CHAPTER
II
I
Percy Franklin's
correspondence with the Cardinal-Protector of England occupied him directly for
at least two hours every day, and for nearly eight hours indirectly.
For the past
eight years the methods of the Holy See had once more been revised with a view
to modern needs, and now every important province throughout the world
possessed not only an administrative metropolitan but a representative in Rome
whose business it was to be in touch with the Pope on the one side and the
people he represented on the other. In other words, centralisation had gone
forward rapidly, in accordance with the laws of life; and, with centralisation,
freedom of method and expansion of power. England's Cardinal-Protector was one
Abbot Martin, a Benedictine, and it was Percy's business, as of a dozen more
bishops, priests and laymen (with whom, by the way, he was forbidden to hold
any formal consultation), to write a long daily letter to him on affairs that
came under his notice.
It was a curious
life, therefore, that Percy led. He had a couple of rooms assigned to him in
Archbishop's House at Westminster, and was attached loosely to the Cathedral
staff, although with considerable liberty. He rose early, and went to
meditation for an hour, after which he said his mass. He took his coffee soon
after, said a little office, and then settled down to map out his letter. At
ten o'clock he was ready to receive callers, and till noon he was generally
busy with both those who came to see him on their own responsibility and his
staff of half-a-dozen reporters whose business it was to bring him marked
paragraphs in the newspapers and their own comments. He then breakfasted with
the other priests in the house, and set out soon after to call on people whose
opinion was necessary, returning for a cup of tea soon after sixteen o'clock.
Then he settled down, after the rest of his office and a visit to the Blessed
Sacrament, to compose his letter, which though short, needed a great deal of
care and sifting. After dinner he made a few notes for next day, received
visitors again, and went to bed soon after twenty-two o'clock. Twice a week it
was his business to assist at Vespers in the afternoon, and he usually sang
high mass on Saturdays.
It was,
therefore, a curiously distracting life, with peculiar dangers.
It was one day, a
week or two after his visit to Brighton, that he was just finishing his letter,
when his servant looked in to tell him that Father Francis was below.
"In ten
minutes," said Percy, without looking up.
He snapped off
his last lines, drew out the sheet, and settled down to read it over,
translating it unconsciously from Latin to English.
"WESTMINSTER,
May 14th.
"EMINENCE:
Since yesterday I have a little more information. It appears certain that the
Bill establishing Esperanto for all State purposes will be brought in in June.
I have had this from Johnson. This, as I have pointed out before, is the very
last stone in our consolidation with the continent, which, at present, is to be
regretted... A great access of Jews to Freemasonry is to be expected; hitherto
they have held aloof to some extent, but the 'abolition of the Idea of God' is
tending to draw in those Jews, now greatly on the increase once more, who
repudiate all notion of a personal Messiah. It is 'Humanity' here, too, that is
at work. To-day I heard the Rabbi Simeon speak to this effect in the City, and
was impressed by the applause he received... Yet among others an expectation is
growing that a man will presently be found to lead the Communist movement and
unite their forces more closely. I enclose a verbose cutting from the New
People to that effect; and it is echoed everywhere. They say that the cause
must give birth to one such soon; that they have had prophets and precursors
for a hundred years past, and lately a cessation of them. It is strange how
this coincides superficially with Christian ideas. Your Eminence will observe
that a simile of the 'ninth wave' is used with some eloquence... I hear to-day
of the secession of an old Catholic family, the Wargraves of Norfolk, with
their chaplain Micklem, who it seems has been busy in this direction for some
while. The Epoch announces it with satisfaction, owing to the peculiar
circumstances; but unhappily such events are not uncommon now... There is much
distrust among the laity. Seven priests in Westminster diocese have left us
within the last three months; on the other hand, I have pleasure in telling
your Eminence that his Grace received into Catholic Communion this morning the
ex-Anglican Bishop of Carlisle, with half-a-dozen of his clergy. This has been
expected for some weeks past. I append also cuttings from the Tribune, the
London Trumpet, and the Observer, with my comments upon them. Your Eminence
will see how great the excitement is with regard to the last.
"Recommendation.
That formal excommunication of the Wargraves and these eight priests should be
issued in Norfolk and Westminster respectively, and no further notice
taken."
Percy laid down
the sheet, gathered up the half dozen other papers that contained his extracts
and running commentary, signed the last, and slipped the whole into the printed
envelope that lay ready.
Then he took up
his biretta and went to the lift.
* * * * *
The moment he came into the glass-doored parlour he
saw that the crisis was come, if not passed already. Father Francis looked
miserably ill, but there was a curious hardness, too, about his eyes and mouth,
as he stood waiting. He shook his head abruptly.
"I have come
to say good-bye, father. I can bear it no more."
Percy was careful
to show no emotion at all. He made a little sign to a chair, and himself sat
down too. "It is an end of everything," said the other again in a
perfectly steady voice. "I believe nothing. I have believed nothing for a
year now."
"You have
felt nothing, you mean," said Percy.
"That won't
do, father," went on the other. "I tell you there is nothing left. I
can't even argue now. It is just good-bye."
Percy had nothing
to say. He had talked to this man during a period of over eight months, ever
since Father Francis had first confided in him that his faith was going. He
understood perfectly what a strain it had been; he felt bitterly compassionate
towards this poor creature who had become caught up somehow into the dizzy
triumphant whirl of the New Humanity. External facts were horribly strong just
now; and faith, except to one who had learned that Will and Grace were all and
emotion nothing, was as a child crawling about in the midst of some huge
machinery: it might survive or it might not; but it required nerves of steel to
keep steady. It was hard to know where blame could be assigned; yet Percy's
faith told him that there was blame due. In the ages of faith a very inadequate
grasp of religion would pass muster; in these searching days none but the humble
and the pure could stand the test for long, unless indeed they were protected
by a miracle of ignorance. The alliance of Psychology and Materialism did
indeed seem, looked at from one angle, to account for everything; it needed a
robust supernatural perception to understand their practical inadequacy. And as
regards Father Francis's personal responsibility, he could not help feeling
that the other had allowed ceremonial to play too great a part in his religion,
and prayer too little. In him the external had absorbed the internal.
So he did not
allow his sympathy to show itself in his bright eyes.
"You think
it my fault, of course," said the other sharply.
"My dear
father," said Percy, motionless in his chair, "I know it is your
fault. Listen to me. You say Christianity is absurd and impossible. Now, you
know, it cannot be that! It may be untrue - I am not speaking of that now, even
though I am perfectly certain that it is absolutely true - but it cannot be
absurd so long as educated and virtuous people continue to hold it. To say that
it is absurd is simple pride; it is to dismiss all who believe in it as not
merely mistaken, but unintelligent as well -"
"Very well,
then," interrupted the other; "then suppose I withdraw that, and
simply say that I do not believe it to be true."
"You do not
withdraw it," continued Percy serenely; "you still really believe it
to be absurd: you have told me so a dozen times. Well, I repeat, that is pride,
and quite sufficient to account for it all. It is the moral attitude that
matters. There may be other things too -"
Father Francis
looked up sharply.
"Oh! the old
story!" he said sneeringly.
"If you tell
me on your word of honour that there is no woman in the case, or no particular
programme of sin you propose to work out, I shall believe you. But it is an old
story, as you say."
"I swear to
you there is not," cried the other.
"Thank God
then!" said Percy. "There are fewer obstacles to a return of
faith."
There was silence
for a moment after that. Percy had really no more to say. He had talked to him
of the inner life again and again, in which verities are seen to be true, and
acts of faith are ratified; he had urged prayer and humility till he was almost
weary of the names; and had been met by the retort that this was to advise
sheer self-hypnotism; and he had despaired of making clear to one who did not
see it for himself that while Love and Faith may be called self-hypnotism from
one angle, yet from another they are as much realities as, for example,
artistic faculties, and need similar cultivation; that they produce a
conviction that they are convictions, that they handle and taste things which
when handled and tasted are overwhelmingly more real and objective than the
things of sense. Evidences seemed to mean nothing to this man.
So he was silent
now, chilled himself by the presence of this crisis, looking unseeingly out
upon the plain, little old-world parlour, its tall window, its strip of
matting, conscious chiefly of the dreary hopelessness of this human brother of
his who had eyes but did not see, ears and was deaf. He wished he would say
good-bye, and go. There was no more to be done.
Father Francis,
who had been sitting in a lax kind of huddle, seemed to know his thoughts, and
sat up suddenly.
"You are
tired of me," he said. "I will go."
"I am not
tired of you, my dear father," said Percy simply. "I am only terribly
sorry. You see I know that it is all true."
The other looked
at him heavily.
"And I know
that it is not," he said. "It is very beautiful; I wish I could
believe it. I don't think I shall be ever happy again – but - but there it
is."
Percy sighed. He
had told him so often that the heart is as divine a gift as the mind, and that
to neglect it in the search for God is to seek ruin, but this priest had
scarcely seen the application to himself. He had answered with the old
psychological arguments that the suggestions of education accounted for
everything.
"I suppose
you will cast me off," said the other.
"It is you
who are leaving me," said Percy. "I cannot follow, if you mean
that."
"But - but
cannot we be friends?"
A sudden heat
touched the elder priest's heart.
"Friends?"
he said. "Is sentimentality all you mean by friendship? What kind of
friends can we be?"
The other's face
became suddenly heavy.
"I thought
so."
"John!"
cried Percy. "You see that, do you not? How can we pretend anything when
you do not believe in God? For I do you the honour of thinking that you do
not."
Francis sprang
up.
"Well -"
he snapped. "I could not have believed - I am going."
He wheeled
towards the door.
"John!"
said Percy again. "Are you going like this? Can you not shake hands?"
The other wheeled
again, with heavy anger in his face.
"Why, you
said you could not be friends with me!"
Percy's mouth
opened. Then he understood, and smiled. "Oh! that is all you mean by
friendship, is it? - I beg your pardon. Oh! we can be polite to one another, if
you like."
He still stood
holding out his hand. Father Francis looked at it a moment, his lips shook:
then once more he turned, and went out without a word.
II
Percy stood
motionless until he heard the automatic bell outside tell him that Father
Francis was really gone, then he went out himself and turned towards the long
passage leading to the Cathedral. As he passed out through the sacristy he
heard far in front the murmur of an organ, and on coming through into the
chapel used as a parish church he perceived that Vespers were not yet over in
the great choir. He came straight down the aisle, turned to the right, crossed
the centre and knelt down.
It was drawing on
towards sunset, and the huge dark place was lighted here and there by patches
of ruddy London light that lay on the gorgeous marble and gildings finished at
last by a wealthy convert. In front of him rose up the choir, with a line of
white surpliced and furred canons on either side, and the vast baldachino in
the midst, beneath which burned the six lights as they had burned day by day
for more than a century; behind that again lay the high line of the apse-choir
with the dim, window-pierced vault above where Christ reigned in majesty. He
let his eyes wander round for a few moments before beginning his deliberate prayer,
drinking in the glory of the place, listening to the thunderous chorus, the
peal of the organ, and the thin mellow voice of the priest. There on the left
shone the refracted glow of the lamps that burned before the Lord in the
Sacrament, on the right a dozen candles winked here and there at the foot of
the gaunt images, high overhead hung the gigantic cross with that lean,
emaciated Poor Man Who called all who looked on Him to the embraces of a God.
Then he hid his
face in his hands, drew a couple of long breaths, and set to work.
He began, as his
custom was in mental prayer, by a deliberate act of self-exclusion from the
world of sense. Under the image of sinking beneath a surface he forced himself
downwards and inwards, till the peal of the organ, the shuffle of footsteps,
the rigidity of the chair-back beneath his wrists - all seemed apart and
external, and he was left a single person with a beating heart, an intellect
that suggested image after image, and emotions that were too languid to stir
themselves. Then he made his second descent, renounced all that he possessed
and was, and became conscious that even the body was left behind, and that his
mind and heart, awed by the Presence in which they found themselves, clung
close and obedient to the will which was their lord and protector. He drew
another long breath, or two, as he felt that Presence surge about him; he
repeated a few mechanical words, and sank to that peace which follows the
relinquishment of thought.
There he rested
for a while. Far above him sounded the ecstatic music, the cry of trumpets and
the shrilling of the flutes; but they were as insignificant street-noises to
one who was falling asleep. He was within the veil of things now, beyond the
barriers of sense and reflection, in that secret place to which he had learned
the road by endless effort, in that strange region where realities are evident,
where perceptions go to and fro with the swiftness of light, where the swaying
will catches now this, now that act, moulds it and speeds it; where all things
meet, where truth is known and handled and tasted, where God Immanent is one
with God Transcendent, where the meaning of the external world is evident
through its inner side, and the Church and its mysteries are seen from within a
haze of glory.
So he lay a few
moments, absorbing and resting.
Then he aroused
himself to consciousness and began to speak.
"Lord, I am
here, and Thou art here. I know Thee. There is nothing else but Thou and I... I
lay this all in Thy hands - Thy apostate priest, Thy people, the world, and
myself. I spread it before Thee - I spread it before Thee."
He paused, poised
in the act, till all of which he thought lay like a plain before a peak.
… "Myself,
Lord - there but for Thy grace should I be going, in darkness and misery. It is
Thou Who dost preserve me. Maintain and finish Thy work within my soul. Let me
not falter for one instant. If Thou withdraw Thy hand I fall into utter
nothingness."
So his soul stood
a moment, with outstretched appealing hands, helpless and confident. Then the
will flickered in self-consciousness, and he repeated acts of faith, hope and
love to steady it. Then he drew another long breath, feeling the Presence
tingle and shake about him, and began again.
"Lord; look
on Thy people. Many are falling from Thee. Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis. Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis… I
unite myself with all saints and angels and Mary Queen of Heaven; look on them
and me, and hear us. Emitte lucem tuam et veritatem tuam. Thy light and Thy
truth! Lay not on us heavier burdens than we can bear. Lord, why dost Thou not
speak!"
He writhed
himself forward in a passion of expectant desire, hearing his muscles crack in
the effort. Once more he relaxed himself; and the swift play of wordless acts
began which he knew to be the very heart of prayer. The eyes of his soul flew
hither and thither, from Calvary to heaven and back again to the tossing
troubled earth. He saw Christ dying of desolation while the earth rocked and
groaned; Christ reigning as a priest upon His Throne in robes of light, Christ
patient and inexorably silent within the Sacramental species; and to each in
turn he directed the eyes of the Eternal Father...
Then he waited
for communications, and they came, so soft and delicate, passing like shadows,
that his will sweated blood and tears in the effort to catch and fix them and
correspond...
He saw the Body
Mystical in its agony, strained over the world as on a cross, silent with pain;
he saw this and that nerve wrenched and twisted, till pain presented it to
himself as under the guise of flashes of colour; he saw the life-blood drop by
drop run down from His head and hands and feet. The world was gathered mocking
and good-humoured beneath. "He saved others: Himself He cannot save... Let
Christ come down from the Cross and we will believe." Far away behind
bushes and in holes of the ground the friends of Jesus peeped and sobbed; Mary
herself was silent, pierced by seven swords; the disciple whom He loved had no
words of comfort.
He saw, too, how
no word would be spoken from heaven; the angels themselves were bidden to put
sword into sheath, and wait on the eternal patience of God, for the agony was
hardly yet begun; there were a thousand horrors yet before the end could come,
that final sum of crucifixion... He must wait and watch, content to stand there
and do nothing; and the Resurrection must seem to him no more than a dreamed-of
hope. There was the Sabbath yet to come, while the Body Mystical must lie in
its sepulchre cut off from light, and even the dignity of the Cross must be
withdrawn and the knowledge that Jesus lived. That inner world, to which by
long effort he had learned the way, was all alight with agony; it was bitter as
brine, it was of that pale luminosity that is the utmost product of pain, it
hummed in his ears with a note that rose to a scream … it pressed upon him,
penetrated him, stretched him as on a rack... And with that his will grew sick
and nerveless.
"Lord! I
cannot bear it!" he moaned...
In an instant he
was back again, drawing long breaths of misery. He passed his tongue over his
lips, and opened his eyes on the darkening apse before him. The organ was
silent now, and the choir was gone, and the lights out. The sunset colour, too,
had faded from the walls, and grim cold faces looked down on him from wall and
vault. He was back again on the surface of life; the vision had melted; he
scarcely knew what it was that he had seen.
But he must
gather up the threads, and by sheer effort absorb them. He must pay his duty,
too, to the Lord that gave Himself to the senses as well as to the inner
spirit. So he rose, stiff and constrained, and passed across to the Chapel of
the Holy Sacrament.
As he came out
from the block of chairs, very upright and tall, with his biretta once more on
his white hair, he saw an old woman watching him very closely. He hesitated an
instant, wondering whether she were a penitent, and as he hesitated she made a
movement towards him.
"I beg your
pardon, sir," she began.
She was not a
Catholic then. He lifted his biretta.
"Can I do
anything for you?" he asked.
"I beg your
pardon, sir, but were you at Brighton, at the accident two months ago?"
"I
was."
"Ah! I
thought so: my daughter-in-law saw you then."
Percy had a spasm
of impatience: he was a little tired of being identified by his white hair and
young face.
"Were you
there, madam?"
She looked at him
doubtfully and curiously, moving her old, eyes up and down his figure. Then she
recollected herself.
"No, sir; it
was my daughter-in-law - I beg your pardon, sir, but -"
"Well?"
asked Percy, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
"Are you the
Archbishop, sir?"
The priest
smiled, showing his white teeth.
"No, madam;
I am just a poor priest. Dr. Cholmondeley is Archbishop. I am Father Percy
Franklin."
She said nothing,
but still looking at him made a little old-world movement of a bow; and Percy
passed on to the dim, splendid chapel to pay his devotions.
III
There was great
talk that night at dinner among the priests as to the extraordinary spread of
Freemasonry. It had been going on for many years now, and Catholics perfectly
recognised its dangers, for the profession of Masonry had been for some
centuries rendered incompatible with religion through the Church's unswerving
condemnation of it. A man must choose between that and his faith. Things had
developed extraordinarily during the last century. First there had been the
organised assault upon the Church in France; and what Catholics had always
suspected then became a certainty in the revelations of 1918, when P. Gerome,
the Dominican and ex-Mason, had made his disclosures with regard to the
Mark-Masons. It had become evident then that Catholics had been right, and that
Masonry, in its higher grades at least, had been responsible throughout the
world for the strange movement against religion. But he had died in his bed,
and the public had been impressed by that fact. Then came the splendid
donations in France and Italy - to hospitals, orphanages, and the like; and
once more suspicion began to disappear. After all, it seemed - and continued to
seem - for seventy years and more that Masonry was nothing more than a vast
philanthropical society. Now once more men had their doubts.
"I hear that
Felsenburgh is a Mason," observed Monsignor Macintosh, the Cathedral
Administrator. "A Grand-Master or something."
"But who is
Felsenburgh?" put in a young priest.
Monsignor pursed
his lips and shook his head. He was one of those humble persons as proud of ignorance
as others of knowledge. He boasted that he never read the papers nor any book
except those that had received the imprimatur; it was a priest's business, he
often remarked, to preserve the faith, not to acquire worldly knowledge. Percy
had occasionally rather envied his point of view.
"He's a
mystery," said another priest, Father Blackmore; "but he seems to be
causing great excitement. They were selling his 'Life' to-day on the
Embankment."
"I met an
American senator," put in Percy, "three days ago, who told me that
even there they know nothing of him, except his extraordinary eloquence. He
only appeared last year, and seems to have carried everything before him by
quite unusual methods. He is a great linguist, too. That is why they took him
to Irkutsk."
"Well, the
Masons -" went on Monsignor. "It is very serious. In the last month
four of my penitents have left me because of it."
"Their
inclusion of women was their master-stroke," growled Father Blackmore,
helping himself to claret.
"It is extraordinary
that they hesitated so long about that," observed Percy.
A couple of the
others added their evidence. It appeared that they, too, had lost penitents
lately through the spread of Masonry. It was rumoured that a Pastoral was
a-preparing upstairs on the subject.
Monsignor shook
his head ominously.
"More is
wanted than that," he said.
Percy pointed out
that the Church had said her last word several centuries ago. She had laid her
excommunication on all members of secret societies, and there was really no
more that she could do.
"Except
bring it before her children again and again," put in Monsignor. "I
shall preach on it next Sunday."
* * * * *
Percy dotted down a note when he reached his room,
determining to say another word or two on the subject to the
Cardinal-Protector. He had mentioned Freemasonry often before, but it seemed
time for another remark. Then he opened his letters, first turning to one which
he recognised as from the Cardinal.
It seemed a
curious coincidence, as he read a series of questions that Cardinal Martin's
letter contained, that one of them should be on this very subject. It ran as
follows:
"What of
Masonry? Felsenburgh is said to be one. Gather all the gossip you can about
him. Send any English or American biographies of him. Are you still losing
Catholics through Masonry?"
He ran his eyes
down the rest of the questions. They chiefly referred to previous remarks of
his own, but twice, even in them, Felsenburgh's name appeared.
He laid the paper
down and considered a little.
It was very
curious, he thought, how this man's name was in every one's mouth, in spite of
the fact that so little was known about him. He had bought in the streets, out
of curiosity, three photographs that professed to represent this strange
person, and though one of them might be genuine they all three could not be. He
drew them out of a pigeon-hole, and spread them before him.
One represented a
fierce, bearded creature like a Cossack, with round staring eyes. No; intrinsic
evidence condemned this: it was exactly how a coarse imagination would have
pictured a man who seemed to be having a great influence in the East.
The second showed
a fat face with little eyes and a chin-beard. That might conceivably be
genuine: he turned it over and saw the name of a New York firm on the back.
Then he turned to the third. This presented a long, clean-shaven face with
pince-nez, undeniably clever, but scarcely strong: and Felsenburgh was
obviously a strong man.
Percy inclined to
think the second was the most probable; but they were all unconvincing; and he
shuffled them carelessly together and replaced them.
Then he put his
elbows on the table, and began to think.
He tried to
remember what Mr. Varhaus, the American senator, had told him of Felsenburgh;
yet it did not seem sufficient to account for the facts. Felsenburgh, it
seemed, had employed none of those methods common in modern politics. He
controlled no newspapers, vituperated nobody, championed nobody: he had no
picked underlings; he used no bribes; there were no monstrous crimes alleged
against him. It seemed rather as if his originality lay in his clean hands and
his stainless past - that, and his magnetic character. He was the kind of
figure that belonged rather to the age of chivalry: a pure, clean, compelling
personality, like a radiant child. He had taken people by surprise, then,
rising out of the heaving dun-coloured waters of American socialism like a
vision - from those waters so fiercely restrained from breaking into storm over
since the extraordinary social revolution under Mr. Hearst's disciples, a
century ago. That had been the end of plutocracy; the famous old laws of 1914
had burst some of the stinking bubbles of the time; and the enactments of 1916
and 1917 had prevented their forming again in any thing like their previous
force. It had been the salvation of America, undoubtedly, even if that
salvation were of a dreary and uninspiring description; and now out of the flat
socialistic level had arisen this romantic figure utterly unlike any that had
preceded it... So the senator had hinted... It was too complicated for Percy
just now, and he gave it up.
It was a weary
world, he told himself, turning his eyes homewards. Everything seemed so
hopeless and ineffective. He tried not to reflect on his fellow-priests, but
for the fiftieth time he could not help seeing that they were not the men for
the present situation. It was not that he preferred himself; he knew perfectly
well that he, too, was fully as incompetent: had he not proved to be so with poor
Father Francis, and scores of others who had clutched at him in their agony
during the last ten years? Even the Archbishop, holy man as he was, with all
his childlike faith - was that the man to lead English Catholics and confound
their enemies? There seemed no giants on the earth in these days. What in the
world was to be done? He buried his face in his hands...
Yes; what was
wanted was a new Order in the Church; the old ones were rule-bound through no
fault of their own. An Order was wanted without habit or tonsure, without
traditions or customs, an Order with nothing but entire and whole-hearted
devotion, without pride even in their most sacred privileges, without a past
history in which they might take complacent refuge. They must be franc-tireurs of
Christ's Army; like the Jesuits, but without their fatal reputation, which,
again, was no fault of their own. … But there must be a Founder - Who, in God's
Name? —a Founder nudus sequens Christum nudum…. Yes - Franc-tireurs —priests,
bishops, laymen and women - with the three vows of course, and a special clause
forbidding utterly and for ever their ownership of corporate wealth.—Every gift
received must be handed to the bishop of the diocese in which it was given, who
must provide them himself with necessaries of life and travel. Oh! - what could
they not do?… He was off in a rhapsody.
Presently he
recovered, and called himself a fool. Was not that scheme as old as the eternal
hills, and as useless for practical purposes? Why, it had been the dream of every
zealous man since the First Year of Salvation that such an Order should be
founded!… He was a fool...
Then once more he
began to think of it all over again.
Surely it was
this which was wanted against the Masons; and women, too.—Had not scheme after
scheme broken down because men had forgotten the power of women? It was that
lack that had ruined Napoleon: he had trusted Josephine, and she had failed
him; so he had trusted no other woman. In the Catholic Church, too, woman had
been given no active work but either menial or connected with education: and
was there not room for other activities than those? Well, it was useless to
think of it. It was not his affair. If Papa Angelicus who now reigned in Rome
had not thought of it, why should a foolish, conceited priest in Westminster
set himself up to do so?
So he beat
himself on the breast once more, and took up his office-book.
He finished in
half an hour, and again sat thinking; but this time it was of poor Father
Francis. He wondered what he was doing now; whether he had taken off the Roman
collar of Christ's familiar slaves? The poor devil! And how far was he, Percy
Franklin, responsible?
When a tap came
at his door presently, and Father Blackmore looked in for a talk before going
to bed, Percy told him what had happened.
Father Blackmore
removed his pipe and sighed deliberately.
"I knew it
was coming," he said. "Well, well."
"He has been
honest enough," explained Percy. "He told me eight months ago he was
in trouble."
Father Blackmore
drew upon his pipe thoughtfully.
"Father
Franklin," he said, "things are really very serious. There is the
same story everywhere. What in the world is happening?"
Percy paused
before answering.
"I think
these things go in waves," he said.
"Waves, do
you think?" said the other.
"What
else?"
Father Blackmore
looked at him intently.
"It is more
like a dead calm, it seems to me," he said. "Have you ever been in a
typhoon?"
Percy shook his
head.
"Well,"
went on the other, "the most ominous thing is the calm. The sea is like
oil; you feel half-dead: you can do nothing. Then comes the storm."
Percy looked at
him, interested. He had not seen this mood in the priest before.
"Before
every great crash there comes this calm. It is always so in history. It was so
before the Eastern War; it was so before the French Revolution. It was so
before the Reformation. There is a kind of oily heaving; and everything is
languid. So everything has been in America, too, for over eighty years...
Father Franklin, I think something is going to happen."
"Tell me," said Percy, leaning forward.
"Well, I saw
Templeton a week before he died, and he put the idea in my head... Look here,
father. It may be this Eastern affair that is coming on us; but somehow I don't
think it is. It is in religion that something is going to happen. At least, so
I think... Father, who in God's name is Felsenburgh?"
Percy was so
startled at the sudden introduction of this name again, that he stared a moment
without speaking.
Outside, the
summer night was very still. There was a faint vibration now and again from the
underground track that ran twenty yards from the house where they sat; but the
streets were quiet enough round the Cathedral. Once a hoot rang far away, as if
some ominous bird of passage were crossing between London and the stars, and
once the cry of a woman sounded thin and shrill from the direction of the
river. For the rest there was no more than the solemn, subdued hum that never
ceased now night or day.
"Yes;
Felsenburgh," said Father Blackmore once more. "I cannot get that man
out of my head. And yet, what do I know of him? What does any one know of
him?"
Percy licked his
lips to answer, and drew a breath to still the beating of his heart. He could
not imagine why he felt excited. After all, who was old Blackmore to frighten
him? But old Blackmore went on before he could speak.
"See how
people are leaving the Church! The Wargraves, the Hendersons, Sir James
Bartlet, Lady Magnier, and then all the priests. Now they're not all knaves - I
wish they were; it would be so much easier to talk of it. But Sir James
Bartlet, last month! Now, there's a man who has spent half his fortune on the
Church, and he doesn't resent it even now. He says that any religion is better
than none, but that, for himself, he just can't believe any longer. Now what
does all that mean?… I tell you something is going to happen. God knows what!
And I can't get Felsenburgh out of my head... Father Franklin -"
"Yes?"
"Have you
noticed how few great men we've got? It's not like fifty years ago, or even
thirty. Then there were Mason, Selborne, Sherbrook, and half-a-dozen others.
There was Brightman, too, as Archbishop: and now! Then the Communists, too.
Braithwaite is dead fifteen years. Certainly he was big enough; but he was always
speaking of the future, not of the present; and tell me what big man they have
had since then! And now there's this new man, whom no one knows, who came
forward in America a few months ago, and whose name is in every one's mouth.
Very well, then!"
Percy knitted his
forehead.
"I am not
sure that I understand," he said.
Father Blackmore
knocked his pipe out before answering.
"Well,
this," he said, standing up. "I can't help thinking Felsenburgh is
going to do something. I don't know what; it may be for us or against us. But
he is a Mason, remember that... Well, well; I dare say I'm an old fool.
Good-night."
"One moment,
father," said Percy slowly. "Do you mean - ? Good Lord! What do you
mean?" He stopped, looking at the other.
The old priest
stared back under his bushy eyebrows; it seemed to Percy as if he, too, were
afraid of something in spite of his easy talk; but he made no sign.
* * * * *
Percy stood perfectly still a moment when the door
was shut. Then he moved across to his prie-dieu.
