Part 33 (1/2)
”I do take no stock in Church,” she replied, ”begging the gentleman's pardon”--this to Gortre. ”I was born and bred a Wesleyan and such I'm like to die. How should I know what they'll be doing up to London church town? This here is my first visit to England to see my daughter, and it'll be the last I've a mind to take. You should come to Cornwall, my dear, and then you'll see if religion's over and done away with.”
”But you've heard of all as they've just found out at Jerusalem, surely?
It's known now that Christ never was what He made out to be. He won't save no more sinners,--it's all false what the Bible says, it's been _proved_. I suppose you've heard about _that_ in Cornwall?”
”I was down to the shop,” said the old lady, with the gentle contempt of one speaking to a foolish child. ”I was down to the shop December month, and Mrs. Baragwaneth showed me the _Western Morning News_ with a picture and a lot of talk saying the Bible was ontrue, and Captain Billy Peters, of Treurthian mine, he was down-along too. How 'a did laugh at 'un! 'My dear,' he says, ”tis like the coast guards going mackerel-seining.
Night after night have they been out, and shot the nets, too, for they be alwa.s.s seein' something briming, thinking it a school o' fish, and not knowing 'tis but moons.h.i.+ne. It's want of _experience_ that do make folk talk so.'”
”That's all very well, Mother,” answered the man, slightly nettled by the placid a.s.surance of her tone. ”That's all pretty enough, and though I don't understand your fis.h.i.+ng terms I can guess at your meaning. But here's the _proof_ on one side and nothing at all on t'other. Here's all the learned men of all countries as says the Bible is not true, _and proving_ it, and here's you with no learning at all just saying it _is_, with no proof whatever.”
”Do 'ee want proof, then?” she answered eagerly, the odd see-saw of her voice becoming more and more accentuated in her excitement. ”I tell 'ee ther's as many proofs as pilchards in the say. Ever since the Lard died--ah! 'twas a bitter nailing, a bitter nailing, my dear!”--she paused, almost with tears in her voice, and the whole atmosphere of the little compartment seemed to Basil to be irradiated, glorified by the s.h.i.+ning faith of the old dame--”ever since that time the proofs have been going on. Now I'll tell 'ee as some as I've see'd, my son. Samson Trevorrow to Carbis water married my sister, May Rosewarne, forty years ago. He would drink something terrible bad, and swear like a foreigner.
He'd a half-share in a trawler, three cottages, and money in the bank.
First his money went, then his cottages, and he led a life of sin and brawling. He were a bad man, my dear. Every one were at 'un for an onG.o.dly wastrel, but 'a kept on. An' the Lard gave him no children; May could not make a child to him, for she were onfruitful, but he would not change. All that folk with sense could do was done, but 't were no use.”
”Well, I know the sort of man,” said the workman, with conviction. His interest was roused, that unfailing interest which the poorer cla.s.ses take in each other's family history.
”Then you do know that nothing won't turn them from their evil ways?”
”When a chap gets the drink in him like that,” replied the artisan, ”there's no power that will take him from it. He'd go through sheet iron for it.”
”And so would Samson Trevorrow, my dear,” she continued. ”One night he came home from Penzance market, market-peart, as the saying is, drunk if you will. My sister said something to 'un, what 't was I couldn't say, but he struck her, for the first time. Next morning was the Sunday, and when she told him of what he'd done overnight, he was shamed of himself, and she got him to come along with her to chapel. 'T was a minister from Bodmin as prached, and 'ee did prache the Lard at Sam until the Word got hold on 'un and the man shook with repentance at his naughty life. He did kneel down before them all and prayed for forgiveness, and for the Lard to help 'un to lead a new life. From that Sabbath till he died, many years after, Sam never took anything of liquor, he stopped his sweering and carrying on, and he lived as a good man should. And in a year the Lard sent 'un a son, and if G.o.d wills I shall see the boy this afternoon, for he's to meet the train. There now, my son, that be gospel truth what I tell 'ee. After that can you expect any one with a grain of sense to listen to such foolish truck as you do tell? The Lard did that for Samson Trevorrow, changed 'un from black to white, 'a did. If the Queen herself were to tell me that the Lard Jesus wasn't He, I wouldn't believe her.”
As Gortre drove from Euston through the thronged veins of London towards the Inn, he thought much and with great thankfulness of the little episode in the train. Such simple faith, such supreme conviction, was, he knew, the precious possession of thousands still. What did it matter to these st.u.r.dy Nonconformists in the lone West that _savants_ denied Christ? All over England the serene triumph of the Gospel, deep, deep down in the hearts of quiet people, gave the eternal lie to Schuabe and his followers. Never could they overcome the Risen Lord in the human heart. He began to realise more and more the ineffable wonder of the Incarnation.
Before he had arrived at Chancery Lane the London streets began to take hold of him once more with the old familiar grip. How utterly unchanged they were! It seemed but a day since he had left them; it was impossible at the moment of re-contact to realise all that had pa.s.sed since he had gone away.
He was to have an immediate and almost terrifying reminder of it. The door of the chambers was not locked, and pus.h.i.+ng it open, he entered.
Always most sensitive to the _atmosphere_ of a room, moral as well as material, he was immediately struck by that of the chambers, most unpleasantly so, indeed. Certain indications of what had been going on there were easily seen. Others were not so a.s.sertive, but contributed their part, nevertheless, to the subtle general impression of the place.
The air was stale with the pungent smell of Turkish tobacco and spirits.
It was obvious that the windows had not been as freely opened as their wont. A litter of theatre programmes lay on one chair. On another was a programme of a Covent Garden ball and a girl's shoe of white satin, into which a fading bouquet of hothouse flowers had been wantonly crushed.
The table was covered with the _debris_ of a supper, a _pate_, some long-necked bottles which had held Niersteiner, a hideous box of pink satin and light blue ribbons half full of _glace_ plums and chocolates.
The little bust of the Hermes of Praxiteles, which stood on one of the bookcases, had been maltreated with a coa.r.s.eness and vulgarity which hurt Basil like a blow. The delicate contour of the features, the pure white of the plaster, were soiled and degraded. The cheeks had been rouged up to the eyes, which were picked out in violet ink. The brows were arched with an ”eyebrow pencil” and the lips with a vivid cardinal red.
Basil put down his portmanteau and grew very pale as he looked round on these and many other evidences of sordid and unlovely riot. His heart sank within him. He began to fear for Harold Spence.
Even as he looked round, Spence came into the room from his bed-chamber.
He was dressed in a smoking jacket and flannel trousers. Basil saw at once that he had been drinking heavily. The cheeks were swollen under the pouch of the eye, he was unshaven, and his manner was full of noisy and tremulous geniality.
There are men in whom a week or two of sudden relapse into old and evil courses has an extraordinarily visible effect. Spence was one of them.
At the moment he looked as the clay model compares with the finished marble.
Gortre was astounded at the change, but one thing the modern London clergyman learns is tact. The situation was obvious, it explained itself at once, and he nerved himself to deal with it warily and carefully.
Spence himself was ill at ease at they went through the commonplaces of meeting. Then, when they were both seated by the fire and were smoking, he began to speak frankly.
”I can see you are rather sick, old man,” he said. ”Better have it out and done with, don't you think?”