Part 55 (2/2)

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, reread the last page with a sigh, and closed it. Then, as it was nearly midnight, he retreated upstairs to his bare and icy bedroom, where half-an-hour's attempt to meditate completed 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 pa.s.sing 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 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 schoolmistress, the wife of the manager of the cooperative 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 rebuff, who were in fact the Rector's agents in any humanizing effort.

All these persons had come to the meeting eagerly expecting to hear from the Rector's own lips the steps he proposed to take for the putting down of the slanders circulating 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 background of its white walls he stood thrown out in strong relief by the oil lamp on the table in front of him, his eyes travelling 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 Movement, 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.

”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 toward 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 determination and pa.s.sion.

”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 G.o.d for your souls. _Why_ have you been misled?--_why_ do you follow him?” He flung out his hand toward Meynell.

”Because you admire and respect him--because 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 Rector 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 character, and repay you for the devotion you have shown 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 will give, you every opportunity. But till that is done do not continue, in the face of the congregation you have deceived and led astray, to a.s.sume 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 _forcing_ 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 toward 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 speaking 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 circulated, by word of mouth, and probably by letter. Now I want you plainly to understand”--he bent forward, his hands on the table before him, each word clear and resonant--”that I shall take no such action!

My reasons I shall not give you. I stand upon my life among you and my character among you all these years. This only I will say to you, my friends and my paris.h.i.+oners: The 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 any one 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 G.o.d knows our hearts--yours and mine.”

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