. Then seeing a small crowd already 
 collected in the street, he hurried out to speak to them. 
 
 Meanwhile evening had fallen, a late September evening, 
 shot with gold and purple. Behind the village the yellow 
 stubbles stretched up to the edge of the Chase, and drifts of 
 bluish smoke from the colliery chimneys hung in the still air. 
 
 Meynell, standing on the raised footpath above the 
 crowd, gave notice that a special service of mourning would 
 be held in the church that evening. The meeting of the 
 Church Council would of course be postponed. 
 
 During his few words, Mary made her way to the farther 
 edge of the gathering, looking over it towards the speaker. 
 Behind him ran the row of cottages, and in the doorway 
 opposite she saw her mother, with her arm tenderly folded 
 round a sobbing girl, the sister of one of the dead. The 
 sudden tranquillity, the sudden pause from tumult and 
 anguish, seemed to draw a ' wind-warm space ' round Mary : 
 and she had time, for a moment, to think of herself and 
 the strangeness of this tragic day. 
 
 How amazing that her mother should be here at all ! — 
 This meeting of the Reformers' League to which she had 
 insisted on coming — as a spectator of course, and with 
 the general public — ^what did it mean ? Mary did not yet 
 know, long as she had pondered it. 
 
 How beautiful was the lined face ! — so pale in the golden 
 dusk, within its heavy frame of black. Mary could not take 
 her eyes from it. It betrayed an animation, a passion of 
 life, which had been foreign to it for months. In these 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 215 
 
 few crowded hours, when every word and action liad been 
 simple, instructive, inevitable — love to God and man 
 working at their swiftest and purest; tlirough all the 
 tragedy and the horror, some burden seemed to have 
 dropped jErom Catharine's soul. She met her daughter's 
 eyes, and smiled. 
 
 When Meynell had finished, the crowd silently drifted 
 away, and he came back to the Elsmeres. They noticed 
 the village fly coming towards them, — saw it stop in the 
 roadway. 
 
 ' I sent for it,' Meynell explained rapidly. ' You mustn't 
 let your mother attempt anything more. Look at her ! 
 Please will you both go to the Rectory ? My cook will give 
 you tea — I have let her know. Then the fly will take you 
 home.' 
 
 They protested in vain ; must indeed submit. 
 Catharine flushed a little at being so commanded ; but 
 there was no help for it. 
 
 ' I would like to come and show you my den ! ' said 
 Meynell, as he put them into the carriage. ' But there's 
 too much to do here.' 
 
 He pointed sadly to the cottages, shut the door, and 
 they were off. 
 
 During the short drive Catharine sat rather stiffly upright. 
 Saint as she was, she was accustomed to have her way. 
 
 They drove into the dark shrubbery that lay between 
 the Rectory and the road. At the door of the little house 
 stood Anne in a white cap and clean apron. But the white 
 cap sat rather wildly on its owner's head ; nor would she 
 take any interest in her visitors till she had got from them 
 a fuller account of the tumult at the pit than had yet 
 reached her, and assurances that Meynell's wound was but 
 slight. But when these were given she pounced upon 
 Catharine. 
 
216 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Eh, but you're droppin' ! ' 
 
 And with many curious looks at them she hurried them 
 into the study, where a hasty clearance had been made 
 among the books, and a tea-table spread. 
 
 She bustled away to bring the tea. 
 
 Then exhaustion seized on Catharine. She submitted to 
 be put on the sofa after it had been cleared of its pile of 
 books ; and Mary sat by her awhile, holding her hands- 
 Death and the agony of bioken hearts overshadowed them. 
 
 But then the dogs came in, discreet at first, and 
 presently — at scent of currant cake — effusively friendly. 
 Mary fed them all, and Catharine watched the colour 
 coming back to her face, and the dumb sweetness in the 
 grey eyes. 
 
 Presently, while her mother still rested, Mary took 
 courage to wander round the room, looking at the books, 
 the photographs on the walls, the rack of pipes, the car- 
 peuter's bench, and the panels of half-finished carving. 
 Timidly, yet eagerly, she breathed in the message it seemed 
 to bring her from its owner, — of strenuous and frugal 
 hfe. Was that half-faded miniature of a soldier his father 
 — and that sweet grey-haired woman his mother ? Her 
 heart thrilled to each discovery. 
 
 Then Anne invaded them, for conversation, and while 
 Catharine, unable to hide her fatigue, lay speechless, Anne 
 chattered about her master. Her indignation was bound- 
 less that any hand could be lifted against him in his own 
 parish. ' Why, he strips himself bare for them, he does ! ' 
 
 And — with Mary unconsciously leading her — out came 
 story after story, in the racy Mercian vernacular, illus- 
 trating a good man's life and all 
 
 His little nameless unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 217 
 
 As they drove slowly home through the sad village 
 street, they perceived Henry Barron calling at some of the 
 stricken houses. The Squire was always punctilious, and 
 his condolences might be counted on. Beside him walked 
 a young man with a jaunty step, a bored sallow face, and 
 a long moustache which he constantly caressed. Mary 
 supposed him to be the Squire's second son ' Mr. Maurice/ 
 whom nobody liked. 
 
 Then the church, looming through the dusk ; lights 
 shining through its fine Perpendicular windows, and the 
 sound of familiar hymns surging out into the starry twilight. 
 
 Catharine turned eagerly to her companion. 
 
 ' Shall we go in ? ' 
 
 The emotion of one to whom religious utterance is as 
 water to the thirsty spoke in her voice. But Mary caught 
 and held her. 
 
 ' No, dearest, no ! — come home and rest.' And when 
 Catharine had yielded, and they were safely past the 
 lighted church, Mary breathed more freely. Instinctively 
 she felt that certain barriers had gone down before the 
 tragic tumult, the human action of the day ; let well alone ! 
 
 And for the fiist time, as she sat in the darkness, hold- 
 ing her mother's hand, and watching the blackness of the 
 woods file past under the stars, she confessed her love to 
 her own heart — trembling, yet exultant. 
 
 Meanwhile in the crowded church, men and women, 
 who had passed that afternoon througii the extremes of 
 hate and sorrow, unpacked their hearts in singing and 
 prayer. The hymns rose and fell through the dim red 
 sandstone church,— symbol of the endless plaint of human 
 life, for ever clamouring in the ears of Time ; and Meynell's 
 address, as he stood on the chancel steps, almost among the 
 people, the disfiguring strips of plaster on the temple and 
 
2i8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 brow sharply evident between the curly black hair and 
 the dark hollows of the eyes, sank deep into grief- 
 stricken souls. It was the plain utterance of a man, 
 with the prophetic gift, speaking to human beings to 
 whom, through years of chequered life, he had given 
 all that a man can give of service and of soul. He stood 
 there as the living expression of their conscience, their 
 better mind, conceived as the mysterious voice of a 
 Divine power in man ; and in the name of that Power, 
 and its direct message to the human soul embodied in the 
 tale we call Christianity, he bade them repent their blood- 
 thirst, and hope in God for their dead. He spoke amid 
 weeping ; and from that night forward one might have 
 thought his power unshakeable ; at least among his own 
 people. 
 
 But there were persons in the church who remained 
 untouched by it. In the left aisle, Hester sat a little apart 
 from her sisters, her hard curious look ranging from the 
 preacher through the crowded benches. She surveyed it 
 all as a spectacle, half thrilled, half critical. And at the 
 western end of the aisle, the Squire and his son stood 
 during the greater part of the service, showing plainly 
 by their motionless lips and folded arms that they took no 
 part in what was going on. 
 
 Father and son walked home together in close con- 
 versation. 
 
 And two days later the first anonymous letter in the 
 Meynell case was posted in Markborough, and duly delivered 
 the following morning to an address in Upcote Minor. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 ' What on earth can Henry Barron desire a private interview 
 with me about ? * said Hugh Flaxman looking up from 
 his letters, as he and his wife sat together after breakfast 
 in Mrs. Flaxman's sitting-room. 
 
 ' I suppose he wants subscriptions for his heresy hunt ? 
 The Church party seem to be appealing for funds in most 
 of the newspapers.' 
 
 " I should have thought he knew I am not prepared 
 to support him,' said Flaxman quietly. 
 
 ' Where are you, old man ? ' His wife laid a caressing 
 hand oH his shoulder — ' I don't really quite know.' 
 
 Flaxman smiled at her. 
 
 * You and I are not theologians, are we, darling ? ' 
 He kissed the hand. ' I don't find myself prepared to 
 swear to Meynell's precise " words " any more than I was 
 to Robert's. But I am ready to fight to prevent his being 
 driven out.' 
 
 ' So am I ? ' said Rose, erect, with her hands behind 
 her. 
 
 * We want all sorts.' 
 
 ' Ye-es,' said Rose doubtfully. * I don't think I want 
 Mr. Barron.' 
 
 * Certainly you do ! A typical product — with just as 
 much right to a place in English religion as Meynell — 
 and no more.' 
 
 ai9 
 
220 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Hugh ! — you must behave very nicely to the Bishop 
 to-night.' 
 
 * I should think I must ! — considering the omnium 
 gatherum you have asked to meet him. I really do not 
 think you ought to have asked MeynelL' 
 
 * There we must agree to difier/ said Rose firmly. 
 ' Social relations in this country must be maintained — 
 in spite of politics — in spite of religion — in spite of every- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' That 's all very well — but if you mix people too 
 violently, you make them uncomfortable.' 
 
 * My dear Hugh ! — how many drawing-rooms are there ! ' 
 His wife waved a vague hand towards the folding doors 
 on her right, implying the suite of Georgian rooms that 
 stretched away beyond them, ' one for every nuance if it 
 comes to that. If they positively won't mix I shall have 
 to segregate them. But they will mix.' Then she fell 
 into a reverie for a moment, adding at the end of it — 
 * I must keep one drawing-room for the Rector and Mr. 
 Norham ' 
 
 * That I understand is what we 're giving the party 
 for. Intriguer ! * 
 
 Rose threw him a cool glance. 
 
 ' You may continue to play Gallio if you like. I am 
 now a partisan.' 
 
 * So I perceive. And you hope to turn Norham into 
 one?' 
 
 Rose nodded. Mr. Norham was the Home Secretary, 
 the most important member in a Cabinet headed by a 
 Prime Minister in rapidly failing health ; to whose place, 
 either by death or retirement it was generally expected 
 that Edward Norham would succeed. 
 
 ' Well, darling, I shall watch your manoeuvres with 
 interest,' said Flaxman, rising and gathering up his letters 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 221 
 
 — ' And, longo intervallo, I shall humbly do my best to 
 assist them. Are Catharine and Mary coming ? ' 
 
 * Mary certainly — and, I think, Catharine. The Fox- 
 Wiltons of course, and that mad creature Hester, who goes 
 to Paris in a few days — and Alice Puttenham. How 
 that sister of hers bullies her — horrid little woman ! 
 And Mr. Barron!' — Flaxman made an exclamation — 
 ' and the deaf daughter — and the nice elder son — and the 
 unpresentable younger one — in fact the whole menagerie.' 
 
 Flaxman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * A few others, I hope, to act as buffers.' 
 
 * Heaps ! * said Rose. * I have asked half the neigh- 
 bourhood — our first big party. And as for the week- 
 enders, you chose them yourself.' She ran through the 
 list, while Flaxman vainly protested that he had never 
 in their joint existence been allowed to do anything of the 
 kind. ' But to-night you 're not to take any notice of 
 them at all. Neighbours first ! Plenty of time for you 
 to amuse yourself to-morrow. What time does Mr. Barron 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' In ten minutes ! ' said Flaxman, hastily departing, 
 only however to be followed into his study by Rose, who 
 breathed into his ear — 
 
 ' And if you see Mary and Mr. Meynell colloguing — play 
 up!' 
 
 Flaxman turned round with a start. 
 
 ' I say ! — is there really anything in that ? ' 
 
 Rose, sitting on the arm of his chair, did her best to 
 bring him up to date. Yes — from her observation of 
 the two — she was certain there was a good deal in it. 
 
 ' And Catharine ? ' 
 
 Rose's eyebrows expressed the uncertainty of the 
 situation — 
 
 ' But such an odd thing happened last week ! You 
 
222 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 remember the day of the accident — and the Church Council 
 that was put oS ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly.' 
 
 ' Catharine made up her mind suddenly to go to that 
 Church Council — after not having been able to speak of 
 Mr. Meynell, or the Movement, for weeks. Why — neither 
 Mary nor I know. But she walked over from the cottage 
 — the first time she has done it. She arrived in the village 
 just as that dreadful thing had happened in the pit. Then 
 of course she and the Rector took command. Nobody 
 who knew Catharine would have expected anything else. 
 And now she and Mary and the Rector are busy looking 
 after the poor survivors. " It 's propinquity does it," my 
 dear ! ' 
 
 ' Catharine could never — ^never — reconcile herself.' 
 
 ' I dan't know,' said Rose, doubtfully. ' What did 
 she want to go to that Coimcil for ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps to lift up her voice ? ' 
 
 ' No. Catharine isn't that sort. She would have 
 suffered dreadfully — and sat still.' 
 
 And with a thoughtful shake of the head, as though to 
 indicate that the veins of meditation opened up by the case 
 were rich and various, Rose went slowly away. 
 
 Then Hugh was left to his Times, and to speculations 
 on the reasons why Henry Barron — a man whom he had 
 never Uked and often thwarted — should have asked for 
 this interview in a letter marked 'private.' Flaxman 
 made an agreeable figure, as he sat pondering by the 
 fire, while the Times gradually slipped from his hands 
 to the floor. And he was precisely what he looked ; an 
 excellent fellow, richly endowed with the world's good 
 things, material and moral. He was of spare build, 
 with grizzled hair ; long-limbed, clean-shaven and grey- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 223 
 
 eyed. In general society he appeared as a person of 
 polished manners, with a gently ironic turn of mind. Hia 
 friends were more numerous, and more devoted than is 
 generaUy the case in middle age ; and his family were 
 rarely happy out of his company. Certain indeed of his 
 early comrades in Ufe were inclined to accuse him of a 
 too facile contentment with things as they are, and a rather 
 Philistine estimate of the value of machinery. He was 
 absorbed in ' business ' which he did admirably. Not so 
 much of the financial sort, although he was a trusted 
 member of important Boards. But for all that unpaid 
 multipUcity of aSairs — magisterial, municipal, social or 
 charitable — which make the country gentleman's sphere, 
 Hugh Flaxman's appetite was insatiable. He was a born 
 chairman of a County Council, and a heaven-sent treasurer 
 of a hospital. 
 
 And no doubt this natural bent, terribly indulged of 
 late years, led occasionally to ' holding forth ' ; at least 
 those who took no interest in the things which interested 
 Flaxman said so. And his wife who was much more con- 
 cerned for his social efiect than for her own, was often 
 nervously on the watch lest it should be true. That her 
 handsome popidar Hugh should ever, even for a quarter 
 of an hour, sit heavy on the soul even of a youth of eighteen 
 was not to be borne ; she pounced on each incipient 
 harangue with mingled tact and decision. 
 
 But though Flaxman was a man of the world, he was 
 by no means a worldling. Tenderly, unfiinchingly, with a 
 modest and cheerful devotion he had made himself the 
 stay of his brother-in-law Elsmere's harassed and broken 
 Ufe. His supreme and tyrannical common-sense had never 
 allowed him any delusions as to the ultimate permanence 
 of heroic ventures like the ' New Brotherhood ' ; and as 
 to hia private opinions on religious matters it is probable 
 
224 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 that not even his wife knew them. But outside the strong 
 afiections of his personal life, there was at least one endur- 
 ing passion in Flaxman which dignified his character. For 
 liberty of experiment, and liberty of conscience, in himself 
 or others, he would gladly have gone to the stake. Himself 
 the loyal upholder of an established order, which he helped 
 to run decently, he was yet in curious sympathy with 
 many obscure revolutionists in many fields. To brutalise 
 a man's conscience seemed to him worse than to murder 
 his body. Hence a constant sympathy with minorities of 
 all sorts • which no doubt interfered often with his practical 
 efficiency. But perhaps it accounted for the number of 
 his friends. 
 
 ' We shall, I presume, be undisturbed ? ' 
 
 The speaker was Henry Barron ; and he and Flaxman 
 stood for a moment surveying each other after their first 
 greeting. 
 
 ' Certainly. I have given orders. For an hour if you 
 wish, I am at your disposal.' 
 
 'Oh, we shall not want so long.' 
 
 Barron seated himself in the chair pointed out to him. 
 His portly presence, in some faultlessly new and formal 
 clothes, filled it substantially ; and his colour, always high, 
 was more emphatic than usual. Beside him, Flaxman made 
 but a thread paper appearance. 
 
 'I have come on an unpleasant errand' — he said, 
 withdrawing some papers from his breast pocket — ' but 
 — after much thought — I came to the conclusion that 
 there was no one in this neighbourhood I could consult 
 upon a very painful matter, with greater profit — than 
 yourself.' 
 
 Flaxman made a rather stiff gesture of acknowledg- 
 m^it. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 2iJ5 
 
 ' May I ask you to read that ? * 
 
 Barron selected a letter from the papers he held and 
 handed it to his host. 
 
 Flaxman read it. His face changed and worked as 
 he did so. He read it twice, turned it over to see if it 
 contained any signature, and returned it to Barron. 
 
 ' That's a precious production ! Was it addressed to 
 yourself ? ' 
 
 ' No — to Dawes the colliery manager. He brought 
 it to me yesterday.' 
 
 Flaxman thought a moment. 
 
 ' He is — if I remember right — with yourself, one of 
 the five aggrieved parishioners in the Meynell case ? ' 
 
 ' He is. But he is by no means personally hostile to 
 Meynell — quite the contrary. He brought it to me in 
 much distress ; thinking it well that we should take counsel 
 upon it, in case other documents of the same kind should be 
 going about.' 
 
 ' And you, I imagine, pointed out to him the utter 
 absurdity of the charge, advised him to burn the letter 
 and hold his tongue ? ' 
 
 Barron was silent a moment. Then he said, with slow 
 distinctness — 
 
 ' I regret I was unable to do anything of the kind.' 
 
 Flaxman turned sharply on the speaker. 
 
 ' You mean to say, you believe there is a word of truth 
 in that preposterous story ? ' 
 
 ' I have good reason, imfortunately, to know that it 
 cannot at once be put aside.' 
 
 Both paused — regarding each other. Then Flaxman 
 said, in a raised accent of wonder — 
 
 ' You think it possible — conceivable — that a man of 
 Mr. MeyneU's character — and transparently blameless 
 life — should have not only been guilty of an intrigue of 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 this kind twenty years ago, — but should have done nothing 
 since to repair it — should actually have settled down to 
 live in the same village side by side with the lady whom 
 the letter declares to be the mother of his child — without 
 making any attempt to marry her — though perfectly free 
 to do so ? Why, my dear Sir, was there ever a more 
 ridiculous, a more incredible tale ! ' 
 
 Flaxman sprang to his feet, and with his hands in his 
 pockets, turned upon his visitor, impatient contempt in 
 every feature. 
 
 ' Wait a moment before you judge,' said Barron drily. 
 ' Do you remember a case of sudden death in this village 
 a few weeks ago ? — a woman who returned from America 
 to her son John Broad, a labourer living in one of my 
 cottages — and died forty-eight hours after arrival, of 
 brain disease ? ' 
 
 Flaxman' 8 brow puckered. 
 
 ' I remember a report in the Post. There was an 
 inquest — and some curious medical evidence ? ' 
 
 Barron nodded assent. 
 
 ' By the merest chance, I happened to see that woman 
 the night after she arrived. I went to the cottage to 
 remonstrate on the behaviour of John Broad's boys in 
 my plantation. She was alone in the house, and she came 
 to the door. By the merest chance also, while we stood 
 there, Meynell and Miss Puttenham passed in the road 
 outside. The woman — Mrs, Sabin — was terribly excited 
 on seeing them, and she said things which astounded me. 
 I asked her to explain them, and we talked — alone — for 
 nearly an hour. I admit that she was scarcely responsible, 
 that she died within a few hours of our conversation, of 
 brain disease. But I still do not see — I wish to heaven 
 I did ! — any way out of what she told me — when one 
 comes to combine it with — well, with other things. But 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 227 
 
 whether I should finally have decided to make any use of 
 the information I am not sure. But unfortunately' — he 
 pointed to the letter still in Flaxman's hand — ' that shows 
 me that other persons — persons unknown to me — are in 
 possession of some, at any rate, of the facts — and there- 
 fore that it is now vain to hope that we can stifle the thing 
 altogether.' 
 
 ' You have no idea who wrote the letter ? ' said Flaxman, 
 holding it up. 
 
 ' None whatever,' was the emphatic reply. 
 
 ' It is a disguised hand ' — mused Flaxman — ' but an 
 educated one — more or less. However — we will return 
 presently to the letter. Mrs. Sabin's communication to 
 you was of a nature to confirm the statements contained 
 in it ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Sabin declared to me that having herself — 
 independently — become aware of certain facts, while she 
 was a servant in Lady Fox-Wilton's employment, that 
 lady — no doubt in order to ensure her silence — took her 
 abroad with herself and her young sister Miss Alice, to a 
 place in France she had some difficulty in pronouncing — 
 it sounded to me like Grenoble ; that there Miss Puttenham 
 became the mother of a child, which passed thenceforward 
 as the child of Sir Ralph and Lady Fox- Wilton, and received 
 the name of Hester. She herself nursed Miss Puttenham, 
 and no doctor was admitted. When the child was two 
 months old, she accompanied the sisters to a place on the 
 Riviera, where they took a villa. Here Sir Ralph Fox- Wilton, 
 who was terribly broken and distressed by the whole thing, 
 joined them, and he made an arrangement with her by 
 which she agreed to go to the States and hold her tongue. 
 She ^ATote to her people in Upcote — she had been a widow 
 for some years — that she had accepted a nurse's situation 
 in the States, and Sir Ralph saw her off from Genoa for 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 New York. She seems to have married again in the States ; 
 and in the course of years to have developed some grievance 
 against the Fox-Wiltons which ultimately determined her 
 to come home. But all this part of her story was so 
 excited and incoherent that I could make nothing of it. 
 Nor does it matter very much to the subject — the real 
 subject — we are discussing.' 
 
 Flaxman, who was standing in front of the speaker, 
 intently listening, made no immediate reply. His eyes — 
 half absently — considered the man before him. In Barron's 
 aspect and tone there was not only the pompous self- 
 importance of the man possessed of exclusive and 
 sensational information ; there were also indications of 
 triumphant trains of reasoning behind that outraged his 
 listener. 
 
 ' What has all this got to do with Meynell ? ' said 
 Flaxman abruptly. 
 
 Barron cleared his throat. 
 
 * There was one occasion ' — he said slowly — ' and one 
 only, on which the ladies at Grenoble — we will say it was 
 Grenoble — received a visitor. Miss Puttenham was still in 
 her room. A gentleman arrived, and was admitted to see 
 her. Mrs. Sabin was bundled out of the room by Lady 
 Fox- Wilton. But it was a small wooden house, and Mrs. 
 Sabin heard a good deal. Miss Puttenham was crying and 
 talking excitedly. Mrs. Sabin was certain from what, 
 according to her, she could not help overhearing, that the 
 man * 
 
 * Must one go into this back-stairs story ? ' asked 
 Flaxman, with repulsion. 
 
 * As you like,' said Barron, impassively. ' I should 
 have thought it was necessary.' He paused, looking 
 quietly at his questioner. 
 
 Flaxman restrained himself with some difficulty. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 229 
 
 ' Did the woman have any real opportunity of seeing 
 this visitor ? ' 
 
 ' When he went away, he stood outside the house talk- 
 ing to Lady Fox-Wilton. Mrs. Sabin was at the window, 
 behind the lace curtains, with the child in her arms. She 
 watched him for some minutes.' 
 
 ' Well ? ' said Flaxman, sharply. 
 
 * She had never seen him before, and she never saw him 
 again, until — such at least was her own story — from the 
 door of her son's cottage, while I was with her, she saw 
 Miss Puttenham — and Meynell — standing in the road out- 
 side.' 
 
 Flaxman took a turn along the room, and paused. 
 
 ' You admit that she was ill at the time she spoke to 
 you — and in a distracted, incoherent state ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly I admit it.' Barron drew himself erect, 
 with a slight frown, as though tacitly protesting against 
 certain suggestions in Flaxman's manner and voice. ' But 
 now let us look at another line of evidence. You as a 
 new-comer are probably quite unaware of the gossip there 
 has always been in this neighbourhood, ever since Sir Ralph 
 Fox- Wilton's death, on the subject of Sir Ralph's \\ill. That 
 will in a special paragraph committed Hester Fox-Wilton 
 to Richard Meynell's guardianship in remarkable terms ; 
 no provision whatever was made for the girl under Sir 
 Ralph's will, and it is notorious that he treated her quite 
 differently from his other children. From the moment also 
 of the French journey. Sir Ralph's character and temper 
 appeared to change. I have enquired of a good many 
 persons as to this ; of course with absolute discretion. 
 He was a man of narrow Evangelical opinions ' — at the 
 word ' narrow ' Flaxman threw a sudden glance at the 
 speaker — * and of strict veracity. My belief is that his 
 later life was darkened by the falsehood to which he and 
 
230 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 his wife committed themselves. Finally, let me ask you 
 to look at the young lady herself; at the extraordinary 
 difference between her and her supposed family; at her 
 extraordinary likeness — to the Rector/ 
 
 Flaxman raised his eyebrows at the last words ; his 
 aspect expressing disbelief and disgust even more strongly 
 than before. Barron glanced at him, and then, after a 
 moment, resumed in another manner, loftily explanatory : — 
 ' I need not say that personally I find myself mixed up 
 in such a business ^-ith the utmost reluctance.' 
 
 ' Naturally,' put in Flaxman, drily. ' The risks 
 attaching to it are simply gigantic' 
 
 ' I am aware of it. But as I have already pointed out 
 to you, by some strange means, — connected I have no 
 doubt with the woman, Judith Sabin, though I cannot 
 throw any light upon them — the story is no longer in my 
 exclusive possession, and how many people are already 
 aware of it, and may be aware of it, we cannot tell. I 
 thought it well to come to you in the first instance, because 
 I know that — you have taken some part lately — in 
 Meynell's campaign.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' thought Flaxman — ' now we 've come to it ! ' 
 Aloud he said — 
 
 ' By which I suppose you mean that I am a subscriber 
 to the Reform Fund, and that I have become a personal 
 friend of Meynell's ? You are quite right. Both my 
 wife and I greatly like and respect the Rector.' He laid 
 stress on the words. 
 
 ' It was for that very reason — let me repeat — that I 
 came to you. You have influence with Meynell ; and 
 I want to persuade you, if I can, to use it.' The speaker 
 paused a moment, looking steadily at Flaxman. ' What 
 I venture to suggest is that you should inform him of the 
 stories that are now current. It is surely just that he 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 231 
 
 should be informed. And then — we have to consider the 
 bearings of this report on the unhappy situation in the 
 diocese. How can we prevent its being made use of ? It 
 would be impossible. You know what the feeling is — ^you 
 know what people are. In Meynell's own interest, and in 
 that of the poor lady whose name is involved with his in 
 this scandal, would it not be desirable in every way that 
 he should now quietly withdraw from this parish, and from 
 the public contest in which he is engaged ? Any excuse 
 would be sufficient — health — overwork — anything. The 
 scandal would then die out of itself. There is not one of us, 
 — those on Meynell's side, or those against him — who would 
 not in such a case do his utmost to stamp it out. But — if he 
 persists — both in living here, and in exciting pubUc opinion 
 as he is now doing — the story will certainly come out! 
 Nothing can possibly stop it.' 
 
 Barron leant back and folded his arms. Flaxman's eyes 
 sparkled. He felt an insane desire to run the substantial 
 gentleman sitting opposite to the door, and dismiss him 
 with violence. But he restrained himself. 
 
 ' I am greatly obUged to you for your beUef in the power 
 of my good offices,' he said, with a very frosty smile; ' but 
 I am afraid I must ask to be excused. Of course if the 
 matter became serious, legal action would be taken very 
 promptly.' 
 
 ' How can legal action be taken ? ' interrupted Barron 
 roughly. ' Whatever may be the case with regard to 
 Meynell and her identification of him, Judith Sabin's 
 story is true. Of that I am entirely convinced.' 
 
 But he had hardly spoken before he felt that he had 
 made a false step. Flaxman's light blue eyes fixed him. 
 
 ' The story with regard to Miss Puttenham ? ' 
 
 ' Precisely.' 
 
 ' Then it comes to this. Supposing that woman's 
 
232 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 statement to be true, the private history of a poor lady 
 who has lived an unblemished life in this village for many 
 years is to be dragged to light — for what ? In order — 
 excuse my plain speaking — to blackmail Richard Meynell, 
 and to force him to desist from the public campaign in 
 which he is now engaged ? These are hardly measures 
 likely, I think, to commend themselves to some of your 
 allies, Mr. Barron ! ' 
 
 Barron had sprung up in his chair. 
 
 ' What my allies may or may not think is nothing to 
 me. I am of course guided by my own judgment and con- 
 science. And I altogether protest against the word you 
 have just employed. I came to you, Mr. Flaxman, I can 
 honestly say, in the interests of peace ! — in the interests of 
 Meynell himself.' 
 
 ' But you admit that there is really no evidence worthy 
 of the name connecting Meynell with the story at all ! ' 
 said Flaxman, turning upon him, ' The crazy impression 
 of a woman dying of brain disease, — some gossip about 
 Sir Ralph's will — a likeness that many people have never 
 perceived ! What does it amount to ? Nothing ! — nothing 
 at all ! — less than nothing ! ' 
 
 ' I can only say that I disagree with you.' The voice 
 was that of a rancorous obstmacy at last unveiled. ' I 
 believe that the woman's identification was a just one — 
 though I admit that the proof is difficult. But then 
 perhaps I approach the matter in one way, and you in 
 another. A man, Mr. Flaxman, in my belief, does not 
 throw over the faith of Christ for nothing ! No ! Such 
 things are long prepared. Conscience, my dear Sir, Con- 
 science breaks down first. The man becomes a hypocrite 
 in his private life before he openly throws off the restraints 
 of reUgion. That is the sad sequence of events. I have 
 watched it many times.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 233 
 
 Flaxman had grown rather white. The mau beside him 
 seemed to him a kind of monstrosity. He thought of 
 Meynell, of the eager refinement, the clean idealism, the 
 visionary kindness of the man, — and compared it with 
 the ' muddy vesture,' mental and physical, of Meynell's 
 accuser. 
 
 Nevertheless, as he held himself in with difl&culty he 
 began to perceive more plainly than he had yet done some 
 of the intricacies of the situation. 
 
 ' I have nothing to do,' he said, in a tone that he en- 
 deavoured to make reasonably calm, ' nor has anybody, 
 with generalisation of that kind, in a case like this. The 
 point is — could Meynell, being what he is, what we all 
 know him to be, have not only betrayed a young girl, 
 but have then failed to do her the elementary justice of 
 marrying her ? And the reply is that the thing is 
 incredible ! ' 
 
 ' You forget that Meynell was extremely poor, and had 
 his brothers to educate ' 
 
 Flaxman shrugged his shoulders in laughing contempt. 
 
 * Meynell desert the mother of his child — because of 
 poverty — because of his brothers' education ! — Meynell ! 
 You have known him some years — I only for a few months. 
 But go into the cottages here — talk to the people — ask 
 them, not what he beheves, but what he is — what he has 
 been to them. Get one of them, if you can, to credit this 
 absurdity ! ' 
 
 * The Rector's intimate friendship with Miss Puttenham 
 has long been an astonishment — sometimes a scandal — to 
 the village ! ' exclaimed Barron, doggedly. 
 
 Flaxman stared at him in a blank amazement, then 
 flushed. He took a turn up and down the room, after 
 which he returned to the fireside, composed. What was 
 the use of arguing with such a disputant ? He felt as 
 
234 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 though the mere conversation were an insult to Meynell, 
 in which he was forced to participate. 
 
 He took a seat deliberately, and put on his magis- 
 terial manner, which, however, was much more delicately 
 and unassumingly authoritative than that of other 
 men. 
 
 ' I think we had better clear up our ideas. You bring 
 me a story — a painful story — concerning a lady with 
 whom we are both acquainted, which may or may not 
 be true. Whether it is true or not is no concern of 
 ours. Neither you nor I have anything to do with 
 it, and legal penalties would certainly follow the diffusion 
 of it. You invite me to connect with it the name 
 of a man for whom I have the deepest respect and 
 admiration ; who bears an absolutely stainless record ; 
 and you threaten to make use of the charge in connexion 
 with the heresy trials now coming on. Now let me give 
 you my advice — for what it may be worth. I should say 
 — as you have asked my opinion — have nothing what- 
 ever to do with the matter ! If anybody else brings you 
 anonymous letters, tell them something of the law of 
 libel — and something too of the guilt of slander ! After 
 all, with a little goodwill, these are matters that are as 
 easily quelled as raised. A charge so preposterous has 
 only to be firmly met to die away. It is your influence, and 
 not mine, which is important in this matter. You are a 
 permanent resident, and I a mere bird of passage. And ' — 
 Flaxman's countenance kindled — ' let me just remind you 
 of this. If you want to strengthen Meynell's cause — if 
 you want to win him thousands of new adherents you have 
 only to launch against him a calumny which is sure to 
 break down — and will inevitably recoil upon you ! ' 
 
 The two men had risen. Barron's face, handsome in 
 feature, save for some thickened lines, and the florid 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 235 
 
 tint of the cheeks, had somehow emptied itself of expression 
 while Flaxman was speaking. 
 
 ' Your advice is no doubt excellent/ he said quietly, 
 as he buttoned his coat, ' but it is hardly practical. If 
 there is one anonymous letter, there are probably others. 
 If there are letters — there is sure to be talk — and talk 
 cannot be stopped. And in time everything gets into the 
 newspapers.' 
 
 Flaxman hesitated a moment. Something warned him 
 not to push matters to extremities — to make no breach 
 with Barron — to keep him in play. 
 
 ' I admit, of course, if this goes beyond a certain point, 
 it may be necessary to go to Meynell — it may be necessary 
 for Meynell to go to his Bishop. But at present, if you 
 desire^ to suppress the thing, you have only to keep your 
 own counsel — and wait. Dawes is a good fellow, and will, 
 I am sure, say nothing. I could, if need be, speak to him 
 myself. I was able to get his boy into a job not long ago.' 
 
 Barron straightened his shoulders slowly. 
 
 * Should I be doing right — should I be doing my duty 
 — in assisting to suppress it — always supposing that it 
 could be suppressed — my convictions being what they 
 are ? ' 
 
 Then — suddenly ! — it was borne in on Flaxman that in 
 the whole interview there had been no genuine desire 
 whatever on Barron's part for advice and consultation. 
 He had come determined on a certain course, and the object 
 of the visit had been, in truth, merely to convey to one of 
 Meynell's supporters a hint of the coming attack, and 
 some intimation of its strength. The visit had been in 
 fact a threat — a move in Barron's game. 
 
 ' That, of course, is a question which I cannot presume 
 to decide,' said Flaxman, with cold politeness. His manner 
 changed instantly. Poremptorily dismissing the subject, 
 
236 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 he became, on the spot, the mere suave and courteous host 
 of an interesting house ; he pointed out the pictures and 
 the view, and led the way to the hall. 
 
 As he took leave, Barron stiffly intimated that he 
 should not himself be able to attend Mrs. Flaxman's party 
 that evening ; but his daughter and sons hoped to have 
 the pleasure of obeying her invitation. 
 
 ' Delighted to see them,' said Flaxman standing in the 
 doorway, with his hands in his pockets. ' Do you know 
 Edward Norham ? ' 
 
 ' I have never met him.' 
 
 ' A splendid fellow — likely I think to be the head of the 
 Ministry before the year 's out. My wife was determined 
 to bring him and Meynell together. He seemis to have the 
 traditional interest in theology without which no English 
 premier is complete.' 
 
 Pursued by this parting shot, Barron retired, and 
 Flaxman went back thoughtfully to his wife's sitting-room. 
 Should he tell her ? Certainly. Her ready wits and quick 
 brain were indispensable in the battle that might be coming. 
 Now that he was relieved from Barron's bodily presence, 
 he was by no means inclined to pooh-pooh the communica- 
 tion which had been made to him. 
 
 As he approached his wife's door he heard voices. 
 Catharine ! He remembered that she was to lunch and 
 spend the day with Rose. Now what to do ! Devoted as 
 he was to his sister-in-law, he was scarcely inclined to trust 
 her with the incident of the morning. 
 
 But as soon as he opened the door, Rose ran upon him, 
 drew him in and closed it. Catharine was sitting on the 
 sofa — with a pale kindled look — a letter in her hand. 
 
 ' Catharine has had an abominable letter, Hugh ! — the 
 most scandalous thing ! ' 
 
 Flaxman took it from Catharine's hand, looked it 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 237 
 
 through, and turned it over. The same script, a little 
 differently disguised, and practically the same letter, as 
 that which had been shown him in the Ubrary ! But it 
 began with a reference to the part which Mrs. Elsmere and 
 her daughter had played in the terrible accident of the pre- 
 ceding week ; which showed that the rogue responsible 
 for it was at least a rogue possessed of some local and 
 personal information. 
 
 Flaxman laid it down, and looked at his sister-in-law. 
 
 ' WeU ? ' 
 
 Catharine met his eyes with the clear intensity of her 
 own. 
 
 ' Isn't it hard to understand how anybody can do such 
 a thing as that ? ' she said, with her patient sigh — the 
 sigh of an angel grieving over the perversity of men. 
 
 Flaxman dropped on the sofa beside her. 
 
 ' You feel with me, that it is a mere clumsy attempt to 
 injure Meynell, in the interests of the campaign against 
 him ? ' he asked her, eagerly. 
 
 ' I don't know about that,' said Catharine slowly — a 
 shining sadness in her look. ' But I do know that it could 
 only injure those who are trying to fight his errors — if it 
 could be supposed that they had stooped to such weapons ! ' 
 
 ' You dear woman ! ' cried Flaxman, impulsively, and 
 he raised her hand to his lips. Catharine and Rose looked 
 their astonishment. Whereupon he gave them the history 
 of the hour he had just passed through. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 But althougli what one may call the natural freemasonry 
 of the children of light had come in to protect Catharine 
 from any touch of that greedy credulity which had fastened 
 on Barron ; though she and Rose and Hugh Flaxman 
 were at one in their contemptuous repudiation of Barron's 
 reading of the story, the story itself, so far as it concerned 
 Alice Puttenham and Hester, found in all their minds but 
 httle resistance. 
 
 ' It may — ^it may be true,' said Catharine, gently. 
 'If so — what she has gone through ! Poor, poor 
 thing ! ' 
 
 And as she spoke — her thin fingers clasped on her black 
 dress, the nun-like veil falling about her shoulders, her 
 aspect had the frank simplicity of those who for their 
 Lord's sake have faced the ugly things of life. 
 
 ' What a shame — what an outrage — that any of us 
 here should know a word about it ! ' cried Rose, her small 
 foot beating on the floor, the hot colour in her cheek. ' How 
 shall we ever be able to face her to-night ? ' 
 
 Flaxman started. 
 
 ' Miss Puttenham is coming to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. She comes with Mary — who was to pick 
 her up — after dinner.' 
 
 Flaxman patrolled the room a little, in meditation. 
 Finally he stopped before his wife. 
 
 238 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 239 
 
 * You must realise, darling, that we may be all walking 
 on the edge of a volcano to-night.' 
 
 ' If only Henry Barron were ! — and I might be behind 
 to give the last little chiquenaude ! ' cried Rose. 
 Flaxman devoutly echoed the wish. 
 ' But the point is — are there any more of these letters 
 out ? If so, we may hear of others to-night. Then — ^what 
 to do ? Do I make straight for Meynell ? ' 
 They pondered it. 
 
 ' Impossible to leave Meynell in ignorance,' said 
 Flaxman — ' if the thing spreads, Meynell of course would 
 be perfectly justified — in his ward's interests — in denying 
 the whole matter absolutely, true or no. But can he ? — 
 with Barron in reserve — using the Sabin woman's tale for 
 his own purposes ? ' 
 
 Catharine's face, a little sternly set, showed the conflict 
 behind. 
 
 ' He cannot say what is false,' she said stiffly. * But 
 he can refuse to answer.' 
 
 Flaxman looked at her with an expression as confident 
 as her own. 
 
 ' To protect a woman, my dear Catharine — a man may 
 say anything in the world — almost.' 
 
 Catharine made no reply, but her quiet face showed 
 she did not agree with him. 
 
 ' That child Hester ! ' Rose emerged suddenly from a 
 mental voyage of recollection and conjecture. ' Now one 
 imderstands why Lady Fox- Wilton — stupid woman ! — 
 has never seemed to care a rap for her. It must indeed 
 be annoying to have to mother a child so much handsomer 
 than your own.' 
 
 • I think I am very sorry for Sir Ralph Fox- Wilton,' 
 said Catharine, after a moment. 
 Rose assented. 
 
240 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Yes ! — ^just an ordinary, dull, pig-headed country gentle- 
 man confronted with a situation that only occurs in plays 
 to which you don't demean yourself by going ! — and obliged 
 to tell and act a string of Ues, when lies happen to be just 
 one of the vices you 're not inclined to ! And then after- 
 wards you find yourself let in for living years and years 
 with a bad conscience — hating the cuckoo-cluld, too, 
 more and more as it grows up. Yes ! — I am quite sorry for 
 Sir Ralph ! ' 
 
 ' By the way ! ' — Flaxman looked up — ' Do you know 
 I am sure that I saw Miss Fox- Wilton — with Philip Meryon 
 — in Hewlett's spinney this morning. I came back from 
 Markborough by a path I had never discovered before, — 
 and there, sure enough, they were. They heard me on the 
 path, I think, and vanished most effectively. The wood 
 is very thick. But 1 am sure it was they — though they 
 were some distance from me.' 
 
 Rose exclaimed. 
 
 ' Naughty, naughty child ! She has been absolutely 
 forbidden to see him, the whole Fox- Wilton family have 
 made themselves into gaolers and spies — and she just 
 outwits them all ! Poor Alice Puttenham hovers about her 
 — trying to distract and amuse her — and has no more 
 influence than a fly. And as for the Rector, it would be 
 absurd, if it weren't enraging ! Look at all there is on his 
 shoulders just now — the way people appeal to him from 
 all over England to come and speak — or consult — or 
 organise. — (I don't want to be controversial, Catharine, 
 darling ! — but there it is.) And he can't make up his 
 mind to leave Upcote for twenty-four hours, till this girl 
 is safely ofi the scene ! He means to take her to Paris 
 himself next week. I only hope he has found a proper 
 sort of Gorgon to leave her with ! ' 
 
 Flaxman could not but reflect that the whole relation of 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 241 
 
 Meynell to his ward might well give openings to such a 
 scoundrel as the writer of the anonymous letters, who was 
 certainly acquainted with local affairs. But he did not ex- 
 press this feeling aloud. Meanwhile Catharine, who showed 
 an interest in Hester which surprised both him and Rose, 
 began to question him on the subject of Philip Meryon. 
 Meryon's mother it seemed had been an intimate friend of 
 one of Flaxman's sisters, Lady Helen Varley, and Flaxman 
 was well acquainted with the young man's most iinsatis- 
 factory record. He drew a picture of the gradual degeneracy 
 of the handsome lad who had been the hope and delight 
 of his warm-hearted, excitable mother ; of her deepening 
 disappointment and premature death. 
 
 ' Helen kept up wdth him for a time, for his mother's 
 sake, but unluckily he has put himself beyond the pale 
 now, one way and another. It is too disastrous about this 
 pretty child ! What on earth does she see in him ? ' 
 
 ' Simply a means of escaping from her home,' said 
 Rose, — ' the situation working out ! But who knows 
 whether he hasn't got a wife already ? Nobody should 
 trust this young man farther than they can see him.' 
 
 ' It mustn't — it can't be allowed ! ' said Catharine, 
 with energy. And, as she spoke, she seemed to feel again 
 the soft bloom of Hester's young cheek against her own, 
 just as when she had drawn the girl to her, in that instinctive 
 caress. The deep maternity in Catharine had never yet 
 found scope enough in the love of one child. 
 
 Then, ^vith a still keener sense of the various difficulties 
 rising along Meynell's path, Flaxman and Rose returned 
 to the anxious discussion of Barron's move and how to 
 meet it. Catharine listened, saying little ; and it was 
 presently settled that Flaxman should himself call on 
 Dawes the colliery manager that afternoon, and should 
 write strongly to Barron, putting on paper the overwhelming 
 
 R 
 
242 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 arguments, both practical and ethical, in favour of 
 silence, — always supposing there were no further develop- 
 ments. 
 
 ' Tell me ' — said Rose presently, when Flaxman had 
 left the sisters alone, — ' Mary of course knows nothing of 
 that letter ? ' 
 
 Catharine flushed. 
 
 ' How could she ? ' She looked almost haughtily at her 
 sister. 
 
 Rose murmured an excuse. * Would it be possible to 
 keep all knowledge from Mary that there was a scandal — 
 of some sort — in circulation, if the thing developed ? ' 
 
 Catharine, holding her head high, thought it would not 
 only be possible, but imperative. 
 
 Rose glanced at her uncertainly. Catharine was the 
 only person of whom she had ever been afraid. But at last 
 she took the plunge. 
 
 ' Catharine ! — don't be angry with me — but I think 
 Mary is interested in Richard Meynell.' 
 
 ' Why should I be angry ? ' said Catharine. She had 
 coloured a little, but she was perfectly composed. With 
 her grey hair, and her plain widow's dress, she threw her 
 sister's charming mondanity into bright rehef. But 
 beauty — loftily understood — lay with Catharine. 
 
 ' It is ill luck — his opinions ! ' cried Rose, laying her 
 hand upon her sister's. 
 
 ' Opinions are not " luck," ' said Catharine, with a rather 
 cold smile. 
 
 ' You mean we are responsible for them ? Perhaps 
 we are, if we are responsible for anything — which I some- 
 times doubt. But you like him — personally ? ' The 
 tone was almost pleading. 
 
 ♦ I think he is a good man,' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 243 
 
 ' And if — if — they do fall in love — what are we all 
 to do ? ' 
 
 Rose looked half whimsically — half entreatingly at 
 her sister. 
 
 ' Wait till the case arises,' said Catharine, rather 
 sharply. — ' And please don't interfere. You are too fond 
 of match-making, Rose ! ' 
 
 ' I am — I just ache to be at it, all the time. But I 
 wouldn't do anything that would be a grief to you.' 
 
 Catharine was silent a moment. TKen she said in a tone 
 that went to the listener's heart — 
 
 ' Whatever happens — will be God's will.' 
 
 She sat motionless, her eyes drooped, her features a 
 little drawn and pale ; her thoughts — Rose knew it — ^in 
 the past. 
 
 Flaxman came back from his interview with Dawes, 
 reporting that nothing couJd have been in better taste or 
 feeling than Dawes's view of the matter. As far as the 
 Rector was concerned, — and he had told Mr. Barron so — 
 the story was ridiculous, the mere blunder of a crazy 
 woman ; and, for the rest, what had they to do in Upcote 
 with ferreting into other people's private affairs ? He had 
 locked up the letter in case it might some time be necessary 
 to hand it to the police, and didn't intend himself to say 
 a word to anybody. If the thing went any further, why 
 of course the Rector must be informed. Otherwise silence 
 was best. He had given a piece of his mind to Mr. Barron 
 and ' didn't want to be mixed up in any such business.' 
 ' As far as I 'm concerned, Mr. Flaxman, I'm fighting for 
 the Church and her Creeds — I'm not out for backbiting ! ' 
 
 ' Nice man ! ' — said Rose, with enthusiasm. ' Why 
 didn't I ask him to-night ! ' 
 
 But ' — resumed Flaxman — ' he warned me that if 
 
244 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 any letter of the kind got into the hands of a certain Miss 
 Nairn in the village, there might be trouble.' 
 
 * Miss Nairn ? — Miss Nairn ? ' The sisters looked at 
 each other. ' Oh, I know — the lady in black we saw in 
 church, the day the revolution began, — a strange little 
 shrivelled spinster- thing who lives in that house by the 
 post-office. She quarrelled mortally with the Rector last 
 year, because she ill-treated a little servant girl of hers, 
 and the Rector remonstrated.' 
 
 ' Well, she's one of the " aggrieved." ' 
 
 ' They seem to be an odd crew ! — There's the old sea- 
 captain that lives in that queer house with the single yew 
 tree, and the boarded-up window on the edge of the Heath. 
 He 's one of them. He used to come to church about once 
 a quarter and wrote the Rector mterminable letters on the 
 meaning of Ezekiel, Then there 's the publican — East — 
 who nearly lost his licence last year — He always put it down 
 to the Rector and vowed he 'd be even with h im. I must say, 
 the Church in Upcotc seems rather put to it for defenders ! ' 
 
 ' In Upcote,' corrected Flaxman. ' That's because of 
 Meynell's personal hold. Plenty of ' em — quite immaculate — 
 elsewhere. However Dawes is a perfectly decent, honest 
 man, and grieved to the heart by the Rector's performances.' 
 
 Catharine had waited silently to hear this remark, 
 and then went away to write a letter. 
 
 ' Poor darling ! WiU she go and call on Dawes — for 
 sympathy ? ' said Flaxman, mischievously to his wife as 
 the door closed. 
 
 ' Sympathy ? ' Rose's face grew soft. ' It's much as 
 it was with Robert. It ought to be so simple, — and it is 
 BO mixed ! Nature of course ought to have endowed all 
 unbehevers with the proper horns and tail. And there 
 they go — stealing your heart away ! — and your daughter's.' 
 
THE CASE Of RICHARD MEVNELL 245 
 
 The Flaxmans and Catharine — who spent the day with 
 her sister, before the evening party — were more and more 
 conscious of oppression as the hours went on ; as though 
 some moral thunder hung in the air. 
 
 Flaxman asked himself again and again — ' Ought I 
 to go to Meynell at once ? ' — and could not satisfy 
 himself with any answer ; while he, his wife, and his 
 sister-in-law, being persons of delicacy, were all ashamed of 
 finding themselves the possessors, against their will, of facts 
 — supposing they were facts — to which they had no right. 
 Meynell's ignorance — Alice Puttenham's ignorance — of 
 their knowledge, tormented their consciences. And it 
 added to their discomfort that they shared their know- 
 ledge with such a person as Henry Barron. However, there 
 was no help for it. 
 
 A mild autumn day drew to its close, with a lingering 
 gold in the west and a rising moon. The charming old 
 house, with its faded furniture, and its out-at-elbows charm, 
 was lit up softly, with lamps that made a dim but friendly 
 shining in its wide spaces. It had never belonged to rich 
 people, but always to people of taste. It boasted no Gains- 
 boroughs or Roraneys ; but there were lesser men of the 
 date, possessed of pretty talents of their own, painters and 
 pastellists, who had tried their hands on the faniily, of 
 whom they had probably been the personal friends. The 
 originals of the portraits on the walls were known neither 
 to history nor scandal ; but their good, modest faces, 
 their brave red or blue coats, their white gowns, and 
 drooping feathers looked winningly out from the soft 
 shadows of the rooms. At Maudeley, Rose wore her 
 simplest dresses, and was astonished at the lightness of the 
 household expenses. The house indeed had never known 
 display, or any other luxury than space ; and to live in 
 it was to accept its tradition. 
 
246 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The week-enders arrived at tea-time ; Mr. Norham with 
 a secretary and a valet, much preoccupied, and chewing 
 the fag-end of certain Cabinet deliberations in the morning ; 
 Flaxman's charming sister Lady Helen Varley, and her 
 husband ; his elder brother Lord Wanless, unmarried, 
 an expert on armour, slightly eccentric, but still, in the 
 eyes of all intriguing mothers, and to his own annoyance, 
 more than desirable as a husband, omng to the Wanless 
 collieries and a few other trifles of the same kind ; the 
 Bishop of Markborough ; Canon France and his sister ; 
 a young poet whose very delicate muse had lodged itself 
 oddly in the frame of an athlete ; a high official in the 
 Local Government Board, Mr. Spearman, whom Rose 
 regarded with distrust as hkely to lead Hugh into too much 
 talk about workhouses ; Lady Helen's two girls, just out, 
 as dainty and well-dressed, as gaily and innocently sure of 
 themselves and their place in Hfe, as the ' classes," at their 
 best, know how to produce ; and three youths, bound for 
 Oxford by the end of the week ; samples, these last, of a 
 somewhat new type in that old University, — combining 
 the dash, family, and insolence of the old ' tuft ' or Bidling- 
 don man, with an amazing aptitude for the classics, rare 
 indeed among the ' tufts ' of old. Two out of the three 
 had captured almost every distinction that Oxford oSers ; 
 and all three had been either gated for lengthy periods or 
 ' sent down,' or otherwise trounced by an angry College, 
 puzzled by the queer connexion between Irelands and 
 Hertfords on the one hand, and tipsy frolics on the other. 
 
 Meynell appeared for dinner, — somewhat late. It was 
 only with great difficulty that the Flaxmans had prevailed 
 on him to come ; for the purpose of meeting Mr. Norham. 
 But the party within the Chui'ch which, foreseeing a 
 Modernist defeat in the Church Courts, was appealing to 
 ParUameut to take action, was strengthening every week ; 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 247 
 
 Meynell's Saturday articles in The Modernist, the paper 
 founded by the Reformers' League, were already providing 
 these parliamentarians with a policy and inspiration ; 
 and if the Movement were to go on swelling during the 
 winter, the Government might have to take very serious 
 cognisance of it during the spring. Mr. Norham therefore 
 had expressed a wish for some conversation with the 
 Modernist leader, who happened to be Rector of Upcote ; 
 and Meynell, who had by now cut himself adrift from all 
 social engagements, had with difficulty saved an evening. 
 As far as Norham was concerned he would have greatly 
 preferred to take the Home Secretary for a Sunday walk 
 on the Chase ; but he had begun to love the Flaxmans, and 
 could not make up his mind to say No to them. Moreover, 
 was it not more than probable that he would meet at 
 Maudeley 'one simple girl,' of whom he did not dare in 
 these strenuous days to let himself think too much ? 
 
 So that Rose, as she surveyed her dinner table, could 
 feel that she was maintaining the wide social traditions of 
 England, by the mingling of as many contraries as possible. 
 But the oil and vinegar were after all cunningly mixed, and 
 the dinner went well. The Bishop was separated from 
 Meynell by the length of the table, and Norham was 
 carefully protected from Mr. Spearman, in his eyes a 
 prince of bores, who was always bothering the Home 
 Office. 
 
 The Bishop, who was seated beside Rose at one end of 
 the table, noticed the black patch on Meynell's temple, 
 and enquired its origin. Rose gave him a graphic account 
 both of the accident and the riot. The Bishop raised his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 ' How does he contrive to live the two lives ? ' he said 
 in a tone sUghtly acid. ' If he continues to lead this 
 
248 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Movement, he will have to give up fighting mobs and 
 unning up and down mines.' 
 
 ' "What is going to happen to the Movement ? ' Rose 
 asked him, with her most sympathetic smile. Socially, 
 and in her own house, she was divinely all things to all men. 
 But the Bishop was rather suspicious of her. 
 
 ' What can happen to it, but defeat ? The only other 
 alternative is the break-up of the Church. And for that, 
 thank God, they are not strong enough.' 
 
 ' And no compromise is possible ? ' 
 
 ' None. In three months Meynell and all his friends will 
 have ceased to belong to the English Church. It is very 
 lamentable. I am particularly sorry for Meynell himself — 
 who is one of the best of men.' 
 
 Rose felt her colour rising. She longed to ask — ' But 
 supposicg England has something to say ? — Suppose she 
 chooses to transform her National Church ? Hasn't she 
 the right and the power ? ' 
 
 But her instincts as hostess stifled her pugnacity. And 
 the little Bishop looked so worn and fragile that she had 
 ao heart for anything but cosseting him. At the same 
 time she noticed, — as she had done before on other occa- 
 sions — the curious absence of any ferocity, any smell of 
 brimstone in the air ! How different from Robert's day ! 
 Then the presumption underlying all controversy was of 
 an offended authority ranged against an apologetic rebelUon. 
 A. tone of moral condemnation on the one side, a touch of 
 casuistry on the other, confused the issues. And now — 
 behind and around the combatants — the clash of equal 
 hosts ! — over ground strewn with dead assumptions. The 
 conflict might be no less strenuous; nay! from a series 
 of isolated struggles it had developed into a world- 
 wide battle ; but the bitterness between man and man 
 was less. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 249 
 
 Yes ! — for the nobler spirits — the leaders and generals 
 of each army. But what of the rank and file ? And at 
 the thought of Barron she laughed at herself for supposing 
 that reUgious rancour, and religious slander had died out 
 of the world ! 
 
 * Can we have some talk somewhere ? ' said Norham 
 languidly, in Meynell's ear, as the gentlemen left the dining- 
 room. 
 
 ' I think Mrs. Flaxman will have arranged something,' 
 said Meynell, with a smile, — detecting the weariness of the 
 pohtical Atlas. 
 
 And indeed Rose had all her dispositions made. They 
 found her in the drawing-room, amid a bevy of bright 
 gowns, and comely faces, illumined by the cheerful light 
 of a big wood fire — a circle of shimmering stuSs and gems, 
 the blaze sparkhng on the pointed slippers, the white 
 necks and glossy hair of the girls, and on the diamonds 
 of their mothers. 
 
 But Rose, the centre of the circle, sprang up at once, 
 at sight of her two gros bonnets. 
 
 ' The Green drawing-room ! ' she murmured in MeyneU's 
 ear, and tripped on before them, while the incoming crowd 
 of gentlemen, mingling with the ladies, served to mask 
 the movement. 
 
 Not however before the Bishop had perceived the 
 withdrawal of the politician and the heretic. He saw that 
 Canon France, who followed him, had also an eye to the 
 retreating figures. 
 
 ' I trust we too shall have our audience ! ' — said the 
 Bishop, ironically. 
 
 Canon France shrugged his shoulders, smiling. 
 
 Then his small shrewd eyes scanned the Bishop intently. 
 Nothing in that delicate face beyond the sentiments proper 
 
250 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNEIX 
 
 to the situation ? — the public situation ? As to the personal 
 emotion involved, that, the Canon knew, was for the time 
 almost exhausted. The Bishop had suffered much during 
 the preceding months — in his aSections, his fatherly 
 feeling towards his clergy, in his sense of the affront 
 offered to Christ's seamless vesture of the Church. But 
 now, France thought, pain had been largely deadened by 
 the mere dramatic interest of the prospect ahead, by the 
 anodyne of an immense correspondence, a vast increase in the 
 business of the day, caused by the various actions pendmg. 
 
 Nothing else — new and disturbing — ^in the Bishop's 
 mind ? He moved on, chatting and jesting with the young 
 girls who gathered round him. He was evidently a 
 favourite with them, and with all nice women. Finally 
 he sank into an arm-chair beside Lady Helen Varley, 
 exchanging Mrs. Flaxman's cosseting for hers. His small 
 figure was almost lost in the arm-chair. The firelight 
 danced on his slender stockinged legs, on his episcopal 
 shoe buckles, on the cross which adorned his episcopal 
 breast, and then on the gleaming snow of his hair, above 
 his blue eyes with their slight unearthliness, so large and 
 flo\\er-like in his small white face. He seemed very much 
 at ease, — throwing off all burdens. 
 
 No ! — the Slander which had begun to fly through the 
 diocese, like an arrow by night, had not yet touched the 
 Bishop. 
 
 Nor Meynell himself ? 
 
 Yet France was certain that Barron had not been idle, 
 that he had not let it drop. ' I advised him to let it drop ' — 
 he said uneasUy to himself — ' that was all I could do.' 
 
 Then he looked round him, at the faces of the women 
 present. He scarcely knew any of them. Was she 
 among them — ^the lady of Barron's tale ? He thought of 
 the story as he might have thought of the plot of a novel. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 251 
 
 When medieval charters were not to be had, it made an 
 interesting subject of speculation. And Barron could not 
 have confided it to anyone in the diocese, so discreet, — so 
 absolutely discreet — as he. 
 
 ' I gather this Movement of yours is rapidly becoming 
 formidable ? ' said Norham to his companion. 
 
 He spoke with the affectation of interest that all politi- 
 cians in office must learn. But there was no heart in it, 
 and Meynell wondered why the great man had desired to 
 speak with him at all. 
 
 He replied that the growth of the Movement was 
 certainly a startling fact. 
 
 * It is now clear that we must ultimately go to Parlia- 
 ment. The immediate result in the Church Courts is of 
 course not in doubt. But our hope lies in such demonstra- 
 tions in the coimtry as may induce Parhament ' — ^he paused, 
 laying a quiet emphasis on each word — ' to re-consider — 
 and re-settle — the conditions of membership and ofiice in 
 the English Church.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' cried Norham, throwing up his 
 hand — ' What a prospect ! If that business once gets 
 into the House of Commons, it '11 have everything else 
 out.' 
 
 ' Yes. It 's big enough to ask for time — and take it.' 
 
 Norham suppressed a slight yawn as he turned in his 
 chair. 
 
 ' The House of Commons alas ! — ^never shows to advan- 
 tage in an ecclesiastical debate. You 'd think it was in the 
 condition of Sydney Smith with a cold — not sure whether 
 there were nine Articles and Thirty-Nine Muses — or the 
 other way on ! ' 
 
 Meynell looked at the Secretary of State in silence — 
 his eyes twinkling. He had heard from various friends 
 
252 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 of this touch of insolence in Norham. He awaited its 
 disappearance. 
 
 Edward Norham was a man still young ; under forty 
 indeed, though marked prematurely by hard work and 
 hard fighting. His black hair had receded on the temples, 
 and was obviously thinning on the crown of the head ; he 
 wore spectacles, and his shoulders had taken the stoop of 
 office work. But the eyes behind the spectacles lost 
 nothing that they desired to see ; and the general impression 
 was one of bull-dog strength, which could be impertinent 
 and aggressive, and could also masque itself in a good 
 humour and charm by no means insincere. In his poUtical 
 career, he was on the eve of great things ; and he would 
 owe them mainly to a power of work, supreme even 
 in these hard-driven days. This power of work enabled 
 him to glean in many fields, and keep his eye on many 
 chances that his colleagues perforce neglected. The 
 Modernist movement was one of these chances. For years 
 he had foreseen great changes ahead in the relations of Church 
 and State ; and this group of men seemed to be forcing the 
 pace. 
 
 Suddenly, as his eyes perused the strong humanity of 
 the face beside him, Norham changed his manner. He sat 
 up and put down the paper-knife he had been teasing. As 
 he did so there was a Uttle crash at his elbow and something 
 rolled on the floor. 
 
 ' What 's that ? ' 
 
 ' No harm done,' said Meynell, stooping — ' one of our 
 host's Greek coins. What a beauty ! ' He picked up the 
 little case and the coin which had rolled out of it — a gold 
 coin of Velia, with a head of Athene, — one of the great 
 prizes of the collector. 
 
 Norham took it with eagerness. He was a Cambridge 
 man, and a fine scholar ; and such things delighted him. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 253 
 
 ' I didn't know Flaxman cared for these things.' 
 
 ' He inherited them,' said Meynell pointing to the 
 open cabinet on the table. ' But he loves them too. Mrs. 
 Flaxman always has them put out on great occasions. 
 It seems to me they ought to have a watcher ! They are 
 quite priceless I believe. Such things are soon lost.' 
 
 ' Oh ! — they are safe enough here,' said Norham, 
 returning the coin to its place, with another loving look at 
 it. Then, with an efiort, he pulled himself together, and 
 with great rapidity began to question his companion as to 
 the details and progress of the Movement. All the facts 
 up to date ; the number of Reformers enrolled since the 
 foundation of the League, the League's finances, the aston- 
 ishing growth of its petition to Parliament, the progress of 
 the Movement in the Universities among the ardent and 
 intellectual youth of the day, its spread from week to week 
 among the clergy : — these things came out steadily and 
 clearly in Meynell's replies. 
 
 ' The League was started in July — it is now October. 
 We have fifty thousand enrolled members, all communi- 
 cants in Modernist churches. Meetings and demonstrations 
 are being arranged at this moment all over England ; and 
 in January or February there will be a formal inauguration 
 of the new Liturgy in Dunchester Cathedral.' 
 
 ' Heavens ! ' said Norham, dropping all signs of languor. 
 — ' Dunchester will venture it ? ' 
 
 Meynell made a sign of assent. 
 
 ' It is of course possible that the episcopal proceedings 
 against the Bishop, which, as you see, have just begun, may 
 have been brought to a close, and that the Cathedral 
 may be no longer at our disposal, but ' 
 
 ' The Dean, surely, has power to close it ! ' 
 
 ' The Dean has come over to us, and the majority of the 
 Canons.' 
 
254 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Norham threw back his head with a laugh of amazement. 
 
 ' The first time in history that a Dean has been of the 
 same opinion as his Bishop ! Upon my word, either 
 the Govemmeut has been badly informed, or I have 
 not kept up. I had no idea — simply no idea — that things 
 had gone so far. Markborough of course gives us very 
 different accounts, — he and the Bishops acting with him.' 
 
 ' A great deal is going on which our Bishop here is quite 
 unaware of.' 
 
 ' You can substantiate what you have been saying ? ' 
 
 ' I will send you papers to-morrow morning. But of 
 course ' — added Meynell, after a pause — ' a great many of 
 us will be out of our berths, in a few months, temporaiily at 
 least. It will rest with Parliament whether we remain so ! ' 
 
 ' The Non-Jurors of the twentieth century ! ' murmured 
 Norham, with a half-sceptical intonation. 
 
 ' Ah, but this is the twentieth century ! ' — said Meynell 
 smiling, ' And in our belief the denoitement will be 
 difierent.' 
 
 ' What will you do — you clergy — when you are de- 
 prived ? ' 
 
 ' In the first place, it will take a long time to deprive 
 us; and so long as there are any of us left in our livings, 
 each will come to the help of the other.' 
 
 ' But you yourself ? ' 
 
 ' I have already made arrangements for a big barn in the 
 village ' — said Meynell, smiling — ' a great tithe-barn of the 
 fifteenth century, a magnificent old place, with a forest of 
 wooden arches, and a vault like a church. The village 
 will worship there for a while. We shall make it beautiful ! ' 
 
 Norham was silent for a moment. He was stupefied by 
 the energy, the passion of religious hope in the face beside 
 him. Then the critical temper in him conquered his 
 emotion, and he said, not without sarcasm — 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 255 
 
 ' This is all very surprising — very interesting — but 
 wliat are the ideas behind you ? A thing like this cannot 
 live without ideas, — and I confess I have always thought 
 the ideas of Liberal Christianity a rather beggarly set-out — 
 excuse the phrase ! ' 
 
 ' There is nothing to excuse ! — the phrase fits. " A 
 reduced Christianity" — as opposed to a " full Christianity" 
 — that is the description lately given, I think, by a Divinity 
 Professor. I don't quarrel with it at all. Who can care 
 for a " reduced " anything ! But a transformed Christianity 
 — that is another matter.' 
 
 ' Why " Christianity " at all ? ' 
 
 Meynell looked at him in a smiling silence. He — 
 the man of religion — was imwilling in these surroundings 
 to play the prophet, to plunge into the central stream of 
 argument. But Norham, the outsider and dilettante, was 
 conscious of a kindled mind. 
 
 ' That is the question to which it always seems to me 
 there is no answer,' he said easily, leaning back in his 
 chair. ' You think you can take what you like of a great 
 historical religion and leave the rest, — that you can fall 
 back on its pre-suppositions, and build it anew. But the 
 pre-suppositions themselves are all crumbling ! " God " — 
 " soul," "free-will," "immortality" — even human identity, 
 — is there one of the old fundamental notions that still 
 stands, unchallenged ? What are we in the eyes of modern 
 psychology — but a world of automata — dancing to stimuli 
 from outside? What has become of conscience — of the 
 moral law — of Kant's imperative — in the minds of writers 
 like these ? ' 
 
 He pointed to two recent novels lying on the table, both 
 of them brilliant glorifications of sordid forms of adultery. 
 
 Meynell's look fixed. 
 
 ' Ah ! — but let us distinguish ! We are not anarchists — 
 
256 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 as those men are. Our claim is precisely that we are, 
 and desire to remain, a part of a Society — a definite com- 
 munity with definite laws — of a National Church — of the 
 nation, that is, in its spiritual aspect. The question for 
 which we are campaigning is as to the terms of membership 
 in that society. But terms and conditions there must 
 always be. The " wild living intellect of man " must 
 accept conditions in the Church, as we conceive it, no less 
 than in the Church as Newman conceived it.' 
 
 Norham shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Then why all this bother ? ' 
 
 ' Because the conditions must be adjusted from time to 
 time! Otherwise the Church sufiers and souls are lost 
 — wantonly, without reason. But there is no Church — 
 no religion — without some venture, some leap of faith ! 
 If you can't make any leap at all — any venture — then 
 you remain outside — and you think yourself, perhaps, 
 entitled to run amuck, — as these men do ! ' He pointed 
 to the books. ' But we make the venture ! — we accept 
 the great hypothesis — of faith.' 
 
 The sound of voices came dimly to them from the 
 further rooms. Norham pointed towards them. 
 
 ' What difierence then between you — and your Bishop ? ' 
 
 ' Simply that in his case — as we say — the hypothesis of 
 faith is weighted with a vast mass of stubborn matter that 
 it was never meant to carry — bad history — bad criticism 
 — an out-grown philosophy. To make it carry it — ^in our 
 belief — you have to fly in the face of that gradual education 
 of the world — education of the mind — education of the 
 conscience — which is the chief mark of God in the world. 
 But the hypothesis of Faith, itself, remains — take it at its 
 lowest — as rational, as defensible, as legitimate as any other ! ' 
 
 ' What do you mean by it ? God — conscience — 
 responsibility ? ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 257 
 
 ' Those are the big words ! ' said Meynell, smiling 
 — ' and of course the true ones. But what the saint means 
 by it, I suppose, in the first instance, is that there is in 
 man something mysterious — superhuman — a Life in life — 
 which can be indefinitely strengthened, enlightened, purified, 
 till it reveal to him the secret of the world, till it " toss him " 
 to the " breast " of God ! — or again, can be weakened, lost, 
 destroyed, till he relapses into the animal. Believe it, we 
 say ! Live by it ! — make the venture. Verificatur vivendo ! ' 
 
 Again the conversation paused. From the distance 
 once more came the merry clamour of the further drawing- 
 room. A din of yoimg folk, chaffing and teasing each 
 other — a girl's defiant voice above it — outbursts of laughter. 
 Norham, who had in him a touch of dramatic imagination, 
 enjoyed the contrast between the gay crowd in the distance, 
 and this quiet room where he sat face to face with a vision- 
 ary — surely altogether remote from the marrying, money- 
 making, sensuous world. Yet after all the League was a 
 big, practical, organised fact. 
 
 ' What you have expressed — very finely, if I may say so 
 — is of course the mystical creed,' he replied at last, with 
 suave politeness. ' But why call it Christianity ? ' 
 
 As he spoke, he was conscious of a certain pride 
 in himself. He felt complacently that he understood 
 Meynell, and appreciated him ; and that hardly any of 
 his colleagues would, or could have done so. 
 
 ' Why call it Christianity ? ' he repeated. 
 
 ' Because Christianity is this creed ! — " embodied in a 
 tale." And mankind must have tales and symbols.' 
 
 * And the life of Christ is your symbol ? ' 
 
 ' More ! — it is our Sacrament — the supreme Sacrament 
 — to which aU other symbols of the same kind lead — in 
 which they are summed up.' 
 
 S 
 
258 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Aud that is why you make so much of the Eucharist ? ' 
 ' It is — to us — just as full of mystical meaning, just as 
 
 much the meeting-place of God and man, as to the 
 
 Catholic — Roman or Anglican.' 
 
 ' Strange that there should be so many of you ! ' said 
 
 Norham, after a moment, with an incredulous smile, 
 
 ' Yes — that has been the discovery of the last six 
 
 months. But we might all have guessed it. The fuel 
 
 has been long laid ; now comes the kindling, and the 
 
 blaze ! ' 
 
 There was a pause. Then Norham said abruptly — 
 
 * Now what is it you want of Parliament ? ' 
 
 The two men plunged into a discussion, in which the 
 
 politician became presently aware that the parish priest, 
 
 the visionary, possessed a surprising amount of practical 
 
 and statesmanlike ability. 
 
 Meanwhile — a room or two away — ^in the great bare 
 drawing-room, with its faded tapestries, and its warm 
 mixture of lamplight and firelight, the evening guests had 
 been arriving. Rose stood at the door of the drawing- 
 room, receiving, her husband beside her, Catharine a 
 little way behind. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Rose suddenly, under her breath, only 
 heard by Hugh — a little sound of perturbation. 
 
 Outside, in the hall, hardly lit at intervals by oil-lamps, a 
 group could be seen advancing ; in front Alice Puttenham 
 and Mary, and behind, the Fox-Wilton party, Hester's 
 golden head and challenging gait drawing all eyes as she 
 passed along. 
 
 But it was on Alice Puttenham, that Rose's gaze was 
 fixed. She came dreamily forward ; and Rose saw her 
 marked out by the lovely oval of the face, its whiteness, 
 its melancholy, from all the moving shapes around her. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 259 
 
 She wore a dress of black gauze over white ; a little 
 scarf of old lace lay on her shoulders ; her still abundant 
 hair was rolled back from her high brow and sad eyes. 
 She looked very small and childish — as frail as thistle- 
 down. 
 
 And behind her, Hester's stormy beauty ! Rose gave 
 a httle gulp. Then she found herself pressing a cold hand, 
 and was conscious of sudden relief. Miss Puttenham's shy 
 composure was unchanged. She could not have looked 
 so — she could not surely have confronted such a gathering 
 of neighbours and strangers, if — 
 
 No, no ! The Slander — Rose, in her turn, saw it under 
 an image, as though a dark night-bird hovered over 
 Upcote — had not yet descended on this gentle head. With 
 eager kindness, Hugh came forward — and Catharine. They 
 found her a place by the fire, where presently the glow 
 seemed to make its way to her pale cheeks, and she sat 
 silent and amused, watching the triumph of Hester. 
 
 For Hester was no sooner in the room, than, resenting 
 perhaps the decidedly cool reception that Mrs. Flaxman 
 had given her, she at once set to work to extinguish all 
 the other young women there. And she had very soon 
 succeeded. The Oxford youths, Lord Wanless, the sons 
 of two or three neighbouring squires, they were all presently 
 gathered about her, as thick as bees on honeycomb ; 
 recognising in her instantly one of those beings endowed 
 flora their cradle with a double portion of sex-magic, who 
 leave such a wild track behind them in the world. 
 
 By her chair stood poor Stephen Barron, absorbed in her 
 every look and tone. Occasionally she threw him a word — 
 Rose thought for pure mischief ; and his whole face would 
 light up. 
 
 In the centre of the circle round Hester stood one of 
 the Oxford lads, a magnificent fellow, radiating health 
 
 » 2 
 
26o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and gaiety, who was trying to wear her down, in one of the 
 word-gamea of the day. They fought hard and breathlessly, 
 everybody listening partly for the amusement of the game, 
 partly for the pleasure of watching the good looks of the 
 young creatures playing it. At last the man turned on his 
 h?el with a cry of victory. 
 
 ' Beaten ! — beaten ! — by a hair. But you 're wonder- 
 ful. Miss Fox-Wilton. I never found anybody near so good 
 as you at it before, except a man I met once at Newmarket — 
 Philip Meryon — do you know him ? Never saw a fellow 
 so good at games. But an awfully queer fish ! ' 
 
 It seemed to the morbid sensitiveness of Rose, that there 
 was an instantaneous and a thrilling silence. Hester 
 tossed her head ; her colour, after the first start, ebbed 
 away : she grew pale. 
 
 ' Yes, I do know him. Why is he a queer fish ? You 
 only say that because he beat you ! ' 
 
 The young man gave a half-laugh, and looked at his 
 friends. Then he changed the subject. But Hester got 
 up impatiently from her seat, and would not play any 
 more. Rose caught the sudden intentness with which Alice 
 Puttenham's eyes pursued her. 
 
 Stephen Barron came to the help of his hostess, and 
 started more games. Rose was grateful to him — and quite 
 intolerably sorry for him. 
 
 ' But why was I obliged to shake hands with the other 
 brother ? ' she thought rebelliously, as she watched the 
 disagreeable face of Maurice Barron, who had been standing 
 in the circle not far from Hester. He had a look of bad 
 company which displeased her ; and she resented what 
 seemed to her an inclination to stare at the pretty women — 
 especially at Hester, and Miss Puttenham. Heavens ! — 
 if that odious father had betrayed anything to such a son ! 
 Surely, surely it was inconceivable ! 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 261 
 
 I The party was beginning to thin when Meynell, impatient 
 to be quit of liis Cabmet Minister that he might tindMary 
 Elsmere before it was too late, hurried from the green 
 drawing-room, m the wake of Mr. Norham, and stumbled 
 against a yoimg man, who in the very imperfect illumina- 
 tion had not perceived the second figure behmd the Home 
 Secretary. 
 
 ' Hullo ! ' — said Meynell brusquely — stepping back — 
 ' How do you do ? Is Stephen here ? ' 
 
 Maurice Barron answered in the affirmative, — and added, 
 as though from the need to say something, no matter 
 what — 
 
 ' I hear there are some corns to be seen in there ? ' 
 
 ' There are.' 
 
 Meynell passed on, his countenance showing a sternness, 
 a contempt even, that was rare with him. He and Norham 
 passed through the next drawing-room, and met various 
 acquaintance at the further door. Maurice Barron stood 
 watching them. The persons invading the room had 
 come intending to see the coins. But meeting the Home 
 Secretary they tuxned back with him, and Meynell followed 
 them, eager to disengage himself from them. At the door 
 some impulse made him turn and look back. He saw 
 Maurice Barron disappearing into the green dia wing-room. 
 
 The night was soft and warm. Catharine and Mary had 
 come prepared to walk home, Catharine eagerly resuming, 
 now that her health allowed it, the Spartan habits of 
 their normal hfe. Flaxman was drawn by the beauty of 
 the moonhght and the park to offer to escort them to the 
 lower lodge. Hester declared that she too would walk, 
 and carelessly accepted Stephen's escort. Meynell stepped 
 out from the house with them, and in the natural sequence 
 of things he found himself with Mary, 
 
262 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Flaxman and Catharine, who led the way, hardly spoke 
 to each other. They walked, pensive and depressed. 
 Each knew what the other was thinking of, and each felt 
 that nothing was to be gained, for the moment, by any 
 fresh talk about it. Just behind them they could hear 
 Hester laughing and sparring with Stephen; and when 
 Catharine looked back she could see Meyuell and Mary 
 far away, io the distance of the avenue they were folloAving. 
 
 The great Ume-trees on either side threw long shadows 
 on grass covered with the fresh fallen leaf, which gleamed, 
 a pale orange, through the dusk. The sky was dappled 
 with white cloud, and the Ume-boughs overhead broke 
 it into patterns of deUght. The sharp scent of the 
 fallen leaves was in the air ; and the night for all its mild- 
 ness prophesied winter. Meynell seemed to himself to be 
 moving on enchanted ground, beneath enchanted trees. 
 The tension of his long talk with Norham, the cares of his 
 leadership, — the voices of a natural ambition, dropped away. 
 Mary in a blue cloak, a white scarf wound about her head, 
 summed up for him the pure beauty of nature and the 
 night. For the first time he did not attempt to check 
 the thrill in his veins ; he began to hope. It was impossible 
 to ignore the change in Mrs. Elsmere's attitude towards 
 him. He had no idea what had caused it ; but he felt it. 
 And he reahsed also that through unseen and inexpUcable 
 gradations Mary had come mysteriously near to him. 
 He dared not have spoken a word of love to her ; but such 
 feeling as theirss, however restrained, penetrates speech 
 and gesture, and irresistibly makes all things new. 
 
 They spoke of the most trivial matters, and hardly 
 noticed what they said. He all the time was thinking — 
 ' Beyond this tumult, there will be rest some day ; then I 
 may speak! We could Uve hardly and simply; neither 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 263 
 
 of us want luxury. But now it would be unjust ; it would 
 bring too great a burden on her — and her poor mother. I 
 must wait ! But we shall see each other — we shall under- 
 stand each other ! ' 
 
 Meanwhile she, on her side, would perhaps have given 
 the world to share the strxiggle from which he debarred 
 her. 
 
 Nevertheless, for both, it was an hour of happiness and 
 hope. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 * So I see your name this morning, Stephen, on their list.' 
 
 Henry Barron held up a page of the Times, and pointed 
 to its first column. 
 
 ' I sent it in some time ago.' 
 
 ' And pray what does your parish think of it ? ' 
 
 ' They won't support me.' 
 
 • Thank God ! ' 
 
 Barron rose majestically to his feet, and from the rug 
 surveyed his thin fair-haired son. Stephen had just ridden 
 over from his own tiny Vicarage, twelve miles away, to 
 settle some business connected with a family legacy with 
 his father. Since the outbreak of the Reform Movement 
 there had been frequent disputes between the father and 
 son ; if aggressive attack on the one side, and silent endur- 
 ance on the other make a dispute. Barron scorned his 
 eldest son, as a faddist and a dreamer ; while Stephen 
 could never remember the time when his father had not 
 seemed to him the living embodiment of prejudice, ob- 
 stinacy, and caprice. He had always reckoned it indeed 
 the crowning proof of Meynell's unworldly optimism, 
 that, at the moment of his father's accession to the White 
 House estate, there should have been a passing friendship 
 between him and the Rector. Yet whenever thoughts 
 of this kind presented themselves expUcitly to Stephen he 
 tried to suppress them. His life, often, was a constant 
 struggle between a genuine and irrepressible dishke of 
 
 264 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 265 
 
 his father, and a sore sense that no Christian priest could 
 permit himself such a feeling. 
 
 He made no reply to his father's interjection. But 
 Barron knew very well that his son's self-control was 
 no indication of lack of will ; quite the contrary ; and 
 the father was conscious of a growing exasperation as he 
 watched the patient compression of the young mouth. 
 He wanted somehow to convict and crush Stephen ; and 
 he believed that he held the means thereto in his hand. 
 He had not been sure before Stephen arrived, whether he 
 should reveal the situation or not. But the temptation 
 was too great. That the son's mind and soul should 
 finally have escaped his father — ' like a bird out of the 
 snare of the fowler/ was the unforgivable offence. What 
 a gentle malleable fellow he had seemed in his school and 
 college days ! — how amenable to the father's spiritual 
 tyranny ! It was Barron's constant excuse to himself 
 for his own rancorous feeling, — that Meynell had robbed 
 him of his son. 
 
 * You probably think it strange ' — he resumed harshly 
 — ' that 1 should rejoice in what of course is your mis- 
 fortune — that your people reject you ; but there are 
 higher interests than those of personal affection concerned 
 in this business. We, who are defending her, must think 
 first of the Church \' 
 
 ' Naturally,' said Stephen, ;^j 
 
 His father looked at him in silence for a moment, at 
 the mild phant figure, the downcast eyes. 
 
 * There is however one thing for which I have cause — 
 we all have cause — to be grateful to Meynell,' — he said, 
 with emphasis. 
 
 Stephen looked up. 
 
 ' I understand he refused to sanction your engagement 
 to Hester Fox- Wilton.' 
 
266 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The young man flushed. 
 
 * It would be better, I think, father, if we are to talk 
 over these matters quietly — which I understood is the 
 reason you asked me to come here to-day — that 
 you should avoid a tone towards myself and my affairs, 
 which can only make frank conversation difficult or im- 
 possible between us.' 
 
 ' I have no desire to be offensive,' said Barron, check- 
 ing himself with difficulty, ' and I have only your good 
 in view ; though you may not beUeve it. My reason for 
 approving Meynell in the matter, is that he was aware — 
 and you were not aware ' — he fell into the slow phrasing 
 he always affected on important occasions — ' of facts 
 bearing vitally on your proposal ; and that in the light 
 of them, he acted as any honest man was bound to act.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ! ' cried Stephen, springing to 
 his feet. 
 
 ' I mean — ' the answer was increasingly deliberate — 
 ' that Hester Fox- Wilton — it is very painful to have to 
 go into these things, but it is necessary, I regret to say, — is 
 not a Fox- Wilton at all — and has no right whatever to 
 her name ! ' 
 
 Stephen walked up to the speaker. 
 
 ' Take care, father ! This is a question of a girl — an 
 unprotected girl ! What right have you to say such an 
 abominable thing ! ' 
 
 He stood panting and white, in front of his father. 
 
 ' The right of truth ! ' said Barron. ' It happens to be 
 true.' 
 
 * Your grounds ? ' 
 
 ' The confession of the woman who nursed her mother — 
 who was 'not Lady Fox- Wilton.' 
 
 Barron had now assumed the habitual attitude — thumbs 
 in his pockets, legs slightly apart, that Stephen had asso- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 267 
 
 ciated from his childhood with the long bullying, secular 
 and religious, that Barron's family owed to Barron's 
 temperament. 
 
 In the pause, Stephen's quick breathing could be heard. 
 
 * Who was she ? ' 
 
 The son's tone had caught the father's sharpness. 
 
 * Well, my dear Stephen, I am not sure that I shall 
 tell you while you look at me in that fashion ! Believe 
 me — it is not my fault, but my misfortune, that I happen 
 to be acquainted with this very disagreeable secret. And 
 I have one thing to say — you must give me your promise 
 that you will regard any communication from me as entirely 
 confidential, before I say another word.' 
 
 Stephen walked away to the window and came back. 
 
 * Very well. I promise.' 
 
 * Sit down. It is a long story.* 
 
 The son obeyed mechanically, his frowning eyes fixed 
 upon his father. Barron at once plunged into an account 
 of his interview with Judith Sabin ; omitting only those 
 portions of it which connected the story with Meynell. 
 It was evident, presently, that Stephen — to the dawning 
 triumph of his father — listened with an increasingly 
 troubled mind. And indeed, at the first whisper of the 
 story, there had flashed through the young man's memory 
 the vision of Meynell arguing and expostulating on that 
 July afternoon, when he, Stephen, had spoken so con- 
 fidingly, so unsuspectingly of his love for Hester. He 
 recalled his own amazement, his sense of shock and strange- 
 ness. What Meynell said on that occasion seemed to have 
 so little relation to what Meynell habitually was. Meynell, 
 for whom love, in its spiritual aspect, was the salt and 
 significance of life, the foundation of all wisdom, — Meynell 
 on that occasion had seemed to make comparatively 
 nothing of love ! — to deny its simplest rights, to put it 
 
268 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 despotically out of count. Stephen, as he had long recog- 
 nised had been overborne and silenced by Meynell's per- 
 sonality, rather than by Meynell's arguments — by the 
 disabling force mainly of his own devotion to the man 
 who bade him wait and renounce. But in his heart, he 
 had never quite forgiven, or understood ; and for all the 
 subsequent trouble about Hester, all his own jealousy and 
 pain, he had not been able to prevent himself from blaming 
 Meynell. And now — now ! — if this story were true — he 
 began to understand. Poor child — poor mother ! With 
 the marriage of the child, must come — he felt the logic of 
 it — the confession of the mother. A woman Uke Alice 
 Putteuham, a man like Meynell, were not Ukely to give 
 Hester to her lover, without telhng that lover what he 
 had a right to know. Small blame to them if they were 
 not prepared to bring about that crisis prematurely, 
 while Hester was still so young ! It must be faced — but 
 not, not till it must ! 
 
 Yes, he understood. A rush of warm and pitiful love 
 filled his heart ; while his intelligence dismally accepted 
 and endorsed the story his father was telling, with that 
 heavy tragic touch which the son instinctively hated, as 
 insincere and theatrical. 
 
 ' Now then, perhaps,' — Barron wound up — ' you will 
 realise why it is I feel Meynell has acted considerately, 
 and as any true friend of yours was bound to act. He 
 knew — and you were ignorant. Such a marriage could 
 not have been for your happiness, and he rightly interposed.' 
 
 * What difference does it make to Hester herself ! ' 
 cried Stephen hotly — ' supposmg the thing is true. I 
 admit — it may be true ' — and as he spoke a host of small 
 confirmations came thronging into his unwilling mind — 
 ' But in any case ' 
 
 He walked up to his father again — 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 269 
 
 * What have you done about it, father ! ' he said, 
 sharplv — ' I suppose you went to Meynell at once.' 
 
 Barron smiled, with a lift of the eyebrows. He knocked 
 off the end of his cigarette, and paused — 
 
 ' Of course you have seen Meynell ? ' Stephen repeated. 
 ' No, I haven't.' 
 
 * I should have thought that was your first duty.' 
 
 ' It was not easy to decide what my duty was,' said 
 Barron, with the same emphasis, — ' not at all easy.' 
 
 * What do you mean, father ? There seems to be 
 something more behind. If there is, considering my 
 feeling for Hester, it seems to me that having told me so 
 much you are bound to tell me all you know. Remember 
 — this story concerns the girl I love ! ' 
 
 Passion and pain spoke in the young man's voice. His 
 father looked at him with an involuntary sympathy. 
 
 * I know. I am very sorry for you. But it concerns 
 other people also.' 
 
 * What is known of the father ? ' said Stephen, abruptly. 
 ' Ah, that is the point ! ' said Barron, making an 
 
 abstracted face. 
 
 ' It is a question to which I am surely entitled to have 
 an answer ! ' 
 
 * I am not sure that I can give it you. I can tell you 
 of course what the view of Judith Sabin was — what the 
 facts seem to point to. But — in any case, whether I 
 believed Judith Sabin or no, I should not have said a 
 word to you on the subject, but for the circumstance 
 that — unfortunately — there are other people in the 
 case.' 
 
 Whereupon — watching his son carefully — Barron re- 
 peated the story that he had already given to Flaxman. 
 
 The effect upon Meynell's young disciple and worshipper 
 may be imagined. He grew deadly pale, and then red ; 
 
370 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 choked with indignant scorn ; and could scarcely bring 
 himself to listen at all, after he had once gathered the real 
 gist of what his father was saying. 
 
 Yet, by this time, the story was much better worth 
 listening to, than it had been when Barron had first pre- 
 sented it to Flaxman. By dint of much brooding, and 
 under the influence of an angry obstinacy which must 
 have its prey, Barron had made it a good deal more plaus- 
 ible than it had been to begin with, and would no doubt 
 make it more plausible still. He had brought in by now 
 a variety of small local observations bearing on the relations 
 between the three figures in the drama — Hester, Alice 
 Puttenham, Meynell — which Stephen must and did often 
 recognise as true and telling. It was true that there was 
 much friction and difference between Hester and the 
 Fox- Wilton family; that Alice Puttenham's position and 
 personality had always teased the curiosity of the neigh- 
 bourhood ; that the terms of Sir Ralph's will were per- 
 plexing ; and that Meynell was Hester's guardian in a 
 special sense, a fact for which there was no obvious 
 explanation. It was true also that there emerged at 
 times a singular likeness in Hester's beauty — a Likeness 
 of expression and gesture — to the blunt and powerful 
 aspect of the Rector. . . . 
 
 And yet ! Did his father believe, for a moment, the 
 preposterous things he was saying ? The young man 
 sharpened his wits as far as possible for Hester's and his 
 friend's sake, and came presently to the conclusion that 
 it was one of those violent, intermittent, half-beliefs 
 which, in the service of hatred and party spirit, can be 
 just as effective and dangerous as any other. And when 
 the circumstantial argument passed presently into the 
 psychological — even the theological — this became the more 
 evident. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 271 
 
 For in order to explain to himself and others how 
 Meyuell could possibly have behaved in a fashion so villain- 
 ous, Barron had invented by now a whole psychological 
 sequence. He was prepared to show in detail how the thing 
 had probably evolved ; to trace the processes of Meynell's 
 mind. The sin once siuned, what more natural than 
 Meynell's proceeding ? Marriage would not have mended 
 the disgrace, or averted the practical consequences of 
 the intrigue. He certainly could not have kept his living 
 had the facts been known. On the one hand his poverty, 
 — his brothers to educate, — his benefice to be saved. On 
 the other, the natural desire of the Fox- Wiltons, and of 
 Alice Puttenham to conceal everything that had occurred. 
 The sophistries of love would come in — repentance — the 
 desire to make a fresh start — to protect the woman he 
 had sacrificed. 
 
 And all that might have availed him against sin and 
 temptation — a steadfast Christian faith — was already 
 deserting him ; must have been already undermined. 
 What was there to wonder at ? — what was there incredible 
 in the story ? The human heart was corrupt and desper- 
 ately wicked ; and nothing stood between any man, how- 
 ever apparently holy, and moral catastrophe, but the 
 grace of God. 
 
 Stephen bore the long, incredible harangue, as best he 
 could, for Meynell's sake. He sat with his face turned 
 away from his father, his hand closing and unclosing on 
 his knee, his nerves quivering under the exasperation of 
 his father's monstrous premises, and still more monstrous 
 deductions. At the end he faced round abruptly. 
 
 * I do not wish to offend you, father, but I had better 
 say at once that I do not accept, for a single instant, your 
 argument" or your conclusion. I am positive that the 
 facts, whatever they may be, are not what you suppose 
 
272 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 them to be ! I say that to begin with. But now the 
 question is, what to do ? You say there are anonymous 
 letters about. That decides it. It is clear that you must 
 go to Meynell at once ! And if you do not, I must.' 
 
 Barron's look flashed. 
 
 ' You gave me your promise ' — he said imperiously — 
 ' before I told you this story, that you would not com- 
 municate it without my permission. I withhold the 
 permission.' 
 
 * Then you must go yourself,' said the young man 
 vehemently — ' You must ! ' 
 
 ' I am not altogether unwilling to go,' said Barron 
 slowly. * But I shall choose my own time.' 
 
 And as he raised his cold eyes upon his son it pleased 
 his spirit of intrigue, and of domination through intrigue, 
 that he had already received a letter from Flaxman gi^ang 
 precisely opposite advice, and did not intend to tell 
 Stephen anything about it. Stephen's impulsive candour, 
 however, appealed to him much more than Flaxman's 
 reticence. It would indeed be physically and morally 
 impossible for him — anonymous letters or no — to lock 
 the scandal much longer within his own breast. It had 
 become a living and burning thing ; like some wild creature 
 straining at a leash. 
 
 A little while later Stephen found himself alone. He 
 believed himself to have got an undertaking from his father 
 that Meynell should be communicated with promptly, 
 — perhaps that very evening. But the terms ' i the pro- 
 mise were not very clear ; and the young man's mind 
 was full of a seething wrath and unhappiness. If the 
 story were true, so far as Hester and her unacknowledged 
 mother were concerned, — and, as we have seen, there was 
 that in his long and intimate knowledge of ^Hester's situ a- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 273 
 
 tion, which, as he listened, had suddenly fused and flashed 
 in a most unwilling conviction, — then, what dire, what 
 pitiful need, on their part, of protection and of help ! If 
 indeed any friendly consideration for him, Stephen, had 
 entered into Meynell's conduct, the young man angrily 
 resented the fact. 
 
 He paced up and down the library for a time, divided 
 thus between a fierce contempt for Meynell's slanderers, 
 and a passionate pity for Hester. 
 
 His father had gone to Markborough. Theresa was, 
 he believed, in the garden giving orders. Presently the 
 clock on the bookcase struck three, and Stephen awoke 
 with a start to the engagements of the day. 
 
 He was in the act of opening the library door when he 
 suddenly remembered : — Maurice I 
 
 He blamed himself for not having remembered earlier 
 that Maurice was at home — for not having asked his 
 father about him. He went to look for him, could not 
 find him in any of the sitting-rooms, and finally mounted 
 to the second-floor bedroom which had always been his 
 brother's. 
 
 ' Maurice ! ' He knocked. No answer. But there 
 was a hurried movement inside, and something that 
 sounded like the opening of a drawer. 
 
 He called again, and tried the door. It was locked. 
 But after further shuffling inside, as though some one 
 were handling papers, it was thrown open. 
 
 ' Well, Maurice, I hope I haven't disturbed you in 
 anything very important. I thought I must come and 
 have a look at you. Are you all right ? ' 
 
 ' Come in, old fellow,' said Maurice with affected 
 warmth — * I was only writing a few letters. No room for 
 anybody downstairs but the pater and Theresa, so 1 have 
 to retreat up here.' 
 
274 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * And lock yourself in ? ' said Stephen, laughing. ' Any 
 secrets going ? ' And as he took a seat on the edge of 
 the bed, while Maurice returned to his* ohair, he could 
 not prevent himself fiom looking with a certain keen 
 scrutiny both at the room and his younger brother. 
 
 He and Maurice had never been friends. There was a 
 gap of nearly ten years between them, and certain radical 
 and profound differences of temperament. And these 
 differences nature had expressed, with an entire absence 
 of subtlety, in their physique; in the slender fairness 
 and wholesomeness of Stephen, as contrasted with the 
 sallowness, the stoop, the thin black haii', the furtive 
 excitable look of Maurice. 
 
 ' Getting on well with your new work ? ' he asked, as 
 he took unwilling note of the half-consumed brandy and 
 soda on the table, of the saucer of cigarette ends beside 
 it, and the general untidiness and stuffiness of the room. 
 
 ' Not bad,' said Maurice, resuming his cigarette. 
 
 * What is it ? ' 
 
 * An agency — one of these new phonographs — Yankee 
 of course. I manage the office. A lot of cads — but I 
 make 'em sit up.' 
 
 And he launched into boasting of his success in the 
 business; the orders he had secured, the economies he 
 had brought about in the office. Stephen found himself 
 wondermg meanwhile what kind of a business it could be 
 that entrusted its affairs to Maurice. But he betrayed 
 no scepticism, and the two talked in more or less brotherly 
 fashion for a few minutes, till Stephen, with a look at 
 his watch, declared that he must find his horse and go. 
 
 ' I thought you were only coming for the week-end,' 
 he said as he moved towards the door. 
 
 ' I got seedy — and took a weeK off. Besides I found 
 pater in such a stew.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 275 
 
 Stephen hesitated. 
 
 ' About the Rector ? ' 
 
 Maurice' nodded. 
 
 ' Pater is in an awful way about it. I've been trying 
 to cheer him up. Meynell will be turned out, of course.' 
 
 * Probably,' said Stephen gravely. ' So shall I.' 
 
 ' What'U you do ? ' 
 
 ' Become a preacher somewhere — under Meynell.' 
 
 The younger brother looked with a sort of inquisitive 
 grin at the elder. 
 
 ' You're ready to put your money on him, to that ex- 
 tent ? Well, all I know is, father's dead set against him — 
 and Fve no use for him ! — never had ! ' 
 
 ' That's because you didn't know him,' said Stephen 
 briefly. ' What did you ever have against him ? * 
 
 He looked sharply at his brother. The disagreeable 
 idea crossed his mind that his father, whose weakness for 
 Maurice he well knew, might have told the story to the lad. 
 
 Maurice laughed, and pulled his scanty moustache as 
 he turned away. 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know — we never hit it off. My fault, of 
 course. Ta, ta.' 
 
 As Stephen rode away, he was haunted for a few minutes 
 by some disagreeable reminiscences of a school holiday, 
 when Maurice had been discovered drunk in one of the 
 public-houses of the village by the Rector, who had firmly 
 dug him out and walked him home. But this and other 
 recollections, not dissimilar, soon passed away, under the 
 steady assault of thoughts far more compelling. . . . 
 
 He took the bridle path through Maudeley, and was 
 presently aware, in a clearing of the wood, of the figure of 
 Meynell in front of him. 
 
 The Rector was walking in haste, without his dogs. 
 
 T 2 
 
2 76 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 He was therefore out on business, which indeed was implied 
 by the energy of his whole movement. 
 
 He looked round, frowning as Stephen overtook him. 
 ' Is that you, Stephen ? Are you going home ? ' 
 ' Yes. And you ? ' 
 
 Meynell did not immediately reply. The autumn 
 wood, a splendour of gold and orange leaf overhead, of 
 red-brown leaf below, with passages here and there, where 
 the sun struck through the beech trees, of purest lemon- 
 yellow, or intensest green, breathed and murmured round 
 them. A light wind sang in the tree-tops, and every 
 now and then the plain broke in — purple through the 
 gold ; with its dim colliery chimneys, its wreaths of smoke, 
 and its paler patches which stood for farms and villages. 
 Meynell walked by the horse in silence for a while, till, 
 suddenly, wiping a hot brow, he turned and looked at 
 Stephen — 
 
 ' I think I shall have to tell you, Stephen, where I am 
 going, and why,' he said, eyeing the young man with a 
 deprecating look, almost a look of remorse. 
 Stephen stared at him in silence. 
 
 ' Flaxman walked home with me last night — came into 
 the Rectory, and told me that — yesterday — he saw Meryon 
 and Hester together — in Howlett's wood — as you know, a 
 lonely place where nobody goes. It was a great blow to 
 me. I had every reason to believe him safely out of the 
 neighbourhood. All his servants have clearly been instructed 
 to lie — and Hester ! — well, I won't trust myself to say 
 what I think of her conduct ! I went up this morning 
 to see her — found the whole household in confusion ! 
 Nobody knew where Hester was. She had gone out 
 immediately after breakfast, with the maid who is sup- 
 posed to be always with her. Then suddenly — about an 
 hour later — one of the boys appeared, having seen this 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 277 
 
 woman at the station — and no Hester. The woman, taken 
 by surprise — young Fox- Wilton just had a few words with 
 her as the train was moving off — confessed she was going 
 into Markborough to meet Hester and come back with her. 
 She didn't know where Miss Hester was. She had left her 
 in the village, and was to meet her at a shop in Mark- 
 borough. After that, things began to come out. The butler 
 told tales. The maid is clearly an unprincipled hussy, and 
 
 has probably been in Meryon's pay all the time ' 
 
 ' Where is Hester ? — where are you going to ? ' cried 
 Stephen in impatient misery, slipping from his horse, as 
 he spoke, to walk beside the Rector. 
 
 * In my belief she is at Sandford Abbey.' 
 ' At Sandford ! ' cried the young man under his breath. 
 * Visit that scoundrel in his own house ! ' 
 
 ' It appears she has once or twice declared that, in 
 spite of us all, she would go and see his house and his 
 pictures. In my belief, she has done it this morning. It 
 is her last chance. We go to Paris to-morrow. However, 
 we shall soon know.' 
 
 The Rector pushed on at redoubled speed. Stephen 
 kept up with him, his lips twitching — 
 
 ' Why did you separate us ! ' he broke out at last, in a 
 low, bitter voice. 
 
 And yet he knew why — or suspected ! But the inner 
 smart was so great, he could not help the reproach. 
 
 ' I tried to act for the best,' said Meynell, after a moment, 
 his eyes on the ground. 
 
 Stephen watched his friend uncertainly. Again and 
 again he was on the point of crying out — 
 
 ' Tell me the truth about Hester ! ' — on the point also of 
 
 warning and informing the man beside him. But he had 
 
 promised his father. He held his tongue with difficulty. 
 
 When they reached the spot where Stephen's path 
 
278 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 diverged from that which led by a small bridge across the 
 famous trout stream to Sandford Abbey, Stephen suddenly 
 halted. 
 
 * Why shouldn't I come too ? I'll wait at the Lodge. 
 She might like to ride home. She can sit anything — 
 with any saddle. I taught her.' 
 
 * Well — perhaps,' said Meynell dubiously. And they 
 went on together. 
 
 Presently Sandford Abbey emerged above the road, on 
 a rising ground — a melancholy, dilapidated pile ; and they 
 struck into a long and neglected evergreen avenue leading 
 up to it. At the end of the avenue, there was an enclosure 
 and a lodge, with some iron gates. A man saw them, and 
 came out to the gate. 
 
 ' Sir Philip's gone abroad, sir,' he said, affably, when 
 he saw them. ' Shall I take your card ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you. I prefer to leave it at the house,* said 
 Meynell shortly, motioning to him to open the gate. The 
 man hesitated, then obeyed. The Rector went up the 
 drive, while Stephen turned back a little along the road, 
 letting his horse pasture on its grassy fringe. The lodge 
 keeper — sulky and puzzled — watched him a few moments 
 and then went back into the house. 
 
 The Rector paused to reconnoitre as he came in sight of 
 the house. It was a strange, desolate, yet most romantic 
 spot. Although, seen from the road, and the stream, it 
 seemed to stand on an eminence, it was really at the 
 bottom of a hill which encircled it on three sides, and what 
 with its own dilapidation, its broken fences and gates, 
 the trees which crowded about it, and the large green- 
 grown pond in front of it, it produced a dank and sinister 
 impression. The centre of the building, which had evi- 
 dently been rebuilt about 1700, to judge from its rose-red 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 279 
 
 brick, its French classical lunettes, its pedimented doors 
 and \vindow3, and its fine perron, was clearly the inhabited 
 portion of the building. The two wings of much earlier 
 date, remains of the old Abbey, were falling into ruin. In 
 front of one, a garage had evidently been recently made, 
 and a motor was standing at its door. To the left of the 
 approaching spectator was a small deserted church, of 
 the same date as the central portion of the Abbey, with 
 twin busts of William and Mary still inhabiting a niche 
 above the classical entrance, and marking the triumph 
 of the Protestant Succession over the crumbling buildings 
 of the earlier faith. The windows of the chiirch were 
 boarded up and a few tottering tombstones surrounded it. 
 
 No sign of human habitation appeared as the Kector 
 walked up to the door. A bright sunshine played on the 
 crumbling brick, the small-paned windows, the touches of 
 gilding in the railings of the perron ; and on the slimy 
 pond, a few ducks moved to and fro, in front of a grass- 
 grown sun-dial. Meynell walked up to the door, and rang. 
 
 The sound of the bell echoed through the house behind, 
 but, for a while, no one came. One of the lunette windows 
 under the roof, opened overhead ; and after another pause 
 the door was slowly opened a few inches by a man in a 
 slovenly footman's jacket. 
 
 * Very sorry, sir, but Sir Philip is not at home.' 
 ' When did he leave ? ' 
 
 ' The end of last week, sir,' said the man, with a jaunty 
 air. 
 
 * That, I think, is not so,' said Meynell, sternly. ' I 
 shall not trouble you to take my card.* 
 
 The youth's expression changed. He stood silent and 
 sheepish, while Meynell considered a moment, on the 
 steps. 
 
 Suddenly a sound of voices from a distance became 
 
28o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 audible through the grudgingly opened door. It appeared 
 to come from the back of the house. The man looked 
 behind him, his mouth twitching viith repressed laughter. 
 Meynell ran down the steps and turned to the left where 
 a door led through a curtain-wall to the garden. Mean- 
 while the house-door was hastily banged behind him. 
 
 ' Uncle Richard ! ' 
 
 Behind the house, Meynell came upon the persons he 
 sought. In an overgrown formal garden, full of sun, he 
 perceived an old stone bench, under an overhanging yew. 
 Upon it sat Hester, bare-headed, the golden masses of 
 her hair shining against the blackness of the tree. Roddy 
 mounted guard beside her, his nose upon her lap ; and on 
 a garden chair in front of her, lounged Philip Meryon, 
 smoking and chatting. At sight of Meynell, they both 
 sprang to their feet. Roddy first growled, and then, as 
 soon as he recognised Meynell, wagged his tail. Philip, 
 with a swaying step, advanced towards the new-comer, 
 cigar in hand. 
 
 ' How do you do, Richard ! It is not often you honour 
 me with a visit.' 
 
 For a moment Meynell looked from one to the other in 
 silence. 
 
 And they, whether they would or no, could not but 
 feel the power of the rugged figure in the short clerical 
 coat and wideawake, and of the searching look with which 
 he regarded them. Hester nervously began to put on her 
 hat. Philip threw away his cigar, and braced himself 
 angrily. 
 
 ' Your mother has been anxious about you, Hester,' 
 said Meynell, at last. ' And I have come to bring 
 you home.* 
 
 Then turning to Meryon he said — ' With you, Philip, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 281 
 
 I will reckon later on. The lies you have instructed your 
 servants to tell are a sufl&cient indication that you are 
 ashamed of your behaviour. This young lady is under 
 age. Her mother and I, who are her lawful guardians, 
 forbid her acquaintance with you.' 
 
 * By what authority, I should like to know ? ' 
 said Philip sneeringly. ' Hester is not a child — nor 
 am I.' 
 
 ' All that we will discuss when we meet,' said the 
 Rector. ' I propose to call upon you to-morrow.' 
 
 ' This time you may really find me fled,' laughed 
 Philip, insolently. But he had turned white. 
 
 Meynell made no reply. He went to Hester, and 
 lifting the girl's silk cape which had fallen ofi he put it 
 round her shoulders. He felt them trembling. But she 
 looked at him fiercely, put him aside, and ran to 
 Meryon. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Philip, good-bye ! — it won't be for long ! ' 
 And she held out her two hands — pleadingly. Meryon 
 took them, and they stared at each other; while the 
 Rector was conscious of a flash of dismay. 
 
 What if there was now more in the business than 
 mere mischief and wantonness ? Hester was surprisingly 
 lovely, with this touching tremulous look, so new, and 
 to the Rector, so intolerable ! 
 
 ' I must ask you to come at once,' he said, walking up 
 to her, and the girl, with compressed lips, dropped Meryon's 
 hands and obeyed. 
 
 Meryon walked beside them to the garden door, very 
 pale, and breathing quick. 
 
 ' You can't separate us ' — he said to Meynell — ' though 
 of course you'll try. Hester, don't believe anything he 
 tells you — tUl I confirm it.' 
 ' Not I ! ' she said proudly. 
 
282 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Meynell led her through the door, and then turning 
 peremptorily desired Meryon not to follow them. Philip 
 hesitated, and yielded. He stood in the doorway, his 
 hands in his pockets, watching them, a splendid figure, 
 with his melodramatic good looks, and vivid colour. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Hester and Meynell walked down the avenue, side by 
 side. Behind them, the lunette window under the roof 
 opened again, and a woman's face, framed in black, touzled 
 hair, looked out, grinned and disappeared. 
 
 Hester carried her head high, a scornful defiance breath- 
 ing from the flushed cheeks and tightened lips. Meynell 
 made no attempt at conversation, till just as they were 
 nearing the lodge he said—' We shall find Stephen a little 
 further on. He was riding, and thought you might like 
 his horse to give you a lift home.' 
 
 ' Oh, a plot ! ' — cried Hester, raising her chin still higher. 
 — ' And Stephen in it too ! Well, really I shouldn't have 
 thought it was worth anybody's while to spy upon my 
 very insignificant proceedings like this. What does it 
 matter to him, or you, or anyone else what I do ? ' 
 
 She turned her beautiful eyes — tragicaUy wide and 
 haughty— upon her companion. There was absurdity in 
 her pose, and yet, as Meynell uncomfortably recognised, 
 a new touch of something passionate and real. 
 
 The Rector made no reply, for they were at the turn 
 of the road and beyond it Stephen and his horse were to 
 be seen waiting. 
 
 Stephen came to meet them, the bridle over his arm. 
 
 ' Hester, wouldn't you like my horse ? It is a long 
 way home. I can send for it later.' 
 
 She looked proudly from one to the other. Her colour 
 283 
 
284 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had suddenly faded, and from the pallor, the firm, yet 
 delicate lines of the features emerged with unusual emphasis. 
 
 ' I think you had better accept,' said Meynell gently. 
 As he looked at her, he wondered whether she might not 
 faint on their hands with anger and excitement. But 
 she controlled herself, and as Stephen brought the brown 
 mare alongside, and held out his hand, she put her foot 
 in it, and he swung her to the saddle. 
 
 ' I don't want both of you,' she said, passionately. 
 ' One warder is enough ! ' 
 
 ' Hester ! ' cried Stephen, reproachfully. Then he 
 added, trying to smile — ' I am going into Markborough. 
 Any commission ? ' 
 
 Hester disdained to answer. She gathered up the 
 reins and set the horse in motion. Stephen's way lay 
 with them for a hundred yards. He tried to make a little 
 indifferent conversation, but neither Meynell nor Hester 
 replied. Where the lane they had been following joined 
 the Markborough road, he paused to take his leave of 
 them ; and as he did so, he saw his two companions, brought 
 together, as it were, into one picture, by the overcircling 
 shade of the autumnal trees which hung over the road ; and 
 he suddenly perceived, as he had never yet done, the strange 
 likeness between them. Perplexity, love, — despairing and 
 jealous love ; a passionate championship of the beauty 
 that was being outraged and insulted by the common 
 talk and speculation of indifferent and unfriendly mouths ; 
 an earnest desire to know the truth, and the whole truth, 
 that he might the better prove his love, and protect his 
 friend ; and a dismal certainty through it all that Hester 
 had been finally snatched from him : — these conflicting 
 feelings very nearly overpowered him. It was all he could 
 do to take a calm farewell of them. Hester's eyes, under 
 their fierce brows, followed him along the road. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 285 
 
 Meanwhile she and Meynell turned into a bridle 
 path through the woods. Hester sat erect, her 
 slender body adjusting itself with unconscious grace to 
 the quiet movements of the horse, which Meynell was 
 leading. Overhead the October day was beginning to 
 darken, and the yellow leaves shaken by occasional gusts 
 were drifting mistily down on Hester's hair and dress, 
 and on the glossy flanks of the mare. 
 
 At last Meynell looked up. There was intense feeling 
 in his face — a deep and troubled tenderness. 
 
 ' Hester ! — is there no way in which I can convince 
 you that if you go on as you have been doing — deceiving 
 your best friends — and letting this man persuade you 
 into secret meetings — you will bring disgrace on yourself, 
 and sorrow on us ? A few more escapades like to-day, 
 and we might not be able to save you from disgrace.' 
 
 He looked at her searchingly. 
 
 ' I am going to choose for myself ! ' — said Hester after 
 a moment, in a low, resolute voice ; ' I am not going to 
 sacrifice my life to anybody.' 
 
 ' You will sacrifice it, if you go on flirting with this man 
 — if you will not beUeve me — who am his kinsman, and 
 have no interest whatever in blackening his character — 
 when I tell you that he is a bad man, corrupted by low 
 living and self-indulgence, with whom no girl should 
 trust herself. The action you have taken to-day, your 
 deliberate defiance of us all, make it necessary that I should 
 speak in even plainer terms to you than I have done yet ; 
 that I should warn you as strongly as I can, that by allowing 
 this man to make love to you — perhaps to propose a 
 runaway match to you — how do I know what villainy he 
 may have been equal to ! — you are running risks of 
 utter disaster and disgrace.' 
 
 * Perhaps. That is my afEair.' 
 
286 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The girrs voice shook with excitement. 
 
 * No ! — ^it is not your affair only. No man liveth to 
 himself, and no man dieth to himself ! It is the affair of 
 all those who love you, — of your family — of your poor 
 Aunt Alice, who cannot sleep for grieving ' 
 
 Hester raised her free hand, and angrily pushed back 
 the masses of fair hair that were falling about her face. 
 
 ' What is the good of talking about " love," Uncle 
 Richard ! ' She spoke with a passionate impatience. * You 
 know very well that nobody at home loves me ! Why should 
 we all be hypocrites ! I have got, I tell you, to look after 
 myself, to plan my life for myself ! My mother can't help 
 it, if she doesn't love me. I don't complain ; but I do 
 think it a shame you should say she does, when you know 
 — know — hiow — she doesn't ! My sisters and brothers 
 just dislike me — that's all there is in that ! All my life 
 I've known it — I've felt it. Why, when I was a baby 
 they never played with me — they never made a pet of 
 me — they wouldn't have me in their games. My father 
 positively disliked me. Whenever the nurse brought 
 me downstairs, — he used to call to her to take me up 
 again. Oh, how tired I got of the nursery ! — I hated it — 
 I hated nurse — I hated all the old toys — for I never had any 
 new ones. Do you remember ' — she turned on him — ' that 
 day when I set fiie to all the clean clothes — that were 
 airing before the fire ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly ! ' said the Rector, with an involuntary 
 smile, that relaxed the pale gravity of his face. 
 
 ' I did it because I hadn't been downstairs for three 
 nights. I might have been dead for all anybody cared. 
 Then I was determined they should care, — and I got hold 
 of the matches. I thought the clothes would burn first 
 — and then my starched frock would catch fire — and then 
 — everybody would be sorry for me at last. But unfor- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 287 
 
 tunately I got frightened, and ran up the passage screaming 
 — silly little fool ! That might have made an end of it — 
 once for all ' 
 
 Meynell interrupted — 
 
 ' And after it,' he said, looking her in the eyes — ' when 
 the fuss was over — I remember seeing you in Aunt Alsie's 
 arms. Have you forgotten how she cried over you, and 
 defended you — and begged you off ? You were ill with terror 
 and excitement ; she took you oS to the cottage, and nursed 
 you till you were well again, and it had all blown over ; 
 as she did again and again afterwards. Have you forgotten 
 that — when you say that no one loved you ? ' 
 
 He turned upon her with that bright, penetrating look, 
 with its touch of accusing sarcasm, which had so often 
 given him the mastery over erring souls. For Meynell had 
 the pastoral gift almost in perfection ; the courage, the 
 ethical self-confidence, and the instinctive tenderness 
 which belong to it. The certitudes of his mind were all 
 ethical ; and in this region he might have said with New- 
 man that 'a thousand difficulties cannot make one doubt/ 
 
 Hester had often yielded to this power of his in the 
 past, and it was evident that she trembled under it now. 
 To hide it she turned upon him with fresh anger — 
 
 ' No, I haven't forgotten it ! — and I'm not an un- 
 grateful fiend — though of course you think it. But Aunt 
 Alsie 's like all the others now. She — she 's turned against 
 me ! ' There was a break in the girl's voice that she tried 
 in vain to hide. 
 
 * It isn't true, Hester ! I think you know it isn't true.' 
 
 * It is true ! She has secrets from me ; and when I 
 ask her to trust me — then she treats me like a child — and 
 shakes me ofE as if I were just a stranger. If she holds 
 me at arm's-length, I am not going to tell her all 77iy affairs ! ' 
 
 The rounded bosom under the little black mantle rose 
 
288 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and fell tumultuously, and angry tears shone in the brown 
 eyes. Meynell had raised his head with a sudden move- 
 ment, and regarded her intently. 
 
 ' What secrets ? ' 
 
 ' I found her — one day — with a picture — she was 
 crying over. It — it was someone she had been in love 
 with — I am certain it was — a handsome, dark man. 
 And I begged her to tell me — and she just got up and 
 went away. So then I took my own line ! * 
 
 Hester furiously dashed away the tears she had not 
 been able to stop. 
 
 Meynell's look changed. His voice grew strangely 
 pitiful and soft. 
 
 * Dear Hester — if you knew — you couldn't be unkind 
 to Aunt Alice.' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I know ! Why am I treated like a 
 baby ? ' 
 
 ' There are some things too bitter to tell,' — he said 
 gravely — ' some griefs we have no right to meddle with. 
 But we can heal them — or make them worse. You ' — 
 his kind eyes scourged her again — ' have been making 
 everything worse for Aunt Alsie for a long time past.' 
 
 Hester shrugged her shoulders passionately, as though 
 to repel the charge, but she said nothing. They moved on 
 in silence for a little. In Meynell's mind there reigned a 
 medley of feelings — tragic recollections, moral questionings, 
 which time had never silenced ; perplexity as to the present 
 and the future ; and with it all, the liveliest and sorest pity 
 for the young childish, violent creature beside him. It 
 was not for those who, with whatever motives, had con- 
 tributed to bring her to that state and temper, to strike 
 any note of harshness. 
 
 Presently, as they neared the end of the woody path, 
 he looked up again. He saw her sitting sullenly on the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 289 
 
 gently moving horse, a vision of beauty at bay. The 
 sight determined him towards frankness. 
 
 ' Hester ! — I have told you that if you go on flirting 
 with Philip Meryon you run the risk of disgrace and misery, 
 because he has no conscience and no scruples, and you 
 are ignorant and inexperienced, and have no idea of the 
 fire you are playing with. But I think I had better go 
 further. I am going to say what you force me to say to you — 
 young as you are. My strong belief is that Philip Meryon 
 is either married already, or so entangled that he has no 
 right to ask any decent woman to marry him. I have 
 suspected it a long time. Now you force me to prove it.' 
 
 Hester turned her head away. 
 
 ' He told me I wasn't to believe what you said about 
 him ! ' she said in her most obstinate voice. 
 
 ' Very well. Then I must set at once about proving it. 
 The reasons which make me believe it are not for your 
 ears.' Then his tone changed — * Hester ! — my child ! — you 
 can't be in love with that fellow — that false, common 
 fellow ! — you can't !' 
 
 Hester tightened her lips and would not answer. A 
 rush of distress came over Meynell as he thought of her 
 movement towards Philip in the garden. He gently 
 resumed — 
 
 ' Any day now might bring the true lover, Hester ! — 
 the man who would comfort you for all the past, and show 
 you what joy really means. Be patient, dear Hester — be 
 patient ! If you wanted to punish us for not making you 
 happy enough, well, you have done it ! But don't plunge 
 us all into despair, — and take a little thought for your old 
 guardian, who seems to have the world on his shoulders, 
 and yet can't sleep at nights for worriting about his ward, 
 who won't beheve a word he says, and sets all his wishes at 
 defiance,' 
 
 U 
 
290 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNEIX 
 
 His manner expressed a playful and reproachful affection. 
 Their eyes met. Hester tried hard to maintain her antagon- 
 ism, and he was well aware that he was but imperfectly 
 able to gauge the conflict of forces in her mind. He 
 resumed his pleading with her — tenderly — urgently. And 
 at last she gave way, at least apparently. She allowed 
 him to lay a friendly hand on hers that held the reins, and 
 she said with a long bitter breath — 
 
 * Oh, I know I'm a little beast ! ' 
 
 * My old-fashioned ideas don't allow me to apply that 
 epithet to young women ! But if you '11 say " I want to be 
 friends, Uncle Richard, and I won't deceive you any more," 
 why then you'll make an old fellow happy ! Will you ? ' 
 
 Slowly she let her cold fingers slip into his warm, pro- 
 tecting palm as he smiled upon her. She yielded to the 
 dignity and charm of Meynell's character as she had done 
 a thousand times before ; but in the proud unhappy look 
 she bent upon him there were new and disquieting things ; 
 prophecies of the coming womanhood, not to be unravelled. 
 Meynell pressed her hand, and put it back upon the reins 
 with a sigh he could not restrain. 
 
 He began to talk with a forced cheerfulness of their 
 coming journey; of the French milieu to which she was 
 going. Hester answered in monosyllables, every now and 
 then — he thought — choking back a sob. And again and 
 again the discouraging thought struck through him — ' Has 
 this fellow touched her heart ? ' — so strong was the im- 
 pression of an emerging soul and a developing personality. 
 
 Suddenly through the dispersing trees a light figure 
 came hurriedly towards them. It was Alice Puttenham. 
 She was pale and weary, and when she saw Hester, with 
 Meynell beside her, she gave a little cry. But Meynell, 
 standing behuid Hester, put his finger on his lips, and she 
 controlled herself. Hester greeted her'without any sign of 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 291 
 
 emotion ; and the three went homeward along the misty 
 ways of the park. The sun had been swallowed up by 
 rising fog ; all colour had been sucked out of the leaves, and 
 the heather, even from the golden glades of fem. Only 
 Hester's hair, and her white dress as she passed along, 
 uplifted, made of her a kind of luminous wraith, and beside 
 her, like the supports of an altar-piece, moved the two 
 pensive figures of Meynell and Alice. 
 
 From a covert of thorn in the park, a youth who had 
 retreated into its shelter on their approach, watched them 
 with malicious eyes. Another man was with him — a 
 sheepish red-faced person, who peered curiously at the 
 little procession as it passed, about a hundred yards away. 
 
 * Quite a family party ! ' said Maurice Barron with a 
 laugh. 
 
 In the late evening Meynell returned to the Rectory 
 a wearied man, but with hours of occupation and correspond- 
 ence still before him. He had left Hester with Alice 
 Puttenham, in a state which Meynell interpreted as at once 
 alarming and hopeful ; alarming because it suggested 
 that there might be an element of passion in what had 
 seemed to be a mere escapade dictated by vanity and 
 temper ; and hopeful because of the emotion the girl had 
 once or twice betrayed, for the first time in the experience 
 of anyone connected with her. When they entered Alice 
 Puttenham's drawing-room, for instance, — for Hester had 
 stipulated she was not to be taken home — Alice had 
 thrown her arms round her, and Hester had broken 
 suddenly into crying, a thing imheard of. Meynell of 
 course had hastily disappeared. 
 
 Since then the parish had taken its toll. Visits to two 
 or three sick people had been paid. The Rector had 
 looked in at the schools, where a children's evening was 
 
 u 2 
 
392 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 going on, and had told the story of Aladdin with riotouB 
 success ; he had taken off his coat to help in putting up 
 decorations for an entertainment in the little Wesleyan 
 meetuig-house of corrugated iron ; the parish nurse had 
 ^vaylaid him with reports, and he had dashed into the back 
 parlour of a small embarrassed tradesman, in mortal fear 
 of collapse and bankruptcy, with the offer of a loan, sternly 
 conditional upon facing the facts, and getting in an auditor. 
 Lady Fox-Wilton of course had been seen, and the clamour 
 of her most imattractive offspring allayed as much as 
 possible. And now, emerging from this tangle of personal 
 claims and small interests, in the silence and freedom of 
 the night hours, Meynell was free to give himself once more 
 to the intellectual and spiritual passion of the Reform 
 movement. His table was piled with unopened letters ; 
 on his desk lay a half-written article, and two or three 
 foreign books, the latest products of the Modernist movement 
 abroad. His crowded be-littered room smiled upon him, 
 as he shut its door upon the outer world. For within 
 it, he lived more truly, more vividly, than anywhere else ; 
 and all the more since its threadbare carpet had been trodden 
 by Mary Elsmere. 
 
 Yet as he settled himself by the fire with his pipe and 
 his letters, for half an hour's ease before going to his desk, 
 his thoughts were still full of Hester. The incurable op- 
 timism, the ready faith where his affections were concerned, 
 which were such strong notes of his character, were busy 
 persuading him that all would be well. At last, between 
 them, they had made an impression on the poor child ; and 
 as for Philip, he should be dealt with this time with a proper 
 disregard of either his own or his servants' lying. Hester 
 was now to spend some months with a charming and 
 cultivated French family. Plenty of occupation, plenty 
 of amusement, plenty of appeal to her intelligence. Then, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 293 
 
 perhaps, travel for a couple of years, vsith Aunt Alice; 
 — as much separation as possible, anyway, from the 
 Northleigh family and house. Alice was not rich, but 
 she could manage as much as that, if he advised it, and 
 he would advise it. Then, with her twenty-first year, if 
 Stephen or any other wooer were to the fore, the crisis r^.ust 
 be faced, and the child must know ! and it would be a cold- 
 blooded lover that would weigh her story against her face. 
 
 Comfort himself as he would, however, dream as he 
 would, Meynell's conscience was always sore for Hester. Had 
 they done right ? — or hideously wrong ? Had not all their 
 devices been a mere triflmg with nature — a mere attempt 
 to ' bind the courses of Orion,' with the inevitable result in 
 Hester's unhappy childhood and perverse youth ? 
 
 The Rector, as he pulled at his pipe, could still feel the 
 fluttering of her slender hand in his. The recollection 
 stirred in him again the intolerable pity, the tragic horror 
 of the past. Poor, poor little girl ! But she should be 
 happy yet, ' with rings on her lingers,' and everything 
 proper ! 
 
 Then from this fatherly and tender preoccupation, he 
 passed mto a more intimate and poignant dreaming. Mary ! 
 — in the moonlight, under the autunm trees, was the vision 
 that held hmi ; varied sometimes by the dream of 
 her in that very room, sitting ghostly in the chair beside 
 him, her lovely eyes wandering over its confusion of books 
 and papers. He thought of her exquisite neatness of dress 
 and delicacy of movement, and smiled happily to himself. 
 'How she must have wanted to tidy up ! ' And he dared 
 to think of a day when she would come and take posses- 
 sion of him altogether. — books, body, and soul, and gently 
 order his Life. . . . 
 
 ' Why, you rascals ! ' — he said, jealously, to the dogs, 'she 
 fed you — I know she did — she patted and pampered 
 
294 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 you, ell, didn't she ? She likes dogs — and you may thank 
 your lucky stars she does ! ' 
 
 But they only raised their eager heads, and turned 
 their loving eyes upon him, prepared to let loose pande- 
 monium, as soon as he showed signs of moving. 
 
 ' Weil, you don't expect me to take you out for a walk 
 at ten o'clock at night, do you — idiots ! ' he hurled at them 
 reprovmgly; and atter another moment of bright-eyed 
 interrogation, disappomtment descended, and down went 
 their noses on tiieir paws agam 
 
 His trust in the tender steadfastness of Mary's character 
 made itsell poweriuiiy teit m these sohtary moments. She 
 knew that wiiiie these strenuous days were on he could allow 
 hunself no personal aims. But tlie growing knowledge that 
 he was approved by a soul so pure and so devout, had both 
 strung up ail his powers, and calmed the fevers of battle 
 He loved his cause the more because it was ever more 
 clear to him that she passionately loved it too. And 
 sensitive and depressed as he often was, — the penalty of 
 the optimist — her faith m him had doubled his faith in 
 himself. 
 
 Tnere was a singular pleasure also in the link his love 
 for her had forged between himself and Elsmere ; the dead 
 leader of an earlier generation. ' Latitudinarianism is commg 
 in upon us like a hood ! ' — cried the Ghtxrch Times, wrmgmg 
 its hands, in other words, thought Meynell, * a New 
 Learnmg is at last penetratmg the mmds and consciences 
 of men; m the Church, no less than out of it.' And 
 Elsmere had been one of its martyrs. Meynell thought 
 with emotion of the emaciated form he had last seen m 
 the thronged hall of the New Brotherhood. ' Our venture 
 is possible — because you sutfered,' — he would say to himself • 
 addressing not so much Elsmere, as Eismere's generation' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 295 
 
 rememberiug its struggles, its thwarted hopes, and starved 
 lives. 
 
 Aiid Elsmere's wife ? — that rigid, pathetic figure, who, 
 before he knew her iu the flesh, had been to hiai, through 
 the reports of many friends, a kind of legendary presence — 
 the embodiment of the Old Faith. Meyneli only knew that 
 as far as he was coucerued, something had happened — 
 something which he could not define. She was no longer 
 his enemy ; and he blessed her humbly in his heart. He 
 thought also, with a curious thankfulness, of her strong 
 and immovable convictions. Each thmking mind, as it 
 were, carries within it its own Pageant of the Universe, and 
 lights the show with its own passion. Not to quench the exist- 
 ing light in any human breast — but to kindle and quicken 
 where no light is; to bring for ever new lamp- bearers 
 into the Lampadephoria of life, and marshal them there 
 in their places, on equal terms with the old, neither 
 excluded, nor excluding : this, surely this was the ideal of 
 Modernism. 
 
 Elsmere's widow might never admit his own claim to 
 equal rights within the Christian society. What matter ! 
 It seemed to him that in some mysterious way she had now 
 recognised the spiritual necessity laid upon him to fight for 
 that claim ; had admitted him, so to speak, to the rights of 
 a belligerent. And that had made all the difference. 
 
 He did not know how it had happened. But he was 
 strangely certain that it had happened. 
 
 But soon the short interval of rest and dream he had 
 allowed himself was over. He turned to his writing-table. 
 
 What a medley of letters ! Here was one from a clergy- 
 man in the Midlands : — 
 
 ' We introduced the new liturgy last Sunday, and 
 I cannot describe the emotion, the stirring of all the 
 
296 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 dead-bones it has brought about. There has been of course 
 a secession ; but the church at Patten End amply provides 
 for the seceders, and among our own people one seems to 
 realise at last something of what the simpUcity and 
 sincerity of the first Christian feeling must have been ! No 
 "allowances" to make for scandalous mis-translations and 
 misquotations — no foolish legends, or unedifying tales of 
 barbarous peoples — no cursing psalms — no old Semitic 
 nonsense about God resting on the seventh day, delivered 
 in the solemn sing-song which seems to make it not only 
 nonsense but hypocrisy. . . . 
 
 ' I have held both a marriage and a funeral this week 
 under the new service book. I think that all persons here, 
 accustomed to think of what they are saying feel the strangest 
 delight and relief in the disappearance of the old marriage 
 service. It is like the dropping of a weight to which our 
 shoulders have become so accustomed that we hardly realised 
 it till it was gone. Instead of pompous and futile absurdity 
 — as in the existing exhortation, and homily — beautiful 
 and fitting quotation from unused treasures of the 
 Bible. Instead of the brutal speech, the crudely physical 
 outlook of an earlier day, the just reticence, and nobler 
 perceptions of our own, combined with perfectly plain and 
 tender statement as to the founding of the home and the 
 family. Instead of besmirching bits of primitive and ugly 
 legend like the solemn introduction of Adam's rib into the 
 prayers, a few new prayers of great beauty — some day you 
 must tell me who wrote them, for I suppose you know ? — 
 (and by the way why should we not write as good prayers, 
 to-day, as in any age of the Christian Church ?) Instead 
 of the old " obey," for the woman, which has had such a 
 definitely debasing effect, as I believe, on the position of 
 women, especially in the working classes — a formula, only 
 slightly altered, but the same for the man and the woman. . . . 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 297 
 
 ' In short, a seemly, and beautiful, and moving tiling, 
 instead of a ceremony which in spite of its few fine, even 
 majestic elements, had become an offence and a scandal. 
 All the fine elements have been kept, and only the scandal 
 amended. Why was it not done long ago ? 
 
 ' Then as to the Burial Service. The Corinthian 
 chapter stripped of its arguments which are dead, and con- 
 fined to its cries of poetry and faith which are immortal, 
 made a new and thrilling impression. I confess I thought I 
 should have broken my heart over the omission of " I 
 know that my Redeemer liveth " — and yet now that it is 
 gone, there is a sense of moral exhilaration in having let 
 it go ! One knew all the time that whoever wrote the 
 poem of Job, neither said what he was made to say 
 in the famous passage, nor meant what he was supposed 
 to mean. One was perfectly aware, from one's Oxford's 
 days, as the choir chanted the great words, that they were 
 a flagrant mistranslation of a corrupt and probably inter- 
 polated passage. And yet the glory of Handel's music, 
 the glamour of association overcame one. But now that it 
 is cut ruthlessly away from those moments in life when 
 man can least afford any make-believe with himself or his 
 fellows — now that music alone declaims and fathers it — 
 there is the strangest relief ! One feels, as I have said, 
 the joy that comes from something difficult and righteous 
 done — in spite of everything ! 
 
 ' But the upholders of the " old things " need not be 
 overmuch afraid. Even when our national churches are 
 open to different " uses " — Anglican, EvangeUcal, or 
 Modernist ; when the new " liberty of prophesying " has 
 been won, the role of tradition will be a great — for long, a 
 dominant one. Quite rightly ! Let us only rejoice ; so 
 long as we too may have our " place in the sun." ' 
 
298 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Meynell ! — we are in the dawning of " a white day." 
 We have groaned under the oppression of what we have 
 now thrown off, so long and so hopelessly; the Revision 
 that the High Churchmen made such a bother about a few 
 years ago came to so little ; that now, to see this thing 
 spreading like a great spring-tide over the face of England 
 is marvellous indeed ! And when one knows what it means ; 
 no mere liturgical change, no mere lopping oS here and 
 changing there, but — for thousands — a transformation of 
 the root ideas of Christianity ; a transference of its whole 
 proof and evidence from the outward to the inward field, 
 and therewith the uprush of a confidence and joy hitherto 
 unknown to troubled hearts : — one can but bow one's head, 
 as those that hear mysterious voices on the wind ! . . . 
 
 ' So into the temple of man's spirit, age by age, 
 comes the renewing Master of man's life, and makes 
 His tabernacle with man, " Lift up your heads, ye gates, 
 and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors, And the King of 
 Glory shall come in." ' 
 
 Meynell bowed his head upon his hands. The pulse 
 of hope and passion in the letter was almost overpowering. 
 It came he knew from an elderly man, broken by many 
 troubles, and tormented by arthritis, yet a true saint, 
 and at times a great preacher. 
 
 The next letter he opened came from a priest in the 
 diocese of Aix. . . . ' The effect of the various EncycUcals and 
 of the ill-advised attempt to make both clergy and laity 
 sign the Modernist decrees has had a prodigious effect all over 
 France, — precisely in the opposite sense to that desired 
 by Pius X. The spread of the movement is really amaz- 
 ing. Fifteen years ago I remember hearing a French 
 critic say — Edmond Scherer, I think, the successor of 
 Sainte Beuve — " The Catholics have not a single intel- 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 299 
 
 lectual of any eminence — and it is a misfortune for us, 
 the liberals. We have nothing to fight — we seem to be 
 beating the air." 
 
 ' Scherer could not have said this to-day. There are 
 Catholics everywhere — in the University, the Ecole 
 Nurmale, the front ranks of literature. But with few 
 exceptions they are all Modernist ; they have thrown 
 overboard the whole fatras of legend and tradition. Christ- 
 ianity has become to them a symbolical and spiritual 
 religion; not only personally important and efficacious, 
 but of enormous significance from the national point of 
 view. But as you know, we do not at present aspire to 
 outward or ceremonial changes. We are quite content 
 to leaven the meal from within ; to uphold the absolute 
 right and necessity of the two languages in Christianity — 
 the popular and the scientific, the mythological and the 
 mystical. If the Pope could have his way, Catholicism would 
 soon be at an end — except as a peasant-cult — in the Latin 
 countries. But, thank God, he will not have his way. 
 One hears of a Modernist freemasonry among the Italian 
 clergy — of a secret press — an enthusiasm, like that of the 
 Carboneria in the forties. Thus the spirit of the Most High 
 blows among the dead clods of the world — and, in a 
 moment, the harvest is there ! ' 
 
 Meynell let the paper drop. He began to write, and 
 he wrote without stopping with great ease and inspiration 
 for nearly two hours. Then as midnight struck, he put 
 down his pen, and gazed into the dying fire. He felt as 
 Wordsworth's skater felt on Esthwaite, when, at a sudden 
 pause, the mountains and clifis seemed to whirl past him 
 in a vast headlong procession. So it was in Meynell's 
 mind with thoughts and ideas. Gradually they calmed 
 and slackened, till at last they passed into an abstraction 
 and ecstasy of prayer. 
 
30O THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 When he rose, the night had grown very cold. He 
 hurriedly put his papers in order, before going to bed, 
 and as he did so, he perceived two unopened letters, which 
 had been overlooked. 
 
 One was from Hugh Flaxman, communicating the 
 news of the loss of two valuable gold coins from the collec- 
 tion exhibited at the party. ' We are all in tribulation. 
 I wonder whether you can remember seeing them when 
 you were talking there with Norham ? One was a gold 
 stater of Velia with a head of Athene '. . . . 
 
 The other letter was addressed in Henry Barron's 
 handwriting. Meynell looked at it in some surprise as he 
 opened it, for there had been no communication between 
 him and the White House for a long time. 
 
 ' I should be glad if you could make it convenient to 
 see me to-morrow morning. I wish to speak with you ou 
 a personal matter of some importance — of which I do 
 not think you should remain in ignorance. Will it suit 
 you if I come at eleven ? ' ^ 
 
 Meynell stood motionless. But the mind reacted in a j| 
 
 flash. He thought — 
 
 ' Now I shall know what she told him m those two 
 hours ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 ' The Rector wiU be back Sir, direckly. I was to tell you 
 80 pertickler. They had 'im out to a man in the row, 
 who's been drinkin' days, and was goin' on shockin' ; his 
 wife was afraid to stop in the house. But he won't be 
 long Sir.' 
 
 And Anne, very stifi and on her dignity, relieved one 
 of the two arm-chairs of its habitual burden of books, 
 gave it a dusting with her apron, and ofiered it to the 
 visitor. It was e\adent that she regarded his presence 
 with entire disfavour, but was prepared to treat him 
 with prudence for the master's sake. Her devotion to 
 Meynell had made her shrewd ; she perfectly understood 
 who were his enemies, and who his friends. 
 
 Barron, with a sharp sense of annoyance that he should 
 be kept waiting, merely because a drunken miner happened 
 to be beating his wife, coldly accepted her civilities, 
 and took up a copy of the Times which was lying on the 
 table. But when Anne had retired, he dropped the news- 
 paper, and began with a rather ugly curiosity to examine 
 the room. He walked round the walls, looking at the 
 books, raising his eyebrows at the rows of paper-bound 
 German volumes, and peering closely into the titles of 
 the English ones. Then his attention was caught by a 
 wall-map, in which a number of small flags attached to 
 pins were sticking. It was an outhne map of England, 
 apparently sketched by Meynell himself, a« the notee 
 301 
 
302 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and letterings were in his handwriting. It was labelled 
 * Branches of the Reform League.' All over England 
 the little flags bristled, thicker here, and thinner there ; 
 but making a goodly show on the whole. Barron's face 
 lengthened as he pondered the map. 
 
 Then he passed by the laden writing-table. On it 
 lay an open copy of ' The Modernist,' with a half-written 
 ' leader ' of Meynell's between the sheets. Beside it was 
 a copy of Thomas-a-Kempis, and Father Tyrrell's posthu- 
 mous book, in which a great soul, like a breaking wave, 
 had foamed itself away ; a volume of Sanday, another of 
 Harnack, into the open cover of which the Rector had 
 apparently just pinned an extract from a Church paper. 
 Barron involuntarily stooped to read it. It ran : 
 
 ' This is no time for giving up the Athanasian Creed. 
 The moment when the sewage of continental unbelief is 
 pouring into England is not the moment for banishing 
 to a museum a screen that was erected to guard the 
 sanctuary.' 
 
 Beneath it, in Meynell's writing — 
 
 * A gem, not to be lost ! The muddle of the metaphor, 
 the corruption of the style, everything is symbolic. In 
 a preceding paragraph the writer makes an attack on 
 Harnack, who is described as " notorious for opposing " 
 the doctrines of the Virgin Birth and the Resurrection, 
 That history has a right to its say on so-called historical 
 events never seems to have occurred to this gentleman ; 
 still less that there is a mystical and sacred element in 
 all truth, all the advancing knowledge of mankind, in- 
 cluding historical knowledge, and that therefore his 
 responsibility, his moral and spiritual risk even, in dis- 
 believing Harnack, is probably infinitely greater than 
 Harnack's in dealing hi?toTically with the Birth Stories, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 303 
 
 ' The fact is the whole onus of proof is now on the 
 orthodox side. It is not we that are on our defence ; but 
 they.' 
 
 Barron raised himself with a flushed cheek, and a 
 stiffened mouth. Meynell's note bad removed his last 
 scruples. It was necessary to deal drastically with a 
 clergyman who could write such things. 
 
 A step outside. The sleeping dogs on the doorstep 
 sprang up and noisily greeted their master. Meynell 
 shut them out, to their great disgust, and came hurriedly 
 towards the study. 
 
 Barron, as he saw him in the doorway, drew back with 
 an exclamation. The Rector's dress and hair were dis- 
 hevelled and awry, and his face — pale, drawn, and damp 
 with perspiration — shewed that he had just come through 
 a personal struggle. 
 
 ' Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Barron. But 
 that fellow. Pinches — you remember ? — the new black- 
 smith — has been drinking for nearly a week, and went 
 quite mad this morning. We just prevented him from 
 killing his wife, but it was a tough business. I'll go and 
 wash and change my coat, if you will allow me.' 
 
 So he went away, and Barron had a few more minutes 
 in which to meditate on the room and its owner. When 
 at last Meynell came back, and settled himself in the chair 
 opposite to his visitor, with a quiet ' Now I am quite at 
 your service,' Barron found himself overtaken with a 
 curious and unwelcome hesitation. The signs — a slightly 
 strained look, a quickened breathing — that Meynell still 
 bore upon him of a physical wi-estle, combined perhaps 
 with a moral victory, suddenly seemed, even in Barron's 
 own eyes, to dwarf what he had to say — to make a poor 
 mean thing out of his story. And Meynell's shining eyes, 
 divided between^close attention to the man before him, 
 
304 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and some recent and disturbing recollections in which 
 Barron had no share, reinforced the impression. 
 
 But he recaptured himself quickly. After all, it was 
 at once a charitable and a high-judicial part that he had 
 come to play. He gathered his dignity about him, re- 
 senting the momentary disturbance of it. 
 
 ' I am come to-day, Mr. Meynell, on a very unpleasant 
 errand.' 
 
 The formal ' Mr.' marked the complete breach in their 
 once friendly relations. Meynell made a slight inclina- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Then I hope you will tell it me as quickly as may 
 be. Does it concern yourself, or me ? Maurice, I hope, 
 is doing well ? ' 
 
 Barron winced. It seemed to him an offence on the 
 Rector's part that Meynell's tone should subtly though 
 quite innocently remind him of days when he had been 
 thankful to accept a strong man's help in dealing with 
 the escapades of a vicious lad. 
 
 ' He is doing excellently, thank you — except that his 
 health is not all I could wish. My business to-day ' — he 
 continued, slowly — ' concerns a woman, formerly of this 
 village, whom I happened by a strange accident to see 
 just after her return to it — * 
 
 * You are speaking of Judith Sabin ? ' interrupted 
 Meynell 
 
 ' I am. You were of course aware that I had seen her ? ' 
 
 ' Naturally — from the inquest. Well ? ' 
 
 The quiet, interrogative tone seemed to Barron an im- 
 pertinence. With a suddenly heightened colour he struck 
 straight — violently — for the heart of the thing. 
 
 ' She told me a lamentable story — and she was led to 
 tell it me by seeing — and identifying — yourself — as you 
 were standing with a lady in the road outside the cottage.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 305 
 
 ' Identifying me ? ' repeated Meynell, with a slight 
 accent of astonishment. ' That I think is hardly possible. 
 For Judith Sabin had never seen me.* 
 
 * You were not perhaps aware of it, — but she had seen 
 you.' 
 
 Meynell shook his head. 
 
 * She was mistaken — or you are. However, that 
 doesn't matter. I gather you wish to consult me about 
 something that Judith Sabin communicated to you ? ' 
 
 * I do. But the story she told me turns very closely 
 on her identification of yourself ; and therefore it does 
 matter,' said Barron, with emphasis. 
 
 A puzzled look passed again over Meynell's face. 
 But he said nothing. His attitude, coldly expectant, 
 demanded the story. 
 
 Barron told it — once more. He repeated Judith 
 Sabin's narrative in the straightened, re-arranged form 
 he had now given to it ; postponing, however, any further 
 mention of Meynell's relation to it till a last dramatic moment. 
 
 He did not find his task so easy on this occasion. There 
 was something in the personality of the man sitting opposite 
 to him, which seemed to make a narrative that had passed 
 muster elsewhere sound here a mere vulgar impertinence, 
 the wanton intrusion of a common man on things sacredly 
 and justly covered from sight. 
 
 He laboured through it however, while Meynell sat with 
 bent head looking at the floor, making no sign whatever. 
 And at last the speaker arrived at the incident of the 
 Grenoble visitor. 
 
 ' I naturally find this a very disagreeable task,* he 
 said, pausing a moment. He got however no help from 
 Meynell, who was dumb ; and he presently resumed — 
 ■ Judith Sabin saw the gentleman who came distinctly. 
 She felt perfectly certain in her own mind as to his rela*ion 
 
 X 
 
3o6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 to ]\Iis8 Puttenham and the child ; and she was certain 
 also, when she saw you and Miss Puttenham standing 
 in the road, while I was with her, that — ' 
 
 Meynell looked up, slightly frowning, awaiting the 
 conclusion of the sentence — 
 
 — ' that she saw — the same man again ! ' 
 Barron's naturally ruddy colour had faded a little ; 
 his eyes blinked. He drew his coat forward over his knee, 
 and put it back again nervously. 
 
 Meynell's face was at first blank, or bewildered. Then 
 a light of understanding shot through it. He fell back 
 in his chair with an odd smile. 
 
 ' So that — is what you have in your mind ? ' 
 Barron coughed a little. He was angrily conscious of 
 an anxiety and misgiving he had not expected. He made 
 all the greater effort to recover what seemed to him the 
 proper tone. 
 
 ' It is all most sad — most lamentable. But I had, 
 you perceive, the positive statement of a woman who 
 should have known the facts first-hand, if anyone did. 
 Owing to her physical state, it was impossible to 
 cross-examine her, and her sudden death made it 
 impossible to refer her to you. I had to consider what I 
 should do — ' 
 
 ' Why should you have done anything — ' said Meynell 
 drily, raising his eyes, — ' but forget as quickly as possible 
 a story you had no means of verifying, and which bore 
 its absurdity on the face of it ? * 
 
 Barron allowed himself a slight and melancholy smile. 
 * I admit of course — at once — that I could not verify 
 it. As to its prima facie absurdity, I desire to say nothing 
 offensive to you, but there have been many curious cir- 
 cumstances connected with your relation to the Fox- 
 Wilton family which have given rise before now to gossip 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 307 
 
 in thia neighbourhood. I could not but perceive that 
 the story told me threw light upon them. The remark- 
 able language of Sir Ralph's will, the position of Miss 
 Hester in the Fox- Wilton family, your relation to her, — 
 and to — to Miss Puttenham.' 
 
 Meynell's composure became a matter of some difficulty, 
 but he maintained it. 
 
 * What was there abnormal — or suspicious — in any of these 
 circumstances ? ' he asked, his eyes fixed intently on his visitor. 
 ' I see no purpose to be gained by going into them on 
 this occasion,' said Barron, with all the dignity he could 
 bring to bear. ' For the unfortunate thing is — the thing 
 which obliged me whether I would or no — and you will 
 see from the dates that I have hesitated a long time — 
 to bring Judith Sabin's statement to your notice, is that 
 she seems to have talked to someone else in the neighbour- 
 hood before she died, besides myself. Her son declares 
 that she saw no one. I have questioned him ; of course 
 without revealing my object. But she must have done 
 so. And whoever it was, has begun to write anonymous 
 letters— repeating the story— in full detaA— with the identi- 
 fication — that I have just given you.' 
 
 ' Anonymous letters ? ' repeated Meynell, raising him- 
 self sharply. ' To whom ? ' 
 
 * Dawes the colliery manager received the first — ' 
 ' To whom did he communicate it ? ' 
 ' To myself— and by his wish, and in the spirit of entire 
 friendliness to you, I consulted your friend and supporter, 
 Mr. Flaxman.' 
 
 Meynell raised his eyebrows. 
 ' Flaxman ? You thought yourself justified ? ' 
 ' It was surely better to take so difficult a matter to 
 a friend of yours, rather than to an enemy.' 
 Meynell smiled — but not agreeably. 
 
 X 2 
 
3o8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Anyone else ? ' 
 
 ' I have heard this morning, on my way here, that Miss 
 Nairn has received a copy.' 
 
 ' Miss Nairn ? That means the village.' 
 
 ' She is a gossiping woman,' said Barron. 
 
 Meynell pondered. He got up and began to pace the 
 room — coming presently to an abrupt pause in front of 
 his visitor. 
 
 ' This story then is now all over the village — will soon 
 be all over the diocese. Now — what was your object in 
 yourself bringing it to me ? ' 
 
 ' I thought it right to inform you — to give you warning 
 — perhaps also to suggest to you that a retreat from your 
 present position — ' 
 
 ' I see — you thought it a means of bringing pressure to 
 bear upon me ? — you propose, in short, that I should throw 
 up the sponge, and resign my living ? ' 
 
 ' Unless of course you can vindicate yourself publicly.' 
 
 Barron to his annoyance could not keep his hand 
 which held a glove from shaking a little. The wrestle 
 between their personalities was rapidly growing in intensity. 
 
 ' Unless I bring an action, you mean — against anyone 
 spreading the story ? No — I shall not bring an action — 
 I shall not bring an action ! ' Meynell repeated, with 
 emphasis. 
 
 ' In that case — I suggest — it might be better to meet 
 the wishes of your Bishop, and so avoid further publicity.* 
 
 ' By resigning my living ? ' 
 
 ' Precisely. The scandal would then drop of itself. 
 For Miss Puttenham's sake alone, you must I think desire 
 to stop its development.' 
 
 Meynell flushed hotly. He took another turn up the 
 room — while Barron sat silent, looking straight before 
 him. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 309 
 
 ' I shall not take action ' — Meynell resumed — * and I 
 shall not dream of retreating from my position here. 
 Judith Sabin's story is untrue. She did not see me at 
 Grenoble, and I am not the father of Hester Fox-Wilton. 
 As to anything else, I am not at liberty to discuss other 
 people's afEairs, and I shall not answer any questions 
 whatever on the subject.' 
 
 The two men surveyed each other. 
 
 ' Your Bishop could surely demand your confidence,' 
 said Barron coldly. 
 
 ' If he does, it will be for me to consider.' 
 
 A silence. Barron looked round for his stick. Meynell 
 stood motionless, his hands in his baggy pockets, his eyes 
 on Barron. Lightings of thought and will seemed to pass 
 through his face. As Barron rose, he began to speak. 
 
 ' I have no doubt you think yourself justified in taking 
 the line you clearly do take in this matter. I can hardly 
 imagine that you really believe the story you say you 
 got from Judith Sabin — which you took to Flaxman — 
 and have I suppose discussed with Dawes. I am con- 
 vinced — forgive me if I speak plainly — that you cannot 
 and do not believe anything so preposterous ; or at any 
 rate you would not beUeve it in other circumstances. As 
 it is, you take it up as a weapon. You think, no doubt, 
 that everything is fair in controversy as in war. Of 
 course the thing has been done again and again. If you 
 cannot defeat a man in fair fight, the next best thing is 
 to blacken his character. We see that everywhere, — in 
 politics — in the church — in private life. This story may 
 serve you ; I don't think it will ultimately ; but it may 
 serve you for a time. All I can say is, I would rather 
 be the man to sufier from it than the man to gain from it ! * 
 
 Barron took up his hat. ' I cannot be surprised that 
 you receive me in this manner,' he said, with all the 
 
3IO THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 steadiness he could muster. ' But as you cannot deal 
 with this very serious report in the ordinary way, either 
 by process of law, or by frank explanation to your friends — ' 
 
 ' My " friends " ! — ' interjected Meynell. 
 
 * — Let me urge you at least to explain matters to your 
 diocesan. You cannot distrust either the Bishop's dis- 
 cretion, or his good will. If he were satisfied, we no 
 doubt should be the same.' 
 
 Meynell shook his head. 
 
 ' Not if I know anything of the odium theologicum ! 
 Besides the Miss Nairns of this world pay small attention 
 to Bishops. By the way — I forgot to ask — you can tell 
 me nothing on the subject of the writer of the anonymous 
 letters ? — you have not identified him ? ' 
 
 ' Not in the least. We are all at sea — ' 
 
 ' You don't happen to have one about you ? ' 
 
 Barron hesitated and fumbled, and at last produced 
 from his breast pocket the letter to Dawes, which he had 
 again borrowtd from its owner that morning. Meynell put 
 it into a drawer of his \vriting-table without looking at it. 
 
 The two men moved towards the door. 
 
 ' As to any appeal to you on behalf of a delicate and 
 helpless lady — ' said Meynell, betraying emotion for the 
 first time — ' that I suppose is useless. But when one 
 remembers her deeds of kindness in this village, her quiet 
 and irreproachable life amongst us all these years, one 
 would have thought that anyone bearing the Christian 
 name would have come to me as the Rector of this village 
 on one errand only — to consult how best to protect her 
 from the spread of a cruel and preposterous story ! You 
 — I gather — propose to make use of it in the interests of 
 your own church party.' 
 
 Barron straightened himself ; resenting at once what 
 seemed to him the intrusion of the pastoral note. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 311 
 
 ' I am heartily sorry for her,' — he said, coldly. ' Natur- 
 ally it is the women who suffer in these things. But 
 of course you are right — though you put the matter from 
 your own point of view — in assuming that I regard this 
 as no ordinary scandal. I am not at liberty to treat 
 it as such. The honour concerned — is the honour of the 
 Church. To shew the intimate connection of creed and 
 life may be a painful — it is also an imperative duty ! ' 
 
 He threw back his head with a passion which as Meynell 
 clearly recognised was not without its touch of dignity. 
 
 Meynell stepped back. 
 
 * We have talked enough, I think. You will of course 
 take the course that seems to you best, and I shall take 
 mine. I bid you good day.' 
 
 From the study window Jleynell watched the disappear- 
 ing figure of his adversary. The day was wet, and the 
 funereal garden outside was dank with rain. The half- 
 dead trees had shed such leaves as they had been able to 
 put forth, and behind them was a ragged sky of scudding 
 cloud. 
 
 In Meynell's soul there was a dull sense of catastrophe. 
 In Barron's presence he had borne himself as a wronged 
 man should ; but he knew very well that a sinister thing 
 had happened, and that for him, perhaps, to-morrow might 
 never be as yesterday. 
 
 What was passing in the village at that moment ? 
 Hia quick visualising power shewed him the groups in 
 the various bar parlours, discussing the Scandal, dividing 
 it up into succulent morsels, serving it up. with every 
 variety of personal comment, idle or malicious ; amplifying, 
 exaggerating, completing. He saw the neat and plausible 
 spinster, from whose cruel hands he had rescued a little 
 dumb wild-eyed child, reduced by ill-treatment to skin 
 
312 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and bone, — he saw her gloating over the anonymous 
 letter, putting two and two maliciously together, whisper- 
 ing here, denouncing there. He seemed to be actually 
 present in the most disreputable public-house of the village, 
 a house he had all but succeeded in closing at the preced- 
 ing licensing sessions. How natural, human, inevitable, 
 would be the coarse, venomous talk — the inferences — the 
 gibes ! 
 
 There would be good men and true of course, his 
 personal friends in the village, the members of his parish 
 council, who would suffer, and stand firm. The postponed 
 meeting of the council, for the acceptance of the new 
 Liturgy, was to be held the day after his return from 
 Paris. To them he would speak — so far as he could ; yes, 
 to them he would speak ! Then his thought spread 
 to the diocese. Charges of this kind spread with ex- 
 traordinary rapidity. Whoever was writing the anony- 
 mous letters had probably not confined himself to two or 
 three. Meynell prepared himself for the discovery of a 
 much wider diffusion. 
 
 He moved back to his writing-table, and took the 
 letter from the drawer. Its ingenuity, its knowledge of 
 local circumstance astonished him as he read. He had 
 expected something of a vulgarer and rougher type. The 
 handwriting was clearly disguised, and there was a certain 
 amount of intermittent bad spelling, which might very 
 easily be a disguise also. But whoever wrote it was ac- 
 quainted with the Fox- Wilton family, with their habits 
 and his own, as well as with the terms of Sir Ralph's will, 
 so far as — mainly he believed through the careless talk 
 of the elder Fox- Wilton girls— it had become a source of 
 gossip in the village. The writer of it coidd not be far 
 away. Was it a man or a woman ? Meynell examined 
 the handwriting carefully. He had a vague impression 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 313 
 
 that he had seen something like it before, but could not 
 remember where or in what connection. 
 
 He put it back in his drawer, and as he did so, his 
 eyes fell upon his half-written article for the Modernist, 
 and on the piles of correspondence beside it, A sense 
 of bitter helplessness overcame him, a pang not for himself 
 so much as for his cause. He realised the inevitable effect 
 of the story in the diocese, weighted, as it would be, with 
 all the colourable and suspicious circumstances that could 
 undoubtedly be adduced in support of it ; its effect also 
 beyond the diocese, through the Movement of which he 
 was the life and guiding spirit ; through England — 
 where his name was rapidly becoming a battle-cry. 
 
 And what could he do to meet it ? Almost nothing ! 
 The story indeed as a whole could be sharply and cate- 
 gorically denied, because it involved a fundamental false- 
 hood. He was not the father of Hester Fox- Wilton. 
 
 But simple denial was all that was open to him. He 
 could neither explain, nor could he challenge enquiry. 
 His mouth was shut. He had made no formal vow of 
 secrecy to anyone. He was free to confide in whom he 
 would. But all that was tender, pitiful, chivalrous in his 
 soul stood up and promised for him, as he stood 
 looking out into the October rain, that for no personal 
 — yes ! — and for no public advantage — would he trifle 
 with what he had regarded for eighteen years as a trust, 
 laid upon him by the dying words of a man he had loved, 
 and enforced more and more sharply with time by the 
 constant appeal of a woman's life — its dumb pain, the 
 paradox of its frail strength, its shrinking courage. That 
 life had depended upon him during the worst crisis of 
 its fate as its spiritual guide. He had towards Alice 
 Puttenham the feeling of the ' director,' as the saints have 
 understood it ; and towards her story something of the 
 
314 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 responsibility of a priest towards a confession. To reveal 
 it in his own interests was simply impossible. If the 
 Movement rejected him, — it must reject him. 
 
 ' Not so will I fight for thee, my God ! — not so ! ' he 
 said to himself, in great anguish of mind. 
 
 It was true indeed that at some future time Alice 
 Puttenham's poor secret must be told, — to a specified 
 person, with her consent, and by the express direction of 
 that honest blundering man, her brother-in-law, whose Ufe, 
 sorely against his will, had been burdened with it. But 
 the indiscriminate admission of the truth, after the lapse 
 of years, would, he believed, simply bring back the old 
 despair, and paralyse what had always been a frail vitality. 
 And as to Hester, the sudden divvdgence of it might easily 
 upset the unstable balance in her of mind and nerve, 
 and drive her at once into some madness. He must 
 protect them, if he could. 
 
 Could he ? He pondered it. 
 
 At any moment one of these letters might reach Alice. 
 What if this had already happened ? Supposing it had, 
 he might not be able to prevent her from doing what 
 would place the part played towards her by himself in its 
 true Ught. She would probably insist upon his taking legal 
 action, and allowing her to make her statement in 
 court. 
 
 The thought of this was so odious to him that he 
 promptly put it from him. He should assume that she 
 knew nothing ; though, as a practical man, he was well 
 aware that she could not long remain ignorant ; cer- 
 tainly not if she continued to live in Upcote. Then, it 
 was a question probably of days or hours. Her presence 
 in the cottage, when once the village was in full possession 
 of the slander, would be a perpetual provocation. One 
 way or another the truth must penetrate to her. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 315 
 
 An idea occurred to him. Paris ! So far lie had 
 insisted on going himself with Hester to Paris because of 
 his haunting feeling of responsibility towards the girl, and 
 his resolve to see with his own eyes the household in which 
 he was placing her. But suppose he made excuses ? The 
 burden of work upon him was excuse enough for any 
 man. Suppose he sent Alice in his stead, and so contrived 
 as to keep her in or near Paris for a while ? Then Edith 
 Fox- Wilton would of course have the forwarding of her 
 sister's correspondence, and might, it seemed to him, 
 take the responsibility of intercepting whatever might 
 inform or alarm her. 
 
 Not much prospect of doing so indefinitely ! — that he 
 plainly saw. But to gain time was an immense thing; 
 to prevent her from taking, at once. Quixotic steps. He 
 knew that, in health, she had never been the same since 
 the episode of Judith's return and death. She seemed 
 suddenly to have faded and drooped ; as though poisoned 
 by some constant terror. 
 
 He stood lost in thought a little longer by his writing- 
 table. Then his hand felt slowly for a parcel in brown 
 paper that lay there. 
 
 He drew it towards him and undid the wrappings. 
 Inside it was a little volume of recent poems of which he 
 had spoken to Mary Elsmere on their moonlit walk through 
 the park. He had promised to lend her his copy, and he 
 meant to have left it at the cottage that afternoon. Now 
 he lingering! y removed the brown paper, and walking to 
 the book-case, he replaced the volume. 
 
 He sat down to write to Alice Puttenham, and to 
 scribble a note to Lady Fox- Wilton asking her to see 
 him as soon as possible. Then Anne forced some luncheon 
 on him, and he had barely finished it when a step outside 
 made itself heard. He looked up and saw Hugh Flaxman. 
 
3l6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * Come in ! ' said the Bector, opening the front door 
 himself. ' You are very welcome.' 
 
 Flaxman grasped — and pressed — the proffered hand, 
 looking at Meynell the while with hesitating interrogation. 
 He guessed from the Rector's face that the errand on which 
 he came had been anticipated. 
 
 Meynell led him into the study and shut the door. 
 
 ' I have just had Barron here,' he said, turning abruptly, 
 after he had pushed a chair towards his guest. * He told 
 me he had shewn one of these precious documents to 
 you.' He held up the anonymous letter. 
 
 Flaxman took it, glanced it over in silence, and re- 
 turned it. 
 
 * I can only forgive him for doing it when I reflect 
 that I may thereby — perhaps — be enabled to be of some 
 little use to you. Barron knows what I think of him, 
 and of the business.' 
 
 ' Oh ! for him it is a weapon — like any other. Though 
 to do him justice he might not have used it, but for the 
 other mysterious person in the case — the writer of these 
 letters. You know — ' he straightened himself vehemently 
 — ' that I can say nothing — except that the story is 
 untrue ? * 
 
 ■ And of course I shall ask you nothing. I have spent 
 twenty-four hours in arguing with myself as to whether 
 I should come to you at all. Finally I decided you might 
 blame me if I did not. You may not be aware of the 
 letter to my sister-in-law ? ' 
 
 Meynell's start was evident. 
 
 ' To Mrs. Elsmere ? ' 
 
 ' She brought it to us on Friday, before the party. It 
 was I think identical with this letter ' — he pointed to the 
 Dawes envelope — ' except for a few references to the 
 part Mrs. Elsmere had played in helping the families 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 317 
 
 of those poor fellows who were killed in the cage- 
 accident.' 
 
 ' And Miss Elsmere ? ' said Meynell, in a tone that 
 wavered in spite of himself. He sat with his head bent 
 and his eyes on the floor. 
 
 ' Knows of course nothing whatever about it — * said 
 Flaxman hastily. ' Now will you give us your orders ? 
 A strong denial of the truth of the story, and a refusal 
 to discuss it at all — with anyone — that I think is what 
 you wish ? ' 
 
 Meynell assented. 
 
 ' In the village, I shall deal with it at the Reform 
 meeting on Thursday night.' Then he rose. ' Are you 
 going to Forked Pond ? ' 
 
 ' I was on my way there.' 
 
 ' I will go with you. If Mrs. Elsmere is free, I should 
 like to have some conversation with her.' 
 
 They started together through a dripping world on 
 which the skies had but just ceased to rain. On his way 
 through the park, Meynell took off his hat and walked 
 bare-headed through the mist, evidently feeling it a physical 
 relief to let the chill moist air beat freely on brow and 
 temples. Flaxman could not help watching him occasion- 
 ally — the forehead with its deep vertical furrow, the 
 rugged face, stamped and lined everywhere by travail 
 of mind and body, and the nobility of the large grizzled 
 head. In the voluminous cloak — of an antiquity against 
 which Anne protested in vain — which was his favourite 
 garb on wet days, he might have been a friar of the early 
 time, bound on a preaching tour. The spiritual, evangelic 
 note in the personality became — so Flaxman thought — 
 ever more conspicuous. And yet he walked to-day in 
 very evident trouble ; without however allowing to this 
 trouble any spoken expression whatever. 
 
3i8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 As they neared the Forked Pond enclosure, Meynell 
 suddenly paused. 
 
 ' I had forgotten — I must go first to Sandford — where 
 indeed I am expected,' 
 
 * Sandford ? I trust there is no fresh anxiety ? ' 
 ' There is anxiety/ said Meynell briefly. 
 Flaxman expressed an unfeigned sympathy. 
 
 ' What is Miss Hester doing to-day ? ' 
 
 * Packing, I hope. She goes to-morrow.' 
 
 ' And you — are going to interview this fellow ? ' asked 
 Flaxman reluctantly. 
 
 ' I have done it already — and must now do it again. 
 This time I am going to threaten.' 
 
 ' With anything to go upon ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. I hope at last to be able to get some grip on 
 him ; though no doubt my chances are not improved since 
 yesterday,* said Meynell, with a grim shadow of a smile ; 
 ' supposing that anybody from Upcote has been gossiping 
 at Sandford. It does not exactly add to one's moral 
 influence to be regarded as a Pharisaical humbug.' 
 
 ' I wish I could take the business ofi your shoulders ! ' 
 said Flaxman, heartily. 
 
 Meynell gave him a shght grateful look. They walked 
 on briskly to the high road, Flaxman accompanying his 
 friend so far. There they parted, and Hugh returned 
 slowly to the cottage by the water, Meynell promising to 
 join him there within an hour. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 CATHARINE 
 
 ' Such was my mother's way, learnt from Thee in the school of 
 the heart, where Thou art Master.' 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 L\ the little drawing-room at Forked Pond, Catharine and 
 Mary Elsmere were sitting at work. Mary was embroider- 
 ing a cm-tain in a flowing Venetian pattern — with a handful 
 of withered leaves lying beside her to which she occasionally 
 matched her silks. Catharine was knitting. Outside the 
 rain was driving through the trees ; the windows streamed 
 with it. Bub within, the bright wood-fire threw a pleasant 
 glow over the simple room, and the figures of the two ladies. 
 Mary's trim jacket and skirt of prune-coloured serge, with 
 its white blouse fitting daintily to throat and wrist, seemed 
 by its neatness to emphasize the rebellious masses and the 
 rare colour of her hair. She knew that her hair was beauti- 
 ful, and it gave her a pleasure she could not help ; though 
 she belonged to that type of Englishwoman, not yet nearly 
 80 uncommon as modern newspapers and books would have 
 ua believe, who think as little as they can of personal adorn- 
 ment and their own appearance, in the interests of some 
 hidden ideal that ' haunts them like a passion ; ' of which 
 even the most innocent vanity seems to make them 
 unworthy. 
 
 In these feelings and instincts she was, of course, her 
 mother's daughter. Catharine Elsmere's black dress of 
 a plain woollen stuff could not have been plainer, and 
 she wore the straight collar and cufis, and — on her nearly 
 white hair — the simple cap of her widowhood. But the 
 spiritual beauty which had always been hers was hers still. 
 One might guess that she, too, knew it ; that in her efforts 
 
 321 Y 
 
322 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 to save persons in sin or suffering she must have known 
 what it was worth to her ; what the gift of lovely line and 
 presence is worth to any human being. But if she had 
 been made to feel this, — passingly, involuntarily, — she had 
 certainly shrunk from feeling it. 
 
 Mary put her embroidery away, made up the fire, and 
 sat down on a stool at her mother's feet. 
 
 * Darling, how many socks have you knitted since we 
 came here ? Enough to stock a shop ? ' 
 
 ' On the contrary. I have been very idle,* laughed 
 Catharine, putting her knitting away . ' How long is it ? 
 Four months ? * she sighed. 
 
 ' It ^a.<? done you good ? — yes, it has ! * Mary looked 
 at her closely. 
 
 ' Then why don't you let me go back to my work ? — 
 tyrant ! ' said Catharine, stroking the red-gold hair. 
 
 ' Because the doctor said " March " — and you shan't 
 be allowed to put your feet in London a day earlier,' said 
 Mary, laying her head on Catharine's knee. * You needn't 
 grumble. Next week you'll have your fells and your 
 becks — as much Westmoreland as ever you want. Only 
 ten days more here,' and this time it was Mary who sighed, 
 deeply, unconsciously. 
 
 The face above her changed — unseen by Mary. 
 
 ' You've liked being here ? ' 
 
 * Yes — very much.* 
 
 ' It's a dear little house ; and the woods are beautiful.' 
 
 * Yes. And — I've made a new friend.' 
 
 * You like Miss Puttenham so much ? ' 
 
 * More than anybody I have seen for years,' said Mary 
 raising herself and speaking with energy ; ' but oh dear, 
 I wish I could do something for her ! * 
 
 Catharine moved uneasUy. 
 ' Do what ? ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 323 
 
 ' Comfort her — help her — make her tell me what's the 
 matter ? ' 
 
 ' You think she's unhappy ? * 
 
 Mary propped her chin on her hand, and looked into 
 the fire. 
 
 ' I wonder whether she's ever had any real joy — a 
 week's — a day's — happiness — in her life ? ' 
 
 She said it musingly but intensely. Catharine did not 
 know how to answer her. All the day long, and a good 
 deal of the night, she had been debating with herself what 
 to do — towards Mary. Mary was no longer a child. She 
 was a woman of nearly six and twenty, strong in character, 
 and accustomed of late to go with her mother into many 
 of the dark places of London life. The betrayal — which 
 could not be hidden from her — of a young servant girl in 
 their employ, the year before, and the fierce tenderness 
 with which Mary had thrown herself into the saving of the 
 girl and her child, had brought about — Catharine knew 
 it — a great deepening and overshadowing of her youth. 
 Catharine had in some ways regretted it bitterly ; for she 
 belonged to that older generation which believed — and were 
 amply justified in believing — that it is well for the young 
 to be ignorant, so long as they can be ignorant, of the 
 ugly and tragic things of sex. It was not that her Mary 
 seemed to her in the smallest degree besmirched by the 
 experience she had passed through ; that any bloom had 
 been shaken from the flower. Far from it. It was rather 
 that some touch of careless joy was gone for ever from her 
 child's life ; and how that may hurt a mother, only those 
 know, who have wept in secret hours over the first ebbing 
 of youth in a young face. 
 
 So that she received Mary's outburst in silence. For 
 she said to herself that she could have no right to 
 reveal Alice Puttenham's secret, even to Mary. That 
 
 t2 
 
324 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 cruel tongues should at that moment be making free 
 with it burnt like a constant smart in Catharine's mind. 
 Was the poor thing herself aware of it ? — could it be 
 kept from her ? If not, Mary must know — would know — 
 sooner or later. * But for me to tell her without per- 
 mission ' — thought Catharine firmly — * would not be right 
 — or just. Besides I know nothing — directly.' 
 
 As to the other and profounder difficulty involved, 
 Catharine wavered perpetually between two difierent poles 
 of feeling. The incidents of the preceding weeks had made 
 it plain that her resistance to Meynell's influence with Mary 
 had strangely and suddenly broken down. Owing to an ex- 
 perience of which she had not yet spoken to Mary, her inner 
 will had given way. She saw with painful clearness what 
 was coming ; she was blind to none of the signs of advan- 
 cing love ; and she felt herself powerless. An intimation 
 had been given her — so it seemed to her — to which she 
 submitted. Her submission had cost her bitter tears often, 
 at night, when there was no one to see. And yet it had 
 brought her also a strange happiness — like all such yieldings 
 of soul. 
 
 But if she had yielded ; if there was in her a reluctant 
 practical certainty that Mary would some day be Meynell's 
 wife ; then her conscience, which was that of a woman who 
 had passionately loved her own husband, began to ask — 
 ' Ought she not to be standing by him in this trouble ? — 
 If we keep it all from her, and he suffers and perhaps 
 breaks down, when she might have sustained him, will 
 she not reproach us ? Should I not have bitterly re- 
 proached anyone who had kept me from helping Kobert 
 in such a case ? ' 
 
 A state of mind it will be seen into which there entered 
 not a trace of ordinary calculations. It did not occur to 
 her that Mary might be injured in the world's eyes by 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 325 
 
 publicly linking herself with a man under a cloud. 
 Catharine whose temptation to ' scruple ' in the religious 
 sense was constant and tormenting, who recoiled in horror 
 from what to others were the merest venial offences, in 
 this connection asked one thing only. Where Barron had 
 argued that an unbeliever must necessarily have a carnal 
 mind, Catharine had simply assured herself at once by an 
 unfailing instinct that the mind was noble and the temper 
 pure. In those matters she was not to be deceived ; she knew. 
 
 That being so, and if her own passionate objections 
 to the marriage were to be put aside, then she could only 
 judge for Mary as she would judge for herself. Not to 
 love — not to comfort — could there be — for love — any greater 
 wound, any greater privation ? She shrank, in a kind of 
 terror, from inflicting it on Mary— Mary unconscious and 
 unknowing. 
 
 . . . The soft chatter of the fire, the plashing of the 
 rain, filled the room with the atmosphere of reverie. 
 Catharine's thoughts passed from her obligations towards 
 Mary to grapple anxiously with those she might be under 
 towards Meynell himself. The mere possession of the anony- 
 mous letter — and Flaxman had not given her leave to destroy 
 it— weighed upon her conscience. It seemed to her she 
 ought not to possess it ; and she had been only half con- 
 vinced by Flaxman's arguments for delay. She was rapidly 
 coming to the belief that it should have been handed 
 inatantly^,to the Rector. 
 
 A step outside. 
 
 ' Uncle Hugh ! ' said Mary, springing up. Til go 
 and see if there are any scones for tea ! ' And she 
 vanished into the kitchen, while Catharine admitted her 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 ' Meynell is to join me here in an hour or so,' he said, 
 as he followed her into the little sitting-room. Catharine 
 
326 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 closed the door, and looked at him anxiously. He lowered 
 his voice. 
 
 ' Barron called on him this morning — ^had only just 
 gone when I arrived. Meynell has seen the letter to Dawes. 
 I informed him of the letter to you, and I think he would 
 like to have some talk with you.' 
 
 Catharine's face showed her relief. 
 
 ' Oh, I am glad — I am glad he knows ! ' — she said, 
 with emphasis. ' We were wrong to delay.' 
 
 ' He told me nothing — and I asked nothing. But, of 
 course, what the situation implies is unfortunately clear 
 enough ! — no need to talk of it. He won't and he can't vindi- 
 cate himself, except by a simple denial. At any ordinary 
 time that would be enough. But now — with all the hot 
 feeling there is on the other subject — and the natural desire 
 to discredit him — ' Flaxman shrugged his shoulders de- 
 spondently. ' Kose's maid — ^you know the dear old thing 
 she is — came to her last night, in utter distress about the 
 talk in the village. There was a journalist here, a reporter 
 from one of the papers that have been opposing Meynell 
 most actively — ' 
 
 ' They are quite right to oppose him,' interrupted 
 Catharine quickly. Her face had stifiened. 
 
 ' Perfectly ! But you see the temptation ? ' 
 
 Catharine admitted it. She stood by the window 
 looking out into the rain. And as she did so, she became 
 aware of a figure — the slight figure of a woman, walking 
 fast towards the cottage, along the narrow grass causeway 
 that ran between the two ponds. On either side of the 
 woman the autumn trees swayed and bent under the rising 
 storm, and every now and then a mist of scudding leaves 
 almost effaced her. She seemed to be breathlessly strug- 
 gling with the wind as she sped onwards, and in her whole 
 aspect there was an indescribable forlorrmess and terror. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 327 
 
 Catharine peered into the rain. . . . 
 
 ' Hugh ! ' — She turned swiftly to her brother-in-law — 
 ' There is someone coming to see me. Will you go ? ' 
 She pointed to the garden door on the further side of the 
 drawing-room — ' and will you take Mary ? Go round 
 to the back. You know the old summer house at the end 
 of the wood-walk. We have often sheltered there from 
 rain. Or there's the keeper's cottage a little fiurther on. 
 I know Mary wanted to go there this afternoon. Please, 
 dear Hugh ! ' 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. Then through the 
 large French window he too saw the advancing form. In 
 an instant he had disappeared by the garden door. Catha- 
 rine went into the hall, opened the door of the kitchen and 
 beckoned to Mary who was standing there with their 
 little maid. ' Don't come back just yet, darling ! ' — she 
 said in her ear — ' Get your things on, and go with Uncle 
 Hugh. I want to be alone.' 
 
 Mary stepped back bewildered, and Catharine shut her 
 in. Then she went back to the hall, just as a bell rang 
 faintly. 
 
 ' Is Mrs. Elsmere — ' 
 
 Then as the visitor saw Catharine herself, standing 
 in the open doorway, she said, with broken breath — 
 
 ' Can I come in — can I see you ? ' 
 
 Catharine drew her in. 
 
 ' Dear Miss Puttenham ! — how tired you are — and how 
 wet ! Let me take the cloak off.' 
 
 And as she drew ofi the soaked waterproof, Catharine 
 felt the trembling of the slight frame beneath. 
 
 ' Come and sit by the fire,' she said tenderly. 
 
 Alice sank into the chair that was offered her ; her 
 eyes fixed on Catharine. Every feature in the delicate 
 
3*8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 oval face was pinched and drawn. The struggle with 
 wild weather had drained the lips and the cheeks of colour, 
 and her brown hair under her serge cap fell limply about 
 her small ears and neck. She was an image not so much 
 of grief as of some unendurable distress. 
 
 Catharine began to chafe her hands ; but Alice stopped 
 her — 
 
 ' I am not cold — oh no, I'm not cold. Dear Mrs. Els- 
 mere ! — You must think it so strange of me to come to 
 you in this way. But I am in trouble — such great trouble — 
 and I don't know what to do. Then I thought I'd come 
 to you. You — ^you always seem to me so kind — You 
 won't despise — or repulse me — I know you won't ! ' 
 
 Her voice sank to a whisper. Catharine took the two 
 icy hands in her warm grasp. 
 
 ' Tell me if there is anything I can do to help you.' 
 
 * I — I want to tell you — You may be angry — because 
 I've been Mary's friend — when I'd no right. I'm not 
 what you think. I — I have a secret — or — I had. And 
 now it's discovered — and I don't know what I shall do — 
 it's so awful — so awful ! ' 
 
 Her head dropped on the chair behind her ; and her 
 eyes closed. Catharine kneeling beside her, bent forward 
 and kissed her. 
 
 ' Won't you tell me ? ' she said, gently. 
 
 Alice was silent a moment. Then she suddenly opened 
 her eyes ; and spoke in a whisper. 
 
 ' I — I was never married. But Hester Fox-Wilton's — 
 my child ! * 
 
 The tears came streaming from her eyes. They stood 
 in Catharine's. 
 
 ' You poor thing ! ' said Catharine brokenly, and 
 raising one of the cold hands, she pressed it to her lips. 
 
 But Alice suddenly raised herself. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 329 
 
 ' You knew ! ' — she said — ' You knew ! ' And her 
 eyes, full of fear, stared into Catharine's. Then, as Catha- 
 rine did not speak immediately, she went on with growing 
 agitation — ' You've heard — what everybody's saying ? 
 Oh ! I don't know how I can face it. I often thought 
 it would come — sometime. And ever since that woman — 
 since Judith — came home — it's been a nightmare. For 
 I felt certain she'd come home because she was angry with 
 us — and that she'd said something — before she died. Then 
 nothing happened — and I've tried to think — lately — it 
 was all right. But last night — ' 
 
 She paused for self-control. Catharine was alarmed 
 by her state — by its anguish, its excitement. It 
 required an effort of her whole being before the sufferer 
 could recover voice and breath, before she hurried on, 
 holding Catharine's hands, and looking piteously into her 
 face — 
 
 ' Last night a woman came to see me — an old servant 
 of mine who's nursed me sometimes — when I've been ill. 
 She loves me — she's good to me. And she came to tell 
 me what people were saying in the village — how there 
 were letters going round, about me — and Hester — how 
 everybody knew — and they were talking in the public- 
 houses. She thought I ought to know — she cried — and 
 wanted me to deny it. And of course I denied it — I was 
 fierce to her — but it 'a true ! ' 
 
 She paused a moment, her pale lips moving soundlessly, 
 unconsciously, 
 
 ' I — I'll tell you about that presently. But the awful 
 thing was — she said people were saying — that the Rector 
 — that Mr. Meynell — was Hester's father — and Judith 
 Sabin had told Mr. Barron so before her death. And 
 they declared the Bishop wovdd make him resign — and 
 give up his living. It would be such a scandal, she said, — 
 
330 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 it might even' break up the League. And it would ruin 
 Mr. Meynell, so people thought. Of course there were 
 many people who were angry — who didn't believe a word 
 — but this woman who told me was astonished that so 
 many did believe. ... So then I thought all night — what 
 I should do. And this morning I went to Edith, my sister, 
 and told her. And she went into hysterics, and said she 
 always knew I should bring disgrace on them in the end — 
 and her life had been a burden to her for eighteen years — 
 oh ! that's what she says to me so often ! But the 
 strange thing was she wanted to make me promise I would 
 say nothing — not a word. We were to go abroad, and the 
 thmg would die away. And then — ' 
 
 She withdrew her hands from Catharine, and rising to 
 her feet she pressed the damp hair back from her face, 
 and began to pace the room — unconsciously — still talking — 
 
 ' I asked her what was to happen about Richard — about 
 the Rector — T said he must bring an action, and I would 
 give evidence — it must all come out. And then she fell 
 upon me, and said I was an ungxateful wretch. My 
 sin had spoilt her life — and Ralph's. They had done 
 all they could — and now the publicity — if I msisted — 
 would disgrace them all, — and ruin the girls' chances of 
 marrying, and I don't know what besides. But if I held 
 my tongue — we could go away for a time — it would be 
 forgotten — and nobody out of Upcote need ever hear of it. 
 People would never believe such a thing of Richard 
 Meynell. Of course he would deny it — and of course his 
 word would be taken. But to bring out the whole story 
 in a law-court — ' 
 
 She paused beside Catharine, wringing her hands, 
 gathering up as it were her whole strength to pour it — 
 slowly, deliberately — ^into the words that followed : — 
 
 ' But I — will rim no risk of ruining Richard Meynell 1 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 331 
 
 As for me — what does it matter what happens to me ! 
 And darling Hester ! — we could keep it from her — we 
 would ! She and I could live abroad. And I don't see 
 how it could disgrace Edith and the girls— people would 
 only say she and Ralph had been very good to me. But 
 Richard Meynell ! — with these trials coming on — and all 
 the excitement about him — there'll be ever so many who 
 would be wild to believe it ! They won't care how absurd 
 it is — they'll want to crush him ! And he — he'll never say 
 a word for himself — ^to explain — never ! Because he 
 couldn't, without telling all my story. And that — do you 
 suppose Richard Meynell would ever do that ? — to any 
 poor human soul that had trusted him ? ' 
 
 The colour had rushed back into her cheeks ; she held 
 herself erect, transfigured by the emotion that possessed 
 her. Catharine looked at her in doubt — trouble — amaze- 
 ment. And then, her pure sense di\nned something — dimly 
 — of what the full history of this soul had been ; and her 
 heart melted. She put out her hands and drew the speaker 
 down again into the seat beside her. 
 
 ' I think you'll have to let him decide that for you. 
 He's a strong man — and a wise man. He'll judge what's 
 right. And I ought to warn you that he'll be here probably 
 — very soon. He wanted to see me.' 
 
 Alice opened her startled eyes. 
 
 * About this ? To see you ? I don't understand.' 
 
 ' I had one of these letters — these wicked letters — ' 
 said Catharine reluctantly. 
 
 Alice shrank and trembled. ' It's terrible ! ' — her 
 voice was scarcely to be heard. ' Who is it hates me so ? — 
 or Richard ? ' 
 
 There was silence a moment. And in the pause, the 
 stress and timiult of natui-e without, the beating of the 
 wind, and the plashing of the rain, seemed to be rushing 
 
332 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 headlong through the little room. But neither Catharine 
 nor Alice were aware of it, except in so far as it played 
 obscurely on Alice's tortured nerves, fevering and goading 
 them the more. Catharine's gaze was bent on her com- 
 panion ; her mind was full of projects of help, which were 
 also prayers ; moments in that ceaseless dialogue with 
 a Greater than itself, which makes the life of the Christian. 
 And it was as though, by some secret influence, her 
 prayers worked on Alice ; for presently she turned, in order 
 that she might look straight into the face beside her : — 
 
 ' I'd like to tell you ' — she said faintly — ' oh — I'd like 
 to tell you ! ' 
 
 ' Tell me anything you will.* 
 
 ' It was when I was so young — just eighteen — like 
 Hester. Oh ! but you don't know about Neville — no one 
 does now. People seem all to have forgotten him. But he 
 came into his property here — the Abbey — the old Abbey — 
 just when I was growing up. I saw him here first — but only 
 once or twice. Then we met in Scotland. I was staying at a 
 house near his shooting. And we fell in love. Oh, I knew 
 he was married ! — I can never say that I didn't know, even 
 at the beginning. But his wife was so cruel to him — he was 
 very, very unhappy. She couldn't understand him — or make 
 allowances for him — she despised him, and wouldn't live with 
 him. He was miserable — and so was I. My father and 
 mother were dead ; I had to live with Ralph and Edith } 
 and they always made me feel that I was in their 
 way. It wasn't their fault ! — I was in the way. And then 
 Neville came. He was so handsome, and so clever — so 
 winning and dear — he could do everything. I was staying 
 with some old cousins in Ross-shire, who used to ask me 
 now and then. There were no young people in the house. 
 My cousins were quite kind to me, but I spent a great deal 
 of time alone, and Neville and I got into a way of meeting 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 333 
 
 — in lonely places — on the moors. No one found out. He 
 taught me everything I ever knew, almost. He gave me 
 books — and read to me. He was sorry for me — and at 
 last — he loved me ! And we never looked ahead. Then 
 — in one week — everything happened together. I had to 
 go home. He talked of going to Sandford, and implored 
 me stUl to meet him. And I thought how Ralph and Edith 
 would watch us, and spy upon us, and I implored him 
 never to go to Sandford when I was at Upcote. We must 
 meet at other places. And he agreed. Then the day 
 came for me to go south. I travelled by myself — and he 
 rode twenty miles to a junction station and joined me. 
 Then we travelled all day together.' 
 
 Her voice failed her. She pressed her thin hands 
 together under the onset of memory, and that old con- 
 quered anguish which in spite of all the life that had been 
 lived since, still smouldered amid the roots of being. 
 
 * I may tell you ? * she said at last with a piteous look. 
 Catharine bent over her. 
 
 * Anything that will help you. Only remember I don't 
 ask or expect you to say anything.' 
 
 ' I ought ' — said Alice miserably — ' I ought — because 
 of Mary — ' 
 
 Catharine was silent. She only pressed the hand she 
 held. Aiice resumed — 
 
 ' It was a day that decided all my life. We were so 
 wretched. We thought we could never meet again — it 
 seemed as though we were both — with every station we 
 passed — coming nearer to something like death — some- 
 thing worse than death. Then — before we got to Euston 
 — I couldn't bear it — I — I gave way. We sent a telegram 
 from Euston to Edith that I was going to stay with a 
 school-friend in Cornwall — and that night we crossed to 
 Paris—' 
 
334 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 She covered her face with her hands a moment ; then 
 went on more calmly — 
 
 * You'll guess all the rest. I was a fortnight with him 
 in Paris. Then I went home. In a few weeks, Edith 
 guessed — and so did Judith Sabin who was Edith's maid. 
 Edith made me tell her everything. She and Ralph were 
 nearly beside themselves. They were very strict in those 
 days ; Ralph was a great Evangelical, and used to speak 
 at the May meetings. All his party looked up to him so — 
 and consulted him. It was a fearful blow to him. But 
 Edith thought of what to do — and she made him agree. 
 We went abroad, she and I — with Judith. It was given 
 out that Edith was delicate, and must have a year away. 
 We stopped about in little mountain places — and Hester 
 was born at Grenoble. And then for the last and only time, 
 they let Neville come to see me — * 
 
 Her voice sank. She could only go on in a whisper. 
 
 ' Three weeks later he was drowned on the Donegal coast. 
 It was called an accident— but it wasn't. He had hoped and 
 hoped to get his wife to divorce him — and make amends. 
 And when Mrs. Flood's — his wife's — final letter came — she 
 was a Catholic, and nothing would induce her — he just 
 took his boat out in a storm, and never came back — ' 
 
 The story lost itself in a long sobbing sigh that came 
 from the depths of life. When she spoke again it was 
 with more strength — 
 
 * But he had written the night before to Richard — 
 Richard Meynell. You know he was the Rector's uncle, 
 though he was only seven years older ? I had never seen 
 Richard then. But I had often heard of him from Neville. 
 Neville had taken a great fancy to him a year or two before, 
 when Richard was still at college, and Neville was in the 
 Guards. They used to talk of religion and philosophy. 
 Neville was a great reader always ; and they became great 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 335 
 
 friends. So on his last night he wrote to Kichard, telling 
 him everything, and asking him to be kind to me — and 
 Hester. And Richard — who had just been appointed to 
 the living here — came out to the Riviera, and brought me 
 the letter — and the little book that was in his pocket — 
 when they found him. So you see . . .' 
 
 — She spoke with fluttering colour and voice, as though 
 to find words at all were a matter of infinite difficulty : — 
 
 * You see that was how Richard came to take an interest 
 in us — in Hester and me — how he came to be the friend 
 too of Ralph and Edith. Poor Ralph ! — Ralph was often 
 hard to me, but he meant kindly — he would never have 
 got through at all but for Richard. If Richard was away 
 for a week, he used to fret. That was eighteen years ago — 
 and I too should never have had any peace — any comfort 
 in life again — but for Richard. He found somebody to 
 live with me abroad for those first years, and then, when I 
 came back to Upcote, he made Ralph and Edith consent to 
 my living in that little house by myself — with my chaperon. 
 He would have preferred — indeed he urged it — that I 
 should go on living abroad. But there was Hester ! — 
 and I knew by that time that none of them had the least 
 bit of love for her ! — she was a burden to them all. I 
 couldn't leave her to them — I couldn't ! . . . Oh ! they were 
 terrible, those years ! ' — And again she caught Catharine's 
 hands and held them tight. ' You see, I was so young — 
 not much over twenty — and nobody suspected anything. 
 Nobody in the world knew anything — except Judith Sabin, 
 who was in America, and she never knew who Hester's 
 father was — and my own people — and Richard ! Richard 
 taught me how to bear it — oh ! not in words — for he never 
 preached to me — but by his life. I couldn't have lived at 
 all — but for him. And now you see — you see — how I am 
 paying him back ! ' 
 
336 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 And again as the rush of emotion came upon her, she 
 threw herself into a wild pleading, as though the grey- 
 haired woman beside her were thwarting and opposing her. 
 
 ' How can I let my story — my wretched story — ruin 
 his life — and all his work ? I can't — I can't ! I came to 
 you because you won't look at it as Edith does. You'll think 
 of what's right — right to others. Last night I thought 
 one must die of — misery. I suppose people would call 
 it shame. It seemed to me I heard what they were all 
 saying in the village— how they were gloating over it — 
 after all these years. It seemed to strip one of all self- 
 respect — all decency. And to-day I don't care about that ! 
 I care only that Richard shouldn't sufier because of what 
 he did for me — and because of me. Oh ! do help me, do 
 advise me ! Your look — your manner — have often made 
 me want to come and tell you ' — her voice was broken now 
 with stifled sobs— ' like a child— a child. Dear Mrs. 
 Elsmere ! — what ought I to do ? ' 
 
 And she raised imploring eyes to the face beside her, 
 so finely worn with living and with human service. 
 
 ' You must think first of Hester,' said Catharine, with 
 gentle steadiness, putting her arm round the bent shoulders. 
 — ' I am sure the Rector would tell you that. She is your 
 first — your sacredest duty.' 
 
 Alice Puttenham shivered as though something in 
 Catharine's tender voice reproached her. 
 
 ' Oh, I know — my poor Hester ! My life has set hers 
 all wrong. Wouldn't it have been better to face it all 
 from the beginning — to tell the truth — wouldn't it ? * 
 She asked it piteously. 
 
 ' It might have been. But the other way was chosen ; 
 and now to undo it — publicly — affects not you only, but 
 Hester. It mayn't be possible — it mayn't be right.' 
 
 ' I must ! — I must ! ' said Alice impetuously and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 337 
 
 rising to her feet she began to pace the room again with 
 wild steps, her hands behind her, her slender form drawn 
 tensely to its height. 
 
 At that moment Catharine became aware of someone 
 standing in the porch just beyond the drawing-room of 
 the tiny cottage. 
 
 * This may be Sir. MeynelL' She rose to admit him. 
 
 Alice stood erpectant. Her outward agitation dis- 
 appeared. Some murmured conversation passed between 
 the two persons in the little hall. Then Catharine came in 
 again, followed by Meynell, who closed the door, and 
 stood looking sadly at the pale woman confronting him. 
 
 ' So they haven't spared even you ? ' he said at last, 
 in a voice bitterly subdued. ' But don't be too unhappy. 
 It wants courage and wisdom on our part. But it wDl all 
 pass away.' 
 
 He quietly pushed a chair towards Alice, and then took 
 ofi his dripping cloak, carried it into the passage outside, 
 and returned. 
 
 ' Don't go, Mrs. Elsmere, ' he said, as he perceived 
 Catharine's imcertainty. ' Stay and help us, if you will.' 
 
 Catharine submitted. She took her accustomed seat 
 by the fire ; Alice, or the ghost of Alice, sat opposite to 
 her, in Mary's chair, surrovmded by Mary's embroidery 
 things ; and Meynell was between them. 
 
 He looked from one to the other, and there was some- 
 thing in his aspect vv'hich restrained Alice's agitation, and 
 answered at once to some high expectation in Catharine. 
 
 ' I know, Mrs. Elsmere, that you have received one of 
 the anonymous letters that are being circulated in this 
 neighbourhood, and I presume also — from what I see — 
 that Miss Puttenham has given you her confidence. We 
 must think calmly what is best to do. Now — the first 
 person who must be in all our minds — is Hester.' 
 
 Z 
 
338 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 He bent forward, looking into Alice's face; without 
 visible emotion ; rather with the air of peremptory common 
 sense, which had so often helped her through the difficulties 
 of her life. 
 
 She sat drooping, her head on her hand, making no sign. 
 
 ' Let us remember these facts — ' he resumed. ' Hester 
 is in a critical state of life and mind. She imagines herself 
 to be in love with my cousin Phihp Meryon, a worthless man, 
 without an ounce of conscience where women are concerned, 
 who, in my strong belief, is already married under the 
 ambiguities of Scotch law, though his wife, if she is his 
 wife, left him some years ago, detests him, and has never 
 been acknowledged. I have convinced him at last — this 
 morning — that I mean to bring this home to him. But 
 that does not dispose of the thmg — finally. Hester is 
 in danger — in danger from herself. She is at war with 
 her family — with the world. She believes nobody loves 
 her — that she is and always has been a pariah at home — 
 and with her temperament she is in a mood for desperate 
 things. Tell her now that she is illegitimate — let your 
 sister Edith go talking to her about " disgrace " — and 
 there is no saying what will happen. She ^vill say — and 
 think — that she has no responsibilities, and may do what 
 she pleases. There is no saying what she might do. 
 We might have a tragedy that none of us could 
 prevent.' 
 
 Alice lifted her head — 
 
 * I could go away with her, ' she said, imploringly. ' I 
 could watch over her day and night. But let me put 
 this thing straight now, publicly ! Indeed — indeed, it is 
 time.' 
 
 ' You mean you wish to bring an action ? In that case 
 you would have to return to give evidence.' 
 
 ' Yes — for a short time. But that could be managed. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 339 
 
 She should never see the EngUsh papers — I could promise 
 that.' 
 
 ' Aud what is to prevent Philip Meryon telling her ? 
 At present he is entirely ignorant of her parentage. I 
 have convinced myself of that this morning. He has no 
 dealings with the people here, nor they with him. What 
 has been happening here has not reached him. And he is 
 really off to-night. We must of course always take the 
 risk of his knowing, and of his telhng her. A libel action 
 would convert that risk into a certainty. Would it not 
 simply forward whatever designs he may have on her — for 
 I do not believe for a moment he will abandon them — it 
 will be a duel, rather, between him and us — would it not 
 actually forward his designs — to tell her ? ' 
 
 AHce did not reply. She sat wringing her deUcate 
 hands in a silent desperation ; while Catharine opposite 
 was lost in the bewilderment of the situation, — the insist- 
 ence of the woman, the refusal of the man. 
 
 ' My advice is this — ' continued Meynell, still addressing 
 AJice : ' that you should take her to Paris to-morrow in 
 my stead, and should stay near her for some months. Lady 
 Fox- Wilton — whom I have just seen — she overtook me 
 driving on the Markborough road half an hour ago, and we 
 had some conversation — talks of taking a house at Tours 
 for a year; an excellent thing — for them all. We don't 
 want her on the spot any longer — we don't want any of 
 them ! — ' said the Rector dismissing the Fox-Wilton family 
 with an emphatic gesture which probably represented 
 what he had gone through in the interview with Edith. 
 . . . ' In that way the thing will soon die down. There 
 will be nobody here — nobody within reach — for the scoun- 
 drel who is writing these letters to attack ; except of course 
 myself ; and I shall know how to deal with it. He will 
 probably tire of the amusement. Other people will be 
 
 L 2 
 
340 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ashamed of having read the letters and believed them. 
 I even dare to hope that Mr. Barron — in time — may be 
 ashamed.' 
 
 Alice looked at him in tremulous despair. 
 
 ' Nobody to attack ! — ' she said — ' nobody to attack ! 
 And you, Richard — you ? ' 
 
 A dry smile flickered on his face. 
 
 ' Leave that to me — I assure you you may leave it to 
 me.' 
 
 ' Richard ! ' said Alice imploringly — ' just think. I 
 know what you say is very important — very true. But 
 for me personally — ' She looked round the room with 
 wandering eyes ; then found a sudden passionate gesture, 
 pressing back the hair from her brow with both hands ; 
 — ' for me personally — to tell the truth — to face the truth 
 — would be relief — infinite relief ! It would kill the fear 
 in which I have hved all these years — kill it for ever. It 
 would be better for all of us if we had told the truth — 
 from the beginning. And as for Hester — she must know — 
 you say yourself she must know before long — when she 
 is of age — when she marries — ' 
 
 Meynell's face took an unconscious hardness. 
 
 ' Forgive me ! — the matter must be left to me. The 
 only person who could reasonably take legal action would 
 be myself — and I shall not take it, I beg you, be advised 
 by me.' He bent forward again — 'My dear friend! — ' 
 and now he spoke with emotion — ' in your generous con- 
 sideration for me, you do not know what you are proposing 
 — what an action in the courts would mean, especially 
 at this moment. Think of the party spirit that would be 
 brought into it — the venom — the prejudice — the base 
 insinuations. No ! — beheve me — that is out of the ques- 
 tion — for your sake — and Hester's.' 
 
 * And your work ! — your influence ! ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 341 
 
 ' If they suffer — they must suffer. But do not imagine 
 that I shall not defend myself — and you — you above all — 
 from calumny and lies. Of course I shall — in my own way.' 
 
 There was silence — a dismal silence. At the end of it 
 Meynell stretched out his hand to AJice with a smile. She 
 placed her own in it, slowly, with a look which filled 
 Catharine's eyes once more with tears. 
 
 ' Trust me ! ' said Meynell, as he pressed the hand. 
 ' Indeed you may.' Then he turned to Catharine Elsmere — 
 
 ' I think Mrs. Elsmere is with me — that she approves ? ' 
 
 ' With one reservation.' The words came gravely, 
 after a moment's doubt. 
 
 His eyes asked her to be frank. 
 
 ' I think it would be possible — I think it would be just 
 — ^if Miss Puttenham were to empower you to go to your 
 Bishop. He too has rights ! ' — said Catharine, her clear 
 skin reddening. 
 
 Meynell paused : — then spoke with hesitation. 
 
 ' Yes — that I possibly might do — if you permit me ? ' 
 He turned again to Alice. 
 
 ' Go to him — go to him at once ! ' she said, with a sob 
 she could not repress. 
 
 Another silence. Then Meynell walked to the window 
 and looked at the weather. 
 
 ' It is not raining so fast,' he said, in his cheerfiil 
 voice. ' Oughtn't you to be going home — getting ready and 
 arranging with Hester ? It's an awful business going abroad.' 
 
 Alice rose silently. Catharine went into the kitchen to 
 fetch the waterproof which had been drying. 
 
 Alice and Meynell were left alone. 
 
 She looked up. 
 
 ' It is so hard to be hated ! ' she said passionately — 
 ' to see you hated. It seems to burn one's heart — the 
 coarse and horrible things that are being said — ' 
 
342 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 He frowned and fidgeted — till the thouglit within 
 forced its way : — 
 
 ' Christ was hated. Yet directly the least touch of it 
 comes to us, we rebel — we cry out against God.' 
 
 ' It is because we are so weak — ^we are not Christ ! ' 
 She covered her face with her hands. 
 
 * No — but we are his followers — ^if the Life that was 
 in him is in us too. " Life thai in me has rest — as I — Un- 
 dying Life — have power in Thee !'" ' He fell — murmuring — 
 into lines that had evidently been in his thoughts ; smilmg 
 upon her. 
 
 Then Catharine returned. Alice was warmly wrapped 
 up, and Catharine took her to the door, leaving Meynell 
 in the sitting-room. 
 
 ' We will come and help you this evening — Mary and I,' 
 she said tenderly, as they stood together in the little 
 passage. 
 
 ' Mary ? ' Alice looked at her in a trembling uncer- 
 tainty. 
 
 ' Mary — of course.' 
 
 Alice thought a moment, and then said with a low 
 intensity, a force to which Catharine had no clue — ' I 
 want you — to tell her — the whole story. Will you ? ' 
 
 Catharine kissed her cheek in silence, and they parted. 
 
 Catharine went slowly back to the Uttle sitting-room. 
 Meynell was standing abstracted before the fire, his hands 
 clasped in front of him, his head bent. Catharine approached 
 him — drawing quick breath. 
 
 ' Mr. Meynell — what shall I do — what do you wish 
 me to do or say — with regard to my daughter ? ' 
 
 He turned — pale with amazement. 
 
 And so began what one may call — perhaps — the most 
 romantic action of a noble life ! 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 When Catharine returned to the little sitting-room, in 
 which the darkness of a rainy October evening was already 
 declaring itself, she came shaken by many emotions in 
 which only one thing was clear ; that the man before her 
 was a good man in distress, and that her daughter loved him. 
 If she had been of the true bigot stufi she would have 
 seen in the threatened scandal a means of freeing Mary 
 from an undesirable attachment. But just as in her 
 married life, her heart had not been able to stand against 
 her husband, while her mind condemned him, so now. 
 While in theory, and towards people with whom she never 
 came in contact, she had grown even more bitter and in- 
 transigent since Robert's death than she had been in her 
 youth, she had all the time been living the daily life of 
 service and compassion which — unknown to herself — 
 had been the real saving and determining force. Impulses 
 of love, impulses of sacrifice towards the miserable, the 
 vile and the helpless ; day by day she had felt them, day 
 by day she had obeyed them. And thus all the arteries, 
 so to speak, of the spiritual life had remained soft and 
 pliant ; that life itself in her was still young. It was there 
 in truth that her Christianity lay ; while she imagined it 
 to lie in the assent to certain historical and dogmatic 
 statements. And so strong was this inward and vital 
 faith — so strengthened in fact by mere living — that when 
 she was faced with this second crisis in her life, brought 
 
 343 
 
344 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 actually to close grips with it, that faith, against all that 
 might have been expected, carried her through the difficult 
 place with even greater sureness than at first. She suffered 
 indeed. It seemed to her all through that she was en- 
 dangering Mary, and condoning a betrayal of her Lord. 
 And yet she could not act upon this belief. She must 
 needs act — with pain often, and yet with mysterious 
 moments of certainty and joy, on quite another faith ; 
 the faith which has expressed itself in the perennial cry 
 of Christianity : ' Little children, love one another ! ' And 
 therein lay the difierence between her and Barron. 
 
 It was therefore in this mixed — and yet single — mood 
 that she came back to Meynell, and asked him, quietly, 
 the strange question : * What shall I do — what do you 
 wish me to do or say — with regard to my daughter ? ' 
 
 Meynell could not for a moment believe that he had 
 heard aright. He stared at her in bewilderment, at first 
 pale, and then in a sudden heat and vivacity of colour. 
 
 * I — I hardly understand you, Mrs. Elsmere.' 
 They stood facing each other in silence. 
 
 * Surely we need not inform her,' he said, at last, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 ' Only that a wicked and untrue story has been circulated 
 — that you cannot, for good reasons, involving other 
 persons, prosecute those responsible for it in the usual 
 way. And if she comes across any signs of it, or its effects, 
 she is to trust your wisdom in dealing with it — and not 
 to be troubled ; is not that what you would like me to 
 say ? ' 
 
 * That is indeed what I should like you to say.* He 
 raised his eyes to her gravely. 
 
 ' Or — will you say it yourself ? ' 
 He started. 
 
 * Mrs. Elsmere ! ' — he spoke with quick emotioii — 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 345 
 
 * You are wonderfully good to me.' He scanned her 
 with an unsteady face ; then made an agitated step towards 
 her, ' It almost makes me think — you permit me ' 
 
 ' No — no,* said Catharine, hurriedly, drawing back. 
 ' But if you would like to speak to Mary — she will be here 
 directly.' 
 
 ' No ! ' — he said, after a moment, recovering his com- 
 posure ; ' I couldn't ! But — will you ? ' 
 
 ' If you wish it.' Then she added, * She will of course 
 never ask a question ; it will be her business to know 
 nothing of the matter — in itself. But she will be able to 
 shew you her confidence, and to feel that we have treated 
 her as a woman — not a child.' 
 
 Meynell drew a deep breath. He took Catharine's 
 hand and pressed it. She felt with a thrill — which was 
 half bitterness — that it was already a son's look he turned 
 upon her. 
 
 ' You — you have guessed me ? ' he said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 * I see there is a great friendship between you.' 
 
 ' Friendship ! ' Then he restrained himself sharply. 
 ' But I ought not to speak of it — to intrude myself and 
 my affairs on her notice at all at this moment. . . .' 
 He looked at his companion almost sternly, ' Is it not 
 clear that I ought not ? I meant to have brought her a 
 book to-day. I have not brought it. I have been even glad 
 
 — thankful — to think you were going away, although ' 
 
 But again he checked the personal note. ' The truth is 
 I could not endure that through me — through anything 
 connected with me — she might be driven upon facts and 
 sorrows — ugly facts that would distress her, and sorrows 
 for which she is too young. It seemed to me indeed I 
 might not be able to help it. But at the same time it was 
 clear to me, to-day, that at such a time, — feehng as I do — 
 I ought not in the smallest degree to presume upon her — 
 
346 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and yonr kindness to me. Above all ' — his voice shook — ' I 
 could not come forward — I could not speak to her — as at 
 another time I might have spoken. I could not run the 
 smallest risk — of her name being coupled with mine — 
 when my character was being seriously called in question. 
 It would not have been right for her; it would not have 
 been seemly for myself. So what was there — but silence ? 
 And yet I felt — that through this silence — we should some- 
 how trust each other ! ' 
 
 He paused a moment, looking down upon his com- 
 panion. Catharine was sitting by the fire near a small 
 table on which her elbow rested ; her face propped on her 
 hand. There was something in the ascetic refinement, the 
 grave sweetness of her aspect that played upon him with 
 a tonic and consoling force. He remembered the frozen 
 reception she had given him at their first meeting ; and 
 the melting of her heart towards him seemed a wonderful 
 thing. And then came the delicious thought — ' Would she 
 so treat him, unless Mary — Mary \ — * 
 
 But, at the same time, there was in him the mind of 
 the practical man, which plainly and energetically disap- 
 proved her ! And presently he tried, with much difficulty, to 
 tell her so, to impress upon her — upon her, Mary's mother, 
 — that Mary must not be allowed to hold any communica- 
 tion with him, to shew any kindness towards him, till this 
 cloud had wholly cleared away, and the sky was clear 
 again. He became almost angry, as he urged this ; so 
 excited indeed and incoherent, that a charming smile stole 
 into Catharine's grey eyes. 
 
 ' I understand quite what you feel,' she said as she 
 rose, ' and why you feel it. But I am not bound to 
 follow your advice — or to agree with you — am I ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I think you are,' he said stoutly. 
 
 Then a shadow fell over her face. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 347 
 
 ' I suppose I am doing a strange thing ' — her manner 
 faltered a little — * but it seems to me right — I have been 
 led — else why was it so plain ? ' 
 
 She raised her clear eyes, and he understood that she 
 spoke of those ' hints * and ' voices * of the soul that play 
 so large a part in the more mystical Christian experience. 
 She hurried on — 
 
 ' When two people — two people like you and Mary — 
 feel such a deep interest in each other — surely it is God's 
 sign ? ' — Then, suddenly, the tears shone. ' Oh, Mr. 
 Meynell ! — trial brings us nearer to our Sa\nour. Perhaps 
 — through it — you and Mary — will find Him ! * 
 
 He saw that she was trembling from hand to foot ; and 
 his own emotion was great. 
 
 He took her hand again, and held it in both his own — 
 
 ' Do you imagine ' — he said huskily — ' that you and I are 
 very far apart ? ' 
 
 And again the tenderness of his manner was a son's 
 tenderness. 
 
 She shook her head ; but she could not speak. She 
 gently withdrew her hand, and turned aside to gather up 
 some letters on the table. 
 
 A sound of footsteps could be heard outside. Catharine 
 moved to the window. 
 
 ' It is Mary,' she said quietly. ' Will you wait a little 
 while I meet her ? ' And without giving him time to reply, 
 she left the room. 
 
 He walked up and down, not without some humorous 
 bewilderment in spite of his emotion. The saints, it 
 seemed, are persons of determination ! But, after a minute, 
 he thought of nothing, realised nothing, save that Mary 
 was in the little house again, and that one of those low 
 voices he could just hear, as a murmur in the distance, 
 through the thin walls of the cottage, was hers. 
 
348 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The door opened softly, and she came in. Though she 
 had taken off her hat, she still wore her blue cloak of Irish 
 frieze which fell round her slender figure in long folds. 
 Her face was rosy with rain and wind ; the same wind and 
 rain which had stamped such a grey fatigue on Alice 
 Puttenham's cheeks. Amid the dusk, the fire-light 
 touched her hair, and her ungloved hand. She was a 
 vision of youth and soft life ; and her composure, her slight 
 shy smile would alone have made her beautiful. 
 
 Their hands met, as she gently greeted him. But 
 there was that in his look which disturbed her gentle- 
 ness — which deepened her colour. She hurried to 
 speak. 
 
 ' I am so glad that Mother made you stay — just that I 
 might tell you.' Then her breath began to hasten. 
 * Mother says you are — or may be — unjustly attacked — 
 that you don't think it right to defend yourself publicly — 
 and those who follow you, and admire you — may be hurt 
 and troubled. I wanted to say — and Mother approves — 
 that whoever is hurt and troubled, I can never be — except 
 for you. Besides I shall know and ask nothing. You may 
 be sure of that. And people will not dare to speak 
 to me.' 
 
 She stood proudly erect. 
 
 Meynell was silent for a moment. Then, by a sudden 
 movement he stooped and kissed a fold of her cloak. She 
 drew back with a little stifled cry, putting out her hands 
 which he caught. He kissed them both, dropped them and 
 walked away from her. 
 
 When he returned it was with another aspect. 
 
 * Don't let 's make too much of this trouble. It may 
 all die away — or it may be a hard fight. But whatever 
 happens you are going to Westmoreland immediately. That 
 is my great comfort.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 349 
 
 ' Is it ? ' She laughed unsteadily. 
 
 He too smiled. There was intoxication he could not 
 resist, in her presence, and in v/hat it implied. 
 
 ' It is the best possible thing that could be done. Then 
 — whatever happens — I shall not be compromising my 
 friends. For a while — there must be no communication 
 between them and me.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' she said, involuntarily, clasping her hands. 
 ' Friends may write.' 
 
 * May they ? ' He thought it over, with a furrowed 
 brow, then raised it, clear. ' What shall they write about ?* 
 
 An exquisite joyousness trembled in her look. 
 
 ' Leave it to them ! ' 
 
 Then, as she once more perceived the anxiety and 
 despondency in him, the brightness clouded ; pity possessed 
 her : ' Tell me what you are preaching — and writing.' 
 
 ' If I preach — if I write. And what will you tell me ? ' 
 
 ' " How the water comes down at Lodore," ' she said 
 gaily. ' What the mountains look like, and how many 
 rainy days there are in a week.' 
 
 ' Excellent ! I perceive you mean to libel the country 
 I love ! ' 
 
 ' You can always come and see ! ' she said, with a shy 
 courage. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 * No. My Westmoreland holiday is given up.' 
 ' Because of the Movement ? ' 
 
 And sitting down by the fire, still with that same look 
 of suppressed and tremulous joy, she began to question him 
 about the meetings and engagements ahead. But he 
 would not be di"awn into any talk about them. It 
 was no doubt quite possible — though not, he thought, 
 not probable — that he might soon be ostracised from 
 them all. But upon this he would not dwell, and 
 
350 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 though her understanding of the whole position was far 
 too vague to warn her from these questions, she soon 
 perceived that he was unwilliag to answer them as usual. 
 Silence indeed fell between them ; but it was a silence of 
 emotion. She had thrown ofi her cloak, and sat looking 
 down, in the light of the fire ; she knew that he observed 
 her, and the colour on her cheek was due to something 
 more than the flame at her feet. As they realised each 
 other's nearness indeed, in the quiet of the dim room, 
 it was with a magic sense of transformation. Outside, 
 the autumn storm was still beating, — symbol of the moral 
 storm which threatened them. Yet within were trust, and 
 passionate gratitude, and tender hope, intertwined, all of 
 them, with the sacred impulse of the woman towards the 
 man, and of the man towards the woman. Each moment 
 as it passed built up one of those watersheds of life from 
 which henceforward the rivers flow broadening to undreamt 
 of seas. 
 
 When Catharine returned, Meynell was hat in hand 
 for departure. There was no more expression of feeling, 
 or reference to grave afiairs. They stood a few moments 
 chatting about ordinary things. Incidentally Hugh Flax- 
 man's loss of the two gold coins was mentioned. Meynell 
 inquired when they were first missed. 
 
 ' That very evening,' said Mary. * Aunt always puts 
 them away herself. She missed the two little cases at 
 once. One was a coin of Velia, with a head of 
 Athene ' 
 
 * I remember it perfectly ! ' said Meynell. ' It dropped 
 on the floor when I was talking to Norham — and I picked 
 it up — with another, if I remember right — a Hermes ! ' 
 
 Mary replied that the Hermes too was missing; that 
 both were exceedingly rare ; and that in the spring a buyer 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 351 
 
 for the Louvre had offered Hugh four hundred pounds for 
 the two. 
 
 * They feel most unhappy and uncomfortable about it. 
 None of the servants seem to have gone into that room 
 during the party. Rose put all the coins on the table 
 herself. She remembers saying good-bye to Canon France 
 and his sister in the drawing-room, — and two or three 
 others — and immediately afterwards she went into the 
 Green drawing-room to lock up the coins. There were 
 two missing.' 
 
 * She doesn't remember who had been in the room ? ' 
 ' She vaguely remembers seeing two or three people 
 
 go in and out — the Bishop ! — Canon Dormal ! ' 
 
 They both laughed. Then Meynell's face set sharply. 
 A sudden recollection shot through his mind. He beheld 
 the figure of a sallow, dark-haired young man slipping — 
 alone — through the doorway of the Green drawing-room. 
 And this image in the mind touched and fired others, like 
 a spark running through dead leaves. . . . 
 
 When he had gone, Catharine turned to Mary ; and 
 Mary, running, wound her arms close round her mother, 
 and laid her head on Catharine's breast. 
 
 ' You angel ! — you darling ! ' she said, and raising her 
 mother's hand she kissed it passionately. 
 
 Catharine's eyes filled with tears, and her heart with 
 mingled joy and revolt. Then, quickly, she asked herself 
 as she stood there in her child's embrace whether she should 
 speak of a certain event — a certain experience — which had, 
 in truth, though Mary knew nothing of it, vitally affected 
 both their lives. 
 
 But she could not bring herself to speak of it. 
 
 So that Mary never knew to what, in truth, she owed 
 the painful breaking-down of an opposition and a hostility 
 
352 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 which might in time have poisoned all their relations to 
 each other. 
 
 But when Mary had gone away to change her damp 
 clothes, the visionary experience of which Catharine could 
 not tell came back upon her ; and again she felt the thrill — 
 the touch of bodiless ecstasy. 
 
 It had been in the early morning, when all such things 
 befall. For then the mind is not yet re-captured by life ; 
 and no longer held by sleep. There is in it a pure expect- 
 ancy, open to strange influences ; influences from memory 
 and the under-soul. It visualises easily, and dream and 
 fact are one. 
 
 In this state Catharine woke on a September morning 
 and felt beside her a presence that held her breathless. 
 The half-remembered images and thoughts of sleep pursued 
 her — became what we call ' real.' 
 
 * Kobert ! * she said, aloud — very low. 
 
 And without voice, it seemed to her that someone 
 replied. A dialogue began, into which she threw her soul. 
 Of her body, she was not conscious ; and yet the little room, 
 its white ceiling, its open windows, and the dancing shadows 
 of the autumn leaves were all present to her. She poured 
 out the sorrow, the anxiety — about Mary — that pressed so 
 heavy on her heart; and the tender voice answered now 
 consoling, now rebuking. 
 
 * " And we forbade him, because he followed not us . . . 
 Forbid him not — forbid liim not ! " ' — seemed to go echoing 
 through the quiet air. 
 
 The words sank deep into her sense ; she heard herself 
 sobbing ; and the unearthly presence came nearer ; though 
 still always remote, intangible, with the same baffling 
 distance between itself and her. . . . 
 
 The psychology of it was plain. It was the upthrust 
 into consciousness of the mingled ideas and passions on 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 353 
 
 which her life was founded, piercing through the intellec- 
 tualism of her docmatic belief. But though she would have 
 patiently accepted any scientific explanation, she believed 
 in her heart that Robert had spoken to her, bidding her 
 renounce her repugnance to Mary's friendship with Meynell 
 — to Mary's love for Meynell. 
 
 She came down the morning after with a strange dull 
 sense of change and disaster. But the currents of her 
 mind and will had set firmly in a fresh direction. It was 
 almost mechanically — under a strong sense of guidance — 
 that she had made her hesitating proposal to M.'irv to go 
 with her to the Upcote meeting. Mary's look of utter 
 astonishment had sent n^w waves of disturbance and com- 
 punction through the mother's mind. 
 
 But if these things could not be told — even to Mary, there 
 were other revelations to make. 
 
 When the lamp had been brought in, and the darkness 
 outside shut out, Catharine laid her hand on Mary's, and 
 told the story of Alice Puttenham. 
 
 Mary heard it in silence, growing very pale. Then 
 with another embrace of her mother, she went away upstairs 
 only pausing at the door of the sitting-room, to ask when 
 they should start for the cottage. 
 
 Upstairs Mary sat for long in the dark, thinking. . . . 
 Through her uncurtained windows she watched the 
 obscure dying away of the storm, the calming of the 
 trees, and the gradual clearing of the night sky. Be- 
 tween the upfurling clouds the stars began to shew ; 
 tumult passed into a great tranquilhty; and a breath 
 of frost began to steal through the woods, and over 
 the water. . . . 
 
 Catharine too passed an hour of reflection ; and of 
 yearning over the unhappy. Naturally, to Mary, her lips 
 
 2 A 
 
354 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had been sealed on that deepest secret of all, which she had 
 divined for a moment in Alice. She had clearly perceived 
 what was or had been the weakness of the woman, together 
 with the loyal unconsciousness and integrity of the man. 
 And having perceived it, not only pity, but the strain in 
 Catharine of plain simplicity and common sense, bade her 
 bury and ignore it henceforward. It was what Alice's true 
 mind must desire ; and it was the only way to help her. 
 She began however to understand what might be the full 
 meaning of Alice's last injunction ; and her eyes grew 
 wet. 
 
 Mother and daughter started about eight o'clock for 
 the cottage. They had a lantern with them, but they hardly 
 needed it, for through the tranq utilised air a new moon 
 shone palely, and the frost made way. Catharine walked 
 rejoicing apparently in renewed strength, and recovered 
 powers of exertion. Some mining, crippling influence 
 seemed to have been removed from her since her dream. 
 And yet, even at this time, she was not without premoni- 
 tions — physical premonitions — as to the future ; faint 
 signal- voices that the obscure life of the body can often 
 communicate to the spirit. 
 
 They found the cottage all in light and movement. 
 Servants were flying about ; boxes were in the hall ; Hester 
 had come over to spend the night at the cottage that 
 she and ' Aunt Alice ' might start by an early train. 
 
 Alice came out to meet her visitors in the little hall. 
 Catharine slipped into the drawing-room. Alice and 
 Mary held each other enwrapped in one of those 
 moments of life that have no outward expression but 
 dimmed eyes, and fluttering breath. 
 
 ' Is it all done ? Can't I help ? ' said Mary at last, 
 scarcely knowing what she said, as Alice released her. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 355 
 
 ' No dear, it '3 all done — except our books. Come up 
 with me while I pack them.' 
 
 And they vanished upstairs, hand in hand. 
 
 Meanwhile Hester in her most reckloas mood was alter- 
 nately flouting and caressing Catharine Elsmere. She was 
 not in the least afraid of Catharine, and it was that perhaps 
 which had originally drawn Catharine's heart to her. 
 Elsmere's widow was accustomed to feel herself avoided by 
 young people, who discussed a wild literature, and appeared 
 to be without awe towards God, or reverence towards man. 
 Yet all the time, through her often bewildered reprobation 
 of them, she hungered for their affection ; and knew that 
 she carried in herself treasures of love to give — though no 
 doubt, on terms ! 
 
 But Hester had always divined these treasures, and was 
 besides, as a rule, far too arrogant and self-centred to 
 restrain herself in anything she wished to say or do for fear 
 of hurting or shocking her elders. 
 
 At this moment, she had declared herself tired out with 
 packing, and was lounging in an arm-chair in the little 
 drawing-room. A Japanese dressing-gown of some pale 
 pink stuff sprayed with almond blossom floated about her, 
 disclosing a skimpy silk petticoat, and a slender foot 
 from which she had kicked its shoe. Her pearly arms and 
 neck were almost bare ; her hair tumbled on her shoulders ; 
 her eyes shone with excitement provoked by a dozen hidden 
 and conflicting thoughts. In her beauty, her ardent and 
 provocative youth, she seemed to be bursting out of the little 
 room, with its artistic restraint of colour and furnishing. 
 
 ' Don't please do any more fussing,' she said imploringly 
 to Catharine. ' It 's all done — only Aunt Alice thinks it 's 
 never done. Do sit down and talk.' 
 
 And she put out an impatient hand, and drew the stately 
 Catharine towards a chair beside her. 
 
 3 A3 
 
356 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' You ought to be in bed,' said Catharine, retaining 
 her hand. The girl's ignorance of all that others knew 
 affected her strangely ; produced a great softness and 
 compunction. 
 
 * I shouldn't sleep. I wonder when I shall get a decent 
 amount of sleep again ! ' said Hester, pressing back the 
 hair from her cheeks. Then she turned sharply on her 
 visitor — 
 
 * Of course you know, Mrs. Elsmere, that I arn simply 
 being sent away — in disgrace.' 
 
 ' I know ' — Catharine smiled, though her tone was 
 grave—' that those who love you think there ought to 
 be a change.' 
 
 * That 's a nice way of putting it — a real gentlemanly 
 way,' said Hester, swaying backwards and forwards, her 
 hands round her knees, * But all the same it 's true. 
 They 're sending me away because they don't know what I '11 
 do next. They think T '11 do something abominable.* 
 
 The girl's eyes sparkled. 
 
 * Why will you give your guardians this anxiety ? ' 
 asked Catharine, not without severity. ' They are never 
 at rest about you. My dear ! — they only wish your good.' 
 
 Hester laughed. She threw out a careless hand and 
 laid it on Catharine's knee. 
 
 * Isn't it odd, Mrs. Elsmere, that you don't know 
 anything about me, though — you won't mind, will you ? 
 — though you 're so kind to me, and I do like you so. But 
 you can't know anything, can you ? — about girls — 
 like me ? ' 
 
 And looking up from where she lay deep in the arm- 
 chair, she turned half-mocking eyes on her companion. 
 
 ' I don't know — perhaps — about girls like you,' said 
 Catharine, smiling, and shyly touching the hand on her 
 knee. * But I live half my life — with girls.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 357 
 
 * Oh — poor girls ? Girls in factories — girls that wear 
 fringes, and sham pearl beads, and six ostrich feathers 
 in their hats on Sundays ? No, I don't think I 'm like 
 them. If I were they, I shouldn't care about feathers 
 or the sham pearls. I should be more likely to try and 
 steal some real ones ! No, but I mean really girls like me 
 — rich girls, though of course I 'm not rich — but you 
 understand. Do you know any girls who gamble and 
 paint — their faces I mean — and let men lend them money, 
 and pay for their dresses ? ' 
 
 Hester sat up defiantly, looking at her companion. 
 
 * No, I don't know any of that kind,' said Catharine 
 quietly. ' I 'm old-fashioned, you see — they wouldn't 
 want to know me.' 
 
 Hester's mouth twitched. 
 
 ' Well, I'm not that kind exactly ! I don't paint 
 because — well, I suppose I needn't ! And I don't play 
 for money, because I 've nobody to play with. As for 
 letting men lend you money ' 
 
 ' That you would never disgrace yourself by doing ! ' said 
 Catharine sharply. 
 
 Hester's look was enigmatic. 
 
 * Well, I never did it. But I knew a girl in London — 
 very pretty — and as mad as you like. She was an orphan, 
 and her relations didn't care twopence about her. She got 
 into debt, and a horrid old man ofiered to lend her a couple 
 of hundred pounds if she 'd give him a kiss. She said no, 
 and then she told an older woman who was supposed to 
 look after her. And what do you suppose she said ? ' 
 
 Catharine was silent. 
 
 Well you are a little fool ! " That was all she got 
 for her pains. Men are villains—/ think ! But they 're 
 exciting ! ' And Hester clasped her hands behind her 
 head, and looked at the ceiling, smiling to herself, while 
 
358 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the dressing-gown sleeves fell back from her rounded 
 arms. 
 
 Catharine frowned. She suddenly rose and, kneeling 
 down by Hester's chair, she took the girl in her arms. 
 
 ' Hester, dear ! — if you want a friend — whenever you 
 want a friend — come to me ! If you are ever in trouble 
 send for me. 1 would always come — always ! ' 
 
 She felt the flutter of the girl's heart as she enfolded 
 her. Then Hester lightly freed herself, though her voice 
 shook — 
 
 * You *re the kindest person, Mrs. Elsmere — you 're 
 awfully, awfully kind. But I 'm going to have a jolly 
 good time in Paris. I shall read all kinds of things — I 
 shall go to the theatre — I shall enjoy myself famously.' 
 
 * And you '11 have Aunt Alice all to yourself.' 
 Hester was silent. The lovely corners of her mouth 
 
 stifiened. 
 
 * You must be very good to her, Hester,' said Catharine, 
 with entreaty in her voice. ' She 's not well — and very 
 tired.' 
 
 * Why doesn't she trust me ? ' said Hester, almost 
 between her teeth. 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' 
 
 After a hesitating pause, the girl broke out with the 
 story of the miniature. 
 
 * How can I love her when she won't trust me 1 ' she 
 cried again, with stormy breath. 
 
 Catharine's heart melted within her. 
 
 ' But you must love her, Hester ! Why, she has watched 
 over you all your life. Can't you see — that she 's had 
 trouble — and she 's not strong ! ' 
 
 And she looked down with emotion on the girl thus 
 blindly marching to a veiled future; unable, by no fault 
 of her own, to distinguish her lovers from her foes. — Had a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 359 
 
 lie, ever yet, in human history, justified itself ? So this 
 pure moralist ! — to whom morals had come, silently, easily, 
 irresistibly, as the sun slips into the sky. 
 
 ' Oh, I 'U look after her,' said Hester shortly ; ' why 
 of course I will. I'm very glad she 's going to Paris — it '11 
 be good for her. And as for you ' — she bent forward like 
 a queen, and lightly kissed Catharine on the cheek — 
 ' I dare say I'll remember what you 've said — you 're a great, 
 great dear ! It's luck for Mary to have got you for a 
 mother. But I 'm all right — I 'm all right ! ' 
 
 When the Elsmeres were gone, Hester still sat on alone 
 la the drawing-room. The lamp had burnt dim, and the 
 little room was cold. 
 
 Presently she slipped her hand into the white bodice 
 she wore. A letter lay there, and her fingers caressed it. 
 ' I don't know whether I love him or not — perhaps I do, and 
 perhaps I don't. I don't know whether I believe Uncle 
 Richard — or this letter. But — I 'm going to find out !— 
 I'm not going to be stopped from finding out.' 
 
 And as she lay there, she was conscious of bonds she 
 was half determined to escape, half willing to bear ; of a 
 fluttering excitement and dread. Step by step, and with 
 a childish bravado she had come within the influences of 
 sex ; and her fate was upon her. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Meanwhile, amid this sensitive intermingling of tlie 
 thoughts and feelings of women, there arose the sudden 
 tumult and scandal of the new elements which had thrust 
 themselves into what was already known to the religious 
 world throughout England as ' the Meynell case.' During 
 November and December that case came to include two 
 wholly different things : the ecclesiastical suit in the Court of 
 Arches, which, owing to a series of delays and to the illness 
 of the Dean of the Court, was not to be heard in all prob- 
 abiUty before February ; and the personal charges brought 
 against the incumbent of Upcote Minor. 
 
 These fresh charges were formally launched by Henry 
 Barron, the chief promoter also, as we know, of the 
 ecclesiastical suit, in a letter written by him to Bishop 
 Craye, on the very night when Alice Puttenham revealed 
 her secret to Catharine Elsmere. But before we trace 
 the effect of the letter, let us look for a moment at the 
 general position of the movement when this second phase 
 of Meynell's connection with it began. 
 
 At that time the pending suits against the Modernist 
 leaders — for there were now five instituted by different 
 bishops, as test cases, in different parts of England 
 — were already the subject of the keenest expectation and 
 debate, not only in Church circles, but amid sections 
 of the nation which generally trouble themselves very little 
 about clerical or rehgious disputes. New births of time 
 
 360 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 361 
 
 were felt to be involved in the legal struggle ; passionate 
 hopes and equally passionate fears hung upon it. There 
 were old men in quiet country parsonages who, when they 
 read the Modernist and followed the accounts of the 
 Movement, were inclined to say to themselves with secret 
 joy and humility that other men were entering into their 
 labours, and the fields were at last whitening to harvest ; 
 while others, hke Newman of old, had ' fierce thoughts 
 towards the Liberals,' talked and spoke of Meynell, and 
 the whole band of Modernist clergy, as traitors with 
 whom no parley could be kept, and were ready to break 
 up the Church at twenty-four hours' notice, rather than 
 sit down at the same table of the Lord with heretics and 
 Socinians. 
 
 Between these two groups of men, each equally con- 
 fident and clear, though by no means equally talkative, 
 there was a middle region that contained many anxious 
 minds, and some of the wisest heads in England. If, at 
 the time of Norham's visit to Maudeley, Bishop Craye 
 of Markborough, and many other bishops with him, were 
 still certain that the movement would be promptly and 
 easily put down, so far at least as its organic efiect on the 
 Church of England was concerned, yet as November and 
 December wore on, anxieties deepened, and confidence 
 began to waver. The passion of the Movement was 
 beginning to run through England, as it seemed to many, like 
 the flame of an explosion thiough a dusty mine. What 
 amazed and terrified the bishops was the revelation of 
 pent-up energies, rebellions, ideals, not only among their 
 own flocks, but in quarters, and among men and women, 
 hitherto ruled out of religious afl'airs by general consent. 
 They pondered the crowds which had begun to throng 
 the Modernist churches, the extraordinary growth of the 
 Modernist press ; and the figures reported day by day as to 
 
362 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the petition to be presented to Parliament in February. 
 There was no orthodox person in authority who was not 
 still determined on an unconditional victory ; but it was 
 admitted that the skies were darkening. 
 
 The efiect of the movement on the Dissenters — on 
 that half of reUgious England which stands outside the 
 National Church, where ' grace ' takes the place of authority, 
 and Bishops are held to be superfluities incompatible 
 with the pure milk of the Word — was in many respects 
 remarkable. The majority of the Wesley an Methodists 
 had thrown themselves strongly on to the side of the 
 orthodox party in the Church ; but among the Congrega- 
 tionahsts and Presbyterians there was visible a great 
 ferment of opinion and a great cleavage of sympathy ; 
 while, among the Primitive Methodists, a body founded on 
 the straitest tenets of Bible worship, yet interwoven, none 
 the less, with the working-class life of England and Wales, 
 and bringing day by day the majesty and power of religion 
 to bear upon the acts and consciences of plain, poor, 
 struggling men, there was visible a strong and definite 
 current of acquiescence in Modernist ideas ; which was 
 inexphcable, till one came to know that among Meynell's 
 friends at Upcote there were two or three Primitive local 
 preachers who had caught fire from him, were now active 
 members of his Church Council, and ardent though perse- 
 cuted missionaries to their own body. 
 
 Meanwhile the Unitarians — small and gallant band ! — 
 were like persons standing on tiptoe before an opening glory. 
 In their isolated and often mistaken struggle, they had felt 
 themselves for generations stricken with chill and barrenness; 
 their blood now began to feel the glow of new kinships, the 
 passion of large horizons. So, along the banks of some slender 
 and much hindered stream, there come blown from the 
 nearing sea prophetic scents and murmurs, and one may 
 
sTHE CASE OF RICHARD ME Y NELL 363 
 
 dream that the pent water knows at last the whence and 
 whither of its life. 
 
 But the strangest spectacle of all perhaps was presenter* 
 by the orthodox camp. For, in proportion as the Modernist 
 strength developed, was the revival of faith among those 
 hostile to, or unready for Modernist ideas. For the first 
 time in their lives, religion became interesting — thriUing 
 even — to thousands of persons for whom it had long lost all 
 real savour. Fierce question and answer, the hot cut and 
 thrust of argument, the passion of honest fight on equal 
 terms : without these things, surely, there has been no re- 
 ligious epoch of any importance in man's history. English 
 orthodoxy was at last vitally attacked ; and it began 
 to show a new life, and express itself in a new language. 
 These were times when men on all sides felt that stretching 
 and straining of faculty which ushers in the days of 
 spiritual or poetic creation ; times when the most confident 
 Modernist of them all knew well that he, no more than 
 anyone else, could make any guess worth having as to 
 the ultimate future. 
 
 Of all this rapid and amazing development the per- 
 sonality and the writings of Richard Meynell had in a 
 few months become the chief popular symbol. There were 
 some who thought that he was likely to take much the 
 same place in the Modernist Movement of the twentieth 
 century, as Newman had taken in the Oxford Movement 
 of the nineteenth ; and men were beginning i o look for the 
 weekly article in the Modernist, with the same emotion of 
 a passionate hero-worship on the one hand, and of angry 
 repulsion on the other, with which the Oxford of the 
 thirties had been wont 10 look for each succeeding ' Tract,' 
 or for Newman's weekly sermon at St. Mary's. To 
 Newman's high subtleties of brain, to Newman's magic 
 of style, Richard Meynell could not pretend. But he 
 
364 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had two advantages over the great leader of the past ; he 
 was the disciple of a new learning which was inaccessible to 
 Ne\vman ; and he was on fire with social compassions 
 and enthusiasms, to which Newman, the great Newman, 
 was always pathetically a stranger. In these two respects 
 Meynell was the representative of his own generation ; 
 while the influences flowing from his personal character and 
 life were such that thousands who had never seen him, 
 loved and trusted him wholly. Men who had again and 
 again watched great causes break down for want of the 
 incommunicable something which humanity exacts from 
 its leaders, felt with a quiet and confident gladness that 
 in Meynell they had got the man they wanted, the efficacious, 
 indispensable man. 
 
 And now — suddenly ! — incredible things began to be 
 said. It was actually maintained that the leader round 
 whom such feelings had gathered had been, since his 
 ordination, the betrayer of a young and innocent girl, 
 belonging to a well-known family ; that although it had 
 been in his power for twenty years to marry the lady 
 whom he had wronged, he had never attempted to do 
 so, but had rather, during all that time, actively connived 
 at the fraud by which his illegitimate child had passed 
 as the daughter of Sir Ralph Fox- Wilton ; while over the 
 whole period he had kept up relations — and who knew 
 of what character ? — with the child's mother an inhabitant 
 of the very village where he himself was Rector. 
 
 Presently— it was added, that Mr. Henry Barron, of 
 Upcote Minor, one of the prosecutors in the ecclesiastical 
 suit, had obtamed unexpected and startling confirmation 
 of these extraordinary facts from the confession of a 
 woman who had been present at the birth of the child, 
 and had identified the Rector of Upcote as the father. 
 Then, very soon, paragraphs of a veiled sort began to 
 appear in some of the less responsible newspapers. The 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 365 
 
 circulation of the anonymous letters began to be known; 
 and the reader of a Modernist essay at an Oxford meeting 
 caused universal consternation by telling an indiscreet 
 friend, who presently spread it abroad, that Barron had 
 already written to the Bishop of Markborough, placing in 
 his hands a mass of supporting evidence relating to ' this 
 most lamentable business.' 
 
 At first Meynell's friends throughout the country 
 regarded these rumours as a mere device of the evil one. 
 Similar things they said, and with truth, are constantly 
 charged against heretics who cannot be put down. Slander 
 is the first weapon of religious hatred. Meynell, they 
 triumphantly answered, will put the anonymous letters 
 in the hands of the police, and proceed against Henry 
 Barron. And they who have taken up such a weapon, 
 shall but perish by it themselves the sooner. 
 
 But the weeks passed on. Not only were no pro- 
 ceedings taken, or, apparently, in prospect, by Meynell 
 against his accusers ; not only did the anonymous letters 
 reappear from time to time, untracked and unpunished ; 
 but reports of a meeting held at Upcote itself began to 
 spread ; a meeting where Meynell had been definitely and 
 publicly challenged by Barron to take action for the vindica- 
 tion of his character, and had definitely and publicly 
 refused. 
 
 The world of a narrow and embittered orthodoxy began 
 to breathe again ; and there was black depression in the 
 Modernist camp. 
 
 Let us, however, go back a little. 
 
 Barron's letter to the Bishop was the first shot in the 
 direct and responsible attack. It consisted of six or seven 
 closely- written sheets, and agreed in substance with four or 
 five others from the same hand, addressed at the same 
 moment to the chief heads of the Orthodox party. 
 
366 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The Bishop received it at breakfast, just after he had 
 concluded a hot political argument with his little grand- 
 daughter Barbara. 
 
 ' All Tories are wicked,' said Barbara, who had a 
 Radical father — * except Grandpapa, and he, Mummy 
 says, is weally a Riberal.' 
 
 With which she had leaped into the arms of her nurse, 
 and was carried ofi gurgling, while the Bishop threatened 
 her from afar. 
 
 Then, with a sigh of impatience, as he recognised the 
 signature on the envelope, he resigned himself to Barron's 
 letter. When he had done it, sitting by the table in his 
 library, he threw it from him with indignation, called for 
 his coat, and hurried across his garden to the Cathedral 
 for Matins. After service, as with a troubled countenance 
 he was emerging from the transept door, he saw Dornal in 
 the Close and beckoned to him. 
 
 ' Come into the library for ten minutes. I very much 
 want to speak to you.' 
 
 The Bishop led the way, and as soon as the door was 
 shut he turned eagerly on his companion — 
 
 * Do you know anything of these abominable stories 
 that are being spread about Richard Meynell ? ' 
 
 Dornal looked at him sadly. 
 
 * They are all over Markborough — and there is actually 
 a copy of one of the anonymous letters — with dashes for the 
 names — in the Post to-day ? ' 
 
 ' I never hear these things ! ' said the Bishop, with an 
 impatience which was meant, half for a scandal-mongering 
 world, and half for himself. ' But Barron has written 
 me a perfectly incredible letter to-day. He seems to be 
 the head and front of the whole business. I don't like 
 Barron, and I don't like his letters ! ' 
 
 And throwing one slender leg over the other, while the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 367 
 
 tips of his long fingers met in a characteristic gesture, the 
 little Bishop stared into the fire before him with an expres- 
 sion of mingled trouble and disgust. 
 
 Dornal, clearly, was no less unhappy. Drawing his 
 chair close to the Bishop's he described the manner in 
 which the story had reached himself. When he came to 
 the curious facts concerning the diffusion and variety of 
 the anonymous letters, the Bishop interrupted him — 
 
 ' And Barron tells me he knows nothing of these 
 letters ! ' 
 
 ' So I hear also.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Dornal, if he doesn't, it makes the thing 
 inexplicable ! Here we have a woman who comes home 
 dying, and sees one person only — Henry Barron — to 
 whom she tells her story ' 
 
 The Bishop went through the points of Barron's narra- 
 tive, and concluded — 
 
 * Then, on the top of this, after her death — her son 
 denying all knowledge of his mother's history — comes 
 this crop of extraordinary letters, shewing, you tell 
 me, an intimate acquaintance with the neighbourhood 
 and the parties concerned. And yet Barron — the 
 only person Mrs. Sabin saw — knows nothing of them ! 
 They are a mystery to him. But, my dear Dornal, how 
 can they be ? — The Bishop faced round with energy on his 
 companion — ' He must at least have talked incautiously 
 before someone ! ' 
 
 Dornal agreed, but could put forward no suggestion of 
 his own. He sat drooping by the Bishop's fire, his aspect 
 expressing the deep distress he did not shape in words. 
 That very distress, however, was what made his company 
 80 congenial to the much perturbed Bishop, who felt, 
 moreover, a warmer affection for Dornal than for any other 
 member of his Chapter. 
 
368 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The Bishop resumed : — 
 
 'Meanwhile, not a word from Meynell himself ! That I 
 confess wounds me.' He sighed. — ' However, I suppose he 
 regards our old confidential relations as broken off. To 
 me — until the law has spoken — he is always one of my 
 clergy ' — the Bishop's voice shewed emotion — ' and he 
 would get my fatherly help just as freely as ever, if he 
 chose to ask for it. But I don't know whether to send for 
 him. I don't think I can send for him. The fact is — one 
 feels the whole thing an outrage ! * 
 
 Dornal looked up. 
 
 ' That's the word ! ' he said gratefully. Then he added 
 — hesitating — ' I ought perhaps to tell you that I have 
 written to Meynell — I wrote when the first report of the 
 thing reached me. And I am sure that he can have no 
 possible objection to my shewing you his reply. ' He put 
 his hand into his pocket. 
 
 ' By all means, my dear Dornal ! ' cried the 
 Bishop with a brightening countenance. ' We are both 
 his friends, in spite of all that has happened and may 
 happen. By all means, shew me the letter.' 
 
 Dornal handed it over. It ran as follows : 
 
 ' My dear Dornal, — It was like you to write to me, 
 and with such kindness and delicacy. But even to you I 
 can only say what I say to other questioners of a very 
 different sort. The story to which you refer is untrue. 
 But owing to pecuUar circumstances it is impossible for me 
 to defend myself in the ordinary way, and my lips are 
 sealed with regard to it. I stand upon my character 
 as known to my neighbours and the diocese for nearly 
 twenty years. If that is not enough, I cannot help it. 
 
 • Thank you always for the goodness and gentleness 
 of your letter. I wish with all my heart I could give you 
 more satisfaction.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 369 
 
 The two men looked at each other, the same conjec- 
 tures passing through both minds. 
 
 ' I hear the Fox-Wiltons and Miss Puttenham have 
 all gone abroad,' said the Bishop thoughtfully. ' Poor 
 things ! I begin to see a glimmer. It seems to me that 
 Meynell has been the repository of some story he feels 
 he carmot honourably divulge. And then you tell me the 
 letters show the handiwork of someone intimately ac- 
 quainted with the local circumstances, who seems to have 
 watched Meynell's daily hfe. It is of course possible that he 
 may have been imprudent with regard to this poor lady. 
 Let us assume that he knew her story and advised her. He 
 may not have been sufficiently careful. Further, there is 
 that striking and unfortunate hkeness of which Barron of 
 course makes the most. I noticed it myself, on an evening 
 when I happened, at Maudeley, to see that handsome girl 
 and Meynell in the same room. It is difficult to say in 
 what it consists, but it must occur to many people who 
 see them together.' 
 
 There was silence a moment. Then Dornal said — 
 ' How will it all affect the trial ? ' 
 
 ' In the Court of Arches ? Technically of course — not 
 at all. But it will make all the difference to the atmosphere 
 in which it is conducted. One can imagine how certain 
 persons are already gloating over it — what use they will 
 make of it — how they will magnify and embroider every- 
 thing. And such an odious story ! It is the degradation 
 of a great issue ! ' 
 
 The httle Bishop frowned. As he sat there in the 
 dignity of his great library, so scrupulously refined and 
 correct in every detail of dress, yet without a touch of 
 foppery, the gleam of the cross on his breast answering 
 the silver of the hair and the frank purity of the eyes, 
 it was evident that he felt a passionate impatience — half 
 
 2B 
 
370 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 moral, half aesthetic — towards these new elements of the 
 Mevnell case. It was the fastidious impatience of a man, 
 for whom personal gossip and scandal ranked among the 
 forbidden indulgences of life. ' Things, not persons ! ' had 
 been the time-honoured rule for conversation at the 
 Palace table ; persons, that is, of the present day. In 
 those happy persons who had already passed into biography 
 and history, in their peccadilloes no less than their virtues, 
 the Bishop's interest was boundless. The distinction tended 
 to make him a little super- or infra-human ; but it enhanced 
 the fragrance and delicacy of his personality. 
 
 Dornal was no less free from any stain of mean or 
 scandalous gossip than the Bishop, but his knowledge of 
 the human heart was far deeper, his sympathy far more 
 intimate. It was not only that he scorned the slander ; 
 but, hour by hour, he seemed to walk in the same cloud 
 with Meynell. 
 
 After some further discussion, the Bishop took up 
 Barron's letter again. — ' I see there is Ukely to be a most 
 painful scene at the Church Council meeting — which of 
 course will be also one of their campaign meetings — 
 the day after to-morrow. Barron declares that he means 
 to challenge Meynell publicly to vindicate his character. 
 Can I do anything ? ' 
 
 Dornal did not see anything could be done. The parish 
 was already in open rebellion. 
 
 'It is a miserable, miserable business ! ' — said the 
 Bishop unhappily. ' How can I get a report of the meeting 
 — from someone else than Barron ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Flaxman is sure to be there ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! — get him to write to me ? ' 
 
 * And you, my Lord — will send for Meynell ? ' 
 
 ' I think ' — said the Bishop, with returning soreness — 
 ' that as he has neither written to me, nor consulted me, I 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 371 
 
 will wait a little. We must watcli — we must watch. Mean- 
 while, my dear fellow ! ' — he laid his hand on Dornal's 
 shoulder — ' let us think how to stop the talk ! It wUl 
 spoil everything. Those who are fighting with us must 
 understand there are weapons we cannot stoop to 
 use ! ' 
 
 As Dornal left the Palace, on his way past the Cathedral, 
 he met young Fenton, the High Churchman who some 
 months earlier had refused to recognise Meynell after the 
 first Modernist meeting in Markborough. Fenton was 
 walking slowly and reading the local newspaper, — the same 
 which contained the anonymous letter. His thin, finely 
 modelled face, which in a few years would resemble the 
 Houdon statue of St. Bruno, expressed an eager excitement 
 that was not unlike jubilation. Dornal was practically 
 certain that he was reading the paragraph that con- 
 cerned Meynell, and certain also that it gave him pleasure. 
 He hurriedly passed over to the other side of the street, 
 that Fenton might not accost him. 
 
 Afterwards, he spent the evening, partly in writing 
 urgently in Meynell's defence to certain of his own personal 
 friends in the diocese, and partly in composing an Anti- 
 Modemist address, full of a sincere and earnest eloquence, 
 to be deUvered the following week at a meeting of the 
 Church party in Cambridge. 
 
 Meanwhile Cyril Fenton had also spent the evening in 
 writing. He kept an elaborate journal of his own spiiitual 
 state ; or rather he had begun to keep it about six months 
 before this date, at the moment when the emergence of 
 the Modernist movement had detached him from his 
 nascent friendship \vith Meynell, and had thrown liim 
 baok, terrified, on a more resolute opposition than ever to 
 
372 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the novelties and presumptions of free inquiry. The 
 danger of reading anything, unawares, that might cause 
 him even a moment's uneasiness had led to his gradually 
 cutting himself off entirely from modern newspapers and 
 modern books, in which, indeed, he had never taken any 
 very compelling interest. His table was covered by 
 various EngUsh and French editions of the Fathers — of 
 St. Cyprian in particular, for whom he had a cult. On 
 the bare walls of his study were various pictures of saints, 
 a statuette of the Virgin, and another of St. Joseph, both 
 of them feebly elegant in the Munich manner. Through 
 his own fresh youthfulness, once so winning and whole- 
 some, something pinched and cloistered had begun to 
 thrust itself. His natural sweetness of temper was rapidly 
 becoming sinful in his own eyes ; his natural love of life 
 also, and its harmless, even its ideal pleasures. 
 
 It was a bitter winter day, and he had not allowed 
 himself a greatcoat. In consequence he felt depressed and 
 chilled ; yet he could not make up his mind to go to bed 
 earlier than usual, lest he should be thereby pampering 
 the flesh. He was thoroughly dissatisfied with his own 
 spiritual condition during the day, and had just made 
 ample confession thereof in the pages of his diary. A few 
 entries from that document will shew the tone of a mind 
 morbid for lack of exercise. 
 
 ' D. came to see me this morning. We discussed war 
 a good deal. In general of course I am opposed to war, 
 but when I think of this ghastly plague of heresy which is 
 sweeping away so many souls at the present moment, I 
 feel sometimes that the only war into which I could enter 
 with spirit would be a civil war. ... In a great deal of 
 my talk with D. I posed abominably. I talked of shooting 
 and yachting as though I knew all about them. I can't be 
 content that people should think me " out " of anything, or 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 373 
 
 a dull fool. It was the same with my talk to S. about 
 Church music. I talked most arrogantly ; and in reality 
 I know hardly anything about it. 
 
 ' As to my vow of simplicity in food, I must keep my 
 attention more on the alert. Yet to-day I have not done 
 so badly ; some cold ends of herring at breakfast, and a 
 morsel of mackerel at lunch are the only things I have to 
 reproach myself with ; the only lapses from the strict rule 
 of simplicity. But the quantity was deplorable — no modera- 
 tion — not even a real attempt at it. Whenever I am dis- 
 gusted with myself for having eaten too much at dinner, 
 I constantly fail to draw the proper inference — that I 
 should eat less at tea. . . . 
 
 * I feel that this scandal about poor Meynell is probably 
 providential. It must and will weaken the Modernist 
 party enormously. To thank God for such a thing sounds 
 horrible, but after all, have we any right to be more 
 squeamish than Holy Writ ? " Let God arise and let His 
 enemies be scattered." The warnings and menaces of 
 what are called the imprecatory Psalms show us plainly 
 that His enemies must be ours.' 
 
 He closed his book, and came to shiver over the very 
 inadequate fire which was all he allowed himself. Every 
 shilling that he could put aside was being saved in order 
 to provide his church with a new set of altar furniture. 
 The congregation of the church was indeed fast ebbing 
 away, and his heart was full of bitterness on the subject. 
 But how could a true priest abate any fraction either of 
 his Church principles, or his sound doctrine, to appease 
 persons who were not and could not be judges of what was 
 necessary to their own spiritual health ? 
 ! J As he warmed his thin hands, his bodily discomfort 
 increased his religious despondency. Then, of a sudden, 
 his eyes fell upon the portrait of a child standing on the 
 
374 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 mantelpiece — his sister's child, aged four. The cloud on 
 the still boyish brow lightened at once. 
 
 ' Tommy's birthday to-morrow,' he said to himself. 
 ' Jolly little chap ! Must write to him. Here goes ! ' 
 
 And reaching out his hand for his writing-case he wrote 
 eagerly, a letter all fun and baby-talk, and fantastic draw- 
 ings, in the course of which Tommy grew up, developed 
 moustaches, and became a British Grenadier. When he 
 had finished it and put it up, he lay back, laughing to him- 
 self, a different being. 
 
 But the gleam was only momentary. A recurring 
 sense of chill and physical oppression dispersed it. Presently 
 he rose heavily, glanced at his open diary, re-read the last 
 page with a sigh, and closed it. Then, as it was nearly 
 midnight, he retreated upstairs to his bare and icy bed- 
 room, where half-an-hour's attempt to meditate com- 
 pleted the numbness of body and mind, in which state 
 ultimately he went to bed, though not to sleep. 
 
 The meeting of the Church Council of Upcote was held 
 in the Church House of the village a few days after the 
 Bishop's conversation with Canon Dornal. It was an 
 evening long remembered by those who shared in it. The 
 figure of Meynell instinct with a kind of fierce patience; 
 the face rugged as ever, but paler and tenderer, in repose, 
 as of one who, mystically sustained, had been passing 
 through deep waters ; his speech, sternly repressed, and 
 yet, for the understanding ear, enriched by new tones and 
 shades of feeling : on those who believed in him the effect 
 of these slight but significant changes in the man they 
 loved was electrical. 
 
 And five-sixths of those present believed in him, 
 loved him, and were hotly indignant at the scandals 
 which had arisen. They were, some of them, the elite 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 375 
 
 of the mining population, men whom he had known and 
 taught from childhood; there were many officials from 
 the surrounding collieries ; there was a miners' agent, 
 who was also one of the well-known local preachers of the 
 district; there were half a dozen women — the school- 
 mistress, the wife of the manager of the co-operative store, 
 and three or four wives of colliers, — women to whom other 
 women in childbirth, or the girl who had gone astray, or 
 the motherless child, might appeal without rebufi, who were 
 in fact the Kector's agents in any humanising eSort. 
 
 AD these persons had come to the meeting eagerly 
 expecting to hear, from the Eector's own lips, the steps he 
 proposed to take for the putting down of the slanders cir- 
 culating in the diocese, and the punishment of their authors. 
 In the rear of the council — who had been themselves elected 
 by the whole parish — there were two or three rows of seats 
 occupied by other inhabitants of the village, who made an 
 audience. In the front row sat the strange spinster Miss 
 Nairn, a thin sharp-nosed woman of fifty, in rusty black 
 clothes, holding her head high ; not far from her the dubious 
 publican who had been Maurice Barron's companion on 
 a certain walk some days before. There, too, were Hugh 
 and Rose Flaxman. And just as the proceedings were 
 about to begin, Henry Barron opened the heavy door, hat 
 in hand, came in with a firm step, and took a seat at the 
 back, while a thrill of excitement went through the 
 room. 
 
 It was an ancient room, near the church, and built like 
 it of red sandstone. It had been once the tiny grammar 
 school of the village. Meynell had restored and adapted 
 it, keeping still its old features ; the low ceiling heavily 
 beamed with oak, and the row of desks inscribed with the 
 scholars' names of three centuries. Against the back- 
 ground of its white walls he stood thrown out in strong relief 
 
376 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 by the oil lamp on the table in front of him, his eyes travel- 
 ling over the rows of familiar faces. 
 
 He spoke first of the new Liturgy of which copies had 
 been placed on the seats. He reminded them they were all 
 — or nearly all — comrades with him in the great Modernist 
 venture ; that they had given him the help of their approval 
 and support at every step, and were now rebels with 
 him against the authorities of the day. He pointed to his 
 approaching trial, and the probability — nay, the certainty 
 — of his deprivation. He asked them to be steadfast with 
 him ; and he dwelt on the amazing spread of the Move- 
 ment, the immense responsibility resting upon its first 
 leaders and disciples, and the need for gentleness and charity. 
 The room was hushed in silence. 
 
 Next, he proceeded to put the adoption of the new 
 Liturgy to the vote. Suddenly, Barron rose from his seat 
 at the back. Meynell paused. The audience looked in 
 suppressed excitement from one to the other. 
 
 ' I regret,' said the Rector, courteously, ' that we cannot 
 hear Mr. Barron at this moment. He is not a member of 
 the Church Council. When the proceedings of the Council 
 are over, this will become an open meeting, and Mr. Barron 
 will then of course say what he wishes to say.' 
 
 Barron hesitated a moment ; then sat down. 
 
 The revised Liturgy was adopted by twenty-eight votes 
 to two. One of the two dissentients was Dawes the colliery 
 manager, a sincere and consistent Evangelical of the Simeon 
 School, who made a short speech in support of his vote, 
 dwelling, in a voice which shook, on the troubles coming on 
 the parish. 
 
 * We may get another Rector,' he said as he sat down. 
 ' We shall never get another Richard Meynell.' A deep 
 murmur of acquiescence ran through the room, 
 
 Meynell rose again from his seat. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 377 
 
 * Our business is over. We now become an open 
 meeting. Mr. Barron, I believe, wishes to speak.' 
 
 The room was, at this point, densely crowded and every 
 face turned towards the tall and portly form rising from the 
 back. In the flickering lamplight it could be seen that the 
 face usually so ruddy and full was blanched by determina- 
 tion and passion. 
 
 * My friends and neighbours ! ' said Barron, ' it is with 
 sorrow and grief that I rise to say the few words that I 
 intend to say. On the audacity and illegality of what 
 you have just done, I shall say nothing. Argument, I 
 know, would be useless. But this I have come to say. 
 You have just been led — misled — into an act of heresy 
 and rebellion, by the man who should be your pastor in 
 the Faith, who is responsible to God for your souls. Why 
 have you been misled ? — why do you follow him ? ' 
 
 He flung out his hand towards Meynell — 
 
 ' Because you admire and respect him — becau<*e you 
 believe him a good man — a man of honest and pure life. 
 And I am here to tell you, or rather to remind you, for indeed 
 you all know it — that your Kector lies at this moment under 
 a painful and disgraceful charge ! — that this charge has been 
 circulated — in a discreditable way — a way for which I have 
 no defence and of which I know nothing — throughout 
 this diocese, and indeed throughout England ; that your fair 
 fame, as well as his are concerned ; and, nevertheless, 
 he refuses to take the only steps which can clear his char- 
 acter, and repay you for the devotion you have shewn 
 him ! I call upon you. Sir ! ' — the speaker bent forward, 
 pointing impressively to the chairman of the meeting, and 
 emphasizing every word — ' to take those steps at once ! 
 They are open to you at any moment. Take them against 
 myself ! I have given, I wiU give, you every opportunity. 
 But till that is done, do not continue, in the face of the 
 
378 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 congregation you have deceived and led astray, to assume 
 the tone of hypocritical authority in which you have just 
 spoken ! You have no moral right to any authority among 
 us ; you never had any such right ; and in Christian eyes 
 your infidel teaching has led to its natural results. At 
 any rate, I trust that now, at last, even these your 
 friends and dupes will see the absolute necessity, before 
 many weeks are over, of either forcing you to resign your 
 living — or forcmg you to take the only means open to 
 honest men of protecting their character ! ' 
 
 He resumed his seat. The audience sat petrified a 
 moment. Then Hugh Flaxman sprang to his feet, and 
 two or three others, the local preacher among them. But 
 Meynell had also risen. 
 
 ' Please, Mr. Flaxman — my friends ! ' - 
 
 He waved a quiet hand towards those who had risen, 
 and they unwillingly gave way. Then the Rector looked 
 round the room for a few silent instants. He was very 
 white, but when he spoke, it was with complete composure. 
 
 ' I expected something of this kind to happen, and 
 whether it had happened, or no, I should have spoken 
 to you on this matter before we separated. I know — 
 you all know — to what Mr. Barron refers — that he is speak- 
 ing of the anonymous letters concerning myself and others 
 which have been circulated in this neighbourhood. He 
 calls upon me, I understand, to take legal action with regard 
 both to them, and to the reports which he has himself circu- 
 lated, by word of mouth, and probably by letter. Now I 
 want you plainly to understand' — he leant forward, his 
 hands on the table before him, each word clear and reson- 
 ant, — ' that I shall take no such action ! My reasons I 
 shall not give you. I stand upon my Ufe among you 
 and my character among you all these years. This only 
 I will say to you — my friends and my parishioners. The 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 379 
 
 abominable story told in these letters — the story which 
 Mr. Barron believes, or tries to make himself believe — 
 is untrue. But I will say no more than that — to you, 
 or anyone else. And if you are to make legal action 
 on my part a test of whether you will continue to 
 follow me religiously — to accept me as your leader — or 
 no ; then my friends, we must part ! You must go your 
 way, and I must go mine. There will be still work for me 
 to do ; and God knows our hearts — yours and mine.' 
 
 He paused — looking intently into the lines of blanched 
 faces before him. Then he added : — 
 
 ' You may wish to discuss this matter. I recognise it 
 is natural you should wish to discuss it. But I shall not 
 discuss it with you. I shall withdraw. Mr. Dawes — will 
 you take the chair ? ' 
 
 He beckoned to the colUery manager, who automatically 
 obeyed him. The room broke into a hubbub, men and 
 women pressing round Meynell as he made his way to the 
 door. But he put them aside, gently, and cheerfully. 
 
 ' Decide it for yourselves ! ' he said with his familiar 
 smile. ' It is your right.' 
 
 And in another moment, the door had opened and shut, 
 and he was gone. 
 
 He had no sooner disappeared than a tumultuous 
 scene developed in the Church room. 
 
 Beswick, the sub-agent and local preacher, a sandy- 
 haired, spectacled, and powerfully built man, sprang 
 on to the platform, to the right hand of Dawes, and at 
 last secured silence by a passionate speech in defence 
 of Meynell, and in denunciation of the men who in order 
 to ruin him ecclesiastically were spreading these vile tales 
 about him ' and a poor lady that has done many a good turn 
 to the folk of this village, and nothing said about it too^! * 
 
38o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 * Don't you, sir, — ' he said, addressing Barron with a 
 threatening finger — ' don't you come here, telling us what 
 to think about the man we've known for twenty years in 
 this parish ! The people that don't know Richard Meynell 
 may believe these things if they please — it'll be the worse 
 for them ! But we've seen this man comforting 
 and uplifting our old people in their last hours — we've 
 seen him teaching our children — and givin' just a kind 
 funny word now an' again to keep a boy or a girl straight 
 — Aye, an' he did it too — they knew he had his eye on 
 'em ! We've seen him go down these pits, when only 
 a handful would risk their lives with him, to help them 
 as was perhaps past hope. We've seen him skin himself 
 to the bone that other men might have plenty — we've 
 heard him Sunday after Sunday. We know him ! ' — the 
 speaker brought one massive hand down on the other with 
 an emphasis that shook the room. ' Don't you go talking 
 to us ! If Richard Meynell won't go to law with you 
 and the likes of you. Sir, he's got his reasons, and they're good 
 ones, I'll be bound. And don't you, my friends ' — he 
 turned to the room — ' don't you be turned back from 
 this furrow you've begun to plough. You stick to your man ! 
 If you don't, you're fools, aye, and ungrateful fools too ! 
 You know well enough that Albert Beswick isn't a parson's 
 man ! You know that I don't hold with Mr. Meynell in 
 many of his views. There's his views about " election," 
 and the like o' that — quite wrong, in my 'umble opinion. 
 But what does that matter ? You know that I never 
 set foot in Upcote Church till three years ago — that Bishops 
 and ceremonies are nought to me — that I came to God, 
 as many of you did, by the Bible class and the penitent 
 form. But I declare to you that Richard Meynell, and the 
 men with him, are out for a big thing ! They're out for 
 breaking down barriers^and letting in light. They're out 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 381 
 
 for bringing Christian men together, and letting them 
 worship freely in the old churches that our fathers built. 
 They're out for giving men and women new thoughts about 
 God and Christ, and for letting them put them into new 
 words, if they want to. Well, I say again, it's a big thing ! — 
 And Satan's out too, for stopping it ! Don't you make 
 any mistake about it ! This bad business — of these libels 
 that are about — is one of the obstacles in our race, he'll 
 trip us up on, if he can. Now I put it to you ! — let's clear 
 it out o' the way this very night, as far as we're con- 
 cerned ! Let's send the Rector such a vote of confidence 
 from this meeting, as'U shew him fast enough where he stands 
 in Upcote — aye, and shew others too ! And as for these 
 vile letters that are going round — I'd give my right hand 
 to know the man who wrote them ! — and the story that 
 you, Sir ' — he pointed again to Barron — ' say you took 
 from poor Judith Sabin, when her mind was clouded and 
 she near her end — why it's base minds that harbour base 
 thoughts about their betters ! He shall be no friend of 
 mine — that I know ! — that spreads these tales. Friends 
 and neighbours, let us keep our tongues from them ! — and 
 our children's tongues ! Let us shew that we can trust 
 a man that deserves our trust. Let us stand by a good man 
 that's stood by us ; and let us pray God to shew the 
 right ! ' 
 
 The greater part of the audience, sincerely moved, 
 rose to their feet and cheered. Barron endeavoured to 
 reply, but was scarcely listened to. The publican East 
 sat twirling kis hat in his hands, sarcastic smiles going 
 out and in upon his fat cheeks, his fuitive eyes every now 
 and then consulting the tall spinster who sat beside him, 
 grimly immoveable, her spectacled eyes fiied apparently 
 on the lamp above the platform. 
 
 Flaxman wished to speak, but was deterred by the 
 
382 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 reflection that as a new-comer in the district he had scarcely 
 a valid right to interfere. He and Rose stayed till the vote 
 of confidence had been passed by a large majority — though 
 not so large as that which had accepted the new Liturgy 
 — after which they drove home rather depressed and ill at 
 ease. For in truth the plague of anonymous letters was 
 rather increasing than abating. Flaxman had had news 
 that day of the arrival of two more, among their own 
 country-house acquaintance of the neighbourhood. He sat 
 down, in obedience to a letter from Dornal, to write a dole- 
 ful report of the meeting to the Bishop. 
 
 Meynell received the vote of confidence very calmly, and 
 wrote a short note of thanks to Beswick. Then for some 
 weeks, while the discussion of his case in its various aspects, 
 old and new, ran raging through England, he went about his 
 work at* usual, calm in the centre of the whirlwind, though 
 the earth he trod seemed to him very often a strange one. 
 He prepared his defence for the Com-t of Arches ; he wrote 
 for the Modernist ; and he gave as much mind as he 
 could possibly spare to the unravelling of Philip Meryon's 
 history. 
 
 In this matter, however, he made but very slow and dis- 
 appointing progress. He became more and more convinced, 
 and his solicitor with him, that there had been a Scotch 
 marriage some eighteen months before this date, between 
 Meryon, and the sister of a farmer in the Lothians, with 
 whom he had come in contact during a fishing tenancy. 
 But what appeared in the course of investigation was that 
 the woman concerned and all her kindred were now just 
 as anxious — aided by the ambiguities of the Scotch marriage 
 law — to cover up and conceal the affair, as was Meryon 
 himself. She could not be got to put forward any claim ; 
 her family would say nothing ; and the few witnesses 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 383 
 
 hitherto available were tending to disappear. No doubt 
 Philip was at work corrupting them ; and the supposed 
 wife was evidently quite willing, if not eager, to abet 
 him. 
 
 Every week he heard from Maiy, letters written within 
 bounds fully understood by them both, and never trans- 
 gressed, which revealed to him the tremulous tenderness and 
 purity of the heart he knew — though he would not confess 
 it to himself — he had conquered. These letters became to 
 him the stay of life, the manna which fed him, the water 
 of healing and strength. It was evident that, according 
 to his wish, she did not know and was determined not to 
 know the details of his struggle ; and nothing helped him 
 more than the absolute trust of her ignorance. 
 
 He heard also constantly from Alice Puttenham. She, 
 too, poor soul, — but how differently I^was protecting 
 herself as best she could from an odious knowledge. 
 ' Edith writes to me, full of terrible things that are being 
 said in England ; but as I can do nothing, and must do 
 nothing according to you, I do not read her letters. She 
 sends me a local newspaper sometimes, scored with her 
 marks and signs that are like shrieks of horror, and I 
 put it in the fire. What I suffer I will keep to myself. 
 Perhaps the worst part of every day comes when I take 
 Hester out and amuse her in this gay Paris. She is so 
 passionately vital herself, and one dreads to fail her in 
 spirits or buoyancy. 
 
 ' She is very well and wonderfully beautiful ; at present 
 she is havmg lessons in dancing and elocution, and turning 
 the heads of her teachers. It is amusing — or would be 
 amusing to anyone else than me — to see how the quiet 
 family she is with clucks after her in perpetual anxiety, 
 and how cavalierly she treats them. I think she is fairly 
 happy ; she never mentions Meiyon's name ; but I often 
 
384 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 have a strange sense that she is looking for someone — 
 expects someone. When we turn into a new street, or a 
 new alley of the Bois, I have sometimes seemed to catch 
 a wild listening in her face. I live only for her — and I 
 cannot feel that it matters to her in the least whether I do 
 or not. Perhaps, some day. Meanwhile — you may be sure 
 I think of nothing else. She knows nothing of what is 
 going on in England — and she says she adores Paris/ 
 
 One night in December, Meynell came in late from a 
 carpentering class of village boys. The usual pile of 
 letters and books awaited him, and he began upon them 
 reluctantly. As he read them and put them aside, one by 
 one, his face gradually changed and darkened. He recalled 
 a saying of Amiel's about the French word ' consideration ' ; 
 what it means to a man to have enjoyed unvarying and grow- 
 ing * consideration ' from his world ; and then, suddenly, 
 to be threatened with the loss of it. Life and consciousness 
 drop, all in a moment, to a lower and a meaner plane. 
 
 Finally, he lit on a letter from one of his colleagues 
 on the Central Modernist Committee. For some mouths 
 it had been a settled thing that Meynell should preach the 
 sermon in Dunchester Cathedral on the great occasion 
 in February, when the new Liturgy of the Reform was to be 
 inauguiated with all possible solemnity in one of England's 
 most famous churches. 
 
 His correspondent wrote to suggest that after all the 
 sermon would be more fitly entrusted to the Modernist 
 Bishop of Dunchester himself. ' He has worked hard, and 
 risked much for us. I may say that enquiries have 
 been thrown out, and we find he is willing.' 
 
 No apology — perfunctory regrets — and very little ex- 
 planation ! Meynell understood. 
 
 He put the letter away, conscious of a keenly smarting 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 385 
 
 mind. It was now clear to him that he had made a grave 
 mis-reckoning ; humiliating, perhaps irreparable. He had 
 counted, with a certain confident simplicity, on the power 
 of his mere word, backed by his character and reputation, 
 to put the thing down ; and they were not strong enough. 
 Barron's influence seemed to him immense and increasing. 
 A proud and sensitive man forced himself to envisage the 
 possibility of an eventual overthrow. 
 
 He opened a drawer in order to put away the letter. 
 The drawer was very full, and in the difficulty of getting 
 it out, he pulled it too far and its contents fell to the floor. 
 He stooped to pick them up ; perceived, first, the anony- 
 mous letter that Barron had handed to him, the letter ad- 
 dressed to Dawes ; and then, beneath it, a long envelope deep 
 in dust — labelled ' M, B. — Keep for three years.' He took 
 up both letter and envelope with no distinct intention. 
 But he opened the anonymous letter, and once more looked 
 searchingly at the handwriting. 
 
 Suddenly, an idea struck him. With a hasty movement, 
 he lifted the long envelope and broke the seal. Inside was 
 a document headed — ' A confession.' And at the foot of it 
 appeared a signature — ' Maurice Barron.' 
 
 Meynell put the two things together — the ' Confession ' — 
 and the anonymous letter. Very soon he began to com- 
 pare word with word, and stroke with stroke, gradually 
 penetrating the disguise of the later handwriting. At the 
 end of the process he imderstood the vague recollection 
 which had disturbed him when he first saw the letter. 
 
 He stood motionless a little, expressions chasing each 
 other across his face. Then he locked up both letters, 
 reached a hand for his pipe, called a good-night to Anne 
 who was going upstairs to bed, and with his dogs about 
 him fell into a long meditation, while the night wore on. 
 
 2 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 It was in the week before Christmas that Professor Vetch — 
 the same Professor who had been one of the Bishop's 
 commission of enquiry in Richard Meynell's case — knocked 
 one afternoon at Canon France's door to ask for a cup of 
 tea. He had come down to give a lecture to the Church 
 Chib which had been recently started in Markborough 
 in opposition to the Reformers' Club ; but his acceptance 
 of the invitation had been a good deal determined by his 
 very keen desire to probe the later extraordinary develop- 
 ments of the Meynell aSair on the spot. 
 
 France was in his low-ceiled study, occupied as usual with 
 drawers full of documents of various kinds ; most of them 
 mediaeval deeds and charters which he was calendaring for 
 the Cathedral Library. His table and the floor were 
 littered by them ; a stack of the Rolls publications was on 
 his right hand : a Dugdale's ' Monasticon ' lay open at a 
 little distance ; and curled upon a newspaper beside it lay 
 a grey kitten. The kitten had that morning upset an 
 inkstand over three sheets of the Canon's laborious hand- 
 writing. At the time, he had indeed dropped her angrily 
 by the scruf! of the neck into a wastepaper basket to 
 repent of her sins ; but here she was again, and the Canon 
 had patiently rewritten the sheets. 
 
 There were not many softnesses in the Canon's life. 
 The kitten was one ; of the other perhaps only his sister, 
 nearly as old as h ims elf, who lived with him, was aware. 
 
 386 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 387 
 
 Twenty years before — just after his appointment to the 
 Canonry — he had married a young and, in the opinion 
 of his family, flighty wife, who had lived a year and then 
 died. She had passed like a spring flower ; and after a 
 year or two all that was remembered about her was that 
 she had chosen the drawing-room paper, which was rather 
 garishly pink like her own cheeks. In the course of time 
 the paper had become so discoloured and patchy that 
 Miss France was ashamed of it. For years her brother 
 turned a deaf ear to her remarks on the subject. At last 
 he allowed her to repaper the room. But she presently 
 discovered that close to the seat he generally occupied 
 in the drawing-room of an evening, there was a large hole 
 in the new paper made by the rubbing and scraping of 
 the Canon's fingers as he sat at tea. Through it the 
 original pink reappeared. More than once Miss France 
 caught her brother looking contentedly at his work of 
 mischief. But she dared not speak of it to him, nor do 
 anything to repair the damage. 
 
 As France perceived the identity of the visitor whom 
 his old manservant was showing into the study, a slight 
 shade of annoyance passed over his face. But he received 
 the Professor civilly, cleared a chair of books in order that 
 he might sit down, and gave a vigorous poke to the fire. 
 
 The Professor did not wish to appear too inquisitive 
 on the subject of Meynell, and he therefore dallied a little 
 with matters of biblical criticism. France however took 
 no interest whatever in them ; and even an adroit des- 
 cription of a paper recently read by the speaker himself 
 at an Oxford meeting failed to kindle a spark. Vetch 
 found himself driven upon the real object of his visit. 
 
 He desired to know — understanding that the Canon 
 was an old friend of Henry Barron — where the Meyntll 
 affair exactly was. 
 
 2 2 
 
388 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 'Am I an old friend of Henry Barron?' said France 
 slowly. 
 
 * He says you are,' laughed the Professor — ' I happened 
 to go up to town in the same carriage with him a fortnight 
 ago' 
 
 * He comes here a good deal — but he never takes my 
 advice,' said France. 
 
 The Professor enquired what the advice had been. 
 
 * To let it alone ! ' France looked round suddenly at his 
 companion. ' I have come to the conclusion ' — he added 
 drily — ' that Barron is not a person of delicacy.* 
 
 The Professor, rather taken aback, argued on Barron's 
 behalf. "Would it have been seemly or right for a man — 
 a Churchman of Barron's prominence — to keep such a 
 thing to himself at such a critical moment ? Surely it 
 had an important bearing on the controversy. 
 
 ' I see none,' said France, a spark of impatience in the 
 small black eyes that shone so vividly above his large 
 hanging cheeks. ' Meynell says the story is untrue.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but let him prove it ! ' cried the Professor, his 
 young-old face flushing. ' He has made a wanton attack 
 upon the Church ; he cannot possibly expect any quarter 
 from us. We are not in the least bound to hold him 
 immaculate— quite the contrary. Men of that impulsive 
 undisciplined type are, as we all know, very susceptible to 
 woman.' 
 
 France faced round upon his companion in a slow, 
 contemptuous wonder. 
 
 * I see you take your views from the anonymous letters ? ' 
 The Professor laughed awkwardly. 
 
 ' Not necessarily. I understand Barron has direct evi- 
 dence. Anyway, let Meynell take the usual steps. If 
 he takes them successfully, we shall all rejoice. But his 
 character has been made, so to speak, one of the pieces in 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 389 
 
 the game. We are really not bound to accept it at his 
 own valuation.' 
 
 * I think you will have to accept it/ said France. 
 There was a pause. The Professor wondered secretly 
 
 whether France too was beginning to be tarred with the 
 Modernist brush. No ! — impossible. For that the Canon 
 was either too indolent or too busy. 
 
 At last he said — 
 
 ' Seriously : — I should like to know what you really 
 think.' 
 
 ' It is of no importance what I think. But what suggests 
 itself of course is that there is some truth in the story, 
 but that Meynell is not the hero. And he doesn't see 
 his way to clear himself by dishing other people.' 
 
 ' I see.' The obstinacy in the smooth voice rasped 
 France. ' If so, most unlucky for him ! But then let 
 him resign his living, and go quietly into obscurity. He 
 owes it to his own side. For them the whole thing is 
 disaster. He must either clear himself or go.' 
 
 ' Oh, give him a little time ! ' said France sharply ; 
 ' give him a little time.' Then, with a change of tone — 
 * The anonymous letters of course are the really interesting 
 things in the case. Perhaps you have a theory about 
 them ? ' 
 
 The Professor shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * None whatever. I have seen three — including that 
 published in the Post. I understand about twenty have 
 now been traced ; and that they grow increasingly dramatic 
 and detailed. Evidently some clever fellow — who knows 
 a great deal — with a grudge against Meynell ? ' 
 
 ' Ye — es — ' said France, with hesitation. 
 
 * You suspect somebody ? ' 
 
 * Not at all. It is a black business.' 
 
 Then with one large and powerful hand, France 
 
390 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 restrained the kitten, who was for deserting his knee, and 
 with the other he drew towards him the folio volume 
 on which he had been engaged when the Professor came in. 
 
 Vetch took the hint, said a rather frosty good-bye, and 
 departed. 
 
 'A popinjay!' said France to himself, when he was 
 left alone, thinking with annoyance of the Professor's 
 curly hair, of his elegant serge suit, and the gem from 
 Knossos that he wore on the little finger of his left hand. 
 Then he took up a large pipe which lay beside his books, 
 filled it, and hung meditatively over the fire. He was 
 angry with Vetch, and disgusted with himself. 
 
 * Why haven't I given Meynell a helping hand ? "Why 
 did I talk like that to Barron when he first began this 
 business ? And why have I let him come here as he has done 
 since — without telling him what I really thought of him ? ' 
 
 He fell for some minutes into an abyss of thought ; 
 thought which seemed to range not so much over the cir- 
 cumstances connected with Meynell, as over the whole of 
 his own past. 
 
 But he emerged from it with a long shake of the head. 
 
 * My habits are my habits ! ' he said to himself with 
 a kind of bitter decision ; and laying down his pipe he went 
 back to his papers. 
 
 Almost at the same moment the Bishop was inter- 
 viewing Henry Barron in the little book-lined room beyond 
 the main library, which he kept for the business he most 
 disliked. He never put the distinction into words ; but 
 when any member of his clergy was invited to step into the 
 further room, the person so invited felt depressed. 
 
 Barron's substantial presence seemed to fill the little 
 study, as, very much on bis defence, he sat tete d tUe with 
 the Bishop. He had recognised from the beginning that 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 391 
 
 nothing of what he had done was really welcome or accept- 
 able to Bishop Crave ; while he, on his side, felt himself a 
 benefactor to the Church in general, and to the Bishop of 
 Markborough in particular. Instinctively he knew that the 
 Bishop's taste ungratefully disapproved of him ; and the 
 knowledge contributed an extra shade of pomposity to 
 his manner. 
 
 He had just given a sketch of the Church meeting at 
 Upcote, and of the situation in the village up to date. The 
 Bishop sat absently patting his thin knees, and evidently 
 very much concerned. 
 
 ' A most unpleasant — a most painful scene ! I confess, 
 Mr. Barron, I think it would have been far better if you 
 had avoided it.' 
 
 Barron held himself rigidly erect. 
 
 ' My lord, my one object from the beginning has 
 been to force Meynell into the open. For his own sake — 
 for the parish's — the situation must be brought to an end, 
 in some way. The indecency of it at present is intoler- 
 able.' 
 
 * You forget. The trial is only a few weeks off. 
 Meynell will certainly be deprived.' 
 
 • No doubt. But then there is the Privy Council Appeal. 
 And even when he is deprived, Meynell does not mean to 
 leave the village. He has made all his arrangements to 
 stay and defy the judgment. We must prove to him, even 
 if we have to do it v/ith what looks like harshness, that 
 until he clears himself of this business, this diocese at least 
 will have none of him ! ' 
 
 ' Why the great majority of the people adore him 1 ' — 
 cried the Bishop. * And meanwhile I understand the 
 other poor things are already driven away. They tell me 
 the Fox Wiltons' house is to let, and Miss Puttenham 
 gone to Paris indefinitely.' 
 
392 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Barron slightly shrugged his shoiilders. * We are all 
 very sorry for them, my lord. It is indeed a sad business. 
 But we must remember at the same time that all these 
 persons have been in a conspiracy together to impose a 
 falsehood on their neighbours ; and that for many years 
 we have been admitting Miss Puttenham to our house 
 and our friendship — to the companionship of our daughters 
 — in complete ignorance of her character.' 
 
 ' Oh, poor thing ! poor thing ! ' said the Bishop hastily. 
 * The thought of her haunts me. She must know what 
 is going on — or a great deal of it — though indeed I hope 
 she doesn't — I hope with all my heart she doesn't ! Well, 
 now, Mr. Barron — you have written me long letters — and 
 I trust that you will allow me a little close enquiry into 
 some of these matters.' 
 
 ' The closer the better, my lord,' 
 
 * You have not as yet come to any opinion whatever 
 as to the authorship of these letters ? ' 
 
 Barron looked troubled. 
 
 • I am entirely at a loss,' he said, emphatically. 
 ' Once or twice I have thought myself on the track. There 
 is that man, East, whose license Meynell opposed — ' 
 
 ' One of the " aggrieved parishioners," ' said the Bishop, 
 raising his hands and eyebrows. 
 
 ' You regret, my lord, that we should be mixed up 
 with such a person ? So do I. But with a whole parish 
 in a conspiracy to support the law-breaking that was 
 going on, what could we do ? However that is not 
 now the point. I have suspected East. I have ques- 
 tioned him. He shewed extraordinary levity, and was 
 — to myself personally — what I can only call insolent. 
 But he swore to me that he had not written the letters ; 
 and indeed I am convinced that he could not have written 
 them. He is almost an illiterate — can barely read and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 393 
 
 write. I still suspect him. But if he is in it, it is only 
 as a tool of some one else.* 
 
 ' And the son — Judith Sabin's son ? ' 
 
 ' Naturally, I have turned my mind in that direction 
 also. But John Broad is a very simple fellow — has no 
 enmity against Meynell, quite the contrary. He vows 
 that he never knew why his mother went abroad with 
 Lady Fox-Wilton, or why she went to America ; and though 
 she talked a lot of what he calls " queer stuff " in 
 the few hours he had with her before my visit, 
 he couldn't make head or tail of a good deal of 
 it, and didn't trouble his head about it. And after my 
 visit, he found her incoherent and delirious. Moreover, 
 he declared to me solemnly that he knew nothing about 
 the letters ; and I certainly have no means of bringing 
 them home to him.* 
 
 The Bishop's blue eyes were sharply fixed upon the 
 speaker. But on the whole Barron's manner in these 
 remarks had favourably impressed his companion. 
 
 ' We come then — ' he said gravely — ' to the further 
 question which you will of course see will be asked — must 
 be asked. Can you be certain that your own conversation 
 — of course quite unconsciously on your part — has not 
 given hints to some person — some unscrupulous third 
 person — an enemy of Meynell's — who has been making 
 use of information he may have got from you to write these 
 letters ? Forgive the enquiry — but you will realise how 
 very important it is — for Church interests — that the suit 
 against Meynell in the Church Courts should not be in any 
 way mixed up with this wretched and discreditable business 
 of the anonymous letters ! ' 
 
 Barron flushed a little. 
 
 ' I have of course spoken of the matter in my own 
 family,' he said proudly. * I have already told you, 
 
394 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 my lord, that I confided the whole thing to my son Stephen 
 very early in the day/ 
 The Bishop smiled. 
 
 * We may dismiss Stephen I think — the soul of honour, 
 and devoted to Meynell. Can you remember no one 
 else ? ' 
 
 Barron endeavoured to shew no resentment at these 
 enquiries. But it was clear that they galled. 
 
 * The only other members of my household are my 
 daughter Theresa, and occasionally, for a week or two, 
 my son Maurice. I answer for them both.' 
 
 * Your son Maurice is at work in London.* 
 
 ' He is in business — the manager of an office,' said 
 Barron stiffly. 
 
 The. Bishop's face was shrewdly thoughtful. After a 
 pause, he said — 
 
 ' You have, of course, examined the handwriting ? But 
 I understand that recently all the letters have been type- 
 written ? ' 
 
 ' All but two — the letter to Dawes, and a letter which 
 I believe was received by Mrs. Elsmere. I gave the Dawes 
 letter to Meynell at his request.' 
 
 * Having failed to identify the hand-writing ? ' 
 
 * Certainly.' 
 
 Yet, even as he spoke, for the first time, a sudden 
 misgiving, like the prick of an insect, brushed Barron's 
 consciousness. He had not, as a matter of fact, examined 
 the Dawes letter very carefully, having been, as he now 
 clearly remembered, in a state of considerable mental 
 excitement during the whole time it was in his possession, 
 and thinking much more of the efiect of the first crop of 
 letters on the situation, than of the details of the Dawes 
 letter itself. But he did remember, now that the Bishop 
 pressed him, that when he first looked at the letter he had 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 395 
 
 been conscious of a momentary sense of likeness to a hand- 
 writing he knew — to Maurice's handwriting, in fact. But 
 he had repelled the suggestion as absurd in the first instance, 
 and after a momentary start, he angrily repelled it now. 
 The Bishop emerged from a brown study. 
 
 * It is a most mysterious thing ! Have you been able to 
 verify the postmarks ? ' 
 
 * So far as I know, all the letters were posted at Mark- 
 borough.' 
 
 ' No doubt by some accomplice,' said the Bishop. He 
 paused and sighed. Then he looked searchingly, though 
 still hesitatingly, at his companion. 
 
 ' Mr. Barron, I trust you will allow me — as your Bishop 
 — one little reminder. As Christians, we must be slow 
 to believe evil.* 
 
 Barron flushed again. 
 
 ' I have been slow to believe it, my lord. But in all 
 things I have put the Church's interest first.' 
 
 Something in the Bishop suddenly and sharply drew 
 away from the man beside him. He held himself with a 
 cold dignity. 
 
 * For myself, personally, — I tell you frankly — I cannot 
 bring myself to believe a word of this story, so far as it 
 concerns Meynell. I believe there is a terrible mistake 
 at the bottom of it, and I prefer to trust twenty years of 
 noble living rather than the tale of a poor, distraught 
 creature like Judith Sabin. At the same time, of course, 
 I recognise that you have a right to your opinions, as I 
 have to mine. But, my dear Sir — ' and here the Bishop 
 rose abruptly — ' let me urge upon you one thing. Keep 
 an open mind — not only for all that tells against Meynell, 
 but all that tells for him! Don't — you will allow me this 
 friendly word — don't land yourself in a great, perhaps a 
 life-long self-reproach ! ' 
 
396 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 There was a note of sternness in the speaker's voice ; 
 but the small parchment face, and the eyes of china-blue 
 shone, as though kindled from within by the pure and 
 generous spirit of the man. 
 
 ' My lord, I have said my say ' — Barron had also risen, 
 and stood towering over the Bishop — * I leave it now in the 
 hands of God.' 
 
 The Bishop winced again, and was holding out a 
 limp hand for goodbye, when Barron said suddenly — 
 
 ' Perhaps you will allow me one question, my lord. Has 
 Meynell been to see you ? Has he written to you even ? 
 I may say that I urged him to do so.' 
 
 The Bishop was taken aback and saw no way out. 
 
 ' I have had no direct communication with him,' he 
 said, reluctantly ; * no doubt because of our already 
 strained relations.* 
 
 On Barron's lip there dawned something which could 
 hardly be called a smile, — or triumphant ; but the Bishop 
 caught it. In another minute the door had closed upon his 
 visitor. 
 
 Barron walked away through the Close, his mind seething 
 with anger and resentment. He felt that he had been 
 treated as an embarrassment rather than an ally ; and he 
 vowed to himself that the Bishop's whole attitude had 
 been grudging and unfriendly. 
 
 As he passed onto the broad stone pavement that bordered 
 the south transept, he became aware of a man coming to- 
 wards him. Raising his eyes he saw that it was Meynell. 
 
 There was no way of avoiding the encounter. As the 
 two men passed, Barron made a mechanical sign of recogni- 
 tion. Meynell lifted his head and looked at him full. It 
 was a strange look, intent and piercing, charged with the 
 personality of the man behind it. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 397 
 
 Barron passed on, quivering. He felt that he hated 
 Meynell. The disguise of a public motive dropped away • 
 and he knew that he hated him personally. 
 
 At the same time, the sudden slight misgiving he had 
 been conscious of in the Bishop's presence ran through 
 him again. He feared he knew not what ; and as he walked 
 to the station the remembrance of Meynell's expression 
 mingled with the vague uneasiness he tried in vain to put 
 from him. 
 
 Meynell walked home by Forked Pond to Maudeley. 
 He lingered a little in the leafless woods round the cottage, 
 now shut up, and he chose the longer path that he might 
 actually pass the very window near which Mary had stood 
 when she spoke those softly broken words — words from a 
 woman's soul — which his memory had by heart. And his 
 pulse leapt at the scarcely admitted thought that perhaps 
 — now — in a few weeks, he might be walking the dale 
 paths with Mary. But there were stern things to be 
 done first. 
 
 At Maudeley he found Flaxman awaiting him, and the 
 two passed into the library, where Rose, though bubbling 
 over with question and conjecture, self-denyingly refrained 
 from joining them. The consultation of the two men lasted 
 about an hour, and when Flaxman rejoined his wife, he 
 came alone. 
 
 ' Gone ? ' said Rose, with a disappointed look. ' Oh ! 
 I did want to shake his hand ! ' 
 
 Flaxman's gesture was unsympathetic. 
 
 ' It is not the time for that yet. This business has 
 gone deep with him. I don't exactly know what he will 
 do. But he has made me promise various things.' 
 
 ' When does he see — Torquemada ? ' said Rose, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' I think — to-morrow morning.* 
 
398 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' H'm. Good luck to hira ! Please let me know also 
 precisely when I may crush Lady St. Morice/ 
 
 Lady St. Morice was the wife of the Lord Lieutenant, 
 and had at a recent dinner party, in Rose's presence, hotly 
 asserted her belief in the charges brought against the Rector 
 of Upcote. She possessed a private chapel adorned with 
 pre-Raphaelite frescoes, and was the sister of one of the 
 chief leaders of the High Orthodox party in Convocation. 
 
 ' She doesn't often speak to the likes of me — * said Rose ; 
 • which of course is a great advantage for the likes of me. 
 But next time I shall speak to her — which will be so good 
 for her. My dear Hugh, don't let Meynell be too magnani- 
 mous — I can't stand it.' 
 
 Flaxman laughed, but rather absently. It was evident 
 that he was still under the strong impression of the con- 
 versation he had just passed through. 
 
 Rose stole up to him, and put her lips to his ear. 
 
 ' Who — was — Hester's father ? * 
 
 Flaxman looked up. 
 
 * I haven't the least idea.* 
 
 ' But of course we must all know sometime,' said Rose 
 discontentedly ; ' Catharine knows already.' 
 
 Meynell passed that evening in his study, after some 
 hours spent in the Christmas business of a large parish. 
 His mind was full of agitation, and when midnight struck, 
 ushering in Christmas Eve, he was still undecided as to his 
 precise course. 
 
 Among the letters of the day, lying scattered beside him 
 on the floor, there was yet further evidence of the power 
 of Barron's campaign. There were warm expressions 
 indeed of sympathy and indignation to be found among 
 them, but, on the whole, Meynell realised that his own side's 
 belief in him was shewing some signs of distress, while 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 399 
 
 the attack upon him was increasing in violence. His 
 silence even to his most intimate friends, even to his 
 Bishop ; the disappearance from England of the other 
 persons named in the scandal ; the constant elaborations and 
 embellishments of the story as it passed from mouth to 
 mouth : — these things were telling against him steadily and 
 disastrously. 
 
 As he hung over the fire, he anxiously reconsidered his 
 conduct towards the Bishop, while Catharine's phrase — 
 ' He too has his rights ! ' lingered in his memory. He 
 more than suspected that his silence had given pain ; and 
 his affection for the Bishop made the thought a sore one. 
 
 But after all what good would have been done, had he 
 even put the Bishop in possession of the whole story ? The 
 Bishop's bare denial would have been added to his ; nothing 
 more. There couJd have been no explanation — public 
 or private ; nothing to persuade those who did not wish 
 to be persuaded. 
 
 His thought wandered hither and thither. From the 
 dim regions of the past there emerged a letter. . . . 
 
 ' My dear old Meynell, the thing is to be covered up. 
 Ralph will acknowledge the child, and all precautions are 
 to be taken. I think what he does he will do thoroughly. 
 Alice wishes it — and what can I do, either for her or for the 
 child ? Nothing. And for me, I see but one way out — 
 which will be the best for her too in the end, poor darling. 
 My wife's letter a week ago destroyed my last hope. I 
 am going out to-night — and I shall not come back. Stand 
 by her, Richard. I think this kind of lie on which we 
 are all embarked is wrong — (not that you had anything to 
 do vrith. it !) But it is society which is wrong, and imposes 
 it on us. Anyway the choice is made, and now you must 
 support and protect her — and the child — for my sake. 
 For I know you love me, dear boy — little as I deserve it. 
 
400 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 — it is part of your general gift of loving, which has 
 always seemed to me so strange. However — whatever 
 I was made for, you were made to help the unhappy. 
 So I have the less scruple in sending you this last word. 
 She will want youi help. The child's lot in that 
 household will not be a happy one ; and AUce will have 
 to look on. But, help her ! — help her above all to 
 keep silence, for this thing, once done, must be irrevoc- 
 able. Only so can my poor Alice recover her youth — 
 think, she is only twenty now ! — and the child's future 
 be saved. Alice, I hope, will marry. And when the 
 child marries, you may — nay, I think you must — tell the 
 husband. I have written this to Ealph. But for all 
 the rest of the world, the truth is now wiped out. The 
 child is no longer mine — Alice was never my love — and I 
 am going to the last sleep. My sister Fanny Meryon knows 
 something ; enough to make her miserable ; but no names 
 or details. Well ! — goodbye. In your company alone 
 have I ever seemed to touch the life that might have been 
 mine. But it is too late. The will in me — the mainspring 
 — is diseased. This is a poor return — but forgive me — 
 my very dear Richard ! Here comes the boat ; and there 
 is a splendid sea rising.' 
 
 There, in a locked drawer, not far from him, lay this 
 letter. Meynell's thought plunged back into the past ; 
 into its passionate feeling, its burning pity, its powerless 
 affection. He recalled his young hero-worship for his 
 brilliant kinsman ; the hour when he had identified the 
 battered form on the shore of the Donegal Lough; the 
 sight of Alice's young anguish ; and all the subsequent 
 effort on his part, for Christ's sake, for Neville's sake, 
 to help and shield a woman and child, effort from which 
 his own soul had learnt so much. 
 
 Pure and sacred recollections ! — mingled often with the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 401 
 
 moral or intellectual perplexities that enter into all things 
 human. 
 
 Then — at a bound — his thoughts rushed on to the man, 
 who, without pity, without shame, had dragged all these 
 sad things, these helpless, irreparable griefs, into the cruel 
 light of a malicious pubUcity — in the name of Christ — 
 in the name of the Church ! 
 
 To-morrow ! He rose, with a face set like iron, and 
 went back to his table to finish a half-written review. 
 
 • Theresa — after eleven — I shall be engaged. See that 
 I am not disturbed.' 
 
 Theresa murmured assent, but when her father 
 closed the door of her sitting-room, she did not go 
 back immediately to her household accounts. Her good 
 plain face shewed a disturbed mind. 
 
 Her father's growing excitability and irritation, and 
 the bad accounts of Maurice, troubled her sorely. It 
 was only that morning Mr. Barron had become aware 
 that Maurice had lost his employment, and was again 
 adrift in the world. Theresa had known it for a week 
 or two, but had not been allowed to tell. And she 
 tried not to remember how often of late her brother 
 had applied to her for money. 
 
 Going back to her accounts with a sigh, she missed a 
 necessary receipt and went into the dining-room to look 
 for it. While she was there, the front door bell rang and 
 was answered, unheard by her. Thus it fell out that as 
 she came back into the hall, she found herself face to face 
 with Richard Meynell. 
 
 She stood paralysed with astonishment. He bowed to her 
 gravely and passed on. Something in his look seemed to her 
 to spell calamity. She went back to her room, and sat there 
 dumb and trembling ; dreadmg what she might see or hear. 
 
 2 D 
 
402 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Meanwhile Meynell had been ushered into Baxron's 
 study by the old butler, who was no less astonished than 
 his mistress. 
 
 Barron rose stiffly to meet his visitor. The two men 
 stood opposite each other as the door closed. 
 Barron spoke first. 
 
 ' You will I trust let me know, Mr. Meynell, without 
 delay, to what I owe this unexpected visit. I was of course 
 quite ready to meet your desire for an interview, but 
 your letter gave me no clue — ' 
 
 ' I thought it better not,' said Meynell quietly. ' May 
 we sit down ? ' 
 
 Barron mechanically waved the speaker to a chair, and 
 sat down himself. Meynell seemed to pause a moment, his 
 eyes on the grovmd. Then suddenly he raised them. 
 
 ' Mr. Barron, what I have come to say will be a shock 
 to you. I have discovered the author of the anonymous 
 letters which have now for nearly three months been 
 defiling this parish and diocese.' 
 
 Barron's sudden movement shewed the effect of the 
 words. But he held himself well in hand. 
 
 * I congratulate you,' he said coldly. ' It is what we 
 have all been trying to discover.' 
 
 ' But the discovery will be painful to you. For the 
 author of these letters, Mr. Barron — is — your son Maurice.' 
 At these words, spoken with an indescribable intensity 
 and firmness, Barron sprang from his seat. 
 
 ' It was not necessary, I think, Sir, to come to my house 
 in order to insult my family and myself ! It would have 
 been better to write. And you may be very sure that if 
 Tou cannot punish your slanderers, we can — and will ! ' 
 
 His attitude expressed a quivering fury. Meynell 
 took a packet from his breast pocket, and quietly laid it 
 on the table beside him. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 403 
 
 ' In this envelope you will find a document — a confession 
 of a piece of wrongdoing on Maurice's part of which I believe 
 you have never been informed. His poor sister concealed 
 it — and paid for it. Do you remember three years ago 
 the letting loose of some valuable young horses from 
 Farmer Grange's stables — the hue and cry after them — and 
 the difficulty there was in recapturing them on the Chase ? ' 
 
 Barron stared at the speaker — speechless. 
 
 ' You remember that a certain young fellow was ac- 
 cused — James Aston — one of my Simday school teachers 
 — who had proposed to Grange's daughter, and had been 
 sent about his business by the father ? Aston was in 
 fact just about to be nm in by the police, when a 
 clue came to my hands. I followed it up. Then I found 
 out that the ringleader in the whole afiair had been your 
 son Maurice. If you remember he was then at home, 
 hanging about the village, and he had had a quarrel with 
 Grange, — I forget about what. He wrote an anonymous 
 post-card accusing Aston. However I got on the track; 
 and finally I made him give me a written confession — to 
 protect Aston. Heavy compensation was paid to Grange — 
 by your daughter — and the thing was hushed up. I was 
 always doubtful whether I ought not to have come to you. 
 But it was not long after the death of your wife. I was 
 very sorry for you aU — and Maurice pleaded hard. I did 
 not even tell Stephen; but I kept the confession. I 
 came upon it a night or two ago, in the drawer where I 
 had also placed the letter to Dawes which I got from 
 you. Suddenly, the likeness in the handwritings struck me, 
 and I made a very careful comparison.' 
 
 He opened the packet, and took out the two papers, 
 which he offered to Barron. 
 
 ' I think if you will compare the marked passages, you 
 will see at least a striking resemblance.' 
 
 2 D 2 
 
404 THE CASE OF RICHAED MEYNELL 
 
 With a shaking hand Barron refused the papers. 
 
 * I have no doubt, Sir, you can manufacture any 
 evidence you please ! — but I do not intend to follow you 
 through it. Handwriting, as we all know, can be made 
 to prove anything. Reserve your documents for your 
 solicitor. I shall at once instruct mine.' 
 
 ' But I am only at the beginning of my case,' said 
 Meynell with the same composure. ' I think you had 
 better listen ... A passage in one of the recent 
 letters gave me a hint — an idea. I went straight to 
 East the publican, and taxed him with being the 
 accomplice of the writer. I blustered a little — he 
 thought I had more evidence than I had — and at 
 last I got the whole thing out of him. The first 
 letter was written ' — the speaker raised his finger, arti- 
 culating each word with slow precision — ' by your son 
 Maurice, and posted by East, two days after the cage acci- 
 dent at the Victoria pit ; and they have pursued the same 
 division of labour ever since. East confesses he was 
 induced to do it by the wish to revenge himself on me 
 for the attack on his license ; and Maurice occasionally 
 gave him a little money. I have all the dates of the 
 letters, and a statement of where they were posted. If 
 necessary. East will give evidence.' 
 
 A silence. Barron had resumed his seat, and was 
 automatically lifting a small book which lay on a table 
 near him and letting it fall, while Meynell was speaking. 
 When Meynell paused, he said thickly — 
 
 ' A plausible tale no doubt — and a very convenient 
 one for you. But allow me to point out, it rests entirely 
 on East's word. Very Ukely he wrote the letters 
 himself, and is attempting to make Maurice the scape- 
 goat.* 
 
 * Where do you suppose he could have got his 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 405 
 
 information from ? ' said Meynell, looking up. ' There is 
 no sugu'estiou that he saw Judith Sabin before her death.' 
 
 Barron's face worked, while Meynell watched him 
 implacably. At last he said — 
 
 ' How should I know ? The same question applies to 
 Maurice.' 
 
 ' Not at all. There the case is absolutely clear. Maurice 
 got his information from you.' 
 
 ' A gratuitous statement, Sir ! — which you cannot 
 prove.' 
 
 ' From you ' — repeated Meynell. ' And from certain 
 spying operations that he and East undertook to- 
 gether. Do you deny that you told Maurice all that 
 Judith Sabin told you — together with her identification of 
 myself ? ' 
 
 The room seemed to wait for Barron's reply. He made 
 none. He burst out instead — 
 
 ' Wliat possible motive could Maurice have had for 
 such an action ? The thing isn't even plausible ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice had various old scores to settle with me ' — 
 said Meynell, quietly. ' I have come across him more than 
 once in this parish — no need to say how. I tried to prevent 
 him from publicly disgracing himself and you ; and I did 
 prevent him. He saw in this business an easy revenge on 
 a sanctimonious parson who had interfered with his 
 pleasures.' 
 
 Barron had risen, and was pacing the room with un- 
 steady steps. Meynell still watched him, with the same 
 glitter in the eye. Meynell's whole nature indeed, 
 at the moment, had gathered itself into one avenging 
 force ; he was at once sword and smiter. The man before 
 him seemed to him embodied cruelty and hypocrisy ; he 
 felt neither pity nor compunction. And presently he said 
 abruptly — 
 
4o6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' But I am afraid I have much more serious matter to 
 lay before you than this business of the letters.' 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' 
 
 Taking another letter from his pocket, Meynell glanced 
 at it a moment, and then handed it to Barron. Barron 
 was for an instant inclined to refuse it, as he had refused 
 the others. But Meynell insisted. 
 
 ' Believe me, you had better read it. It is a letter 
 from Mr. Flaxman to myself, and it concerns a grave 
 charge against your son. I bring you a chance of saving 
 him from prosecution ; but there is no time to be lost.' 
 
 Barron took the letter, carried it to the window, and 
 stood reading it. Meynell sat on the other side of the room 
 watching him, still in the same impassive ' possessed ' 
 state. 
 
 Suddenly, Barron put his hand over his face, and a groan 
 he could not repress broke from him. He turned his back 
 and stood bending over the letter. 
 
 At the same instant a shiver ran through Meynell, 
 like the return to life of some arrested energy, some 
 paralysed power. The shock of that sound of suffering 
 had found him iron ; it left him flesh. The spiritual habit 
 of a lifetime revived ; for ' what we do we are.' 
 
 He rose slowly and went over to the window. 
 
 ' You can still save him — from the immediate conse- 
 quences of this at least — if you will. I have arranged that 
 with Flaxman. It was my seeing him enter the room alone 
 where the coins were, the night of the party, that first led to 
 the idea that he might have taken them. Then, as you see, 
 certain dealers' shops were watched by a private detective. 
 Maurice appeared — sold the Hermes coin — was traced 
 to his lodgings and identified. So far the thing has not 
 gone beyond private enquiry ; for the dealer will do what 
 Flaxman wants him to do. But Maurice still has the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 407 
 
 more famous of the two coins ; and if he attempts to sell 
 that, after the notices to the police, there may be an exposure 
 any day. You must go up to London as soon as you can — ' 
 
 * I will go to-night/ said Barron, in a tone scarcely 
 to be heard. He stood with his hands on his sides, staring 
 out upon the gantry garden outside, just as a gardener's 
 boy laden with holly and ivy for the customary Christmas 
 decorations of the house was passing across the lawn. 
 
 There was silence a little. Meynell walked slowly up 
 and down the room. At last Barron turned towards him ; 
 the very incapacity of the plump and ruddy face for any 
 tragic expression made it the more tragic. 
 
 ' I propose to write to the Bishop at once. Do you 
 desire a public statement ? * 
 
 ' There must be a public statement,' said Meynell 
 gravely. ' The thing has gone too far. Flaxman and I have 
 drawn one up. Will you look at it ? ' 
 
 Barron took it, and went to his writing-table. 
 
 ' Wait a moment ! ' said Meynell, following him, and 
 laying his hand on the open page. ' I don't want you to 
 sign that by force rnajeure. Dismiss — if you can — 
 any thought of any hold I may have upon you, because of 
 Maurice's misdoing. You and I, Barron, have known each 
 other some years. We were once friends. I ask you — 
 not under any threat — not under any compulsion — to 
 accept my word, as an honest man, that I am absolutely 
 innocent of the charge you have brought against me.' 
 
 Barron, who was sittmg before his writmg-table, buried 
 his face in his hands a moment ; then raised it. 
 
 ' I accept it,' he said, almost inaudibly. 
 
 ' You believe me ? ' 
 
 ' I believe you.' 
 
 Meynell drew a long breath. Then he added, with a 
 first sign of emotion — ' And I may also count upon your 
 
408 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 doing henceforth what you can to protect that poor lady 
 Miss Puttenham, and her kinsfolk, from the consequences 
 of this long persecution ? ' 
 
 Barron made a sign of assent. Meynell left him to 
 read and sign the public apology and retractation which 
 Flaxman had mainly drawn up ; while the Rector himself 
 took up a Bradshaw lying on the table, and walked to 
 the window to consult it. 
 
 ' You will catch the 1.40,' he said, as Barron rose from 
 the writing-table. ' Let me advise you to get him out 
 of the country for a time.' 
 
 Barron said nothing. He came heavily towards the 
 window, and the two men stood looking at each other ; 
 overtaken both of them by a mounting wave of conscious- 
 ness. The events, passions, emotions of the preceding 
 months pressed into memory, and beat against the silence. 
 But it was Meynell who turned pale. 
 
 ' What a pity — to spoil the fight ! ' he said in a low 
 voice. ' It would have been splendid — to fight it — fair.' 
 
 ' I shall of course withdraw my name from the Arches 
 suit,' said Barron, leaning over a chair, his eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 Meynell did not reply. He took up his hat ; only saying 
 as he went towards the door — 
 
 ' Remember — Flaxman holds his hand entirely. The 
 situation is with you.' Then, after a moment's hesitation, 
 he added simply, almost shyly — ' God help you I Won't 
 you consult your daughter ? ' 
 
 Barron made no answer. The door opened and shut. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 A MILD January day on the terrace of St. Germains. After 
 a morning of hoar-frost the sun was shining brightly on 
 the terrace, and on the panorama it commands. A pleasant 
 light lay on the charming houses that front the skirts of 
 the forest, on the blue-grey windings of the Seine, on the 
 groves of leafless poplars interwoven with its course, on 
 the plain with its thickly sewn villages, on the height of 
 Mont Valerien, behind which lay Paris. In spite of the 
 sunshine, however, it was winter, and there was no movement 
 in St. Germains. The terrace and the road leading from it 
 to the town were deserted ; and it was easy to see from the 
 aspect of the famous hotel at the corner of the terrace 
 that, although not closed, it despaired of visitors. Only a 
 trio of French officers in the far distance of the terrace, and 
 a white-capped bonne struggling against the light wind 
 with a basket on her arm, offered any sign of life to the 
 observant eyes of a young man who was briskly pacing 
 up and down that section of the Terrace which abuts on 
 the hotel. 
 
 The young man was Philip Meryon. His dark tweed 
 suit and fur waistcoat disclosed a figure once singularly 
 agile and slender, on which self-indulgence was now 
 beginning to tell. Nevertheless, as the bonne passed him 
 she duly noted and admired his pictorial good looks, 
 opining at the same time that he was not French. 
 Why was he there ? She decided in her own mind that 
 
 409 
 
410 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 he was there for an assignation, by which she meant of 
 course a meeting with a married woman ; and she smiled 
 the incorrigible French smile. 
 
 Assignation or no, she would have seen had she looked 
 closer, that the young man in question was in no merely 
 beatific or expectant frame of mind. Meryon's look was a 
 look both of excitement, — as of one under the influence 
 of some news of a startling kind — and of anxiety. 
 
 Would she come ? And if she came would he be able 
 to bring and hold her to any decision, without — without 
 doing what even he shrank from doing ? 
 
 For that ill chance in a thousand which Meynell had 
 foreseen, and hoped, as mortals do, to baffle, had come to 
 pass. That morning, a careless letter enclosing the 
 payment of a debt, and written by a young actor who 
 had formed part of one of the Bohemian parties at the 
 Abbey during the summer, and had now been playing 
 for a week in the Markborough theatre, had given Meryon 
 the clue to the many vague conjectures or perplexities 
 which had already crossed his mind with regard to Hester's 
 origin and history. 
 
 ' Your sanctified cousin, Richard Meynell ' — wrot« the 
 young man — ' seems after all to be made of the common 
 clay. There are strange stories going the round about 
 him here ; especially in a crop of anonymous letters of 
 which the author can't be found. I send you a local news- 
 paper which has dared to print one of them with dashes 
 for the names. The landlord of the inn told me how to fill 
 them up, and you will see I have done it. The beauteous 
 maiden herself has vanished from the scene — as no doubt 
 you know. Indeed you probably know all about it. 
 However, as you are abroad, and not likely to see these 
 local rags, and as no London paper will print these 
 things, you may perhaps be interested in what I enclose. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 41 1 
 
 Alack, my dear Pliilip, for the saints ! They seem not so 
 very different from you and me.' 
 
 The eagerness with which Philip had read the newspaper 
 cutting enclosed in the letter was only equalled by the 
 eagerness with which afterwards he fell to meditating 
 upon it ; pursuing and ferreting out the truth, through a 
 maze of personal recollection and inference. 
 
 Richard ! — nonsense ! He laughed, from a full throat. 
 Not for one moment was Philip misled by Judith Sabin's 
 mistake. He was a man of great natural shrewdness, 
 blunted, no doubt, by riotous living ; but there was 
 enough of it left, aided by his recent forced contacts with 
 his cousin Richard, all turning on the subject of Hester, 
 to keep him straight. So that without any demur at all 
 he rejected the story as it stood. 
 
 But then, what was the fact behind it ? Impossible 
 that Judith Sabin's story should be all delusion ! For 
 whom did she mistake Richard ? 
 
 Suddenly, as he sat brooding and smoking, a vision of 
 Hester flashed upon him, as she had stood laughing 
 and pouting, beneath the full length picture of Neville 
 Flood, which hung in the big hall of the Abbey. He had 
 pointed it out to her on their way through the house — 
 where she had peremptorily refused to linger — to the old 
 garden behind. 
 
 He could hear his own question : — ' There ! — aren't 
 you exactly like him ? Turn and look at yourself in the 
 glass opposite. Oh, you needn't be offended ! He was 
 the handsome man of his day.' 
 
 Of course ! The truth jumped to the eyes ; now that 
 one was put in the way of seeing it. And on this decisive 
 recollection there had followed a rush of others, no less 
 pertinent ; things said by his dead mother about the 
 brother whom she had loved and bitterly regretted. So 
 
412 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the wronged lady, whom he would have married but for his 
 wife's obstinacy, was ' Aunt Alice ! ' Philip remembered to 
 have once seen her from a distance in the Upcote woods. 
 Hester had pointed her out, finger on lip, as they stood 
 hiding in a thicket of fern ; a pretty woman still. His 
 mother had never mentioned a name ; probably she had 
 never known it ; but to the love-affair she had always 
 attributed some share in her brother's death. 
 
 From point to point, he tracked it, the poor secret 
 till he had run it down. By degrees everything fitted in ; 
 he was confident that he had guessed the truth. 
 
 Then, abruptly, he turned to look at its bearing on 
 his own designs and fortimes. 
 
 He supposed himself to be in love with Hester. At 
 any rate he was violently conscious of that hawk-like 
 instinct of pursuit which he was accustomed to call love. 
 Hester's mad and childish imprudences, which the cooler 
 self in Meryon was quite ready to recognise as such, 
 had made the hawking a singularly easy task so far. 
 Meynell, of course, had put up difficulties ; with regard 
 to this Scotch business it had been necessary to lie 
 pretty hard, and to bribe some humble folk, in order to 
 get round him. But Hester, by the double fact that she 
 was at once so far removed from the mere ingenue, and so 
 incredibly ready to risk herself, out of sheer ignorance 
 of life, both challenged and tempted the man whom a 
 disastrous fate had brought across her path, to such a 
 point, that he had long since lost control of himself, and 
 parted with any scruples of conscience he might possess. 
 
 At the same time he was by no means sure of 
 her. He realised his increasing power over her ; he also 
 realised the wild, independent streak in her. Some day — 
 any day — the capricious wilful nature might tire, might 
 change. The prey might escape, and the hawk go empty 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 413 
 
 home. No dallying too long ! Let him decide what to 
 risk — and risk it. 
 
 Meantime that confounded cousin of his was hard at 
 work, through some very capable lawyers, and unless the 
 instructions he — Philip — had conveyed to the woman in 
 Scotland, who, thank goodness, was no less anxious to 
 be rid of him than he to be rid of her, were very shrewdly 
 and exactly carried out, facts might in the end reach 
 Hester, which would give even her recklessness pause. 
 He knew that so far Meynell had been baffled ; he knew 
 that he carried about with him evidence that, for the 
 present, could be brought to bear on Hester with effect ; 
 but things were by no means safe. 
 
 For his own afiairs, they were desperate. As he stood 
 there, he was nothing more in fact than the common needy 
 adventurer, possessed, however, of greater daring, and the 
 debris of much greater pretensions, than most such persons. 
 His financial resources were practically at an end ; and he 
 had come to look upon a clandestine marriage with Hester 
 as the best means of replenishing them. The Fox-Wilton 
 family passed for rich ; and the notion that they must 
 and would be ready to come forward with money, when 
 once the thing was irrevocable, counted for much in the 
 muddy plans of which his mind was full. His own idea 
 was to go to South America — to Buenos Ayres, where 
 money was to be made, and where he had some acquain- 
 tance. In that way he would shake ofi hia creditors, 
 and the Scotch woman, together ; and Meynell would know 
 better than to interfere. 
 
 Suddenly a light figure came fluttering round the corner 
 of the road leading to the Chateau and the town. Philip 
 turned and went to meet her. As he approached her, he was 
 shaken afresh by the excitement of her presence, in addition 
 
414 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 to his more sordid preoccupations. Her wild, provocative 
 beauty seemed to light up the whole wintry scene ; and 
 the few passers by, each and all, stopped to stare at her. 
 Hester laughed aloud when she saw Meryon ; and with 
 her usual recklessness held up her umbrella for signal. It 
 pleased her that two rafins in large black ties and steeple 
 hats paid her an insolent attention as they passed her ; 
 and she stopped to pinch the cheek of a chubby child 
 that had planted itself straight in her path. 
 
 ' Am I late ? ' she said, as they met. ' I only just 
 caught the train. Oh ! I am so hungry ! Don't let 's 
 talk — let 's dejeuner. ' 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 * Will you dare the hotel ? * 
 
 And he pointed to the Pavilion Henri Quatre. 
 
 ' Why not ? Probably there won't be a soul.' 
 
 ' There are always Americans.' 
 
 ' Why not, again ? Tant mieux ! Oh my hair ! ' 
 
 And she put up her two ungloved hands to try and 
 reduce it to something like order. The loveliness of the 
 young curving form, of the pretty hands, of the golden 
 brown hair, struck full on Meryon's turbid sense. 
 
 They turned towards the hotel, and were presently 
 seated in a corner of its glazed gallery, with all the wide 
 prospect of plain and river spread beneath them. Hester 
 was in the highest spirits, and as she sat waiting for the 
 first flat, chattering, and nibbling at her roll, her black felt 
 hat with its plume of cock feathers falling back from the 
 brilliance of her face, she once more attracted all the 
 attention available ; from the two savants who after a morn- 
 ing in the Chateau were lunching at a further table ; from 
 an American family of all ages reduced to silence by sheer 
 wonder and contemplation ; from the waiters, and, not least, 
 from the hotel dog, wagging his tail mutely at her knee. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 415 
 
 Philip felt himself an envied person. He was, indeed, 
 vain of his companion ; but certain tyrannical instincts 
 asserted themselves once or twice. When, or if, she became 
 his possession, he would try and moderate some of this 
 chatter and noise. 
 
 For the present, he occupied himself with playing to her 
 lead ; glancing every now and then mentally, with a 
 secret start, at the information he had possesi^ed about her 
 since the morning. 
 
 She described to him, with a number of new tricks of 
 gesture caught from her French class-mates, how she had 
 that morning outwitted all her guardians, who supposed 
 that she had gone to Versailles with one of the senior 
 members of the class she was attending at the Conserva- 
 toire ; a young teacher, * trh sage,' with whom she had 
 been allowed once or twice to go to museums and galleries. 
 To accomplish it, had required an elaborate series of decep- 
 tions, which Hester had carried through, apparently, without 
 a qualm. Except that at the end of her story there was 
 a passing reference to Aunt Alice — ' poor darling ! ' — ' who 
 would have a fit if she knew.' 
 
 PhUip, coffee-cup in hand, half smiling, looked at her 
 meantime through his partially closed lids. Richard, 
 indeed ! She was Neville all through, the Neville of the 
 picture, except for the colour of the hair, and the soft 
 femininity. And here she sat, prattling — fooHsh dear ! — 
 about ' Mamma,' and ' Aunt Ahce,' and ' my tiresome 
 sisters ! ' 
 
 ' Certainly you shall not pay for me ! — not a sow,' said 
 Hester, flushing. ' I have plenty of money. Take it please, 
 at once.' And she pushed her share over the table, with a 
 peremptory gesture. 
 
 Meryon took it with a smile and a shrug, and she 
 
416 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 throwing away the cigarette she had been defiantly 
 smoking, rose from the table. 
 
 * Now ;.hen, what shall we do ? Oh ! no museums ! I 
 am being educated to death ! Let us go for a walk in the 
 forest ; and then I must catch my train, or the world will 
 go mad.' 
 
 So they walked briskly into the forest, and were soon 
 suflficiently deep among its leaf-strewn paths, to be secure 
 from all observation. Two hours remained of wintry sun- 
 light before they must turn back towards the station. 
 
 Hester walked along swinging a small silk bag in which 
 she carried her handkerchief and purse. Suddenly in a 
 narrow path girt by some tall hollies and withered oaks, 
 she let it fall. Both stooped for it, their hands touched, and 
 as Hester rose she found herself in Meryon's arms. 
 
 She made a violent eSort to free herself, and when it 
 failed, she stood still and submitted to be kissed, Hke 
 one who accepts an experience, with a kind of proud 
 patience. 
 
 ' You think you love me,' she said at last, pushing him 
 away. ' I wonder whether you do ! ' 
 
 And flushed and panting, she leant against a tree, looking 
 at him with a strange expression, in which melancholy 
 mingled with resentment ; passing slowly into something 
 else — that soft and shaken look, that yearning of one 
 longing and yet fearing to be loved, which had struck 
 dismay into Meynell on the afternoon when he had 
 pursued her to the Abbey. 
 
 Philip came close to her. 
 
 ' You think I have no Roddy ! ' — she said, with bitter- 
 ness. ' Don't kiss me again ! ' 
 
 He refrained. But catching her hand, and leaning 
 against the trunk beside her, he poured into her ear pro- 
 testations and flattery ; the ordinary language of such a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 417 
 
 man at such a moment. Hester listened to it with a kind of 
 eagerness. Sometimes, with a slight frown, as though ear and 
 mind waited, intently, for something that did not come. 
 
 ' I wonder how many people you have said the same 
 things to before!' she said suddenly, looking searchingly 
 into his face. * What have you got to tell me about that 
 Scotch girl ? ' 
 
 ' Richard's Scotch girl ? ' — he laughed, throwing his 
 handsome head back against the tree — ' whom Richard 
 supposes me to have married ? Well, I had a great flirta- 
 tion with her, I admit, two years ago, and it is sometimes 
 rather difficult in Scotland to know whether you are 
 married or no. You know of course that all that 's 
 necessary is to declare yourselves man and wife before 
 witnesses ? However — perhaps you would like to see a 
 letter from the lady herself on the subject ? ' 
 
 * You had it ready ? ' she said, doubtfully. 
 
 ' Well, considering that Richard has been threatening 
 me for months, not only with the loss of you, but with 
 all sorts of pains and penalties besides, I have had to do 
 something I Of course I have done a great deal. This is 
 one of the documents in the case. It is an affidavit really, 
 drawn up by my solicitor, and signed by the lady whom 
 Richard supposes to be my injured wife ! ' 
 
 He placed an envelope in her hands. 
 
 Hester opened it with a touch of scornful reluctance. 
 It contained a categorical denial and repudiation of the 
 supposed marriage. 
 
 ' Has Uncle Richard seen it ? ' she asked coldly, as she 
 gave it back to him. 
 
 * Certainly he has, by now.' He took another envelope 
 from his pocket. ' I won't bother you with anything 
 more — the thing is really too absurd ! — but here, if you 
 want it, is a letter from the girl's brother. Brothers are 
 
 2 E 
 
41 8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 generally supposed to keep a sharp look out on their 
 sisters, aren't they ? Well, this brother declares that 
 Meynell's enquiries have come to nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, in the neighbourhood — except that they have 
 made people very angry. He has got no evidence — simply 
 because there is none to get ! I imagine, indeed, that by 
 now he has dropped the whole business. And certainly it 
 is high time he did ; or I shall have to be taking action 
 on my own account before long ! ' 
 
 He looked down upon her, as she stood beside him, 
 trying to make out her expression. 
 
 ' Hester ! ' he broke out, ' don't let 's talk about this any 
 more — it 's damned nonsense! Let 's talk about ourselves. 
 Hester ! — darling ! — I want to make you happy ! — I want 
 to carry you away. Hester, will you marry me at once ? 
 As far as the French law is concerned, I have arranged 
 it all. You could come with me to a certain Mairie I 
 know, to-morrow, and we could marry without anybody 
 having a word to say to it ; and then, Hester, I 'd carry 
 you to Italy ! I know a villa on the Riviera — the Italian 
 Riviera — in a little bay, all oranges and lemons and blue sea. 
 We 'd honeymoon there ; and when we were tired of 
 honeymooning — though how could anyone tire of honey- 
 mooning, with you, you darling ! — we *d go to South 
 America. I have an opening at Buenos A3n'es, which 
 promises to make me a rich man. Come with me ! — it is the 
 most wonderful country in the world. You would be 
 adored there — you woiild have every luxury — we 'd travel 
 and ride and explore — we 'd have a glorious life ! ' 
 
 He had caught her hands again, and stood towering 
 over her, intoxicated with his own tinsel phrases ; almost 
 sincere ; a splendid physical presence ; save for the slight 
 thickening of face and form, the looseness of the hps, the 
 absence of ail freshness in the eyes. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 419 
 
 But Hester, after a first moment of dreamy excitement, 
 drew herself decidedly away, 
 
 ' No, no ! — I can't be such a wretch — I can't ! Mamma 
 and Aunt Alice would break their hearts. I 'm a selfish 
 beast, but not qmte so bad as that ! No ! — Philip we can 
 meet and amuse ourselves, can't we ? — and get to know each 
 other ? — and then if we want to, we can marry — sometime.* 
 ' That means you don't love me ! ' he said, fiercely. 
 ' Yes, yes I do ! — or at least I — I like you. And perhaps 
 in time — if you let me alone — if you don't tease me — I — 
 I '11 marry you. But let *s do it openly. It 's amusing 
 to get one's own way, even by lies, up to a certain point. 
 They wouldn't let me see you, or get to know you, and I 
 was determined to know you. So I had to behave like a 
 little cad ; or give in. But marrying 's different.' 
 
 He argued with her hotly, pointing out the certainty 
 of Meynell's opposition, exaggerating the legal powers of 
 guardians, declaring vehemently that it was now or never. 
 Hester grew very white, as they wandered on through the 
 forest, but she did not yield. Some last scruple of conscience, 
 perhaps, — some fluttering fear, possessed her. 
 
 So that in the end Philip was pushed to the villainy 
 that even he would have avoided. 
 Suddenly, he turned upon her. 
 
 ' Hester, you drive me to it ! I don't want to — but I 
 can't help it. Hester, you poor httle darling ! — you don't 
 know what has happened — you don't know what a position 
 you 're in. I want to save you from it. I would have 
 done it, God knows, without telling you the truth, if I 
 could ; but you drive me to it ! ' 
 ' What on earth do you mean ? * 
 
 She stopped beside him in a clearing of the forest. 
 The pale afternoon sun, now dropping fast to westward 
 slipped through the slender oaks, on which the red 
 
 2 E 2 
 
420 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 leaves still danced, touclied the girl's hair and shone 
 into her beautiful eyes. She stood there so young, 
 so unconscious ; a victim, on the threshold of doom. 
 Philip, who was no more a monster than other men who 
 do monstrous things, felt a sharp stab of compunction ; 
 and then rushed headlong at the crime he had practically 
 resolved on before they met. 
 
 He told her in a few agitated words, the whole — and 
 the true — story of her birth. He described the return of 
 Judith Sabin to Upcote Minor, and the narrative she had 
 given to Henry Barron ; without, however, a word of Meynell 
 in the case, so far at least as the original events were 
 concerned. For he was convinced that he knew better, and 
 that there was no object in prolonging an absurd 
 misunderstanding. His version of the affair was, that 
 Judith in a fit of excitement had revealed Hester's parent- 
 age to Henry Barron ; that Barron out of enmity towards 
 Meynell, Hester's guardian, and by way of getting a hold 
 upon him, had not kept the matter to himself, but had 
 either written or instigated anonymous letters which had 
 spread such excitement in the neighbourhood that Lady 
 Fox- Wilton had now let her house, and practically left 
 Upcote for good. The story had become the common 
 talk of the Markborough district; and all that Meynell, 
 and ' your poor mother,' and the Fox- Wilton family could 
 do, was to attempt, on the one hand, to meet the rush of 
 scandal by absence and silence ; and on the other to keep 
 the facts from Hester herself as long as possible. 
 
 The girl had listened to him with wide, startled eyes. 
 Occasionally a sound broke from her — a gasp — an exclama- 
 tion — and when he paused, pursued by almost a murderer's 
 sense of guilt, he saw her totter. In an instant, he had 
 his arm round her, and for once there was both real passion 
 and real pity in the excited words he poured into her ears. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 421 
 
 ' Hester, dearest ! — don't cry, don't be miserable : my 
 own beautifiil Hester ! I am a beast to have told yoii, 
 but it is because I am not only your lover, but your cousin 
 — your own flesh and blood. Trust yourself to me ! 
 You '11 see ! — Why should that preaching fellow, Meynell, 
 interfere ? / '11 take care of you. You come to me ! — and 
 we '11 shew these damned scandal-mongers that what they 
 say is nothing to us — that we don't care a fig for their 
 cant — that we are the masters of oux own lives — not they ! ' 
 
 And so on, and so on. The emotion was as near 
 sincerity as he couJd push it ; but it did not fail to occur, 
 at least once, to a mind steeped in third-rate drama, what 
 a ' strong ' dramatic scene might be drawn from the whole 
 situation. 
 
 Hester heard him for a few minutes, in evident 
 stupefaction; then with a recovery of physical equilibrium 
 she again vehemently repulsed him, 
 
 ' You are mad — ^you are mad ! It is abominable to 
 talk to me like this. What do you mean ? " My poor 
 mother " — who is my mother ! ' 
 
 She faced him tragically, the certamty which was 
 already dawning in her mind, — prepared indeed, through 
 years, by all the perplexities and rebellions of her girlhood — 
 betraying itself in her quivering face, and lips. Suddenly, 
 she dropped upon a fallen log beside the path, hiding her 
 face in her hands, struggling again with the sheer faintness 
 of the shock. And Philip kneeling in the dry leaves beside 
 her, completed his work, with the cruel mercy of the man 
 who kills what he has wounded. 
 
 He asked her to look back into her childhood ; he 
 reminded her of the many complaints she had made to him 
 of her sense of isolation within her supposed family ; of the 
 strange provisions of Sir Ralph's will ; of the arrangement 
 which had made her Meynell's ward in a special sense. 
 
422 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Why, of course, that was so natural ! You remember 
 I suggested to you once that Richard probably judged 
 Ne\dlle from the same Puritanical standpoint that he judged 
 me ? Well, I was a fool to talk like that. I remember 
 now perfectly what my mother used to say. They were of 
 different generations, but they were tremendous friends ; 
 and there was only a few years between them. I am 
 certain it was by Neville's wish that Richard became your 
 guardian.' He laughed, in some embarrassment. ' He 
 couldn't exactly foresee that another member of the family 
 would want to cut in ! Hester, my pretty, pretty darling 
 — ^look at me ! I love you — I adore you ! Let 's give all 
 these people the slip. I 'U shew you what life means— 
 what love means ! ' 
 
 And doubly tempted by her abasement, her bewildered 
 pain, he tried again to take her in his arms. 
 
 But she held him at arm's length. 
 
 ' If,' she said, with pale lips—' if Mr. Flood was my 
 father — and Aunt Alsie — ' her voice failed her — ' Were they 
 — were they never married ? ' 
 
 He slowly and reluctantly shook his head. 
 
 ' Then I 'm — I 'm — Oh ! but that 's monstrous — that 's 
 absurd ! I don't believe it ! ' 
 
 She sprang to her feet. Then, as she stood confronting 
 his silence, the whole episode of that bygone September 
 afternoon — the miniature — Aimt Ahce's silence and tears 
 
 ^rushed back on memory. She trembled, and the iron 
 
 entered into her soul. 
 
 ' Let 's go back to the station,' she said, resolutely. 
 ' It 's time.' 
 
 They walked back through the forest paths, for some 
 time without speaking, she refusing his aid. And all the 
 time swiftly, inexorably, memory and inference were at 
 work, dragging to light the deposit — obscure, or troubling. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 423 
 
 or contradictory — left in her by the facts and feelings 
 of her childhood and youth. 
 
 She had told him with emphasis at luncheon that he 
 was not to be allowed to accompany her home ; that she 
 would go back to Paris by herself. But when, at the 
 St. Germains station, Meryon jumped into, the empty 
 railway carriage beside her, she said nothing to prevent 
 him. She sat in the darkest corner of the carriage, her 
 arms hanging beside her, her eyes fixed on objects of 
 which she saw nothing. Her pride in herself, her ideal 
 of herself, which is to every young creature like the pro- 
 tective sheath to the flower, was stricken to the core. 
 She thought of Sarah and Lulu, whom she had all her 
 life despised and ridiculed. But they had a right to 
 their name and place in the world ! — and she was their 
 nameless inferior, the child taken in out of pity, accepted 
 on sufierance. She thought of the gossip now rushing like a 
 mud-laden stream though every Upcote or Markborough 
 drawing-room. All the persons whom she had snubbed or 
 flouted were concerning themselves maliciously with her 
 and her afEairs ; were pitying ' poor Hester Fox- Wilton.* 
 
 Her heart seemed to dry and harden within her. The 
 strange thought of her real mother — her sufiering, patient, 
 devoted mother — did not move her. It was bound up 
 with all that trampled on and humiliated her. 
 
 And, moreover, strange and piteous fact, realised by them 
 both ! this sudden sense of fall and degradation had in 
 some mysterioiis way altered her whole relation to the man 
 who had brought it upon her. His evil power over her 
 had increased. He felt instinctively that he need not in 
 future be so much on his guard. His manner towards her 
 became freer. She had never yet returned him the kisses 
 which, as on this day, she had sometimes allowed him 
 to snatch. But before they reached Paris, she had kissed 
 
424 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 him; she had sought his hands with hers; and she had 
 promised to meet him again. 
 
 While these lamentable influences and events were 
 thus sweeping Hester's life towards the abyss, mocking 
 all the sacrifices and the efforts that had been made to 
 save her. the publication of Barron's apology had opened 
 yet another stage in ' the Meynell case.* 
 
 As drafted by Flaxman, it was certainly comprehensive 
 enough. For himself, Meynell would have been content 
 with much less ; but in dealing with Barron, he was the 
 avenger of wrongs not his own, both public and private ; 
 and when his own first passion of requital had passed away, 
 killed in him by the anguish of his enemy, he still let 
 Flaxman decide for him. And Flaxman, the mildest 
 and most placable of men, shewed himself here inexorable, 
 and would allow no softening of terms. So that Barron 
 ' unreservedly withdrew ' and ' publicly apologised ' ' for 
 those false and calumnious charges, which to my great 
 regret, and on erroneous information, I have been led to 
 bring against the character and conduct of the Rev. Richard 
 Meynell, at various dates, and in various ways, during 
 the six months preceding the date of this apology.' 
 
 "With regard to the anonymous letters — ' although they 
 were not written, nor in any way authorised, by me, I now 
 discover to my sorrow that they were written by a member 
 of my family on information derived from me. I apologise 
 for and repudiate the false and slanderous statements 
 these letters contain, and those also included in letters I 
 myself have written to various persons. I agree that 
 a copy of this statement shall be sent to the Bishop of 
 Markborough, and to each parish clergyman in the diocese 
 of Markborough ; as also that it shall be published in 
 such newspapers as the solicitors of the Rev. Richard 
 Meynell may determine.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 425 
 
 The document appeared first on a Saturday, in all the 
 local papers, and was greedily read and discussed by 
 the crowds that throng into Markborough on market day, 
 who again carried back the news to the villages of the 
 diocese. It was also published on the same day in the 
 Modernist and in the leading religious papers. Its 
 effect on opinion was rapid and profound. The Bishop 
 telegraphed — ' Thank God. Come and see me.' France 
 fidgeted a whole morning among his papers, began two 
 or three letters to Meynell, and finally decided that he 
 could write nothing adequate that would not also be 
 hypocritical. Dornal wrote a little note that Meynell 
 put away among those records that mark the track of 
 life. From all the leading Modernists, during January, 
 came a rush of correspondence and congratulations, in 
 all possible notes and tones of indignant triumph ; 
 and many leaders on the other side wrote with generous 
 emotion and relief. Only in the extreme camp of the 
 extreme Right there was of course silence and chagrin. 
 Compared to the eternal interests of the Church, what 
 does one man's character matter ? 
 
 The old Bishop of Dunchester, a kind of English Bol- 
 linger, the learned leader of a learned party, and ready in 
 the last years of life to risk what would have tasked the 
 nerves and courage of a man in the prime of physical and 
 mental power, wrote : — 
 
 • My dear Richard Meynell — Against my better judge- 
 ment, I was persuaded that you might have been 
 imprudent. I now know that you have only been heroic. 
 Forgive me— forgive us all. Nothing will induce me to 
 preach the sermon of our opening day. And if you viil 
 not, who will, or can ? ' 
 
 Rose meanwhile descended upon the Rectory, and with 
 Flaxman's help, though in the teeth of Ann's jealous oppoai- 
 
426 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 tion, she carried off Meynell to Maudeley, that she might 
 ' help him write his letters,' and watch for a week or two 
 over a man wearied and overtaxed. It was by her 
 means also that the reaction in public opinion spread far 
 beyond Meynell himself. It is true that even men and 
 women of goodwill looked at each other in bewilderment, 
 after the publication of the apology, and asked each other 
 under their breaths — ' Then is there no story ! — and was 
 Judith Sabin's whole narrative a delusion ? ' But with 
 whatever might be true in that narrative no pubHc interest 
 was now bound up ; and discussion grew first shame-faced, 
 and then dropped. The tendency strengthened indeed to 
 regard the whole matter as the invention of a half-crazy 
 and dying woman, possessed of some grudge against the 
 Fox-Wilton family. Many surmised that some tragic fact 
 lay at the root of the tale, since those concerned had not 
 chosen to bring the slanderer to accoimt. But what had 
 once been mere matter for malicious or idle curiosity, was 
 now handled with compunction and good feeling. People 
 began to be very sorry for the Fox- Wiltons, very sorry for 
 ' poor Miss Puttenham.' Cards were left, and friendly 
 enquiries were made ; and amid the general wave of 
 scepticism and regret, the local society shewed itself as 
 sentimental, and as futile, as usual. 
 
 Meanwhile poor Theresa had been seen driving to the 
 station with red eyes ; and her father, it was ascertained, 
 had been absent from home since the day before the 
 publication of the apology. It was very commonly guessed 
 that the ' member of my family ' responsible for the letters, 
 was the unsatisfactory younger son ; and many persons, 
 especially in Church circles, were secretly sorry for Barron, 
 while everybody possessed of any heart at all was sorry for 
 his elder son Stephen. 
 
 Stephen, indeed, was one of Meynell's chief anxieties 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 427 
 
 during these intermediate hours, when a strong man took 
 a few days' breathing space between the effort that had 
 been, and the effort that was to be. The young man would 
 come over, day by day, with the same crushed, patient 
 look, now bringing news to Meynell which they talked over 
 where none might overhear, and now craving news from 
 Paris in return. As to Stephen's own report, Barron, it 
 seemed, had made all arrangements to send Maurice to a 
 firm of English merchants trading at Eiga. The head of 
 the firm was imder an old financial obligation to Henry 
 Barron, and Stephen had no doubt that his father had 
 made it heavily worth their while to give his brother 
 this fresh chance of an honest life. There had been, 
 Stephen believed, some terrible scenes between the father 
 and son, and Stephen neither felt nor professed to feel any 
 hope for the future. Barron intended himself to accom- 
 pany Maurice to Riga and settle him there. Afterwards he 
 talked of a journey to the Cape. Meanwhile the White 
 House was shut up, and poor Theresa had come to join 
 Stephen in the little vicarage whence the course of events in 
 the coming year would certainly drive him out. 
 
 So much for the news he gave. As to the news he 
 hungered for, Meynell had but crumbs to give him. To 
 neither Stephen nor anyone else could Alice Puttenham's 
 letters be disclosed. Mcynell's lipa were sealed upon her 
 story now as they had ever been ; and, however shrewdly 
 he might guess at Stephen's guesses, he said nothing, and 
 Stephen asked nothing on the subject. 
 
 As to Hester, he was told that she was well, though 
 often moody and excitable ; that she seemed already to 
 have tired of the lessons and occupations she had taken 
 up with such prodigious energy at the beginning of her 
 stay ; and that she had made violent friends with a yovmg 
 teacher from the Ecole Normale, a refined intelligent 
 
428 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 woman, in every way fit to be her companion ; with whom on 
 holidays she sometimes made long excursions out of Paris. 
 
 But to Meynell, poor Ahce Puttenham poured out all 
 the bitterness of her heart : — 
 
 ' It seems to me that the little hold I had over her, and 
 the small afiection she had for me when we arrived here, 
 are both now less than they were. During the last week 
 especially (the letter was dated the fourteenth of January) 
 I have been at my wits' end how to amuse or please her. 
 She resents being watched and managed more than ever. 
 One feels there is a tumult in her soul to which we have 
 no access. Her teachers complain of her temper and her 
 caprice. And yet she dazzles and fascinates as much as 
 ever. I suspect she doesn't sleep — she has a worn look 
 quite unnatural at her age — but it makes her furious to 
 be asked. Sometimes, indeed she seems to melt towards 
 me ; the sombre look passes away ; and she is melancholy 
 and soft, with tears in her eyes now and then, which I dare 
 not notice. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear friend, I am grateful for all you tell me 
 of the changed situation at Markborough. But after all 
 the thing is done — there can be no imdomg it. The lies 
 mingled with the truth have been put down. Perhaps 
 people are ready now to let the truth itself slip back with 
 the lies into the darkness. But how can we — Edith and 
 I — and Hester — ever live the old life again ? The old 
 shelter, the old peace are gone. We are wanderers and 
 pUgrims henceforward ! 
 
 ' As far as I know, Hester is stUl in complete ignorance 
 of all that has happened. I have told her that Edith finds 
 Tours so economical that she prefers to stay abroad for a 
 couple of years, and to let the Upcote house. And I have 
 said also that when she herself is tired of Paris, I am ready 
 to take her to Germany, and then to Italy. She laughed, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 429 
 
 as though I had said something ridiculous ! One never knows 
 her real mind. But at least I see no sign of any suspicion 
 in her ; and I am sure that she has seen no English newspaper 
 that could have given her a clue. As to Philip Meryon, 
 as I have told you before, I often feel a vague uneasiness ; 
 but watch as I will, I can find nothing to justify it. Oh ! 
 Eichard, my heart is broken for her. A little love from her, 
 and the whole world would change for me. But even 
 what I once possessed these last few months seem to 
 have taken from me ! ' 
 
 ' The thing is done ! — there can be no undoing it.' 
 That was the sore burden of all Meynell's thoughts, 
 awakening in him, at times the ' bitter craving to strike heavy 
 blows ' at he knew not what.. What, indeed, could ever undo 
 the indecency, the cruelty, the ugly revelations of these three 
 months ? The grossness of the common public, the weakness 
 of friends, the solemn follies to which men are driven 
 by hate or bigotry : these things might well have roused 
 the angry laughter that lives in all quick and honest 
 souls. But the satiric mood, when it appeared, soon 
 vanished. He remembered the saying of Meredith concern- 
 ing the spectacle of Bossuet over the dead body of Moliere, 
 — 'at which the dark angels may, but men do not laugh.* 
 This bitterness might have festered within him, but for 
 the blessedness of Mary Elsmere's letters. She had seen 
 the apology ; she knew nothing of its causes. But she 
 betrayed a joy that was almost too proud to know itself 
 as joy ; since what doubt could there ever have been but 
 that right and nobleness would prevail ? Catharine wrote 
 the warmest and kindest of letters. But Mary's every 
 word was balm, just because she knew nothing, and wrote 
 out of the fulness of her mere faith in him, ready to let her 
 trust take any shape he would. And though she knew 
 
430 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 nothing, she seemed by some divine instinct to miderstand 
 also the pain that overshadowed the triumph ; to be ready 
 to sit silent with him before the irreparable. Day by day, 
 as he read these letters, his heart burned within him ; and 
 Rose noted the growing restlessness. But he had heavy 
 arrears of parish business upon him, of correspondence, 
 of literary work. He struggled on, the powers of mind and 
 body flagging, till one night, when he had been nearly a 
 week at Maudeley, Rose came to him one evening, and 
 said with a smile that had in it just a touch of sweet 
 mockery — 
 
 ' My dear friend, you are doing no good here at all ! — 
 Go and see Mary ! ' 
 
 He turned upon her amazed. 
 
 ' She has not sent for me.' 
 
 Rose laughed out. 
 
 ' Did you expect her to be as modern as that ? ' 
 
 He murmured — 
 
 ' I have been waiting for a word.' 
 
 ' What right had you to wait ? Go and get it out of 
 her ! Where will you stay ? ' 
 
 He gasped. 
 
 ' There is the farm at the head of the valley.' 
 
 ' Telegraph to-night.' 
 
 He thought a little — the colour flooding into his face. 
 And then he quietly went to Rose's writing-table, and 
 wrote his telegram. 
 
BOOK IV 
 
 MEYNELL AND MARY 
 
 ' . . . . but Life ere long 
 Came on me in the public ways and bent 
 Eyes deeper than of old ; Death met I too. 
 And saw the dawn glow through." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 But before lie took the mid-day train from Markborough 
 to the North, on the following day, Meynell spent half an 
 hour with his Bishop in the Episcopal library. 
 
 It was a strange meeting. When Bishop Craye first 
 caught sight of the entering figure, he hurried forward, and 
 as the door closed upon the footman, he seized Meynell's 
 hand in both his own. 
 
 ' I see what you have gone through,* he said, with 
 emotion ; — ' and you would not let me help you ! * 
 Meynell smiled faintly. 
 
 ' I knew you wished to help me, — but ' 
 
 Then his voice dropped, and the Bishop would not 
 have pressed him for the world. They fell upon the 
 anonymous letters, a comparatively safe topic, and the 
 relation of Barron to them. Naturally Meynell gave the 
 Bishop no hint whatever of the graver matter which had 
 finally compelled Barron's surrender. He described his 
 comparison of the Dawes' letter with ' a document in the 
 young man's handwriting which I happened to have in 
 my possession,' and the gradual but certain conviction 
 it had brought about. 
 
 * I was extraordinarily blind, however, not to find the 
 clue earlier.' 
 
 ' It is not only you, my dear Meynell, that need regret 
 it ! ' cried the Bishop. ' I hope you have sometimes 
 
 433 2F 
 
434 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 given a thought to the men on our side compelled to see 
 the fight waged * 
 
 ' With such a weapon ? I knew very well that no one 
 under your influence, my Lord, would touch it,' said 
 Meynell simply. 
 
 The Bishop observed him, and with an inner sympathy, 
 one might almost say, a profound and affectionate admira- 
 tion, which contrasted curiously with the public position in 
 which they stood to each other. It was now very generally 
 recognised, and especially in Markborough and its diocese, 
 that Meynell had borne himself with extraordinary dignity 
 and patience under the ordeal through which he had passed. 
 And the Bishop, whose guess had so nearly hit the truth, 
 who had been persuaded that in the whole matter Meynell was 
 but the victim of some trust, some duty, which honour and 
 conscience would not let him betray in order to save himself — 
 the Bishop was but the more poignantly of this opinion 
 now that he had the man before him. The weeks of 
 suffering, the long storm of detraction, had left their mark ; 
 and it was not a light one. The high-hearted little Bishop 
 felt himself in some way guilty ; obscurely and representa- 
 tively, if not directly. 
 
 Yet, at the same time, when the personal matter dropped 
 away, and they passed, as they soon did, to a perfectly calm 
 discussion of the action in the Court of Arches which was 
 to begin within a week, nothing could be clearer or more 
 irrevocable than the differences, ecclesiastical and intellec- 
 tual, which divided these two men, who in matters of 
 personal feeling were so sensitively responsive the one to 
 the other. 
 
 Meynell dwelt on the points of law raised in the pleadings ; 
 on the bearing of previous cases — the Essays and Reviews 
 case above all — upon the suit. The antecedents of the 
 Counsel employed on both sides ; the idiosyncrasies of the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 435 
 
 Judge ; the'probable length of the trial ; their talk ranged 
 round these matters, without ever striking deeper. It 
 was assumed between them that the expulsion of the 
 Modernist clergy was only a question of months — possibly 
 weeks. Once indeed Meynell referred slightly to the 
 agitation in the country, to the growing snowball of the 
 petition to Parliament, to the now certain introduction of 
 a Bill ' To promote an amended constitution for the Church 
 of England.' The Bishop's eyebrows went up ; his lip 
 twitched. It was the scorn of a spiritual aristocracy 
 threatened by the populace. 
 
 But in general they talked with extraordinary frank- 
 ness and mutual good feeling ; and they grasped hands 
 more than cordially at the end. They might have been 
 two generals, meeting before a battle, under the white flag. 
 
 Still the same mild January weather ; with unseason- 
 able shoots putting forth, and forebodings on the part of all 
 garden-lovers, as fresh and resentful as though such fore- 
 bodings, with their fulfilments, were not the natural 
 portion of all English gardeners. 
 
 In the Westmoreland dales, the month was rainier than 
 elsewhere, but if possible milder. Yellow buds were 
 already foolishly breaking on the gorse, and weak prim- 
 roses, as though afraid to venture, and yet venturing, were to 
 be found in the depths of many woods. 
 
 Meynell had slept at Whinborough. In the morning a 
 trap conveyed him and his bag to the farmhouse at the 
 head of the valley ; and the \vinter sun had only just 
 scattered the mists from the dale when, stick in hand, he 
 found himself on the road to Mrs. Elsmere's little house, 
 Burwood. 
 
 With every step his jaded spirits rose. He was a passion- 
 ate lover of mountains, with that modern spirit which 
 
 2 p 2 
 
436 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 finds in them man's best refuge from modernness. The 
 damp fragrance of the mossy banks and bare hedges ; 
 the racing freshness of the stream, and the little eddies of 
 foam blown from it by the wind ; the small grey sheep in 
 the fields ; the crags overhead dyed deep in withered 
 heather ; the stone farmhouses with their touch of cheerful 
 white on door and window ; all the exquisite detail of grass 
 and twig and stone ; and overhead the slowly passing 
 clouds in the wide sweep of the dale : — these things to him 
 were spiritual revival ; they dressed and prepared him 
 for that great hour to which dimly, yet through all his 
 pulses, he felt he was going. 
 
 The little house sent up a straight column of blue smoke 
 into the quiet air. Its upper windows were open; the 
 sun was on its lichened porch, and on the silver stem of 
 the birch tree which rose from the mossy grass beside it. 
 
 He did not need to knock. Mary was in the open door- 
 way, her face all light and rose colour ; and in the shadows 
 of the passage behind her stood Catharine. When with 
 the touch of Mary's hand still warm in his, Meynell 
 turned to greet her mother, he was seized, even through 
 the quiet emotion which held them all, by an impression 
 of change. Some energy of physical life had faded from 
 the worn nobility of Catharine's face ; instead a ' grave 
 Heaveuliness ' which disquieted the spectator, beautiful 
 as it was. 
 
 But the momentary shock was lost in the quiet warmth 
 of her greeting. 
 
 ' You are going to take her for a walk ? ' she asked wist- 
 fully, as Mary left them alone in the little sitting-room. 
 
 ' You allow it ? * said Meynell, hardly knowing what 
 he said, and still retaining her hand. 
 
 Catharine smiled. 
 
 ' Mary is her own mistress.' Then she added with a 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 437 
 
 deep, involuntary sigh — 'Whatever she says to you, she 
 knows she has her mother's blessing.' 
 
 Meynell stooped and kissed her hand. 
 
 A few minutes later, he and Mary had taken the road 
 along the dale. 
 
 Catharine stood under the little porch to look after 
 them. Mingled sweetness and bitterness filled her mind. 
 She pictured to herself for an instant what it would have 
 been if she had been giving Mary to a Christian pastor of 
 the stamp of her own father, a man ' sound in the faith,' a 
 ' believer,' entering upon what had always seemed to her 
 from her childhood the ideal and exalted life of the Christian 
 ministry. As things were, in a few weeks Kichard Meynell 
 would be an exile and a wanderer, chief among a regiment 
 of banished men, driven out by force from the national 
 church ; without any of the dignity — that dignity which 
 had been her husband's — of voluntary renunciation. And 
 Mary would become his wife only to share in his rebellion, 
 his defiance, and his exile. 
 
 She crossed her hands tightly upon her breast as 
 though she were imprinting these sad facts upon her 
 consciousness, learning to face them, to bear them with 
 patience. And yet — in some surprising way — they did not 
 hurt her as sharply as they would once have done. 
 Trembling — almost in terror — she asked herself whether 
 her own faith was weakening. And amid the intensity 
 of aspiration and love with which her mind threw itself 
 on the doubt, she turned back, tottering a little, to her chair 
 by the fire. She was glad to be alone, passionately as she 
 loved her Mary. And as she sat, now following Meynell 
 and Mary in thought along the valley, and now listening 
 vaguely to the murmur of the fire or the stream outside, 
 there came upon her a first gentle premonition — as though 
 a whisper, from far away — of the solitude of death. 
 
438 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Lines from the Christian Year, the book on which her 
 girlhood had been nourished, stole into her mind : — 
 
 ' Why should we faint and fear to live alone, 
 Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die ? * 
 
 * « « 4c * 4: 
 
 Never had sunshine seemed to Meynell so life-giving 
 as this pale wintry warmth. The soft sound of Mary's 
 dress beside him ; the eyes she turned upon him when she 
 spoke, so frank and sweet, yet, for her lover, so full of 
 mystery ; the lines of her young form, compact of health 
 and grace ; the sound of her voice, the turn of her head — 
 everything about her filled him with a tumult of feeling 
 not altogether blissful, though joy was uppermost. For 
 now that the great moment was come, now that he 
 trembled on the verge of a happiness he had every 
 reason to think was his, he was a prey to many strange 
 qualms and tremors. In the first place he was suddenly 
 and sorely conscious of his age ! Forty-four to her 
 twenty-six ! Was it fitting ? — was it right ? And more 
 than that ! Beside her freshness, her springing youth, 
 he realised his own jaded spirit, almost with a sense of 
 guilt. These six months of strenuous battle and leader- 
 ship, these new responsibilities, and the fierce call which 
 had been made on every gift and power, ending in the 
 dumb, proud struggle, the growing humiliation of the 
 preceding weeks, had left him ripened indeed, magnified 
 indeed, as a personality ; but it was as though down the 
 shadowed vista of life he saw his youth, as ' another self,' 
 a Doppelganger, disappearing for ever. 
 
 While she ! — before her were all the years of glamour, of 
 happy instinctive action, when a man or woman is worth 
 just what they dream ; when dream and act flow together. 
 Could he give her anything worth her having in exchange 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 439 
 
 for this sheer youth of hers ? He saw before him a long 
 and dusty struggle ; the dust of it choking, often, the 
 purest sources of feeling. Cares about money ; cares about 
 health ; the certain enmity of many good men ; the bitter- 
 ness that waits on all controversial success or failure : all 
 these there must be — he could not shield her from them. 
 
 She on her part saw plainly that he was depressed ; 
 knew well that he had suffered. As the Bishop had per- 
 ceived, it was written on his aspect. But her timidity as 
 yet prevented her from taking the initiative with him, as 
 later she would learn to do. She felt for him at this stage 
 partly the woman's love, partly the deep and passionate 
 loyalty of the disciple. And it was possibly this very 
 loyalty in her from which Meynell shrank. He felt towards 
 himself and his role, in the struggle to which he was com- 
 mitted, a half despairing, half impatient irony, which 
 saved him from anything like a prophetic pose. Some 
 other fellow would do it so much better ! But meanwhile 
 it had to be done. 
 
 So that, charged as was the atmosphere between them, 
 it was some time before they found a real freedom of 
 speech. The openings, the gambits, which were to lead them 
 to the very heart of the game, were at first masked and 
 hesitating. They talked a little — perfunctorily — about the 
 dale and its folk, and Mary fell without difficulty now and 
 then into the broad Westmoreland speech, which dehghted 
 Meynell's ear, and brought the laugh back to his eyes. 
 Then, abruptly, he told her that the campaign of slander 
 was over, and that the battle — instead of ' infinite mess 
 and dislocation ' was now to be a straight and clean one. 
 He said nothing of Barron ; but he spoke tenderly of the 
 Bishop, and Mary's eyes swam a little. 
 
 She on her part dared to speak of Alice and Hester. 
 And very soon it was quietly recognised between these 
 
440 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 two that Alice's story was known to Mary ; and, for 
 the first time in his life, Meynell spoke with free emotion 
 and self-criticism of the task which Neville Flood had laid 
 upon him. Had there been in Mary some natural dread 
 of the moment when she must first hear the full story of 
 his relation to Alice ? If so, it was soon dispelled. He 
 could not have told the story more simply ; but its 
 beauty shone out. Only, she was startled, even terrified, 
 by certain glimpses which his talk gave her into his 
 feeling with regard to Hester. She saw plainly that the 
 possibility of a catastrophe, in spite of all he could do, 
 was ever present to him ; and she saw also, or thought she 
 saw, that his conception of his own part in the great religious 
 campaign was strangely — morbidly — dependent upon the 
 fate of Hester. If he was able to save her from herself 
 and from the man who threatened her, well and good ; if 
 not, as he had said to Mary once before, he was not fit to 
 be any man's leader, and should feel himself the Jonah 
 of any cause. There was a certain mystical passion in 
 it, the strong superstition of a man in whom a great natural 
 sensitiveness led often and readily to despondency ; as 
 though he ' asked for a sign.' 
 
 They passed the noisy little river by the stepping-stones, 
 and then climbed a shoulder of fell between Long Whindale 
 and the next valley. Descending a sunny mountain side, 
 they crossed some water meadows, and mounted the hill 
 beyond, to a spot that Mary had marked in her walks. 
 Beside a little timibling stream and beneath a thicket of 
 holly, lay a flat-topped rock commanding all the spectacle 
 of flood and fell. Mary guided him there ; and then stood 
 silent and flushed, conscious that she herself had brought 
 the supreme moment to its birth. The same perception 
 rushed upon Meynell. He looked into her eyes, smiling 
 and masterful, all his hesitations cleared away . . . 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 441 
 
 * Sit tliere, my lady of the fells ! ' 
 
 He led her to the rocky throne, and wrapped in his 
 old Inverness cloak, he took a place on a lesser stone at 
 her feet. Suddenly, he raised a hand and caught hers. 
 She found herself trembling, and looking down into his 
 upturned face. 
 
 ' Mary ! — Mary darling ! — is it mine ? * 
 
 The question was just whispered, and she whispered 
 her reply. They were alone in a lovely wilderness of fell 
 and stream. Only a shepherd walked with his flock in a 
 field half a mile away; and across the valley, a ploughman 
 drove his horses. 
 
 At the murmur in his ear, Meynell, this time, put up 
 both hands, and drew her down to him. The touch of her 
 fresh lips was rapture. And yet — 
 
 ' My rose ! ' he said, almost with a groan. ' What can 
 you make of such an old fellow ? I love you — love you — 
 but I am not worthy of you ! * 
 
 ' I am the judge of that,' she said softly. And looking 
 up he saw the colour in her cheeks fluttering, and two bright 
 tears in her eyes. Timidly she took one hand away from 
 him and began to stroke back the hair from his brow. 
 
 ' You look so tired ! ' — she murmured, — ' as though you 
 had been in trouble. And I wasn't there ! ' 
 
 ' You were always there ! ' 
 
 And springing from his lowly seat, he came to the 
 rock beside her, and drew her within the shelter of his 
 cloak, looking down upon her with infinite tenderness. 
 
 ' You don't know what you 're undertaking,' he said, 
 his eyes moist, his lips smiling. * I am an old bachelor, 
 and my ways are detestable ! Can you ever put up with 
 the pipes and the dogs ? I am the untidiest man alive ! * 
 
 ' Will Anne ever let me touch your papers ? ' 
 
 ' Goodness! what will Anne say to us! I forgot Anne/ 
 
442 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 he said, laughing. Then, bending over her, * We shall be 
 poor, darling ! — and very uncomfortable. Can you really, 
 stand it — and me ? ' 
 
 * Shall we have a roof over our heads at all ? ' asked 
 Mary, but so dizzily happy that she knew but vaguely 
 what she said. 
 
 * I have already bespoken a cottage. They are going 
 to make me Editor of the Modernist. We shall have 
 bread and butter, dearest, but not much more.' 
 
 ' I have a little,' said Mary, shyly. 
 
 Meynell looked rather scared. 
 
 ' Not much, I hope ! ' 
 
 ' Enough for gowns ! — and— and a little more.' 
 
 ' I prefer to buy my wife's gowns— I will ! ' said Meynell 
 with energy. * Promise me, darUng, to put all your money 
 into a drawer — or a money-box. Then when we want 
 something really amusing — a cathedral — or a yacht — 
 we'll take it out.' 
 
 So they laughed together, he all the while holding her 
 close crushed against him, and she deafened almost by 
 the warm beating of a man's heart beneath her cheek. 
 
 And presently silence came, a silence in which one of 
 the rare ecstasies of life came upon them and snatched them 
 to the third heaven. From the fold of the hill in which 
 they sat, sheltered both by the fell itself, and by the 
 encircling hoUies, they overlooked a branching dale, half 
 veiled, and half revealed by sunny cloud. Above the 
 western fells they had just crossed, hung towers and domes 
 of white cumulus, beneath which a pearly sunshine sUpped 
 through upon the broad fell-side, making of it one wide 
 sunlit pleasance, dyed in the red and orange of the withered 
 fern, and dotted with black holly and juniper. Round the 
 head of the dale the curtain of cloud hung thicker, save 
 where one superb crag tore it asunder, falling sheer into 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 443 
 
 the green gentleness of the fields. In the silence, all 
 the voices of nature spoke ; the rising wind which flung 
 itself against the hill-slopes at their feet; the insistent 
 flow of the river, descending from the reservoirs far away ; 
 and the sharp chatter of the little beck leaping at their 
 side from stone to stone. Passionately, in Meynell's 
 heart the ' buried life ' awoke, which only love can free 
 from the cavern where it lies, and bring into the full energy 
 of day. 
 
 ' One goes on talking — preaching — babbling — about love' 
 — ^he said to her ; ' what else is there to preach about ? If 
 love is not the key to life, then there is no key, and no 
 man need preach any more. Only, my Amor has been 
 till now a stern God ! He has in his hands — I know it ! 
 all the noblest rewards and ecstasies of life ; but, so 
 far, I have seen him wring them out of horror, or pain. 
 The most heavenly things I have ever seen have been 
 the things of suffering. I think of a poor fellow dying 
 in the pit and trying to give me his last message to 
 his wife ; of a mother fading out of life, still clasping her 
 babes, with hands twisted almost out of human shape by 
 hard work ; or a little lad — ' his voice dropped — ' only 
 last week ! — who saved his worthless brother's life by gi\^ng 
 him warning of some escaping trucks, and was crushed 
 hinaself. "I couldn't help it, Bb:\"—apohgising to me 
 and the foreman, as we knelt by him ! — "I knew Jim 
 had the drink in him." In all these \dsions, Love was divine 
 — but awful ! And here ! — here ! — I see his wings out 
 spread upon that mountain side ; he comes clothed, not 
 in agony, but in this golden peace — this beauty — this 
 wild air ; he lays your head upon my breast ! ' 
 
 Or again — 
 
 * There is a new philosophy which has possessed me 
 for months ; the thought of a great man, which seizes 
 
444 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 upon us dull lesser creatures, and seems to give us, for a 
 time at least, new eyes and ears, as though, like Melampus, 
 we had caught the hidden language of the world ! It 
 rests on the notion of the endless creativeness and freedom 
 of life. It is the negation of all fate, all predestination. 
 Nothing foreknown, nothing predestined ! No necessity 
 — no anangJce — darling ! — either in the world process, or 
 the mind of God, that you and I should sit here to- 
 day, heart to heart ! It was left for our wills to do, 
 our hearts to conceive, God lending us the world, so 
 to speak, to work on ! All our past cutting into, — 
 carving out — this present ; all our past alive in the present ; 
 as all this present shall be alive in the future. There 
 is no " iron law " for life and will, beloved — they create, they 
 are the masters, they are for ever new. — All the same ! ' 
 his tone changed — 'I believe firmly that this rock knew 
 from all eternity that you and I should sit here to-day ! ' 
 
 Presently, Mary disengaged herself. Her hat was not 
 what it had been ; her hair had escaped its bounds, and 
 must be rigorously put to rights. She sat there flushed 
 and bareheaded, her hands working ; while Meynell's 
 eyes devoured her. 
 
 ' It is January, Richard, and the sun is sinking.' 
 
 ' In your world perhaps, dear, not in mine.' 
 
 ' We must go back to Mother.' She laid a hand on his. 
 
 ' We will go back to Mother ! ' he said, joyously, with 
 a tender emphasis on the word, without moving however. 
 ' Mary !— next to you I love your Mother ! ' 
 
 Mary's sweet face darkened a little ; she buried it in her 
 hands. Meynell drew them tenderly away. 
 
 ' All that afiection can do to soften the differences 
 between us, shall be done,' he said, with his whole heart. 
 ' I believe too that the sense of them will grow less and less.' 
 
 Mary made no reply, except by the slight pressure ot 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 445 
 
 her fingers on his. She sat in an absorbed sadness, thinking 
 of her mother's life, and the conflict which had always 
 haunted and scorched it, between love and religion ; 
 first in the case of her husband, and then iu that of her 
 daughter. ' But oh ! how could I — how could I help 
 it ? ' was the cry of Mary's own conscience and person- 
 ahty. 
 
 She turned with painful eagerness to Meynell. ' How 
 did you think her ? — how does she strike you ? ' 
 
 ' Physically ? ' He chose his words. ' She is so beauti- 
 ful ! But — sometimes — I think she looks frail.' 
 
 The tears sprang to Mary's eyes. She quickly threw 
 herself upon his misgiving, and tried to argue it away, 
 both in herself and him. She dwelt upon her mother's 
 improvement in sleep and appetite, her cheerfulness, 
 her increased power of walking ; she was insistent, almost 
 resentful, her white brow furrowed with pain, even while 
 her hand lay warm in Meynell's. He must needs comfort 
 her ; must needs disavow his own impression. After all, 
 what value had such an impression beside the judgement 
 of her daily and hourly watchfulness ? — the favourable 
 opinion too, so she insisted, of their local doctor. 
 
 As they walked home, he startled her by saying that 
 he should only have three days in the valley. 
 
 ' Three days ! ' She looked her remonstrance. 
 
 ' You know the trial begins next week ? ' 
 
 Yes, she knew, but had understood that the pleadings 
 were all ready, and that a North-Western train would take 
 him to London in six hours. 
 
 ' I have to preach at St. Hilda's, Westminster,' he 
 said, with a shrug, and a look of distaste. 
 
 Mary asked questions, and discovered that the sermon 
 would no doubt be made the opportunity for something 
 
446 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 like a demonstration and that he shrank from the 
 thought of it. 
 
 She perceived, indeed, a certain general flagging of 
 the merely combative forces in him not without dismay. 
 Such moments of recoil are natural to such men — half 
 saints, half organisers. The immediate effect of her 
 perception of it was to call out something heroic and 
 passionate in herself. She was very sweet, and very young ; 
 there were eighteen years between them ; and yet in these 
 very first hours of their engagement, he felt her to be not 
 only rest, but inspiration ; not only sympathy, but strength. 
 
 When they neared the little ivy-coloured house, on their 
 return home, Mary broke from him. Her step on the 
 gravel was heard by Catharine. She came quickly to the 
 door and stood awaiting them. Mary ran forward and 
 threw herself into the tender arms that drew her into the 
 shadows of the passage. 
 
 ' Oh, Mother ! Mother ! — he does love you ! ' she said, 
 with a rush of tears. 
 
 If Catharine's eyes also were dim, she only answered 
 with a tender mockery. 
 
 ' Don't pretend that was all he said to you in these 
 two hours ! ' 
 
 And still holding Mary, she turned, smiling, to Meynell, 
 and let him claim from her, for the first time, a son's greeting. 
 
 For three blissful days, did Meynell pitch his tent in 
 Long Whindale. Though the weather broke, and the 
 famihar rain shrouded the fells, he and Mary walked 
 incessantly among them, exploring those first hom's of love, 
 when every tone and touch is charged, for lovers, with the 
 whole meaning of the world. And in the evenings he sat 
 between the two women in the little cottage room, reading 
 aloud Catharine's favourite poets; or in the familiar talk, 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 447 
 
 now gay now grave, of their new intimacy, disclosing him- 
 self ever more fully, and rooting himself ever more firmly in 
 their hearts. His sudden alarm as to Catharine's health 
 passed away, and Mary's new terror with it. Scarcely 
 a word was said of the troubles ahead. But it was 
 understood that Mary would be in London to hear him 
 preach at St. Hilda's. 
 
 On the last day of Meynell's visit, Catharine, greatly to 
 her surprise, received a letter from Hester Fox-WUton. 
 
 It contained a breathless account of an evening spent 
 in seeing (Edipus Rex played by Mounet-Sully at the 
 Comedie Fran^aise. In this half-sophisticated girl, the 
 famoiis performance, traditional now through two genera- 
 tions of play-goers, had clearly produced an emotion 
 whereof the expression in her letter greatly disquieted 
 Catharine Elsmere. She felt too — a little grimly — the 
 humour of its address to herself. 
 
 ' TeU me how to answer it, please,' she said, handing it 
 to Meynell with a twitching lip. ' It is a language I don't 
 understand ! And why did they take her to such a play ? ' 
 
 Meynell shared her disquiet. For the Greek concep- 
 tion of a remorseless fate, as it is for ever shaped 
 and embodied in the tale of CEdipus, had led Hester appar- 
 ently to a good deal of subsequent browsing in the literature 
 — the magazine articles at any rate — of French determim'sm ; 
 and she rattled through some of her discoveries in thia 
 reckless letter. 
 
 ' You talked to me so nicely, dear Mrs. Elsmere, that 
 last evening at Upcote. I know you want me — you want 
 everybody — " to be good ! " 
 
 ' But " being good " has nothing to do with us. 
 
 ' How can it ? — such creatures, such puppets as we are ! 
 
 ' Poor wretch, (Edipus ! He never meant anyone any 
 harm — did he ? — and yet — you see — ! 
 
448 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' " ApoUo, friends, Apollo it ivas, that brought all these my 
 ivoes, my sore, sore woes ! — to pass : " 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Elsmere ! — you can't think what a good 
 doctrine it is after all — how it steadies one ! What chance 
 have we against these blundering Gods ? 
 
 ' Nothing one can do makes any difference. It is really 
 very consoUng if you come to think of it ; and it 's no sort 
 of good being angry with Apollo ! * 
 
 ' Part nonsense, part bravado/ said Catharine, raising 
 clear eyes, with half a smile in them, to Meynell. 'But 
 it makes one anxious.* 
 
 His puckered brow showed his assent. 
 
 ' As soon as the trial is over — within a fortnight 
 certainly — I shall run over to see them.' 
 
 Meynell and Mary travelled to town together, and Mary 
 was duly deposited for a few days with some Kensington 
 cousins. 
 
 On the night of their arrival — a Saturday — Meynell; 
 not without some hesitation, made an appearance 
 at the Reformers' Club which had been recently 
 organised as a London centre for the Movement, in 
 Albemarle Street. 
 
 It was no sooner known that he was in the building 
 than a flutter ran through the well-filled rooms. That 
 very morning an article in the Modernist signed R. M. 
 had sounded a note of war, so free, lofty, and deter- 
 mined, that men were proud to be on Meynell's side in 
 such a battle. On the following Tuesday the Arches 
 Trial was to begin. Meynell was to defend himself ; and 
 the attention of the country would be fixed upon the 
 duel between him and the great orthodox Counsel, 
 Sir Wilfrid Marsh. 
 
 Men gathered quickly round him. Most of the six 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 449 
 
 clergy who with him had launched the first Modernist 
 manifesto, were present, in expectation of the sermon on 
 the morrow, and the trial of the following week. Chesham 
 and Darwen, his co-defendants in the Arches suit, with 
 whom he had been in constant correspondence throughout 
 the winter, came to discuss a few last points and under- 
 standings ; Treherne, the dear old scholar in whose house 
 they had met to draw up the Manifesto, under the shadow 
 of the Cathedral, pressed his hand and launched a Latin 
 quotation ; Rollin, fat, untidy and talkative as ever, could 
 not refrain from ' interviewing ' Meynell, for a weekly 
 paper ; while Derrick, the Socialist and poet, talked to 
 him in a low voice and with eyes that blazed, of certain 
 ' brotherhoods ' that had been spreading the Modernist 
 faith, and Modernist Sacraments among the slums of a 
 great midland town. 
 
 And in the voices that spoke to him, and the eyes 
 that met his, Meynell could not bat realise a wide and 
 warm sympathy, an eagerness to make amends, — some- 
 times a half confessed compunction for a passing doubt. 
 He stood among them, haggard and worn, bat steeped 
 in a content and gratitude that had more sources 
 than they knew. And under the kindling of their faith and 
 their affection, his own hesitations passed away ; his will 
 steeled itself to the tasks before him. 
 
 The following day will be long remembered in the annals 
 of the Movement. The famous church, crowded in every 
 part with an audience representing science, literature, 
 politics, the best of English thought and English social 
 endeavour, was but the outward and visible sign of things 
 inward and spiritual. 
 
 * Can these dry hones live ? ' 
 
 As Meynell gave out the text, there were many 
 
 2 G 
 
450 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 who remembered the picture of Oxford hanging in 
 Newman's study at Edgbaston, and those same words 
 written below it. 
 
 * Can these dry hones live ? ' — So Newman had asked in 
 despair, of his beloved University, and of English religion, 
 in the early years after he had deserted Anglicanism for 
 Rome. And now, more than half a century afterwards, the 
 leader of a later religious movement asked the same question 
 on the eve of another contest which would either regenerate 
 or destroy the English Church. The impidse given by 
 Newman and the Tractarians had spent itself, though not 
 without enormous and permanent results within the life 
 of the nation ; and now it was the turn of that scientific 
 and positivist reaction which had effaced Newman's work in 
 Oxford, yet had been itself wandcrmg for years without a 
 spiritual home. During those years it had found its way 
 through innumerable channels of the national life as a fertilis- 
 ing and redeeming force. It had transformed education, 
 law, science and history. Yet its own soul had hungered. 
 And now thanks to that inner necessity which governs the 
 spiritual progress of men, the great liberal movement, 
 enriched with a thousand conquests, was sweeping back 
 into the spiritual field ; demanding its just share in the 
 National Church ; and laying its treasures at the feet of a 
 Christ, unveiled, illuminated, by its own labour, by the 
 concentrated and passionate effort of a century of human 
 intelligence. 
 
 Starting from this conception, — the full citizen-right 
 within the Church of both Liberal and High Churchman — 
 the first part of Meynell's sermon became a moving appeal 
 for religious freedom ; freedom of development and 
 ' variation,' within organised Christianity itself. Simpler 
 Creeds, modernised tests, alternative forms, a ' unity of the 
 spirit in the bond of peace,' — with these ideas the Modernist 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 451 
 
 preacher built up the vision of a Reformed Church, co- 
 extensive with the nation, resting on a democratic govern- 
 ment, yet tenderly jealous of its ancient ceremonies, so long 
 as each man might interpret them ' as he was able,' and 
 they were no longer made a source of tyranny and exclusion. 
 
 Then, from the orthodox opponent in whose eyes the 
 Modernist faith was a mere beggarly remnant, Meynell 
 turned to the sceptic for whom it was only a modified 
 superstition. An eloquent prelude, dealing with the pre- 
 conceptions, the modern philosophy and psychology which 
 lie at the root of religious thought to-day, — and the rest 
 of the sermon flowed on into what all Christian eloquence 
 must ultimately be, the simple ' preaching of Christ.* 
 
 Amid the hush of the crowded church Meynell preached 
 the Christ of our day, — just as Paul of Tarsus preached the 
 Christ of a Helleniscd Judaism to the earliest converts ; 
 as St. Francis in the Umbrian hills preached the Lord of 
 Poverty and Love ; as the Methodist preachers among the 
 villages of the eighteenth century preached the democratic 
 individualism of the New Testament to the English 
 nascent democracy. 
 
 In each case the form of the preaching depended on the 
 knowledge and the thought-world of the preacher. So 
 with Meynell's Christ. 
 
 Not the phantom of a Hellenistic metaphysic ; not 
 the Redeemer and Judge of a misunderstood Judaism ; 
 not the mere ethical prophet of a German professorial 
 theology ; but the King of a spiritual kingdom, receiving 
 allegiance, and asking love, from the free consciences 
 of men ; repeating for ever in the ears of those in whom 
 a Divine influence has prepared the way, the melting and 
 constraining message : — ' This do in remembrance of 
 me.' 
 
 * " Of me — and of all the just, ail the righteous, all the 
 
 2 o St 
 
452 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 innocent, of all the ages, in me — pleading through, me — 
 symbolised in me ! Are you for Man — or for the Beast that 
 lurks in man ? Are you for Chastity — or Lust ? Are 
 you for Cruelty — or Love ? Are you for Foulness or 
 Beauty ? Choose ! — choose this day." ' 
 
 ' The Christ who thus speaks to you and me, my 
 brethren, is no longer a man made God, a God made man. 
 Those categories of thought, for us, are past. But neither 
 is he merely the crucified Galilean, the Messianic prophet 
 of the first century. For by a mysterious and unique 
 destiny — unique at least in degree — that life and death 
 have become Spirit and Idea. The Power behind the 
 veil, the Spirit from whom issues the world, has made 
 of them a lyre, enchanted and immortal, through which 
 He breathes His music into men. The setting of the 
 melody varies with the generations, but the melody 
 remains. And as we Usten to it to-day, expressed through 
 the harmonies of that thought which is ourselves, 
 — blood of our blood, Ufe of our Ufe — we are hstening now, 
 listening always, as the disciples listened in Nazareth, to 
 the God within us, the very God who was ' in Christ recon- 
 ciling the world unto Himself.' 
 
 ' Of that God, all life is in some sense, the sacramental 
 expression. But in the course of ages some sacraments 
 and symbols of the divine are approved and verified 
 beyond others — immeasurably beyond others. This is 
 what has happened — and so far as we can see by the 
 special will and purpose of God — with the death -unto -life 
 — with the Cross of Christ. . . 
 
 ' The symbol of the Cross is concerned with our personal 
 our profoundest being. But the symbol of the Kingdom is 
 social, collective — the power of every reformer, every 
 servant of men. . . . 
 
 ' Many thinkers,' said the preacher, in his concluding 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 453 
 
 passage, wliile all eyes were fixed on the head sprinkled with 
 grey, and the strong humanity of the face — ' many men, in all 
 ages and civilisations have dreamed of a City of God, a King- 
 dom of Righteousness, an Ideal State, and a Divine Ruler. 
 Jesus alone has made of that dream, history ; has forced 
 it upon, and stamped it into history. The Messianic 
 dream of Judaism — though wrought of nobler tissue — is 
 not unlike similar dreams in other religions ; but in this it 
 is unique, that it gave Jesus of Nazareth his opportunity, 
 and that from it has sprung the Christian Church. Jesus 
 accepted it with the heart of a child ; he lived in it ; he 
 died for it ; and by means of it, his spiritual genius, his 
 faithfulness unto death transformed a world. He died 
 indeed, overwhelmed ; with the pathetic cry of utter defeat 
 upon his lips. And the leading races of mankind have 
 knelt ever since to the mighty spirit who dared not only to 
 conceive and found the Kingdom of God, but to think of 
 himself as its Spiritual King, — by sheer divine right of 
 service, of sufiering, and of death ! Only through tribula- 
 tion and woe — through the peirasmos or sore trial of the 
 world — according to Messianic belief, could the Kingdom 
 be realised, and Messiah revealed. It was the marvellous 
 conception of Jesus, inspired by the ancient poetry and 
 prophecy of his nation, that he might, as the Suffering 
 Servant, concentrate in himself the sufiering due from his 
 race, and from the world, and by his death bring about — 
 violently, " by force " — the outpouring of the Spirit, the 
 Resurrection, and the dawn of the heavenly Kingdom. 
 He went up to Jerusalem to die ; he provoked his death ; 
 he died. And from the Resurrection visions which followed 
 naturally on such a life and death, inspired by such 
 conceptions, and breathing them with such power into the 
 souls of other men, arose the Christian Church. 
 
 * The Parousia for which the Lord had looked, delayed. 
 
454 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 It delays still. The scope and details of the Messianic 
 dream itself mean nothing to us any more. 
 
 ' But its spirit is immortal. The vision of a kingdom of 
 Heaven, — a polity of the soul, within, or s\iperseding the 
 earthly polity — once interfused with man's thought and 
 life, has proved to be imperishable, a thing that cannot 
 die. 
 
 ' Only it must be realised afresh from age to age ; 
 embodied afresh in the conceptions and the language of 
 successive generations. 
 
 'And these developing embodiments and epiphanies of 
 the kingdom can only be brought into being by the method 
 of Christ — that is to say, by " violence." 
 
 ' Again and again has the kingdom " suffered violence " — 
 has been brought fragmentarily into the world " by force " 
 —by the only irresistible force — that of suffering, of love, 
 of self-renouncing faith. 
 
 ' To that " force " we, as religious Reformers, appeal. 
 
 'The parables of the mustard seed and the leaven do not 
 express the whole thought of Christ. When the work of 
 preparation is over, still men must brace themselves, as 
 their Master did, to the last stroke of " violence "—to a 
 final effort of resolute, and, if need be, revolutionary action 
 — to the " violence " that brings ideas to birth and shapes 
 them into deeds. 
 
 ' It was to "violence" of this sacred sort that the Christian 
 church owed its beginning ; and it is this same " violence " 
 that must, as the generations rise and fail, constantly 
 maintain it among men. To cut away the old at need 
 and graft in the new, requires the high courage and the 
 resolute hand of faith. Only so can the Christian Life 
 renew itself ; only so can efficacy and movement return 
 to powers exhausted or degenerate ; only so *' can these dry 
 bones live " ! ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEVXELL 455 
 
 Amid the throng as it moved outward into the 
 bustle of Wpstmiaster Flaxman fouud himself rubbing 
 shoulders with Edward Norham. Norham walked with 
 his eyes on the ground, smiling to himself. 
 
 ' A little perserution ! ' he said, rubbing his hands, as 
 he looked up — ' and how it would go ! ' 
 
 ' Well — the persecution begins this week — in the Court 
 of Arches.' 
 
 ' Persecution— nonsense ! You mean " propaganda." 
 I imdeiBtand Meynell's defence will proceed on totally 
 new lines. He means to argue each point on its 
 merits ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. The Voysey judgement gave him his cue. 
 You will remember, Voysey was attacked by the Lord 
 Chancellor of the day — old Lord Hatherley — as a " private 
 clergyman," who " of his own mere will, not founding 
 himself upon any critical enquiry, but simply upon his own 
 taste and judgement " maintained certain heresies. — 
 Now Meynell, I imagine, will give his judges enough of 
 " critical enquiry " before they have done with him ! ' 
 
 Norham shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' All very well ! Why did he sign the Articles ? ' 
 
 * He signed them at four-and-twenty ! ' said Flaxman 
 hotly. ' Will you maintain that a system which insists 
 upon a man's beliefs at forty-four being identical with his 
 beliefs at twenty-four, is not condemned ip'io facto ! ' 
 
 ' Oh I know what you say ! — I know what you say ! ' 
 cried Norham good humouredly. ' We shall all be saying 
 it in Parliament presently — Good Heavens ! Well, I shall 
 look into the Court to-morrow, if I can possibly find an 
 hour, and hear Meynell fire away.' 
 
 * As Home Secretary, you may get in ! — ' laughed 
 Flaxman — ' on no other terms. There isn't a seat to be 
 had — there hasn't been for weeks.* 
 
456 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 The trial came on. The three suits from the Mark- 
 borough diocese took precedence, and were to be followed 
 by half-a-dozen others — test cases — from different parts 
 of England. But on the Markborough suits everything 
 turned. The Modernist defendants everywhere had 
 practically resolved on the same line of defence ; on the 
 same appeal from the mind of the sixteenth century to the 
 mind of the twentieth ; from Creeds and Formularies to 
 history ; from a dying to a living Church. 
 
 The chief counsel for the promoters, Sir Wilfrid Marsh, 
 made a calm, almost a conciliatory opening. He was a man 
 of middle-height, with a large clean-shaven face, a domed 
 head and smooth straight hair, still jetty black. He wore 
 a look of quiet assurance and was clearly a man of all the 
 virtues ; possessing a portly wife and a tribe of daughters. 
 
 His speech was marked, in all its earlier sections, by a 
 studied liberality and moderation. ' I am not going to 
 appeal, Sir, for that judgment in the promoters' favour 
 which I confidently claim, on any bigoted or obsciirantist 
 lines. The Church of England is a learned Church ; she is 
 also a Church of wide Uberties.' 
 
 No slavish submission to the letter of the Articles on the 
 Liturgy was now demanded of any man. Subscription had 
 been relaxed ; the final judgment in the Essays and Reviews 
 case had given a latitude in the interpretation of Scripture, 
 of which, as many recent books showed, the clergy — ' I 
 refer now to men of xmquestioned orthodoxy ' — had taken 
 reasonable advantage ; prayer-book revision ' within the 
 limits of the faith,' if constantly retarded by the divisions 
 of the faithful, was still probable ; both High Churchmen 
 and Broad Churchmen — here an aside dropped out, ' so 
 far as Broad Churchmen still exist ! ' — are necessary to the 
 Church. 
 
 But there are limits. ' Critical enquiry, Sir, if you will 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 457 
 
 — reasonable liberty, within the limits of our formularies 
 and a man's ordination vow — by all means ! ' 
 
 ' But certain things are vital I With certain fundamental 
 beUefs let no onesuppose that either the Bishops, or Convoca- 
 ation, or these Church Courts, or Parliament, or what the 
 defendants are pleased to call the '* nation " ' — (one must 
 imagine the fine gesture of a sweeping hand !) — ' can meddle. 
 The animus imfonentis is not that of the Edwardian or 
 Elizabethan legislation, it is not that of the Bishops ! it is 
 that of the Christian Church itself ! — handing down the 
 depositum fidei from the earliest to the latest times.' 
 
 ' The Creeds, Sir, are vital ! Put aside Homilies, Articles, 
 the judgments and precedents of the Church Courts : — all 
 these are, in this struggle, beside the mark. Concentrate 
 on the Creeds ! Let us examine what the defendants in 
 these suits have made of the Creeds of Christendom.' 
 
 The evidence was plain. Regarded as historical state- 
 ment, the defendants had dealt drastically and destructively 
 with the Creeds of Christendom ; no less than with the 
 authority of ' Scripture,' understanding ' authority' in any 
 technical sense. 
 
 It was indeed the chief Modernist contention, as the 
 orator shewed, that formal Creeds were mere ' landmarks 
 in the Church's life ; ' crystallisations of thought, that were 
 no sooner formed than they became subject to the play, both 
 dissolvent and regenerating, of the Christian consciousness. 
 
 ' And so you come to that inconceivable entity, a 
 Church without a Creed ! — a mere chaos of private opinion, 
 where each man is a law unto himself.' 
 
 On this theme Sir Wilfrid, who was a man of singularly 
 strong private opinions, of all kinds and on all subjects, 
 spoke for a whole day ; from the rising, almost, to the 
 going down of the sun. 
 
 At the end of it Canon Domal and a barrister friend, a 
 
458 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 devout Churchman, walked back towards the Temple 
 along the Embankment. 
 
 The walk was very silent, until midway, the barrister 
 said abruptly — 
 
 ' Is it any plainer to you now, than when Sir Wilfrid 
 began, what authority — if any — there is in the English 
 Church ; or what limits — if any — there are to private 
 judgment within it ? ' 
 
 Dornal hesitated. 
 
 ' My answer, of course, is Sir Wilfrid's. We have the 
 Creeds.' 
 
 They walked on in silence a moment. Then the first 
 speaker said — 
 
 ' A generation ago would you not have said, — what 
 also Sir Wilfrid carefully avoided saying — " we have the 
 Scriptures."' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Dornal despondently. 
 
 ' And as to the Creeds,' the other resumed, after 
 another pause — ' Do you think that one per cent, of the 
 Christians that you and I know believe in the Descent into 
 Hell, or the Resurrection of the Body ? ' 
 
 Dornal made no reply. 
 
 Cyril Fenton also walked home with a young priest just 
 ordained. Both were extremely dissatisfied with the later 
 portions of Sir Wilfrid's speech, which had seemed to them 
 tainted in several passages with Erastian complacency 
 towards the State. Parliament especially, and a possible 
 intervention of Parliament, ought never to have been 
 so much as mentioned — even for denunciation — in an 
 Ecclesiastical Court. 
 
 ' Parliament I ' cried Fenton, coming to a sudden stop 
 beside the water in St. James' Park, his eyes afire, ' What 
 is Parliament but the lay synod of the Church of England ! ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 459 
 
 During the three days of Sir Wilfrid's speech, Meynell 
 took many notes, and he became perforce very familiar 
 with some of the nearer faces in the audience day after 
 
 day ; with the Bishop of S , lank and long- jawed, with 
 
 reddish hair turning to grey, a deprecating manner in society, 
 but in the pulpit a second Warburton for truculence and fire ; 
 
 the Bishop of D , beloved, ugly, short-sighted, the 
 
 purest and humblest soul alive, learned, mystical, poetical, 
 in much sympathy with the Modernists, yet deterred by 
 the dread of civil war within the Church, a master of the 
 Old Latin Versions, and too apt to address schoolgirls on the 
 
 charms of textual criticism ; the Bishop of F , courtly, 
 
 peevish and distrusted ; the Dean of Markborough, with 
 the green shade over his eyes, and fretful complaint on his 
 Ups of the ' infection ' generated by every Modernist incum- 
 bent ; and near him, Professor Vetch, with yet another 
 Divinity professor beside him, a young man, short and 
 slight, with roving, grasshopper eyes. 
 
 The temperature of Sir Wilfrid's address rose day by 
 day, and the case for the prosecution closed thunderously 
 in a fierce onslaught on the ethics of the Modernist position, 
 and on the personal honesty and veracity of each and 
 every Modernist holding office in the Anglican Church ; 
 claiming sentences of immediate deprivation against the 
 defendants, of their vicarages and incumbencies, and of 
 all profits and benefits derived therefrom, 'imless 
 within a week from this day they (the defendants) should 
 expressly and unreservedly retract the several errors in 
 which they have so ofiended,' 
 
 The court broke up in a clamour of excitement and 
 discussion, with crowds of covmtry parishioners standing 
 outside to greet the three incriminated priests as they 
 came out. 
 
 The following morning Meynell rose. And for one 
 
46o THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 brilliant week, his defence of the Modernist position held 
 the attention of England. 
 
 On the fourth or fifth day of his speech, the white- 
 haired Bishop of Dunchester, against whom proceedings 
 had just been taken in the Archbishop's Court, said to his 
 son — 
 
 * Herbert, just before I was bom there were two 
 great religious leaders in England — Newman and Arnold of 
 Rugby. Arnold died prematurely, at the height of bodily 
 and spiritual vigour : Newman lived to the age of eighty - 
 nine, and to be a Cardinal of the Roman Church. His 
 AngUcan influence, continued, modified, distributed, by the 
 High Church movement, has lasted tiH now. To-day we 
 have been listening again, as it were, to the voice of Arnold, 
 the great leader whom the Liberals lost in '42. Arnold 
 was a devoutly orthodox beUever snatched from Ufe in 
 the very birth-hour of that New Learning of which we 
 claim to be the children. But a church of free men 
 co-extensive with the nation, gathering into one fold every 
 English man, woman and child, that was Arnold's dream, 
 just as it is Meynell's. . . . And yet though the voice, 
 the large heart, the fearless mind, and the broad sym- 
 pathies were Arnold's, some of the governing ideas were 
 Newman's. As I listened, I seemed ' — the old man's look 
 glowed suddenly — ' to see the two great leaders, the two 
 foes of a century ago, standing side by side, twin brethren 
 in a new order of battle, evolved from the old, with a great 
 mingled host behind them ! ' 
 
 Each day the court was crowded, and though Meynell 
 seemed to be addressing his Judges, he was in truth speaking 
 quite as consciously to a sweet woman's face in a far corner 
 of the crowded hall. Mary went into the long wrestle 
 with him, as it were, and lived through every moment of 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 461 
 
 it at liis side. Then in the evening there were half hours 
 of utter silence, when he would sit with her hands in his, 
 just gathering strength for the morrow. 
 
 Six days of Meyneli's speech were over. On the seventh 
 the Court opened amid a buzz of excitement and alarm. 
 The chief defendant in the suit was not present, and had 
 sent — so the lawyers whispered to each other — a hurried 
 note to the judge to the efiect that he should be absent 
 through the whole remainder of the trial owing to ' urgent 
 private business,' and had therefore instructed counsel to 
 carry on his defence. 
 
 In a few more hours it was known that Meynell had 
 left England, and men on both sides looked at each other 
 in dismay. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary had forwarded to her mother a note 
 written late at night, in anguish of soul. 
 
 ' Alice wires to me to-night that Hester has disappeared 
 — without the smallest trace. But she believes she is with 
 Meryon. I go to Paris to-night — Oh, my own, pray that 
 I may find her ! — R.M.* 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The mildness of the winter had passed away. 
 
 A bleak February afternoon lay heavy on Long Whin- 
 dale. A strong and bitter wind from the north blew down 
 the valley with occasional spits and snatches of snow, not 
 enough as yet to whiten the heights, but prophesying a 
 wild night and a heavy fall. The blasts in the desolate 
 upper reach of the dale were so fierce that a shepherd on 
 the path leading over the pass to Marly Head could scarcely 
 hold himself upright against them. Tempestuous sounds 
 filled all the upper and the lower air. From the high 
 ridges came deep reverberating notes, a roaring in the wind ; 
 while the trees along the stream sent forth a shriller voice, 
 as they whistled and creaked and tossed in the eddying 
 gusts. Cold grey clouds were beating from the north, 
 hanging now over the cliffs on the western side, now over 
 the bare screes and steep slopes of the northern and eastern 
 walls. Grey or inky black, the sharp edges of the rocks 
 cut into the gloomy sky ; while on the floor of the valley, 
 blanched grass and winding stream seemed alike to fly 
 scourged before the persecuting wind. 
 
 A trap — Westmoreland calls it a car — a kind of box on 
 wheels, was approaching the head of the dale from the direc- 
 tion of Whinborough. It stopped at the foot of the steep and 
 narrow lane leading to Burwood, and a young lady got out. 
 
 ' You 're sure that 's Burwood ? ' she said, point- 
 ing to the house partially visible at the end of the lane. 
 
 The driver answered in the aflirmative. 
 
 4&2 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 463 
 
 ' Where Mrs. Elsmere lives ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, for sure.' The man as he spoke looked curiously 
 at the lady he had brought from Whinborough station. 
 She was quite a young girl he guessed, and a handsome 
 one. But there seemed to be something queer about her. 
 She looked so tumbled and tired. 
 
 Hester Fox-Wilton took out her purse, and paid him 
 with an uncertain hand, one or more of the shillings falling 
 on the road, where the driver and she groped for them. 
 Then she raised the small bag she had brought with her 
 in the car, and turned away. 
 
 ' Good day to yer, Miss,' said the man as he mounted 
 the box. She made no reply. After he had turned his 
 horse and started on the return journey to Whinborough, 
 he looked back once or twice. But the high walls of the 
 lane hid the lady from him. 
 
 Hester however did not go very far up the lane. She 
 sank down very soon on a jutting stone beneath the left 
 hand wall, with her bag beside her, and sat there looking 
 at the little house. It was a pleasant home-like place, 
 even on this bitter afternoon. In one of the windows 
 was a glow of firelight ; white muslin curtains everywhere 
 gave it a dainty refined look ; and it stood picturesquely 
 within the shelter of its trees, and of the yew hedge which 
 encircled the garden. 
 
 Yet Hester shivered as she looked at it. She was very 
 imperfectly clothed for such an afternoon, in a serge jacket 
 and skirt supplemented by a small fur collarette, which 
 she drew closer round her neck from time to time, as though 
 in a vain efiort to get warm. But she was not conscious of 
 doing so, nor of the cold as cold. All her bodily sensations 
 were miserable and uncomfortable. But she was only 
 actively aware of the thoughts racing through her mind. 
 
 There they were, within a stone's throw of her — Mary 
 
464 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 and Mrs. Elsmere — in the warm cosy little house, without 
 an idea that she, Hester, the wretched disgraced Hester, 
 was sitting in the lane so close to them. And yet they 
 were perhaps thinking of her, — they must have often 
 thought about her in the last fortnight. Mrs. Elsmere 
 must of course have been sorry. Good people were always 
 sorry when such things happened. And Mary ? — who was 
 eight years older — older I than this girl of eighteen who 
 sat there, sickened by life, conscious of a dead wall of 
 catastrophe drawn between her and the future. 
 
 Should she go to them ? Should she open their door 
 and say — ' Here I am ! — Horrible things have happened. 
 No decent person will ever know me or speak to me again. 
 But you said — you 'd help me — if I wanted it. Perhaps 
 it was a lie — hke all the rest ' ? 
 
 Then as the reddened eyelids fell with sheer fatigue, 
 there rose on the inward sight the vision of Catharine 
 Elsmere's face, — its purity, its calm, its motherliness. 
 For a moment it drew, it touched, it gave courage. And 
 then the terrible sense of things irreparable, grim matters 
 of fact not to be dreamed or thought away, rushed in 
 and swept the clinging ship-wrecked creature from the 
 foothold she had almost reached. 
 
 She rose hastily. 
 
 ' I can't ! They don'b want to see me — they' ve done 
 with me. Or perhaps they '11 cry — they '11 pray with me, 
 and I can't stand that ! Why did I ever come ? Where 
 on earth shall I go ? ' 
 
 And she looked round her in petulant despair, angry 
 with herself for having done this foolish thing, angry with 
 the loneliness and barrenness of the valley, where no inn 
 opened doors of shelter for such as she, angry with the ad- 
 vancing gloom, and with the bitter wind that teased and 
 Btung her. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 465 
 
 A little way up the lane she saw a small gate that led 
 into the Elsmeres' garden. She took her bag, and opening 
 the gate, she placed it inside. Then she ran down the 
 lane, drawing her fur round her, and shivering with cold. 
 
 'I'll think a bit—' she said to herself— ' I'll think 
 what to say. Perhaps I '11 come back soon.' 
 
 When she reached the main road again, she looked 
 uncertainly to right and left. Which way ? The thought 
 of the long dreary road back to Whinborough repelled her. 
 She turned towards the head of the valley. Perhaps she 
 might find a house which would take her in. The driver 
 had said there was a farm which let lodgings in the summer. 
 She had money — some pounds at any rate ; that was all 
 right. And she was not hungry. She had arrived at a 
 junction station five miles from Whinborough by a night 
 train. At six o'clock in the morning she had found herself 
 turned out of the express, with no train to take her on to 
 Whinborough. But there was a station hotel, and she had 
 engaged a room and ordered a fire. There she had thrown 
 herself down without undressing on the bed, and had slept 
 heavily for four or five hours. Then she had had some 
 breakfast, and had taken a midday train to Whinborough, 
 and a trap to Long Whindale. 
 
 She had travelled straight from Nice without stopping. 
 She would not let herself think now as she hurried along the 
 lonely road what it was she had fled from, what it was that 
 had befallen. The slightest glimpse into this past made 
 her begin to sob ; she put it away from her with all her 
 strength. But she had had of course to decide where she 
 should go, with whom she should take refuge. 
 
 Not with Uncle Richard, whom she had deceived and 
 defied. Not with ' Aunt Alice.' No sooner did the vision 
 of that delicate withered face, that slender form come before 
 her, than it brought with it terrible fancies. Her conduct 
 
 ■i H 
 
466 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 had probably killed * Aunt Alice.' She did not want to 
 think about her. 
 
 But Mrs. Elsmere knew all about bad men, and girls 
 who got into trouble. She, Hester, knew, from a few things 
 she had heard people say — things that no one supposed she 
 had heard — that Mrs. Elsmere had given years of her life, 
 and sacrificed her health to ' rescue ' work. The rescue 
 of girls from such men as Philip ? How could they be 
 rescued ? — when — 
 
 All that was nonsense. But the face, the eyes — the 
 shining, loving eyes, the motherly arms, — yes, those, Hester 
 confessed to herself, she had thirsted for. They had 
 brought her all the way from Nice to this northern valley, 
 — this bleak, forbidding country. She shivered again from 
 head to foot, as she made her way painfully against the 
 wind. 
 
 Yet now she was flying even from Catharine Elsmere ; 
 even from those tender eyes that haunted her. 
 
 The road turned towards a bridge, and on the other 
 side of the bridge degenerated into a rough and stony 
 bridle path, giving access to two grey farms beneath the 
 western fell. On the near side of the bridge, the road 
 became a cart-track leading to the far end of the dale. 
 
 Hester paused irresolute on the bridge, and looked 
 back towards Burwood. A light appeared in what was no 
 doubt the sitting-room window. A lamp perhaps, that, 
 in view of the premature darkening of the afternoon by 
 the heavy storm-clouds from the north, a servant had 
 just brought in. Hester watched it in a kind of panic, 
 foreseeing the moment when the curtains would be drawn 
 and the light shut out from her. She thought of the little 
 room within, the warm firelight, Mary with her beautiful 
 hair — and Mrs. Elsmere. They were perhaps working and 
 reading — as though that were all there were to do and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 467 
 
 think about in the world ! No, no ! after all they couldn't 
 be very peaceful — or very cheerful. Mary was engaged 
 to Uncle Richard now ; and Uncle Richard must be pretty 
 miserable. 
 
 The exhausted girl nearly turned back towards that 
 light. Then a hand came quietly and shut it out. The 
 curtains were drawn. Nothing now to be seen of the little 
 house, but its dim outlines in the oncoming twDight, the 
 smoke blown about its roof, and a faint gleam from a 
 side-window, perhaps the kitchen. 
 
 Suddenly a thought, a wild, attacking thought, leapt 
 out upon her, and held her there motionless, in the 
 winding, wintry lane. 
 
 When had she sent that telegram to Upcote ? If she 
 could only remember! The events of the preceding 
 forty-eight hours seemed to be all confused in one mad 
 flux of misery. Was it possible that they too could be 
 here — Uncle Richard, and 'Aunt Alice'? She hod said 
 something about Mrs. Elsmere in her telegram — she could 
 not recollect what. That had been meant to comfort 
 them, and yei to keep them away, to make them leave 
 her to her own plans. But supposing, instead, its effect 
 had been to bring them here at once, in pursuit of her ? 
 
 She hurried forward, sobbing dry sobs of terror as 
 though she already heard their steps behind her. What 
 was she afraid of? Simply their love! — simply their 
 sorrow ! She had broken their hearts ; and what could 
 she say to them? 
 
 The recollection of all her cruelty to ' Aunt AJice ' in 
 Paris — her neglect, her scorn, her secret unjust anger with 
 those who had kept from her the facts of her birth — 
 seemed to rise up between her and all ideas of hope 
 and help. Oh of course they would be kind to her ! — 
 they would forgive her — but — but she couldn't bear it! 
 
 2 H 2 
 
468 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Impatience with the very scene of wailing and forgiveness 
 she foresaw, as of something utterly futile and vain, swept 
 through the quivering nerves. 
 
 ' And it can never be undone ! * she said to herself 
 roughly, as though she were throwing the words in someone's 
 face. ' It can never, never be undone ! What 's the 
 good of talking ? ' 
 
 So the only alternative was to wander a while longer 
 into these clouds and storms that were beginning to 
 beat down from the pass through the darkness of the 
 valley ; to try and think things out ; to find some shelter 
 for the night ; then to go away again — somewhere. She 
 was conscious now of a first driving of sleet in her face ; 
 but it only lasted for a few minutes. Then it ceased ; 
 and a strange gleam swept over the valley — a livid 
 storm-light from the west, which blanched all the withered 
 grass beside her, and seemed to shoot along the course of 
 the stream as she toiled up the rocky path beside it. 
 
 What a country, what a sky ! Her young body was 
 conscious of an angry revolt against it, against the northern 
 cold and dreariness ; her body, which still kept as it were 
 the physical memory of sun, and blue sea, and orange 
 trees, of the shadow of olives on a thin grass, of the scent 
 of orange blossom on the broken twigs that someone was 
 putting into her hand. 
 
 Another fit of shuddering repulsion made her quicken 
 her pace, as though, again, she were escaping from pursuit. 
 Suddenly, at a bend in the path, she came on a shepherd 
 and his fiock. The shepherd, an old white-haired man, 
 was seated on a rock, stafi in hand, watching his dog collect 
 the sheep from the rocks^ slope on which they were scattered. 
 
 At sight of Hester, the old man started and stared. 
 Her fair hair escaping in many directions from the control 
 of combs and hairpins, and the pale lovely face in the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 469 
 
 midst of it, shone in the stormy gleam that filled the basin 
 of the hills. Her fashionable hat and dress amazed him. 
 Who could she be ? 
 
 She too stopped to look at him, and at his dog. The mere 
 neighbouihood of a living being brought a kind of comfort. 
 
 ' It 's going to snow — ' she said, as she stood beside him, 
 surprised by the sound of her own voice amid the roar 
 of the wind. 
 
 ' Aye — it 's onding o' snaw — ' said the shepherd, his 
 shrewd blue eyes travelling over her face and form. ' An' 
 it '11 mappen be a rough night.' 
 
 ' Are you taking your sheep into shelter ? ' 
 
 He pointed to a half-ruined fold, with three sycamores 
 beside it, a stone's throw away. The gate of it was open, 
 and the dog was gradually chasing the sheep within it. 
 
 ' I doan't like leavin' 'em on t' fells this bitter weather. 
 I 'm afiaid for t' ewes. It 's too catdd for 'em. They '11 
 be for droppin' their lambs too soon if this wind goes on. 
 It juist taks t' strength out on 'em, does the wind.' 
 
 ' Do you think it 's going to snow a great deal ? ' 
 
 The old man looked round at the clouds and the moun- 
 tains ; at the pow^dering of snow that had already whitened 
 the heights. 
 
 ' It '11 be more 'n a bit ! ' he said cautiously. ' I dessay 
 we '11 have to be gettin' men to open t' roads to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Does It often block the roads ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, yance or twice i' t' winter. An' ye can't let 
 'em bide. What 's ter happen ter foak as want the doctor ? ' 
 
 ' Did you ever know people lost on these hills ? ' asked 
 the girl, looking into the blackness ahead of them. Her 
 shrill, slight voice rang out in sharp contrast to the broad 
 gutturals of his Westmoreland speech. 
 
 ' Aye, Missy — I 've known two men losst on t' fells 
 sin I wor a lad.' 
 
470 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Were they shepherds, like you ? ' 
 
 * Noa, Missy — they wor tramps. Theer *s mony a 
 fellow cooms by this way i' th' bad weather to Pen'rth, 
 rather than face Shap fells. They say it 's betther walkin. 
 But when it 's varra bad, we doan't let 'em go on — noa, 
 it 's not safe. Theer was a mon lost on t' fells nine year ago 
 coom February. He wor an owd mon, and blind o'yan 
 eye. He'd lost the toother, dippin' sheep.' 
 
 ' How could he do that ? ' Hester asked indifierently, 
 still staring ahead into the advancing storm, and trembling 
 with cold from head to foot. 
 
 ' Why, sum o' the dippin stuff got into yan eye, and 
 blinded him. It was my son, gooin afther th' lambs i' 
 the snaw, as found him. He heard summat — a voice like 
 a lile child cryin — an he scratted aboot, an dragged th* 
 owd man out. He worn't deed then, but he died next 
 mornin. An t' doctor said as he 'd fair broken his heart 
 i' th' storm — not in a figure o' speach yo unnerstan — but 
 juist th' plain truth.' 
 
 The old man rose. The sheep had all been folded. He 
 called to his dog, and went to shut the gate. Then still 
 curiously eyeing Hester, he came back followed by his dog 
 to the place where she stood, listlessly watching. 
 
 ' Doan't yo go too far on t' fells, Missy. It 's coomin on 
 to snaw, an it '11 snaw aw neet. Lor bless yer, it 's wild 
 here i' winter. An when t' clouds coom down like yon — ' 
 he pointed up the valley — ' even them as knaws t' fells 
 from a chilt may go wrang.' 
 
 ' Where does this path lead ? ' said Hester, absently. 
 
 ' It goes oop to Marly Head, and joins on to th' owd 
 road, — t' Roman road, foak calls it — along top o' t' 
 ells. An' if yo foUers that far enoof yo may coom to 
 Ullswatter, an' Pen'rth.' 
 
 * Thank you. Good afternoon,' said Hester, moving on. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 471 
 
 -t 
 The old shepherd looked after her doubtfully, then said 
 to himself that what the lady did was none of his business, 
 and turned back towards one of the farms across the bridge. 
 Who was she ? She was a strange sort of body to be walking 
 by herself up the head of Long Whindale. He supposed she 
 came from Burwood — there was no other house where a lady 
 lik-e that could be staying. But it was a bit queer anyhow. 
 
 Hester walked on. She turned a craggy corner ; beyond 
 which she was out of sight of anyone on the lower stretches 
 of the road. The struggle with the wind, the roar of water 
 in her ears had produced in her a kind of trance-like state. 
 She walked mechanically, half deafened, half blinded, 
 measuring her force against the wind, conscious every now 
 and then of gusts of snow in her face, of the deepemng 
 gloom overhead climbing up and up the rocky path. But, 
 as in that fatal moment when she had paused in the Bur- 
 wood lane her mind was not more than vaguely conscious 
 of her immediate surroundings. It had become the prey of 
 swarming recollections — captured by sudden agonies, 
 unavailing horror-stricken revolts. 
 
 At last, out of breath, and almost swooning she sank 
 down under the shelter of a rock, and became in a moment 
 aware that white mists were swirlmg and hurrying all 
 about her, and that only just behind her, and just above 
 her, was the path clear. Without knowing it, she had 
 climbed and climbed till she was very near the top of the 
 pass. She looked down into a witch's cauldron of mist and 
 vapour, already thickened with snow, and up into an impene- 
 trable sky, as it seemed, close upon her head, from which the 
 white flakes were beginning to fall, steadily and fast. 
 
 She was a little frightened, but not much. After all 
 she had only to rest and retrace her steps. The watch 
 at her wrist told her it was not much past four ; and it was 
 
472 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 February. It would be daylight till half past five, unless 
 the storm put out the daylight. A little rest — just a little 
 rest ! But she began to feel ill and taint, and so bitterly, 
 bitterly cold. The sense of physical illness, conquering the 
 vague overwhelming anguish of heart and mind, began to 
 give her back some clearness of brain. 
 
 Who was she ? — why was she there ? She was Hester 
 Fox- Wilton — no ! Hester Meryon, who had escaped from a 
 man who had called himself, for a few days at least, her 
 husband ; a man whom in scarcely more than a week 
 she had come to loathe and fear ; whose nature and 
 character had revealed to her infamies of which she had 
 never dreamed ; who had claimed to be her master, and 
 use her as he pleased, and fiom whom she had escaped by 
 nighl, after a scene of which .she still bore the marks. 
 
 ' You little wild-cat ! You think you can defy me — 
 do you ? ' 
 
 And then her arms held — and her despairing eyes 
 looking down into his mockiug ones — and the helpless 
 sense oi indignity and wrong — and of her own utter and 
 criminal folly. 
 
 And through her memory there ran in an ugly dance, 
 those things, those monstrous things he had said to her 
 about the Scotch woman. It was not at all absolutely sure 
 ihat she, Hester, was his wife. He had shewn her those 
 letters at St. Geimains, of course, to reassure ner ; and the 
 letters were perfectly genuine letters, written by the people 
 they professed to be written by. Stili Scotch marriage 
 law was a damned business, — one never knew. He kuyed 
 it was all right ; but if she did hate him as poisonously as 
 she said, if she did really want to get rid of him, he might 
 perhaps be able to assist her. 
 
 Had he after all tricked and ruined her ? Yet as her 
 consciousness framed the question in the conventional 
 
|THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 473 
 
 phrases familiar to her through newspapers and novels, 
 she hardly knew what they meant, this child of eighteen, 
 who m three short weeks had been thrust through the fire 
 of an experience on which she had never had time to reflect. 
 Flattered vanity, and excit-iment, leading up almost from 
 the first day to instinctive and fierce revolt — intervals 
 of acquiescence, of wild determination to be happy, drowned 
 in fresh rebelhons of soul and sense—through these alterna- 
 tions the hours had rushed on, culminating in her furtive 
 and sudden escape from the man of whom she was now in 
 mad fear — her bhud flight for ' home.' 
 
 The commonness of her case, the absence of any romantic 
 or poetic element in it, — it was that which galled, which 
 degraded her in her own eyes. Only three weeks, since 
 she had felt that entire and arrogant belief in herself, in her 
 power over her own life and Philip's, on which she now 
 looked back as merely ludicrous ! — inexplicable in a girl 
 of the most ordinary intelligence. What power had giils 
 over men ? — such men as Philip Meryon ? 
 
 Her vanity was bleeding to death — and her life with 
 it. Since the revelation of her birth, she seemed to have 
 been blindly struggling to regain her own footing in the 
 world, — the kind of footing she was determined to have. 
 Power and excitement ; not to be pitied, but to be followed, 
 wooed, adored ; not to be forced on the second and third 
 bests ot the world, but to have the ' chief seat,' the daintiest 
 morsel, the beau role always, — had not this been her in- 
 stinctive, unvarying demand on life ? And now ? If 
 she were indeed married, she was tied to a man who neither 
 loved her, nor could bring her any position in the world ; who 
 was penniless, and had only entrapped her that he might 
 thereby get some money out of her relations ; who, living 
 or dead, would be a disgrace to her, standing irrevocably be- 
 tween her and any kind of honour or importance in society. 
 
474 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 And if he had deceived her, and she were not his wife, 
 — she would be free indeed ; but what would her freedom 
 matter to her ? What decent man would ever love her 
 now — marry her — set her at his side ? At eighteen — 
 eighteen J — all those chances were over for her. It was so 
 strange that she could have laughed at her own thoughts ; 
 and yet at the same time it was so ghastly true ! No need 
 now to invent a half-sincere chatter about ' Fate.' She 
 felt herself in miserable truth the mere feeble mouse where- 
 with the great cat Fate was playing. 
 
 And yet — after all — she herself had done it ! — by her 
 own sheer madness. She seemed to see Aunt Alice's 
 plaintive face, the eyes that followed her, the lip that 
 trembled when she said an unkind or wanton thing ; she 
 heard again the phrases of Uncle Richard's weekly letters, 
 humorous, tender phrases, with here and there an 
 occasional note of austerity, or warning. 
 
 Oh yes — she had done it — she had ruin*^d herself. 
 
 She felt the tears running over her cheeks, mingling 
 with the snow as it pelted in her face. Suddenly she 
 realised how cold she was, how soaked. She must — must 
 go back to shelter — to human faces — to kind hands. She 
 put out her own, groping helplessly, — and rose to her feet. 
 
 But the darkness was now much advanced, and the 
 great snowstorm of the night had begun. She could not 
 see the path below her at all, and only some twenty yards 
 of its course above her. In the whirling gloom and in the 
 fury of the wind, although she turned to descend the path, 
 her courage suddenly failed her. She remembered a stream 
 she had crossed on a little footbridge with a raU ; could she 
 ever see to re-cross it again ? — above the greedy tumult 
 of the water ? Peering upwards it seemed to her that she 
 saw something like walls in front of her — perhaps another 
 sheep-fold ? That would give her shelter for a little, and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 475 
 
 perhaps the snow would stop — perliaps it was only a 
 shower. She struggled on, and up, and found indeed some 
 fragments of walls, beside the path, one of the many 
 abandoned places among the Westmoreland fells that 
 testify to the closer settlement of the dales in earlier 
 centuries. 
 
 And just as she clambered within them, the clouds 
 sweeping along the fellside lifted and parted for the last 
 time, and she caught a glimpse of a wide, featureless world, 
 the desolate top of the fells, void of shelter or landmark, 
 save that straight across it, from gloom to gloom, there 
 ran a straight white thing — a ghostly and forsaken track. 
 The Roman road, no doubt, of which the shepherd had 
 spoken. And a vision sprang into her mind of Roman 
 soldiers tramping along it, helmeted and speared, their 
 heads bent against these northern storms — shivering 
 like herself. She gazed and gazed, fascinated, till her 
 bewildered eyes seemed to perceive shadows upon it, 
 moving — moving — towards her. 
 A panic fear seized her. 
 ' I miist get home ! — I must ! — ' 
 
 And sobbing, with the sudden word ' Mother ! ' on her 
 lips, she ran out of the shelter she had found, taking as she 
 supposed, the path towards the valley. But blinded with 
 snow and mist, she lost it almost at once. She stumbled 
 on over broken and rocky ground, wishing to descend, yet 
 keeping instinctively upwards, and hearing on her right 
 from time to time, as though from depths of chaos, the 
 wild voices of the valley, the wind tearing the cliffs, the 
 rushing of the stream. Soon all was darkness ; she knew 
 that she had lost herself ; and was alone with rock and 
 storm. Still she moved ; but nerve and strength ebbed ; 
 and at last there came a s4;ep into infinity — a sharp pain — 
 and the flame of consciousness went out. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 The February afternoon in Long Whindale, shortened by 
 the first heavy snowstorm of the winter, passed quickly 
 into darkness. Down through all the windings of the 
 valley, the snow showers swept from the north, becoming, 
 as the wind dropped a little towards night, a steady con- 
 tinuous fall, which in four or five hours had already formed 
 drifts of some depth in exposed places. 
 
 Towards six o'clock, the small farmer living across the 
 lane from Burwood became anxious about some sheep 
 which had been left in a high ' intak ' on the fell. He was 
 a thriftless procrastinating fellow, and when the storm 
 came on about four o'clock had been taking his tea in a 
 warm ingle-nook by his wife's fixe. He was then convinced 
 that the storm would ' hod ofi,' at least till morning, that 
 the sheep would get shelter enough from the stone walls of 
 the ' intak,' and that all was well. But a couple of hours 
 later the persistence of the snowfall, together with his 
 wife's reproaches, goaded him into action. He went out 
 with his son and lanterns, intending to ask the old shepherd 
 at the Bridge Farm to help them in their expedition to 
 find and fold the sheep. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the little sitting-room at Burwood, 
 Catharine Eismere and Mary were sitting, the one with her 
 book, the other with her needlework, while the snow and 
 wind outside beat on the little house. But Catharine's 
 needlework often dropped unheeded from her fingers ; 
 
 476 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 477 
 
 and the pages of Mary's book remained unturned. The 
 postman who brought letters up the dale in the morning, 
 and took letters back to Whinborough at night had just 
 passed by in his little cart, hooded and cloaked against 
 the storm, and hoping to reach Whinborough before the 
 drifts in the roads had made travelling too difficult. Mary 
 had put into his hands a letter addressed to the Rev. 
 Richard Meynell, Hotel Richelieu, Paris. And beside her 
 on the table lay a couple of sheets of foreign notepaper, 
 covered closely with Meynell's not very legible hand- 
 writing. 
 
 Catharine also had some open letters on her lap. 
 Presently she turned to Mary. 
 
 ' The Bishop thinks the trial will certainly end 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mary, without raising her eyes. 
 Catharine took her daughter's hand in a tender clasp. 
 ' I am so sorry ! — for you both.' 
 
 ' Dearest ! ' Mary laid her mother's hand against her 
 cheek. * But I don't think Richard will be misunderstood 
 again.' 
 
 ' No. The Bishop says thab, mysterious as it all is, 
 nobody blames him for being absent. They trust him. 
 But this time, it seems, he did WTite to the Bishop ? — just 
 a few words.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know. I am glad.' But as she spoke, the pale 
 severity of the girl's look beUed the word she used. During 
 the fortnight of Meynell's absence, while he and Alice 
 Puttenham in the south of France had been following every 
 possible clue in a vain search for Hester, and the Arches 
 trial had been necessarily left entirely to the management 
 of Meynell's counsel, and to the resources of his co-defen- 
 dants Darwen and Chesham, Mary had suffered much. To 
 see his own brilliant vindication of himself and his followers, 
 
478 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 in the face of religious England, snuffed out and 
 extinguished in a moment by the call of this private duty 
 had been hard ! — all the more seeing that the catastrophe 
 had been brought about by misconduct so wanton, so 
 flagrant, as Hester's. There had sprung up in Mary's 
 mind, indeed, a saeva indignatio ; not for herself, but for 
 Richard, first and foremost, and next for his cause. Dark 
 as she knew Meynell's forebodings and beliefs to be, anxiety 
 for Hester must sometimes be forgotten in a natural 
 resentment for high aims thwarted, and a great movement 
 risked, by the wicked folly of a girl of eighteen, on whom 
 every affection and every care had been lavished. 
 
 ' The roads will be impassable to-morrow,' said Catharine, 
 drawing aside the curtain, only to see a window already 
 blocked with drifted snow. ' But ! — who can be ringing 
 on such a night ! ' 
 
 For a peal of the front door bell went echoing through 
 the little house. 
 
 Mary stepped into the hall, and herself opened the door, 
 only to be temporarily blinded by the rush of wind and 
 snow through the opening. 
 
 ' A telegram ! * she exclaimed, in wonder — ' Please come 
 in and wait. Isn't it very bad ? ' 
 
 ' I hope I '11 be able to get back ! * laughed the young 
 man who had brought it. ' The roads are drifting up fast. 
 It was noa good bicycling. I got 'em to gie me a horse. 
 I 've just put him in your stable. Miss.' 
 
 But Mary heard nothing of what he was saying. She 
 had rushed back into the sitting-room. 
 
 * Mother ! — Richard and Miss Puttenham will be here 
 to-night. They have heard of Hester.' 
 
 In stupefaction they read the telegram, which had been 
 sent from Crewe. 
 
 * Received news of Hester on arrival Paris yesterday. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 479 
 
 She has left M. Says she has gone to find your mother. 
 Keep her. We arrive to-night Whinborough 7.10.* 
 
 • It is now seven,' said Catharine, looking at her watch. 
 * But where — where is she ? ' 
 
 Hurriedly they called their little parlour-maid into the 
 room and questioned her with closed doors. No — she 
 knew nothing of any visitor. Nobody had called ; nobody, 
 80 far as she knew, had passed by, except the ordinary 
 neighbours. Once in the afternoon, indeed, she had 
 thought she heard a carriage pass the bottom of the lane, 
 but on looking out from the kitchen, she had seen nothing 
 of it. 
 
 Out of this slender fact, the only further information 
 that could be extracted was a note of time. It was, the 
 girl thought, about four o'clock, when she heard the 
 carriage pass. 
 
 ' But it coiildn't have passed,' Catharine objected, 
 ' or you would have seen it go up the valley.' 
 
 The girl assented, for the kitchen window commanded 
 the road up to the bridge. Then the carriage, if she had 
 really heard it, must have come to the foot of the lane, 
 turned and gone back towards Whinborough again. There 
 was no other road available. 
 
 The telegraph messenger was dismissed, after a cup of 
 coffee ; and thankful for something to do, Catharine and 
 Mary, with minds full of conjecture and distress, set about 
 preparing two rooms for their guests. 
 
 * Will they ever get here ? ' Mary murmured to herself, 
 when at last the two rooms lay neat and ready, with a 
 warm fire in each, and she could allow herself to open the 
 front door again, an inch or two, and look out into the 
 weather. Nothing to be seen but the whirling snow6akes. 
 The horrid fancy seized her that Hester had really been 
 in that carriage and had turned back at their very door 
 
480 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 So that again Rir,hard, arri\'ing weary and heart-stricken, 
 would be disappointed. Mary's bitterness grew. 
 
 But all that could be done was to listen to every sound 
 without, in the hope of catching something else than the 
 roaring of the wind, and to give the rein to speculation and 
 dismay. 
 
 Catharine sat waiting, in her chair, the tears welling 
 silently. It touched her profoundly that Hester, in her 
 sudden di^spair, should have thought of coming to her ; 
 though apparently it was a project she had not carried out. 
 All her deep heart of compassion yearned over the lost, 
 unhappy one. Oh, to bring her comfort ! — to point her 
 to the only help and hope in the arms of an all-pitying God. 
 Catharine knew much more of Meryon's history and antece- 
 dents — from Meynell — than did Mary. She was convinced 
 that the marriage, if there had been a marriage, had been 
 a bogus one, and that the disgrace was irreparable. But 
 in her stern, rich nature, now that the culprit had turned 
 from her sin, there was not a thought of condemnation ; 
 only a yearning pity, an infinite tenderness. 
 
 At last towards nine o'clock there were steps on the 
 garden path. Mary flew to the door. In the porch there 
 stood the old shepherd from the Bridge Farm. His hat, 
 beard, and shoulders were heavy with snow, and his face 
 shone like a red wrinkled apple, in the light of the 
 hall lamp. 
 
 ' Beg your pardon. Miss, but I 've juist coom from 
 helpin' Tyson to get his sheep in. Varra careless of him 
 to ha left it so long ! — aw mine wor safe i't fold by fower 
 o'clock. An' I thowt. Miss, as I 'd mak bold, afore goin* 
 back to t' farm, to coom an ast yo, if t' yoong leddy got 
 safe hoam this afternoon ? I wor a bit worritted, for I 
 thowt I saw her on t' Mardale Head path, juist afther I 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 481 
 
 got home, from t' field abuve t' Bridge Farm, an' it wor 
 noan -weather for a stranger, Miss, yo unnerstan', to be oot 
 on t' fells, and it gettin' so black ' 
 
 ' What young lady ? ' cried Mary. ' Oh come in, please.' 
 
 And she drew him hurriedly into the sitting-room, 
 where Catharine had already sprung to her feet in terror. 
 There they questioned him. Yes — they had been expecting 
 a lady. When had he seen her ? — the young lady he spoke 
 of ? What was she like ? In what direction had she 
 gone ? He answered their questions as clearly as he 
 could, his own honest face growing steadily longer and 
 graver. 
 
 And all the time he carried, unconsciously, something 
 heavy in his hand, on the top of which the snow had 
 settled. Presently Mary perceived it. 
 
 * Sit down, please ! ' she pushed a chair towards him. 
 ' You must be tired out ! And let me take that ' 
 
 She held out her hand. The old man looked down — 
 recollecting. 
 
 ' That 'a, noan o' mine. Miss. I * 
 
 Catharine cried out — 
 
 ' It 's hers ! It 's Hester's ! ' 
 
 She took the bag from Mary, and shook the snow from 
 it. It was a small dressing-bag of green leather and on it 
 appeared the initials — ' H. F.-W.' 
 
 They looked at each other speechless. The old man 
 hastened to explain that on opening the gate which led 
 to the house from the lane, his foot had stumbled against 
 something on the path. By the Hght of his lantern he had 
 seen it was a bag of some sort, had picked it up and brought 
 it in. 
 
 ' She was in the carriage ! ' said Mary, under her breath, 
 ' and must have just pushed this inside the gate, 
 
 before ' 
 
 2 I 
 
482 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Before she went to her death ? Was that what would 
 have to be added ? For there was horror in both their 
 minds. The mountains at the head of Long Whindale 
 run up to no great height, but there are plenty of crags 
 on them with a sheer drop of anything from fifty to a 
 hundred feet. Ten or twenty feet would be quite enough 
 to disable an exhausted girl. Five hours since she was last 
 seen ! — and since the storm began ; four hours, at least, 
 since thick darkness had descended on the valley. 
 
 * We must do something at once.* Catharine addressed 
 the old man in quick, resolute tones. ' We must get a 
 party together.' 
 
 But as she spoke there were further sounds outside — of 
 trampling feet and voices — vying with the storm. Mary 
 ran into the hall. Two figures appeared in the porch in 
 the light of her lamp as she held it up, with a third behind 
 them, carrying luggage. In front stood Meynell, and an 
 apparently fainting woman, clinging to, and supported by 
 his arm. 
 
 ' Help me with this lady, please ! ' said Meynell, per- 
 emptorily, not recognising who it was holding the light. 
 * This last climb from the gate has been too much for her. 
 Alice ! — just a few steps more ! ' 
 
 And bending over his charge, he lifted the frail form over 
 the threshold, and saw, as he did so, that he was placing her 
 in Mary's arms. 
 
 * She is absolutely worn out,' he said, drawing quick 
 breath, while all his face relaxed in a sudden irrepressible 
 joy. * But she would come.' Then, in a lower voice — ' Is 
 Hester here ? ' Mary shook her head, and something in her 
 eyes warned him of fresh calamity. He stooped suddenly 
 to look at Alice, and preceived that she was quite uncon- 
 scious. He and Mary, between them, raised her and 
 oairied her into the sitting-room. Then, while Mary 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 483 
 
 ministered to her, Meynell grasped Catharine's hand — with 
 the brusque question — ■ 
 
 ' What has happened ? * 
 
 Catharine beckoned to old David, the shepherd, and 
 she, with David and Meynell, went across, out of hearing, 
 into the tiny dining-room of the cottage. Meanwhile the 
 horses and man who had brought the travellers from Whin- 
 borough had to be put up for the night ; for the man 
 would not venture the return journey. 
 
 Meynell had soon heard what there was to tell. He 
 himself was grey with fatigue and sleeplessness ; but there 
 was no time to think of that. 
 
 * What men can we get ? ' he asked of the shepherd. 
 
 Old David ruminated, and finally suggested the two 
 sons of the farmer across the lane, his own master, the young 
 tenant of the Bridge Farm, and the co\\Tnan from the same 
 farm. 
 
 ' And the Lord knaws I 'd goa wi you myself, Sir ' — said 
 the fine-featured old man, a touch of trouble in his blue 
 eyes, — ' for I feel soomhow as though there were a bit o' my 
 fault in it. But we 've had a heavy job on t' fells awready, 
 an I should be noa good to you.' 
 
 He went over to the neighbouring farm, to recruit some 
 young men, and presently returned with them, with the 
 driver, also, from Whinborough, a stalwart Westmoreland 
 lad, eager to help. 
 
 Meanwhile Meynell had snatched some food at Catha- 
 rine's urgent entreaty, and had stood a moment in the 
 sitting-room, his hand in Mary's, looking down upon the 
 just reviving Alice. 
 
 ' She 's been a plucky woman,' he said, with emotion ; 
 ' but she 's about at the end of her tether.' And in a few 
 brief sentences he described the agitated pursuit of the 
 last fortnight ; the rapid journeys, prompted now by this 
 
 2 I 1^ 
 
484 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 clue, now by that ; the alternate hopes and despairs ; with 
 no real information of any kind, till Hester's telegram, 
 sent originally to Upcote and reforwarded, had reached 
 Meynell in Paris, just as they had returned thither for a 
 fresh consultation with the police at headquarters. 
 
 As the soimd of men's feet in the kitchen broke in upon 
 the hurried narrative, and Meynell was leaving the room, 
 Ahce opened her eyes. 
 
 ' Hester ? ' The pale lips just breathed the name. 
 
 * We 've heard of her.* Meynell stooped to the questioner. 
 ' It 's a real clue this time. She 's not far away. But 
 don't ask any more now. Let Mrs. Elsmere take you to 
 bed — and there '11 be more news in the morning.* 
 
 She made a feeble sign of assent. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later all was ready, and Mary 
 stood again in the porch, holding the lamp high for the 
 departure of the rescuers. They were five men with 
 lanterns, ropes, and poles, laden besides with blankets, 
 and everything else that Catharine's practical sense could 
 suggest. Old David would go with the rest as far as the 
 Bridge Farm. 
 
 The snow was still coming down in a stealthy and 
 abundant fall, but the wind shewed some signs of abating. 
 * They '11 find it easier goin, past t' bridge, than it 
 would ha' been an hour since,' said old David to Mary, 
 pitying the white anxiety of her face. She thanked him, 
 with a smile, and then while he marched ahead, she put 
 down the lamp and leant her head a moment against 
 Meynell's shoulder, and he kissed her hair. 
 
 Down went the little procession to the main road. 
 Through the lane the lights wavered, and presently, stand- 
 ing at the kitchen window, Catharine and Mary could watch 
 them dancing up the dale, now visible, now vanishing. It 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 485 
 
 must be at least, and at best, two or three hours before the 
 party reappeared ; it might be much more. They turned 
 from useless speculation to give all their thoughts to Alice 
 Puttenham. 
 
 Too exhausted to speak or think, she was passive in 
 their hands. She was soon in bed, in a deep sleep, and 
 Mary, having induced her mother to lie down in the sitting- 
 room, and having made up fires throughout the house, sent 
 the servants to bed, and herself began her watch in Alice 
 Puttenham's room. 
 
 Dreary and long, the night passed away. Once or 
 twice through the waning storm, Mary heard the deep bell 
 of the little church, tolling the hours ; once or twice she 
 went hurriedly downstairs thinking there were steps in 
 the garden, only to meet her mother in the hall, on the 
 same bootless errand. At last, worn with thinking and 
 praying, she fell fitfully asleep, and woke to find moon- 
 light shining through the white blind in Alice Puttenham's 
 room. She drew aside the blind and saw with a shock of 
 surprise that the storm was over ; the valley lay pure 
 white under a moon just dipping to the western fells ; 
 the clouds were upfurling ; and only the last echoes of 
 the gale were dying through the bare, snow-laden trees 
 that fringed the stream. It was four o'clock. Six hoiu-s, 
 since the rescue party had started. Alack ! — they must 
 have had far to seek. 
 
 Suddenly ! — out of the dark bosom of the valley, lights 
 emerged. Mary sprang to her feet. Yes ! it was they — 
 it was Richard returning. 
 
 One look at the bed, where the delicate pinched face still 
 lay high on the pillows, drenched in a sleep which was 
 almost a swoon, and Mary stole out of the room. 
 
 There was time to complete their preparations and 
 renew the fires. When Catharine softly unlatched the 
 
486 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 front door, everything was ready — warm blankets, hot milk, 
 hot water bottles. But now they hardly dared speak to 
 each other ; dread kept them dumb. Nearer and nearer 
 came the sound of feet and lowered voices. Soon they could 
 hear the swing of the gate leading mto the garden. Four 
 men entered, carrying something. Meynell walked in front 
 with the lantern. 
 
 As he saw the open door, he hurried forward. They 
 read what he had to say in his haggard look before he 
 spoke. 
 
 ' We found her a long way up the pass. She has had 
 a bad fall — but she is alive. That 's all one can say. The 
 exposure alone might have killed her. She hasn't spoken 
 — ^not a word. That good fellow ' — he nodded towards 
 the Whinborough lad who had brought them from the 
 station — ' will take one of his horses and go for the doctor. 
 We shall get him here in a couple of hom's.' 
 
 Silently they brought her in, the stalwart, kindly men ; 
 they mounted the cottage stairs, and on Catharine's bed 
 they laid her down. 
 
 crushed and wounded youth ! The face, drawn and 
 fixed in pain, was marble-cold, and marble- white ; the 
 delicate mire-stained hands hung helpless. Masses of 
 drenched hair fell about the neck and bosom ; and there 
 was a wound on the temple which had been bandaged, 
 biit was now bleeding afresh. Catharine bent over her in an 
 anguish, feeling for pulse and heart. Meynell, whispering, 
 pointed out that the right leg was broken below the knee. 
 He himself had put it in some rough splints, made out of the 
 poles the shepherds were carrying. 
 
 Both Catharine and Mary had ambulance training, and, 
 helped by their two maids, they did all they could. They 
 cut away the soaked clothes. They applied warmth in 
 every possible form ; they got down some spoonfuls of 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 48^ 
 
 warm milk and brandy ; dreading always to hear the first 
 sounds of consciousness and pain. 
 
 They came at last — the low moans of one coming 
 terribly back to life. Meynell returned to the room, and 
 knelt by her. 
 
 ' Hester — dear child ! — you are quite safe — we are all 
 here — the doctor will be coming directly.' 
 
 His tone was tender as a woman's. His ghostly face, 
 disfigured by exhaustion, shewed him absorbed in pity. 
 Mary, standing near, longed to kneel down by him, and 
 weep ; but there was an austere sense that not even she 
 must interrupt the moment of recognition. 
 
 At last it came. Hester opened her eyes — 
 
 ' Uncle Richard ?— Is that Uncle Richard ? ' 
 
 A long silence, broken by moaning ; while Meynell 
 knelt there, watching her, sometimes whispering to her. 
 
 At last she said, ' I couldn't face you all. I 'm dying.' 
 She moved her right hand restlessly. ' Give me something 
 for this pain — I — I can't stand it.* 
 
 ' Dear Hester — can you bear it a little longer ? — We 
 will do all we can. We have sent for the doctor. He has a 
 motor. He will be here very soon.' 
 
 ' I don't want to live. I want to stop the pain. Uncle 
 Richard ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear Hester.' 
 
 ' I hate Philip — now.' 
 
 ' It 's best not to talk of him, dear. You want all youi 
 strength.' 
 
 ' No — I must. There 's not much time. I suppose 
 — I 've — I 've made you very unhappy ? ' 
 
 * Yes — but now we have you again — our dear, dear 
 Hester.' 
 
 ' You can't care. And I — can't say — I 'm sorry. 
 Don't you remember ? ' 
 
488 tHE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 His face quivered. He understood her reference to tlie 
 long fits of naughtiness of her childhood, when neither 
 nurse, nor governess, nor ' Aunt Alice * could ever get out 
 of her the stereotyped words ' I 'm sorry/ But he could 
 not trust himself to speak. And it seemed as though she 
 understood his silence, for she feebly moved her uninjured 
 hand towards him ; and he raised it to his lips. 
 
 ' Did I fall — a long way ? I don't recollect — any- 
 thing.' 
 
 * You had a bad fall, my poor child. Be brave ! — 
 the doctor will help you.' 
 
 He longed to speak to her of her mother, to tell her the 
 truth. It was borne in upon him that he must tell her, — 
 if she was to die ; that in the last strait, Alice's arms must 
 be about her. But the doctor must decide. 
 
 Presently, she was a little easier. The warm stimulant 
 dulled the consciousness which came in gusts. Once or 
 twice, as she recognised the faces near her, there was a 
 touch of life, even of mockery. There was a moment when 
 she smiled at Catharine — 
 
 ' You 're sweet. You won't say — " I told you so " ! ' 
 
 In one of the intervals when she seemed to have lapsed 
 again into unconsciousness, Meynell reported something 
 of the search. They had found her a long distance from 
 the path, at the foot of a steep and rocky scree, some 
 twenty or tliirty feet high, down which she must have 
 slipped headlong. There she had lain for some eight hours 
 in the storm before they found her. She neither moved 
 nor spoke when they discovered her, nor had there been any 
 sign of life, beyond the faint beating of the pulse, on the 
 journey down. 
 
 The pale dawn was breaking when the doctor arrived. 
 His verdict was at fijst not without hope. She tnigJit live ; 
 if there were no internal injuries of importance. The 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 489 
 
 next few hours would shew. He sent his motor back 
 to Whinborough Cottage Hospital for a couple of nurses, 
 and prepared, himself, to stay the greater part of the 
 day. He had just gone downstairs to speak to Meynell, 
 and Catharine was sitting by the bed, when Hester once 
 more roused herself. 
 
 ' How that man hurt me ! — don't let him come in 
 again.' 
 
 Then, in a perfectly hard, clear voice, she added imperi- 
 ously — ' I want to see my Mother.' 
 
 Catharine stooped towards her, in an agitation she 
 found it difficult to conceal. 
 
 ' Dear Hester ! — we are sending a telegram as soon as 
 the Post Office is open to Lady Fox- Wilton.' 
 
 Hester moved her hand impatiently. 
 
 ' She 's not my mother, and I 'm glad. Where is — my 
 mother ? ' She laid a strange, deep emphasis on the word, 
 opening her eyes wide and threateningly. Catharine 
 understood at once that, in some undiscovered way, she 
 knew what they had all been striving to keep from 
 her. It was no time for questioning. Catharine rose 
 quietly. 
 
 ' She is here, Hester. I ^dll go and tell her.' 
 
 Leaving one of the maids in charge, Catharine ran down 
 to the doctor, who gave a reluctant consent, lest more harm 
 should come of refusing the interview than of granting 
 it. And as Catharine ran upstairs again she had 
 time to reflect, with self-reproach, on the strange com- 
 pleteness with which she, at any rate, had forgotten that 
 frail ineffectual woman asleep in Mary's room, from the 
 moment of Hester's arrival til] now. 
 
 But Mary had not forgotten her. When Catharine 
 opened the door, it was to see a thin phantom-like figure, 
 standing fully dressed, and leaning on Mary's arm. 
 
490 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Catharine went up to her with tears, and kissed her, holding 
 her hands close. 
 
 * Hester asks for you — for her mother — her real mother. 
 She knows.' 
 
 * She knows ? ' Alice stood paralysed a moment gazing 
 at Catharine. Then the colour rushed back into her face. 
 ' I am coming — I am corning — at once,' she said impetuously. 
 ' I am quite strong. Don't help me, please. And — let me 
 go in alone. I won't do her harm. If you — and Mary — 
 would stand by the door — I would call in a moment — 
 if ' 
 
 They agreed. She went with tottering steps across the 
 landing. On the threshold, Catharine paused ; Mary 
 remained a little behind. Alice went in and shut the 
 door. 
 
 The blinds in Hester's room were up, and the snow- 
 covered fells rising steeply above the house filled it with 
 a wintry reflected light ; a dreary light, that a large fire 
 could not dispel. On the white bed lay Hester, breathing 
 quickly and shallowly ; bright colour now in each sunken 
 cheek. The doctor himself had cut off a great part of her 
 hair — her glorious hair. The rest fell now in damp golden 
 curls about her slender neck, beneath the cap-like bandage 
 which hid the forehead and temples and gave her the look 
 of a young nun. At first sight of her, Alice knew that she 
 was doomed. Do what she would, she could not restrain 
 the low cry which the sight tore from the depths of life. 
 
 Hester feebly beckoned. Alice came near, and took 
 the right hand in hers, while Hester smiled, her eyelids 
 fluttering. ' Mother ! ' — she said, so as scarcely to be 
 heard : — and then again — ' Mother ! * 
 
 Alice sank down beside her with a sob, and without a 
 word they gazed into each other's eyes. Slowly Hester's 
 filled with tears. But Alice's were dry. In her face there 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 49! 
 
 was as much ecstasy as anguish. It was the first look that 
 Hester's soul had ever given her. All the past was in it ; 
 and that strange sense, on both sides, that there was no 
 future. 
 
 At last Alice mui'mured : 
 
 ' How did you know ? * 
 
 ' Philip told me.' 
 
 The girl stopped abruptly. It had been on her tongue 
 to say — ' It was that made me go with him.' 
 
 But she did not say it. And while Alice's mind, rush- 
 ing miserably over the past, was trying to piece together 
 some image of what had happened, Hester began to talk 
 intermittently about the preceding weeks. Alice tried to 
 stop her ; but to thwart her only produced a restless 
 excitement, and she had her way. 
 
 She spoke of Philip with horror, yet with a perfectly 
 clear sense of her own responsibility. 
 
 ' I needn't have gone — but I would go. There was a 
 devil in me — that wanted to know. Now I know — too 
 much. I 'm glad it 's over. This life isn't worth while — 
 not for me.' 
 
 So, from these lips of eighteen, came the voice of the 
 world's old despairs ! 
 
 Presently she asked peremptorily for Meynell, and he 
 came to her. 
 
 ' Uncle Richard, I want to be sure ' — she spoke strongly 
 and in her natural voice — ' Am I Philip's wife — or — or not ? 
 We were married on January 25th, at the Mairie of the 
 10th Arrondissement, by a man in a red scarf. We signed 
 registers and things. Then — when we quarrelled — Philip 
 said — he wasn't certain about that woman — in Scotland. 
 You might be right. Tell me the truth, please. Am I — 
 his wife ? ' 
 
 And as the words dropped faintly, the anxiety in her 
 
402 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 beautiful death-stricken eyes was strange and startling to 
 see. Through all her recklessness, her defiance of authority 
 and custom, could be seen at last the strength of inherited, 
 implanted things ; the instinct of a race, a family, over- 
 leaping deviation. 
 
 Meynell bent over her steadily, and took her hand in 
 both his own. 
 
 ' Certainly, you are his wife. Have no anxiety at all 
 about that. My enquiries all broke down. There was 
 no Scotch marriage.' 
 
 Hester said nothing for a little ; but the look of relief 
 was clear. Alice on the further side of the bed dropped 
 her face in her hands. Was it not only forty-eight hours 
 since in Paris Meynell had told her that he had received 
 conclusive evidence of the Scotch marriage, and that 
 Hester was merely Philip's victim, not his wife ? Passion- 
 ately her heart thanked him for the falsehood. She saw 
 clearly that Hester's mortal wounds were not all 'bodily. 
 She was dying partly of self-contempt, self -judgment. 
 Meynell's strong words — his ' noble lie ' — had lifted, as it 
 were, a fraction of the moral weight that was destroying 
 her ; had made a space — a freedom, in which the spirit 
 coidd move. 
 
 So much Alice saw ; blind meanwhile to the tragic irony 
 of this piteous stress laid at such a moment, by one so 
 lawless, on the social law ! 
 
 Thenceforward the poor sufierer was touchingly gentle 
 and amenable. Morphia had been given her liberally, 
 and the relief was great. When the nurses came at 
 midday, however, the pulse had already begun to fail. They 
 could do nothing ; and though within call, they left her 
 mainly to those who loved her. 
 
 In the early afternoon, she asked suddenly for the 
 Communion, and Meynell administered it. The three 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 493 
 
 women who were watcliing her received it with her. la 
 Catharine's mind, as Me}'neirs hands brought her the 
 sacred bread and wine, all thought of religious difference 
 between herself and him had vanished, burnt away by 
 sheer heat of feeling. There was no difference ! Words 
 became mere transparencies, through which shone the 
 ineffable. 
 
 When it was over, Hester opened her eyes — ' Uncle 
 Richard ! ' The voice was only a whisper now. — ' You 
 loved my father ? ' 
 
 ' I loved him dearly — and you — and your mother — for 
 his sake.* 
 
 He stooped to kiss her cheek. 
 
 ' I wonder what it '11 be like ' — she said, after a moment, 
 with more strength, — ' beyond ? How strange that — I 
 shall know before you ! Uncle Richard — I 'm — I 'm sorry ! * 
 At that the difficult tears blinded him, and he could 
 not reply. But she was beyond tears, concentrating all 
 the last effort of the mind on the sheer maintenance of 
 life. Presently she added : — 
 
 ' I don't hate — even Philip now. I — I forget him. 
 Mother ! ' And again she clung to her mother's hand, 
 feebly turning her face to be kissed. 
 
 Once she opened her eyes when Mary was beside her, 
 and smiled brightly. 
 
 ' I 've been such a trouble, Mary — I 've spoilt Uncle 
 Richard's life. But now you '11 have him all the time — 
 and he '11 have you. You dear ! — Kiss me. You 've got a 
 golden Mother. Take care of mine — won't you ? — my poor 
 Mother ! ' 
 
 So the hours wore on. Science was clever and merciful 
 and eased her pain. Love encompassed her, and when the 
 wintry light failed, her faintly beating heart failed with it, 
 and all was still. . , , 
 
494 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Richard !— Richard !— Come with me.' 
 
 So, with low, tender words, Mary tried to lead him 
 away, after that trance of silence in which they had all 
 been standing round the dead. He yielded to her ; he 
 was ready to see the doctor and to submit to the absolute 
 rest enjoined. But already there was something in his 
 aspect which terrified Mary. Through the night that fol- 
 lowed, as she lay awake, a true instinct told her that the 
 first great wrestle of her life and her love was close upon 
 her. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 On the day following Hester's death, an inquest was held 
 in the dining-room at Burwood. Meynell and old David 
 the shepherd stood out chief among the witnesses. 
 
 ' This poor lady's name, I understand, Sir,' said the 
 greyhaired Coroner, addressing Meynell, when the first 
 preliminaries were over, ' was Miss Hester Fox-Wilton ; 
 she was the daughter of the late Sir Ralph Fox-Wilton ; 
 she was under age ; and you and Lady Fox-WUton — who 
 is not here, I am told, owing to illness — were her 
 guardians ? ' 
 
 Meynell assented. He stood to the right of the Coroner, 
 leaning heavily on the chair before him. The doctor who 
 had been called La to Hester sat beside him, and wondered 
 professionally, whether the witness would get through. 
 
 ' I understand also,' the Coroner resumed, ' that Miss 
 Fox- Wilton had left the family in Paris with whom you 
 and Lady Fox- Wilton had placed her, some three weeks 
 ago, and that you have since been in search of her, in 
 company I beheve with Miss Fox-Wilton's aunt. Miss Alice 
 Puttenham. Miss Puttenham I hope will appear ? ' 
 
 The doctor rose — 
 
 ' I am strongly of opinion, Sir, that, unless for most 
 urgent reasons, Miss Puttenham should not be called upon. 
 She is in a very precarious state, in consequence of grief 
 and shock, and I should greatly fear the results were she 
 to make the effort.' 
 
 493 
 
496 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Meynell intervened. 
 
 ' I shall be able, Sir, I tliink, to give you sufficient 
 information, without its being necessary to call upon Miss 
 Puttenham.' 
 
 He went on to give an account, as guarded as he could 
 make it, of Hester's disappearance from the family with 
 whom she was boarding, of the anxiety of her relations and 
 the search that he and Miss Puttenham had made. 
 
 His conscience was often troubled. Vaguely, his mind 
 was pronouncing itself all the while — ' It is time now the 
 truth were known. It is better it should be known.' 
 Hester's death had changed the whole situation. But he 
 could himself take no step whatever towards disclosure. 
 And he knew that it was doubtful whether he should or 
 could have advised Ahce to take any. 
 
 The enquiry went on, the Coroner avoiding the subject 
 of Hester's French escapade as much as possible. After 
 all there need be — there was — no question of suicide ; 
 only some explanation had to be suggested of the dressing- 
 bag left within the garden gate, and of the girl's reckless 
 climb into the fells, against old David's advice, on such 
 an afternoon. 
 
 Presently, in the midst of David's evidence, describing 
 his meeting with Hester by the bridge, the handle of the 
 dining-room door turned. The door opened a little way, 
 and then shut again. Another minute or two passed, and 
 then the door opened again timidly as though someone 
 were hesitating outside. The Coroner annoyed, beckoned 
 to a constable standing behind the witnesses. But before 
 he could reach it, a lady had slowly pushed it open, and 
 entered the room. 
 
 It was Alice Puttenham. 
 
 The Coroner looked up, and the Doctor rose in astonish- 
 ment. Alice advanced to the table, and stood at the 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 497 
 
 further end from the Coroner, looking first at him and then 
 at the Jury. Her face — emaciated now beyond all touch 
 of beauty, — and the childish overhanging lip, quivered as 
 she tried to speak ; but no words came. 
 
 ' Miss Puttenham, I presume ? ' said the Coroner. 
 ' We were told, Madam, that you were not well enough to 
 give evidence.' 
 
 Meynell was at her side. 
 
 ' What do you wish ? ' he said, in a low voice, as he 
 took her hand. 
 
 ' I wish to give evidence,' she said aloud. 
 
 The doctor turned towards the Coroner. 
 
 ' I think you will agree with me, Sir, that as Miss Putten- 
 ham has made the effort, she should give her evidence as 
 soon as possible, and should give it sitting.' 
 
 A murmur of assent ran round the table. Over the 
 weather-beaten Westmoreland faces had passed a sudden 
 wave of animation. 
 
 Alice took her seat, and the oath. Meynell sitting 
 opposite to her covered his face with his hands. He fore- 
 saw what she was about to do, and his heart went out to her. 
 
 Everybody at the table bent forward to listen. The 
 two shorthand writers lifted eager faces. 
 
 ' May I make a statement ? ' The thin voice trembled 
 through the room. 
 
 The Coroner assured the speaker that the Court was 
 willing and anxious to hear anything she might have 
 to say. 
 
 Alice fixed her eyes on the old man, as though she would 
 thereby shut out all his surroundings. 
 
 ' You are enquiring. Sir — into the death — of my 
 daughter.' 
 
 The Coroner made a sudden movement. 
 
 ' Your daughter. Madam ? I understood that this poor 
 
 2K 
 
498 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 young lady was tlie daughter of the late Sir Ralph and Lady 
 Fox- Wilton ? ' 
 
 * She was their adopted daughter. Her father was Mr. 
 Neville Flood, and I — am her mother. Mr. Flood, of 
 Sandford Abbey, died nearly twenty years ago. He and 
 I were never married. My sister and brother-in-law adopted 
 the child. She passed always as theirs, and when Sir Ralph 
 died, he appointed — Mr. Meynell — and my sister her 
 guardians. Mr. Meynell has always watched over her — and 
 me. Mr. Flood was much attached to him. He wrote 
 to Mr. Meynell, asking him to help us — just before his death.' 
 
 She paused a moment, steadying herself by the table. 
 There was not a sound, not a movement in the room. 
 Only Meynell uncovered his eyes and tried to meet hers, 
 so as to give her encouragement. 
 
 She resumed — 
 
 ' Last August the nurse who attended me — ^in my con- 
 finement — came home to Upcote. She made a statement 
 to a gentleman there — a false statement — and then she 
 died. I wished then to make the truth public — but Mr. 
 Meynell — as Hester's guardian — and for her sake, as well 
 as mine — did not wish it. She knew nothing — then ; 
 and he was afraid of its effect upon her. I followed 
 his advice, and took her abroad, in order to protect her 
 from a bad man who was pursuing her. We did all we 
 could — but we were not able to protect her. They were 
 married without my knowing — and she went away with 
 him. Then he — this man — told her — or perhaps he had 
 done it before, I don't know, — who she was. I can only 
 guess how he knew ; but he is Mr. Flood's nephew. 
 My poor child soon found out what kind of man he was. 
 She tried to escape from him. And because Mrs. Elsmere 
 had been always very kind to her, she came here. She 
 knew how — ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 499 
 
 The voice paused, and then with difficulty shaped its 
 words again. 
 
 ' She knew that we should grieve so terribly. She 
 shrank from seeing us. She thought we might be here — 
 and that — partly — made her wander away again — in despair 
 — when she actually got here. But her death was a pure 
 accident — that I am sure of. At the last, she tried to get 
 home — to me. That was the only thing she was conscious 
 of — before she fell. When she was dying — she told me she 
 knew — I was her mother. And now — that she is dead — ' 
 
 The voice changed and broke — a sudden cry forced 
 its way through — 
 
 ' Now that she is dead — no one else shall claim her — but 
 me. She's mine now — my child — for ever — only mine ! ' 
 
 She broke off incoherently, bowing her head upon her 
 hands, her slight shoulders shaken by her sobs. 
 
 The room was silent, save for a rather general clearing 
 of throats. Meynell signalled to the doctor. They both 
 rose and went to her. Meynell whispered to her. 
 
 The Coroner spoke, drawing his handkerchief hastily 
 across his eyes. 
 
 ' The Court is very grateful to you, Miss Puttenham, for 
 this frank and brave statement. We tender you our best 
 thanks. There is no need for us to detain you longer.* 
 
 She rose, and Meynell led her from the room. Outside 
 was a nurse to whom he resigned her. 
 
 ' My dear, dear friend ! ' — Trembling, her eyes met the 
 deep emotion in his — ' That was right — that will bring you 
 help. Aye ! you have her now — all, all your own.' 
 
 On the day of Hester's burying Long Whindale lay 
 glittering white under a fitful and frosty sunshine. The 
 rocks and screes with their steep beds of withered heather 
 made dark scrawls and scratches on the white ; the 
 
 2k2 
 
500 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 smoke from tlie farmhouses rose bluish against the snowy 
 wall of fell ; and the river, amid the silence of the 
 muflfled roads and paths, seemed the only audible thing 
 in the valley. 
 
 In the tiny churchyard the new made grave had been 
 filled in with frozen earth, and on the sods lay flowers, piled 
 there by Rose Flaxman's kind and busy hands. She 
 and Hugh had arrived from the south that morning. 
 
 Another visitor had come from the south, also to lay 
 flowers on that wintry grave. Stephen Barron's dumb 
 pain was bitter to see. The silence of spiritual and physical 
 exhaustion in which Meynell had been wrapped since the 
 morning of the inquest was first penetrated and broken up 
 by the sight of Stephen's anguish. And in the attempt to 
 comfort the younger, the elder man laid hold on some 
 returning power for himself. 
 
 But he had been hardly hit ; and the depth of the wound 
 shewed itself strangely — in a kind of fear of love itself, a 
 fear of Mary ! Meynell's attitude towards her during 
 these days was almost one of shrinking. The atmosphere 
 between them was electrical ; charged with things un- 
 spoken, and a conflict that must be faced. 
 
 The day after Hester's funeral the newspapers were 
 full of the sentence delivered on the preceding day, in the 
 Arches Court, on Meynell and his co-defendants. A 
 telegram from Darwen the evening before had conveyed 
 the news to Meynell himself. 
 
 The sentence of deprivation ah officio et heneficio in the 
 Church of England, on the groimd of heretical opinion, 
 and unauthorised services had been expressed by the 
 Dean of Arches in a tone and phraseology of considerable 
 •vehemence. According to him the proceedings of the 
 modernists were ' as contrary to morality as to law/ and 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 501 
 
 he marvelled how * honest men * could consent to occupy 
 the position of Moynell and his friends. 
 
 Notice of appeal to the Pri^'y Council was at once given 
 by the Modernist Counsel ; a stay of execution was applied 
 for and granted ; and a further flame of discussion arose 
 throughout England. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the morning following the publication 
 of the j udgment, Meynell finished a letter, and took it into 
 the dining-room, where Rose and Mary were sitting. Rose, 
 reading his face, disappeared, and he put the letter into 
 Mary's hands. 
 
 It was addressed to the Bishop of Dunchester. The 
 great gathering in Dunchester Cathedral, after several 
 postponements to match the delays in the Court of Arches, 
 was to take place within a fortnight from this date, and 
 Meynell had been everywhere announced as the preacher of 
 the sermon, which was to be the battle cry of the Movement, 
 in the second period of its history ; the period of open 
 revolt, of hot and ardent conflict. 
 
 The letter which Mary was invited to read was short. 
 It simply asked that the writer should be reUeved from a 
 task he felt he could not adequately carry out. He desired 
 to lay it down, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the 
 cause. ' I am not the man, and this is not my job. This 
 conviction has been borne in upon me during the last few 
 weeks with an amazing clearness. I will only say that 
 it seems to represent a command — a prohibition — laid 
 upon me, which I cannot ignore. There are of course tragic 
 happenings and circumstances connected with it, my dear 
 Lord, on which I will not dwell. The effect of them at 
 present on my mind is that I wish to retire from a public 
 and prominent part in our great movement ; at any rate 
 for a time. I shall carry through the Privy Council 
 appeal ; but except for that, I intend to refuse all public 
 
502 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 appearances. When the sentence is confirmed, as of course 
 it will be, it will be best for me to confine myself to 
 thinking and writing in solitude, and behind the scenes. 
 * They also serve who only stand and wait.' The quota- 
 tion is hackneyed, but it must serve. Through thought 
 and self-proving, I beUeve that in the end I shall help 
 you best. I am not the fighter I thought I was ; the 
 fighter that I ought to be, to keep the position that has 
 been so generously given me. Forgive me for a while 
 if I go into the wilderness — a rather absurd phrase, 
 however, as you will agree, when I tell you that I am soon 
 to marry a woman whom I love with my whole heart. 
 But it appUes to my connection with the Modernist 
 Movement, and to my position as a leader. My old friends, 
 and colleagues — many of them at least — will, I fear, blame 
 the step I am taking. It will seem to them a mere piece of 
 flinching and cowardice. But each man's soul is in his own 
 keeping ; and he alone can judge his own powers.' 
 
 The letter then became a quiet discussion of the best 
 man to be chosen in the writer's stead, and passed on into 
 a review of the general situation created by the sentence 
 of the Court of Arches. 
 
 But of these later pages of the letter Mary realised 
 nothing. She sat with it in her hands, after she had read 
 the passage which has been quoted, looking down, her 
 mouth trembling. 
 
 Meynell watched her uneasily — then came to sit by 
 her, and took her hand. 
 
 ' Dearest ! — you understand ? ' he said, entreatingly. 
 
 ' It is — because of Hester ? ' She spoke with difficulty. 
 
 He assented, and then added — 
 
 * But that letter — shall only go with your permission.' 
 
 She took courage. ' Richard, you know so much better 
 than I, but — Richard ! — did you ever neglect Hester ? ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 503 
 
 He tried to answer her question truly. 
 ' Not knowingly.' 
 
 * Did you ever fail to love her, and try to help her ? ' 
 He drew a long breath. 
 
 * But there she lies ! ' He raised his head. Through 
 the window, on a rocky slope, half a mile away could be 
 seen the tiny church of Long Whindale, and the little 
 graveyard round it. 
 
 * It is very possible that I see the thing morbidly — ' he 
 turned to her again with a note of humility, of sad appeal, 
 that struck most poignantly on the woman's heart — ' but 
 I cannot resist it. What use can I be to any human being 
 as guide, or prophet, or counsellor — if I was so little use 
 to her ? Is there not a kind of hypocrisy — a dismal 
 hypocrisy — in my claim to teach — or inspire — great 
 multitudes of people — when this one child — who was 
 given into my care — ' 
 
 He wrung her hands in his, unable to finish his 
 sentence. 
 
 Bright tears stood in her eyes ; but she persevered. 
 She struck boldly for the public, the impersonal note. She 
 set against the tragic appeal of the dead, the equally tragic 
 appeal of the living. She had in her mind the memory of 
 that London church, with the strained upturned faces, 
 the ' hungry sheep,' — girls among them, perhaps, in peril 
 like Hester, men assailed by the same vile impulses that 
 had made a brute of Philip Meryon. During the preceding 
 months Mary's whole personality had developed with great 
 rapidity, after a somewhat taciturn and slowly ripening 
 youth. The need, enforced upon her by love itself, of 
 asserting herself even against the mother she adored ; 
 the shadow of Meynell's cloud upon her, and her suffering 
 under it, during the weeks of slander ; and now this rending 
 tragedy at her doors— had tempered anew the naturally 
 
504 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 high heart, and firm will. At this critical moment, she 
 saved Meynell from a fatal step by the capacity she shewed 
 of loving his cause, only next to himself. And, indeed, 
 Meynell was made wholesomely doubtful once or twice, 
 whether it were not in truth his cause she loved in him. 
 For the sweet breakdowns of love which were always at 
 her lips she banished by a mighty efiort, till she should 
 have won or lost. Thus throughout she shewed herself 
 her mother's daughter — with her father's thoughts. 
 
 It was long, however, before she succeeded in making 
 any real impression upon him. All she could obtain at 
 first was delay, and that Catharine should be informed. 
 
 As soon as that had been done, the position became 
 once more curiously complex. Here was a woman to whom 
 the whole Modernist movement was anathema, driven 
 finally into argument for the purpose of compelling the 
 Modernist leader, the contriver and general of Modernist 
 victory, to remain at his post ! 
 
 For it was part of Catharine's robust character to look 
 upon any pledge, any accepted responsibility, as something 
 not to be undone by any mere feeling, however sharp, 
 however legitimate. You had undertaken the thing, and 
 it must, at all costs, be carried through. That was the 
 dominant habit of her mind ; and there were persons 
 connected with her on whom the rigidity of it had at 
 times worked harshly. 
 
 On this occasion it was no doubt interfered with 
 — (the Spirit of Comedy would have found a certain high 
 satisfaction in the dilemma !) — by the fact that Meynell's 
 persistence in the course he had entered upon, must be, in 
 her eyes, and sub specie religionis, a persistence in heresy and 
 unbelief. What decided it ultimately, however, was that 
 she was not only an orthodox believer, but a person of great 
 common sense — and Mary's mother. 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 505 
 
 Her natural argument was that after the tragic events 
 which had occurred, and the public reports of them which 
 had appeared, Meynell's abrupt withdrawal from public 
 life would once more unsettle and confuse the public mind. 
 If there had been any change in his opinions — 
 
 ' Oh ! do not imagine — * she turned a suddenly glowing 
 face upon him — ' I should be trying to dissuade you, if 
 that were your reason. No ! — it is for personal and 
 private reasons you shrink from the responsibility of leader- 
 ship. And that being so, what must the world say ? — the 
 ignorant world that loves to think evil ? ' 
 
 He looked at her a little reproachfully. 
 
 ' Those are not arguments that come very naturally 
 from you ! ' 
 
 ' They are the right ones ! — and I am not ashamed of 
 them. My dear fiiend — I am not thinking of you at all. 
 I leave you out of count ; I am thinking of AJice — and — 
 Mary ! ' 
 
 Catharine unconsciously straightened herself, a touch of 
 something resentful — nay stern — in the gesture. Meynell 
 stared in stupefaction. 
 
 ' Alice ! — Mary ! ' he said. 
 
 ' Up to this last proposed action of yours, has not 
 everything that has happened gone to soften people's 
 hearts ; to make them repent doubly of their scandal, and 
 their false witness ? Everyone knows the truth now — 
 everyone who cares ; and everyone understands. But 
 now — after the effort that poor AJice has made — after all 
 that she and you have suffered — you insist on turning 
 fresh doubt and suspicion on yourself, your motives, your 
 past history. Can't you see how people may gossip about 
 it — how they may interpret it ? You have no right to do 
 it, my dear Richard ! — no right whatever. Your " good 
 report " belongs not only to yourself — but — to Mary ! ' 
 
5o6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Catharine's breath had quickened ; her hand shook 
 upon her knee. Meynell rose from his seat, paced the 
 room and came back to her. 
 
 ' I have tried to explain to Mary — ' he said, desperately, 
 — ' that I should feel myself a hypocrite and pretender in 
 playing the part of a spiritual leader, — when this great — 
 failure — lay upon my conscience.' 
 
 At that Catharine's tension gave way. Perplexity 
 returned upon her. 
 
 * Oh ! if it meant — if it meant — ' she looked at him with 
 a sudden, sweet timidity — ' that you felt you had tried to 
 do for Hester what only grace — what only a living Ee- 
 deemer — could do for her — ' 
 
 She broke ofi. But at last, as MeyneU, her junior by 
 fifteen years, — her son almost — looked down into her face, 
 — ^her frail, ageing, illumined face, — there was something 
 in the passion of her faith which challenged and roused his 
 own ; which for the moment, at any rate, and for the first 
 time since the crisis had arisen, revived in him the ' fighter ' 
 he had tried to shed. 
 
 ' The fault was not in the thing preached,' he said, with 
 a groan ; ' or so it seems to me ; — but in the preacher. The 
 preacher — was unequal to the message.' 
 
 Catharine was silent. And after a little more pacing, 
 he said in a more ordinary tone — and a humble one — 
 
 ' Does Mary share this view of yours ? ' 
 
 At this Catharine was almost angry. 
 
 ' As if I should say a word to her about it ! Does 
 she know — has she ever known — what you and I knew ? 
 
 His eyes, full of trouble, propitiated her. He took her 
 hand and kissed it. 
 
 ' Bear with me, dear Mother ! I don't see my way ; 
 but Mary — is to me — my life. At any rate, I won't do in 
 a hurry what you disapprove,' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 507 
 
 Thus a little further delay was gained. The struggle 
 lasted indeed another couple of days, and the aspect of 
 both Meynell and Mary shewed deep marks of it by the 
 end. Throughout it, Mary made little or no appeal to 
 the mere womanly arts. And perhaps it was the repression 
 of them that cost her most. 
 
 On the third day of discussion, while the letter still lay 
 unposted in Meynell's writing-case, he went wandering by 
 himself up the valley. The weather was soft again, and 
 breathing spring. The streams ran free ; the buds were 
 swelling on the sycamores ; and except on the topmost 
 crags, the snow had disappeared from the fells. Harsh 
 and austere the valley was still ; the winter's grip would 
 be slow to yield ; but the turn of the year had come. 
 
 That morning a rush of correspondence forwarded 
 from Upcote had brought matters to a crisis. On the days 
 immediately following the publication of the evidence 
 given at the inquest on Hester, the outside world had made 
 no sign. All England knew now why Richard Meynell 
 had disappeared from the Arches Trial, only to become 
 again the prey of an enormous publicity, as one of the 
 witnesses to the finding and the perishing of his young 
 ward. And after Alice Puttenham's statement in the 
 Coroner's Court, for a few days the England interested 
 in Richard Meynell simply held its breath and let him be. 
 
 But he belonged to the pubhc ; and after just the brief 
 respite that decency and sympathy imposed, the pubUc 
 fell upon him. The Arches verdict had been given ; the 
 appeal to the Privy Council had been lodged ; and mean- 
 while a stay of execution had been applied for and granted. 
 With every month of the struggle, as the Modernist attack 
 had grown more determined, and its support more widespread, 
 so the orthodox defence had gathered force and vehemence. 
 Yet through the length and breadth of the country, the 
 
5o8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Modernist petition to Parliament was now kindling such a 
 fire as no resistance could put out. Debate in the House 
 of Commons on the Modernist proposals for Church Reform 
 would begin after Easter. Already every member of the 
 House was being bombarded from both sides by his consti- 
 tuents. Such a heat of rehgious feeling, such a passion of 
 reKgious hope and fear, had not been seen in England for 
 generations. 
 
 And meanwhile Meynell, whose action had first released 
 the great forces now at work, who as a leader was now 
 doubly revered, doubly honoured by those who clamoured 
 to be led by him, still felt himself utterly unable to face the 
 struggle. Heart and brain were the prey of a deadly dis- 
 couragement ; the will could make no efiort ; his con- 
 fidence in himself was lamed and helpless. Not even the 
 growing strength and intensity of his love for Mary could 
 set him, it seemed, spiritually, on his feet. 
 
 He left the old bridge on his left, and climbed the pass. 
 And as he walked, some words of Newman possessed him ; 
 breathed into his ear through all the wind and water voices 
 of the valley : — 
 
 * Thou to wax fierce 
 
 In the cause of the Lord 
 To threat and to pierce 
 
 With the heavenly sword ! 
 Anger and Zeal 
 
 And the Joy of the brave 
 Who bade thee to feel * — 
 
 Dejectedly, he made his way along the fatal path ; he 
 found the ruin where Hester had sheltered ; he gradually 
 identified the route which the rescue party had taken along 
 the side of the fell ; and the precipitous scree where they 
 had found her. The freshly disturbed earth and stones 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 509 
 
 still shewed plainly wliere she had fallen, and where he and 
 the shepherds had stood, trampling the ground round her. 
 He sat down beside the spot, haunted by the grim memory 
 of that helpless, bleeding form amid the snow. Not yet 
 nineteen! — disgraced — ruined — the young body broken 
 in its prime. Had he been able to do no better for 
 Neville's child than that ? The load of responsibihty 
 crushed him ; and he could not resign himself tc such 
 a fate for such a human being. Before him, on the chill 
 background of the fells, he beheld, perpetually, the two 
 Hesters : here, the radiant, immanageable child, clad in 
 the magic of her teasing, provocative beauty ; there, the 
 haggard and dying girl, violently wrenched from Ufe. 
 ReUgious faith was paralysed within him. How could he — 
 a man so disowned of God — prophesy to his brethren ? . . 
 
 Thus there descended upon him the darkest hour of 
 his history. It was simply a struggle for existence on the 
 part of all those powers of the soul that make for action, 
 against the forces that make for death and inertia. 
 
 It lasted long ; and it ended in the slow and difficult 
 triumph, the final ascendency of the ' Yeas ' of Life 
 over the ' Nays,' which in truth his character secured. 
 He won the difficult fight not as a philosopher, but 
 as a Christian ; impelled, chastened, brought into line 
 again, by purely Christian memories and Christian ideas. 
 The thought of Christ healed him ; gradually gave him 
 courage to bear an agony of self-criticism, self-reproach, that 
 was none the less overwhelming because his calmer mind, 
 looking on, knew it to be irrational. There was no prayer 
 to Christ, no ' Christe eleison ' on his lips. But there was 
 a solemn kneeling by the cross ; a solemn opening of the 
 mind to the cleansing and strengthening forces that flow 
 from that life and death which are Christendom's central 
 possession ; the symbol through which, now understood 
 
5IO THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 in this way, now in that, the Eternal speaks to the 
 Christian soul. 
 
 So, amid ' the cheerful silence of the fells ' a good 
 man, heavily, took back his task. From this wreck of 
 affection, this ruin of hope, he must go forth to preach 
 love and hope to other men ; from the depths of his grief 
 and his defeat, he must summon others to struggle and 
 victory. 
 
 He submitted. 
 
 Then — not till then — naked and stripped as he was of 
 all personal complacency ; smarting under the conviction 
 of personal weakness and defeat ; tormented still, as he 
 would ever be, by all the ' might have beens ' of Hester's 
 story, he was conscious of the ' supersensual moment,' 
 the inrush of Divine strength, which at some time or 
 other, rewards the life of faith. 
 
 On his way back to Burwood through the gleams and 
 shadows of the valley, he turned aside to lay a handful 
 of green moss on the new-made grave. There was a figure 
 beside it. It was Mary, who had been planting snowdrops. 
 He helped her, and then they descended to the main road 
 together. Looking at his face, she hardly dared, close as 
 his hand clung to hers, to break the silence. 
 
 It was dusk, and there was no one in sight. In the 
 shelter of a group of trees, he drew her to him. 
 
 ' You have your way,' he said, sadly. 
 
 She trembled a little, her delicate cheek close against his. 
 
 ' Have I persecuted you ? ' 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 ' You have taught me what the strength of my wife's 
 will is going to be.' 
 
 She winced visibly, and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 ' Dearest ! — ' he protested — ' Must you not be strong ? 
 But for you — I should have gone under.' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 511 
 
 The primitive instinct of the woman, in this hour of 
 painful victory would have dearly liked to disavow her own 
 power. The thought of ruling her beloved was odious. Yet 
 as they walked on hand in hand, the modern in Mary 
 prevailed, and she must needs accept the equal rights of 
 a love which is also life's supreme friendship. 
 
 A few more days Meynell spent in the quiet of the 
 valley, recovering, as best he could, and through a struggle 
 and an anguish constantly renewed, some normal steadiness 
 of mood and nerve ; dealing with an immense correspond- 
 ence ; and writing the Dunchester sermon ; while Stephen 
 Barron, who had already resigned his own living, was 
 looking after the Upcote Church and parish. Meanwhile 
 Alice Puttenham lay upstairs in one of the little white 
 rooms of Burwood, so ill that the doctors would not hear 
 of her being moved. Edith Fox- Wilton had proposed to 
 come and nurse her, in spite of ' this shocking business 
 which has disgraced us all.' But Catharine at Alice's 
 entreaty had merely appealed to the indisputable fact that 
 the tiny house was already more than full. There was no 
 danger, and they had a good trained nurse. 
 
 Once or twice it was, in these days, that, again, a few 
 passing terrors ran through Mary's mind, on the subject 
 of her mother. The fragility which had struck Meynell's 
 unaccustomed eye when he first arrived in the valley, forced 
 itself now at times, though only at times, on her reluc- 
 tant sense. There were nights when, without any definite 
 reason, she could not sleep for anxiety. And then again 
 the shadow entirely passed away. Catharine laughed 
 at her ; and when the moment came for Mary to follow 
 Meynell to the Dunchester meeting, it was impossible 
 even for her anxious love to persuade itself that there was 
 good reason for her to stay away. 
 
512 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 Before Meynell departed southwards there was a long 
 conversation between him and Alice ; and it was at her 
 wish, to which he now finally yielded, that he went straight 
 to Markborough, to an interview with Bishop Craye. 
 
 In that interview the Bishop learnt at last the whole 
 story of Hester's birth and of her tragic death. The beauty 
 of Meynell's relation to the mother and child was plainly to 
 be seen through a very reticent narrative ; and to the tale 
 of those hours in Long Whindale no man of heart like the 
 little Bishop could have listened unmoved. At the end, 
 the two men clasped hands in silence ; and the Bishop 
 looked wistfully at the priest that he and the diocese were 
 so soon to lose. 
 
 For the rest, as before, they met as equals, curiously 
 congenial to each other, in spite of the battle in front. 
 The Bishop's certainty of victory was once more emphati- 
 cally shown by the friendly ease with which he still received 
 his rebellious incumbent. Any agreeable outsider of what- 
 ever creed — Renan or Loisy or Tyrrell — might have been 
 thus welcomed at the Palace. It was true that till the 
 appeal was decided Meynell remained formally Rector of 
 Upcote Minor. The church and the parish were still in 
 his hands ; and the Bishop pointedly made no reference 
 to either. But a very few weeks now would see Meynell's 
 successor installed, and the parish reduced to order. 
 
 Such at least was the Bishop's confidence, and in the 
 position in which he found himself, — with seven Modernist 
 evictions pending in his diocese, and many more than seven 
 recalcitrant parishes to deal with, he was not the man to 
 make needless friction. 
 
 In Meynell's view, indeed, the Bishop's confidence was 
 excessive ; and the triumph of the orthodox majority in the 
 Church, if indeed it were to triumph, was neither so near, nor 
 likely to be so complete as the Bishop beheved. He had not 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 513 
 
 yet been able to resume all tbe threads of leadership, but 
 he was clear that there had been no ebbing whatever of the 
 Modernist tide. On the contrary, it seemed to him that the 
 function at Dunchester might yet ring through England, 
 and startle even such an optimist as Bishop Craye. 
 
 The next few days he spent among his own people, 
 and with the Flaxmans. The old red sandstone church 
 of Upcote Minor was closely packed on Sunday ; and the 
 loyalty of the parish to their Rector, their answer to the 
 Arches judgement, was shewn in the passion, the loving 
 intelhgence with which every portion of the beautiful 
 Modernist service was followed by an audience of work- 
 ing men and women gathered both from Upcote itself 
 and from the villages round, who knew very well — and 
 gloried in the fact — that from their midst had started 
 the flame now running through the coimtry. Many of 
 them had been trained by Methodism, and were now 
 returning to the Church that Wesley had been so loth 
 to leave. ' The Rector's changed summat,' said men to 
 each other, puzzled by that aspect — that unconscious aspect 
 — of spiritual dignity that falls like a robe of honour, as 
 life goes on, about the Knights of the Spirit. But they 
 knew, at least from their newspapers, how and when that 
 beautiful girl who had grown up from a child in their midst 
 had perished ; they remembered the winter months of 
 calumny and persecution ; and their rough kind hearts 
 went out to the man who was so soon, against their will and- 
 their protest, to be driven out from the church where for 
 twenty years he had preached to his people a Christ they 
 could follow, and a God they could adore. 
 
 The week passed, and the Dunchester meeting was at 
 hand. Meynell was to spend the night before the great 
 service with the old Bishop, against whom — together with 
 
 2 L 
 
514 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 the whole of liis chapter — Privy Council action was now 
 pending. Mary was to be the guest of one of the Canons 
 in the famous Close. 
 
 Meynell arrived to find the beautiful old town in com- 
 motioD. As a protest against the Modernist demonstration, 
 all the students from a famous Theological CoUege in a 
 neighbouring diocese under a High Church bishop, had 
 come over to attend a rival service in the second church of 
 the town, where the congregation was to be addressed 
 ' on this outrage to our Lord ' by one of the ablest and most 
 saintly of the orthodox leaders — the Rev. Cyril Fenton, 
 of the Markborough diocese — soon, it was rumoured, to 
 be appointed to a Canonry of St. Paul's. The streets were 
 full of rival crowds, jostling each other. Three hundred 
 Modernist clergy were staying in or near the town ; the 
 old Cathedral city stared at them amazed ; and from all 
 parts had come, besides, the lay followers of the new Move- 
 ment thronging to a day which represented for them the 
 first friu'ts of a harvest, whereof not they perhaps but their 
 children would see the full reaping. 
 
 On the evening before the function Meynell went into 
 the Cathedral with Mary just as the lengthening March 
 afternoon was beginning to wane. They stepped through 
 the western doors set open to the breeze and the sunshine 
 into a building all opal and ebony, faintly flooded with rose 
 from the sky without ; a building of infinite height and 
 majesty, where clustered colunms of black marble, incredibly 
 light, upheld the richness of the bossed roof, where every 
 wall was broidered history, where every step was on ' the 
 ruined sides of Kings,' and the gathered fragments of 
 ancient glass, jewels themselves, let through a jewelled 
 light upon the creamy stone. 
 
 For the first time, since Hester's death, Meynell's sad 
 face broke into joy. The glorious church appeared to him 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 515 
 
 as tlie visible attestation of the Divine creative life in 
 men, flowing on endlessly, from the Past, through the 
 Present, to the unknown Future. 
 
 From the distance came a sound of chanting. They 
 walked slowly up the nave, conscious of a strange tumult 
 in the pulse, as though the great building with its imme- 
 morial history were half lending itself to, half resisting the 
 emotion that filled them. In the choir a practice was going 
 on. Some thirty young clergy were going through the 
 responses and canticles of the new service book, with an 
 elder man, also in clerical dress, directing them. At the 
 entrance of the southern choir aisle stood the senior verger 
 of the cathedral in his black gown, — open-mouthed and 
 motionless, Ustening to the strange sounds. 
 
 Meynell and Mary knelt for a moment of impassioned 
 prayer, and then sat down to listen. Through the fast 
 darkening church, chanted by half the choir, there stole 
 those words of noblest poetry : 
 
 ' A neiv comtnandment — a new commandmerd — I give 
 unto you ... To be answered by the voices on the other 
 side : — ' That ye love — ye love one another ! ' 
 
 And again : — 
 
 * / have called you friends. Ye are my friends ' — 
 With the reply : — 
 
 ' // ye do the things which I command you.' 
 
 And yet again : — 
 
 ' The words that I speak urUo you : ' — 
 
 * They — they are spirit ; and they are life ! ' 
 
 A moment's silence, before all the voices, gathering into 
 one harmony, sent the last versicle ringing through the 
 arches of the choir, and the springing tracery of the feretory, 
 and of the Lady Chapel beyond. 
 
 ' Lord to whom shall we go ? — Thou — thou hast the words 
 of eternal life I ' 
 
 2 L 2 
 
5i6 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 ' Only a few days or weeks/ murmured Meynell, as 
 they passed out into the evening light, ' and we two — and 
 those men singing there — shall be outcasts and wanderers, 
 perhaps for a time, perhaps while we live. But to-day 
 — and to-morrow — we are still children in the house of our 
 fathers, — sons, not slaves ! — speaking the free speech of 
 our own day in these walls, as the men who built them 
 did in theirs. That joy at least no one shall take from us ! * 
 
 At that ' sad word Joy ' Mary slipped her hand into his, 
 and so they walked silently through the Close, towards the 
 Palace, pursued by the rise and fall of the music from within. 
 
 The great service was over, with its bold adaptation of 
 the religious language of the past, the language which is 
 wrought into the being of Christendom, to the needs and 
 the knowledge of the present. And now Meynell had risen, 
 and was speaking to that thronged nave, crowded by men 
 and women of many types and many distinctions, Avith 
 that mingling of passion and simplicity which underlies 
 success in all the poetic arts, and, first and foremost, the 
 art of religious oratory. The sermon was to be known in 
 after years by the name of ' The Two Christianities ' — 
 and became one of the chief landmarks, or rather, rallying 
 cries of the Modernist cause. Only some fragments of it 
 can be suggested here ; one passage, above all, that Mary's 
 brooding memory will keep close and warm to her life's end. 
 
 ' . . . Why are we here, my friends ? Por what purpose 
 is this great demonstration, this moving rite in which we 
 have joined this day ? One sixth at least of this congrega- 
 tion stands here under a sentence of ecclesiastical death. 
 A few weeks perhaps, and this mighty church will know 
 its white-haired Bishop no more. Bishop and Chapter 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 517 
 
 will have been driven out ; and we, the rank and file, whose 
 only desire is to cling to the Church in which we were 
 baptized and bred, will find ourselves exiles and homeless. 
 
 ' What is our crime ? This only, — that God has spoken 
 in our consciences, and we have not been able to resist 
 Him. Nor dare we desert our posts in the national 
 Church, till force drive us out. WTiy ? Because there is 
 something infinitely greater at stake than any reproach 
 that can be hurled at us on the ground of broken pledges ; 
 pledges made too early, given in ignorance and good faith, 
 and broken now, solemnly, in the face of God and this 
 people — for a greater good. What does our personal con- 
 sistency — which, mind you, is a very different thing from 
 personal honesty : — matter ? We are as sensitive as any 
 man who attacks us on the point of personal honour. But 
 we are constrained of God ; we bear in our hands the 
 cause of our brethren, the cause of half the nation ; and 
 we can no other. Ask yourselves what we have to gain 
 by it. Nay ! — With expulsion and exile in sight — with 
 years perhaps of the wilderness before us — we stand here 
 for the liberties of Christ's Church ! — its Uberties of growth 
 and life. . . . 
 
 ' My friends, what is the Ufe either of intellect or spirit 
 but the response of man to the communication of God ? 
 Age by age, man's consciousness cuts deeper into the 
 vast mystery that surrounds us ; absorbs, transmutes, 
 translates ever more of truth, into conceptions he can 
 use, and language he can imderstand. 
 
 ' From this endless process arise science — and history — 
 and philosophy. But just as science, and history, and 
 philosophy, change with this ever-living and growing 
 advance, so religion — man's ideas of God and his own soul. 
 
 ' Within the last himdred years man's knowledge of the 
 physical world has broadened beyond the utmost dreams 
 
5i8 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 of our fathers. But of far greater importance to man is 
 his knowledge of himself. There too, the century of which 
 we are now the heirs has hfted the veil — for us first 
 among hving men — from secrets hitherto unknown. 
 History has come into being. 
 
 ' What is history ? Simply the power — depending upon 
 a thousand laborious processes — of constructing a magic 
 lens within the mind which allows us to look deep into the 
 past, to see its Ufe and colour and movement again, as no 
 generation but our own has yet been able to see it. We 
 hold our breath sometimes, as for a brief moment perhaps 
 we catch its very gesture, its very habit as it lived, the very 
 tone of its voices. It has been a new and marvellous gift 
 of our God to us ; and it has transformed or is transforming 
 Christianity. 
 
 * Like science, this new disciplinie of the human mind is 
 divine, and authoritative. It lessens the distance between 
 our human thought and the thought of God, because in 
 the familiar phrase, it enables us to " think, in some sort. 
 His thoughts after Him." Like science it marches slowly 
 on its way ; through many mistakes ; through hypothesis 
 and rectification ; through daring vision and laborious 
 proof ; to an ever-broadening certainty. History has 
 taken hold of the Christian tradition. History has worked 
 upon it with an amazing tenderness, and patience and 
 reverence. And at the end of a hundred years what do 
 we see ? — that half of Christendom, at least, which we in 
 this church represent ? 
 
 ' We see a Christ stripped of Jewish legend, and Greek 
 speculation, and medieval scholasticism ; moving simply 
 and divinely among the ways of his Jewish world, a man 
 among men. We can watch, dimly indeed by comparison 
 with our living scrutiny of hving men, but still more clearly 
 than any generation of Christendom since the disappearance 
 
THE CASE OF RICHAED MEYNELL 519 
 
 of the first has been able to watch, the rise of his thoughts, 
 the nature of his environment, the sequence of his acts, the 
 original significance, the immediate interpretation, the 
 subsequent influence of his death. We know much more 
 of Jesus of Nazareth than the fathers of Nicsea knew ; 
 probably than St. Paul knew ; certainly than Irenreus or 
 Clement knew. 
 
 ' But that is only half the truth ; only half of what 
 history has to tell. On the one side we have to do with the 
 recovered fact : on the other with its working through two 
 thousand years upon the world. 
 
 ' There, for the Modernist, lies revelation ! — in the 
 unfolding of the Christian idea, through the successive 
 stages of human thought and imagination it has traversed, 
 down to the burst of revelation in the present day. Yet 
 we are only now at the beginning of an immense develop- 
 ment. The content of the Christian idea of love — love, 
 self-renouncing, self-fulfilling — is infinite, inexhaustible, like 
 that of beauty, or of truth. Why ? At this moment, I 
 am only concerned to give you the Christian answer, which 
 is the answer of a reasonable faith. Because, like the 
 streams springing for ever from " the pure founts of 
 Cephisus," to nourish the swelling plains below, these 
 governing ideas of our life — tested by life, confirmed by 
 life — have their source in the very being of God, sharers 
 in His Eternity, His Ever-Fruitfulness. . . . 
 
 ' But even so, you have not exhausted the wealth of 
 Christianity. For to the potency of the Christian idea, ia 
 added the magic of an incomparable embodiment in human 
 circumstance. The story of Jesus bears the idea which it 
 enshrines eternally through the world. It is to the idea as 
 the vessel of the Grail. 
 
 ' . . . Do these conceptions make us love our Master 
 less ? Ask your own hearts ? There must be many in 
 
520 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 this crowded church that have known sorrow — intolerable 
 anguish and disappointment — gnawing self-reproach — ■ 
 during the past year, or months, or weeks ; many that 
 have watched sufierings which no philosophic optimism 
 can explain, and catastrophes that leave men dumb. 
 Some among them will have been driven back upon their 
 faith — driven to the foot of the Cross. Through all intel- 
 lectual difference, has not the natural language of their 
 fathers been also their language ? Is there anything in their 
 changed opinions which has cut them ofi from that sacrifice 
 
 ' Renewed in every pulse, 
 That on the tedious Cross 
 Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, 
 The life-strings of that tender heart gave way ? 
 
 'Is there anything in this new compelling knowledge 
 that need — that does — divide us — whose consciences dare 
 not refuse it — fiom the immortal triumph of that death ? 
 In our sharpest straits, are we not comforted and cleansed 
 and sustained by the same thoughts, the same visions 
 that have always sustained and comforted the Christian ? 
 No ! — the sons of tradition and dogma have no monopoly 
 in the exaltation, the living passion of the Cross ! We, 
 too, watching that steadfastness grow steadfast ; bowed 
 before that innocent suffering, grow patient ; drinking in 
 the wonder of that faith, amid utter defeat, learn to submit 
 and go forward. In us too, as we behold, — Hope " masters 
 Agony ! " — and we follow, for a space at least, with our 
 Master, into the heavenly house, and still our sore hearts 
 before our God.' 
 
 Quietly and low, in tones that shook here and there, the 
 words had fallen upon the spell-bound church. 
 
 Mary covered her eyes. But they saw only the more 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 521 
 
 intently the vision of Hester maimed and dying ; and the 
 face of Meynell bending over her. 
 
 Then from this intimity, this sacredness of feeling, the 
 speaker passed gradually and finally into the challenge, the 
 ringing yet brotherly challenge, it was in truth his mission 
 to deliver. The note of battle — honourable, inevitable 
 battle — pealed through the church, and when it ceased 
 the immense congregation rose, possessed by one heat of 
 emotion, and choir and multitude broke into the magnifi- 
 cent Modernist hymn, ' Christus Rex * — written by the Bishop 
 of the See, and already familiar throughout England. 
 
 The service was over. Out streamed the great congre- 
 gation. The Close was crowded to see them come. Lines 
 of theological students were drawn up there, fresh-faced 
 boys in round collars and long black coats, who, as the main 
 body of the Modernist clergy approached, began defiantly 
 to chant the Apostles' Creed. Meynell, with the old yet 
 stately Bishop leaning on his arm, passed them with a 
 friendly, quiet look. He caught sight for a moment of the 
 tall form of Fenton, standing at their rear — the long face 
 ascetically white, and sternly fixed. 
 
 He left the Bishop at the gates of the Palace, and went 
 back quickly for Mary. Suddenly he ran into an advanc- 
 ing figure and found his hand grasped by Dornal. 
 
 The two men gazed at each other. 
 
 ' You were not there ? ' said Meynell, wondering. 
 
 * I was.' Dornal hesitated a moment, and then his 
 blue eyes melted and clouded. 
 
 ' And there was one man there — not a Modernist — who 
 grieved, like a Modernist, over the future ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, the future ! ' said Meynell, throwing hia head 
 back, ' That is not for you or me — not for the bishops, nor 
 
522 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 for that body which we call the Church — that is for England 
 to settle.* 
 
 But another meeting remained. 
 
 At the parting with Dornal, Meynell turned a corner 
 and saw in front of him, walking alone, a portly gentleman, 
 with a broad and substantial back. A start ran through 
 him. After a moment's hesitation, he began to quicken 
 his steps, and soon overtook the man in question. 
 
 Barron — for it was he — stopped in some astonishment, 
 some confusion even, which he endeavoured to hide. 
 Meynell held out his hand — rather timidly ; and Barron 
 just touched it. 
 
 ' I have been attending the service at St. Mathias, ' he 
 said, stiffly. 
 
 ' I imagined so,' said Meynell, walking on beside him, 
 and quite unconscious of the fact that a passing group of 
 clergy opposite were staring across the street in amazement 
 at the juxtaposition of the two men, both well known to 
 them. ' Did it satisfy you ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. Fenton surpassed himself.' 
 
 ' He has a great gift,' said Meynell, heartily. They 
 moved on in silence, till at last MeyneU said, with renewed 
 hesitation — ' Will you allow me to enquire after Maurice ? 
 I hope your mind is more at ease about him.' 
 
 ' He is doing well — for the moment.' Another pause — 
 broken by Barron, who said hurriedly, in a different 
 voice, — ' I got from him the whole story of the letters. 
 There was nothing deliberate in it. It was a sudden, 
 monkeyish impulse. He didn't mean as much harm by it 
 as another man would have meant.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Meynell, struck with pity, as he 
 looked at the sunken face of the speaker. ' And anyway — 
 bygones are bygones. I hope your daughter is well ? ' 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 523 
 
 ' Quite well, I thank you. We are just going abroad.' 
 There was no more to be said. Meynell knew very 
 well that the orthodox party had no room in its ranks, at 
 that moment, for Henry Barron ; and it was not hard 
 to imagine what exclusion and ostracism must mean to 
 such a temper. But the generous compunctions in his 
 own mind could find no practical expression ; and 
 after a few more words they parted. 
 
 Next morning, while every newspaper in the country 
 was eagerly discussing the events at Dunchester, Catharine, 
 in the solitude of Long Whindale, and with a full two 
 hours yet to wait for the carrier who brought the papers 
 from Whinborough, was pondering letters from Rose and 
 Mary written from Dunchester on the preceding afternoon. 
 Her prayer-book lay beside her. Before the post arrived 
 she had been reading by herself the Psalms and Lessons, 
 according to the old-fashioned custom of her youth. 
 
 The sweetness of Mary's attempt to bring out every- 
 thing in the Modernist demonstration that might be bear- 
 able or even consoling to Catharine, and to leave untold 
 what must pain her, was not lost upon her mother. 
 Catharine sat considering it, in a reverie half sorrow, half 
 tenderness, her thin hands clasped upon the letter. 
 
 ' Mother, beloved ! — Richard and I talked of you all 
 the way back to the Palace ; and though there were 
 many people waiting to see him, he is writing to you now ; 
 and so am I. Through it all, he feels so near to you — and 
 to my father ; so truly your son. your most loving son. . . . 
 
 ' Dearest — I am troubled to hear from Alice this morning 
 that yesterday you were tired and even went to lie down. 
 I know my too Spartan mother doesn't do that without 
 ten times as much reason as other people. Oh ! do take 
 care of yourself, my precious one. To-morrow, I fly 
 
524 THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 
 
 back to you with all my news. And you will meet me 
 with that love of yours which has never failed me, as it 
 never failed my father. It will take Richard and me a 
 life-time to repay it. But we'll try ! . . . Dear love to 
 my poor Alice. I have written separately to her.* 
 
 Rose's letter was in another vein. 
 
 * Dearest Catharine, it is all over — a splendid show, 
 and Richard has come out of it finely, though I must say 
 he looks at times more like a ghost than a man. From 
 the church point of view, dear, you were wise not to come, 
 for your feelings must have been sadly mixed, and you 
 might have been compelled to take Privy Council proceedings 
 against yourself. I need not say that Hugh and I felt an 
 ungodly delight in it — in the crowd and the excitement — in 
 Richard's sermon — in the dear, long-nosed old Bishop 
 (rather like a camel, between you and me, but a very 
 saintly one) and in the throng of foolish youths from the 
 Theological College, who seemed to think they settled 
 everything by singing the Creed at us. (What a pity you 
 can't enjoy the latest description of the Athanasian Creed ! 
 It is by a Quaker. He compares it to " the guesses of a 
 ten-year old child at the contents of his father's library." 
 Hugh thinks it good : — but I don't expect you to.) ' 
 
 Then followed a vivacious account of the day and its 
 happenings. 
 
 ' And now comes the real tug of war. In a few 
 weeks the poor Modernists will be all camping in tents, 
 it seems, by the wayside. Very touching and very 
 exciting. But I am getting too sleepy to think about it. 
 Dear Cathie — I run on — but I love you. Please keep 
 well. Good-bye.' 
 
 Catharine laid the letter down, still smiling against her 
 wiU over some of its chatter, and unconsciously made 
 
THE CASE OF RICHARD MEYNELL 525 
 
 happy by the affection that breathed from its pages no 
 less than from Mary's. 
 
 Yet certainly she was very tired. She became sharply 
 conscious of her physical weakness as she sat on by the 
 fire, now thinking of her Mary, and now listening for 
 Alice's step upon the stairs. AHce had grown very dear to 
 Catharine, partly for her own sake, and partly because to be 
 in bitter need and helplessness was to be sure of Catharine's 
 tenderness. Very possibly they two, when Mary married, 
 might make their home together. And Catharine promised 
 herself to bring calm at least and loving help to one who had 
 suffered so much. 
 
 The window was half open to the first mild day of 
 March ; beside it stood a bowl of growing daffodils, and a 
 pot of freesias that scented the room. Outside a robin was 
 singing ; the murmur of the river came up through the black 
 buds of the ash-trees ; and in the distance a sheep-dog could 
 be heard barking on the fells. So quiet it was — the spring 
 sunshine — and so sweet. Back into Catharine's mind there 
 flowed the memory of her own love-story in the valley ; her 
 hand trembled again in the hand of her lover. 
 
 Then with a sudden onset her mortal hour came upon 
 her. She tried to move, to call, and could not. There was 
 no time for any pain of parting. For one remaining moment 
 of consciousness there ran through the brain the images, 
 affections, adorations of her Ufe. Swdft, incredibly swift, 
 the vision of an opening glory— a heavenly throng ! . . . 
 Then the tired eyelids fell, the head lay heavily on the 
 cushion behind it, and in the little room the song of the 
 robin and the murmur of the stream flowed on — unheard. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Svotliiwoodc & Co. Ltd., Ftinters, Colchester, London and Eton. 
 
Note. 
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