Part 2 (1/2)
The Rector nodded, but without showing any particular concern, though his eyes rested kindly on his companion.
”We have come to the 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. Voysey, of course, had to go; Jowett, I am inclined to think, ought to have gone.
But the distribution of the forces, the lie of the field, is now altogether changed. _I_ 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,” Baron went on, impetuously. ”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 argument 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 blaze, and looking round at his companion. Barron's face in response was a face of hero-wors.h.i.+p, undisguised. Here plainly were leader and disciple; pioneering will and docile faith. But it might have been observed that Meynell did nothing to emphasize 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 comrades 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 Tyrell.
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 Maudeley 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 Brotherhood, 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 brotherhood among London workingmen for the promotion of a simple and commemorative form of Christianity.
Elsmere, a man of delicate physique, had died prematurely, worn out by the struggle to find new foothold for himself and others; but something in his personality, and in the nature of his effort--some brilliant, 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 have held on?” Meynell presently said, in a tone of 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, flus.h.i.+ng 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 schoolroom. And yesterday--she said--she'd marry me some day.”