When It Was Dark Part 57

The light burned steadily before the altar.

He had been one of the faithful thousands, learned, simple, Methodist, ritualist, who _knew_ that this thing could not be.

Nevertheless his courage had been failing him. Life seemed to have lost its sweetness, and often he humbly wondered when he should die, hoping that the time was not too long--not without a tremulous belief that G.o.d would recognise that he had fought the good fight and kept the faith.

In his own immediate neighbourhood the consequences of the "Discovery"

nearly broke his heart. He had no need to look beyond Walktown. Even the great political events which were stirring the world had left him unmoved. His own small corner of the vineyard, now, alas! so choked with rank, luxuriant growth, was enough for this faithful pastor. Here he saw nothing but vice suddenly rearing its head and threatening to overwhelm all else. He heard the Holy Names blasphemed with all the inventions of obscene imaginations, a.s.sailed with all the wit of full-blooded men amazed and rejoiced that they could stifle their consciences at last.

And this after all his life-work among these folk! He had given them of his best. His prayers, his intellect, much of his money had been theirs.

How insolently they had exulted over him, these coa.r.s.e and vulgar hearts!

When Basil had first told Mr. Byars of his suspicions the vicar can hardly have been blamed for regarding them sadly as the generous effects of a young and ardent soul seeking to find an _immediate_ way out of the _impa.s.se_.

The elder man knew that fraud had been at work, but he suspected no such modern and insolent attempt as Basil indicated. It was too much to believe. Gortre had left him most despondent.

But his interest had soon become quickened and alive, as the private reports from London reached him.

When he knew that great people were moving quietly, that the weight of Sir Michael was behind Gortre, he knew at once that in all probability Basil's suspicions were right.

A curious change came over the vicar's public appearances and utterances. His sermons were full of fire, almost Pauline in their strength. People began to flow and flock into the great empty church at Walktown. Mr. Byars's fame spread.

Then, swiftly, after the first week or two, had come the beginning of the great financial depression.

It was felt acutely in Manchester.

All the wealthy, comfortable, easy-going folk who grudgingly paid a small pew-rent out of their superfluity became alarmed, horribly alarmed. The Christianity which had sat so lightly upon them that at first opportunity they had rushed into the Unitarian meeting-houses became suddenly a very desirable thing.

In the fall of Christianity they saw their own fortunes falling. And these self-deceivers would be swept back upon the tide of this reaction into the arms of the Anglican mother they had despised.

The vicar saw all this. He was a keen expert in, and student of, human affairs, and withal a psychologist. He saw his opportunity.

His words lashed and stung these renegades. They were made to see themselves as they were; the preacher cut away all the ground from under them. They were left face to face with naked shame.

What puzzled and yet uplifted the congregation at St. Thomas's was their vicar's extraordinary _certainty_ that the spiritual darkness over the land was shortly to be removed.

It was commented on, keenly observed, greatly wondered at.

"Mr. Byars speaks," said Mr. Pryde, a wealthy solicitor, "as if he had some private information about this Palestine discovery. He is so confident that he magnetises one into his own state of mind, and Byars is not a very emotional man either. His conviction is _real_. It's not hysteria."

And, being a shrewd, silent man, the solicitor formed his own conclusions, but said nothing of them.

The church continued full of wors.h.i.+ppers.

When the news from Basil came, the vicar was sitting before the fire in his lighted study. He had been expecting the telegram all day.

His brain had been haunted by the picture of that distinguished figure with the dark red hair he had so often met.

Again he saw the millionaire standing in his drawing-room proffering money for scholars.h.i.+ps. And in Dieppe also!

How well and clearly he saw the huge figure of the _savant_ in his coat of astrachan, with his babble of soups and _entree_!

Try as he would, the vicar could not hate these two men. The sin, the awful sin, yes, a thousand times. Horror could not be stretched far enough, no hatred could be too great for such immensity of crime.

But in his great heart, in his large, human nature there was a Divine _pity_ for this wretched pair. He could not help it. It was part of him.

He wondered if he were not erring in feeling pity. Was not this, indeed, that mysterious sin against the Holy Ghost for which there was no forgiveness? Was it not said of Judas that for his deed he should lie for ever in h.e.l.l?

The telegram was brought in by a neat, unconcerned housemaid.

Then the vicar got up and locked the inner door of his study. He knelt in prayer and thanksgiving.

It was a moment of intense spiritual communion with the Unseen.

This good man, who had given his vigorous life and active intellect to G.o.d, knelt humbly at his study table while a joy and happiness not of this earth filled all his soul.

At that supreme moment, when the sense of the glorious vindication of Christ flooded the priest's whole being with ecstasy, he knew, perhaps, a faint foreshadowing of the life the Blessed live in Heaven.

For a few brief moments that imperfect instrument, the human body, was permitted a glimpse, a flash of the eternal joy prepared for the saints of G.o.d.

The vicar drew very near the Veil.

Helena beat at the door; he opened to her, the tall, gracious lady.

She saw the news in her father's face.

They embraced with deep and silent emotion.

Two hours later the vicarage was full of people.

The news had arrived.

Special editions of the evening papers were being shouted through the streets. Downing Street had spoken, and in Manchester--as in almost every great city in England--the Truth was pulsing and throbbing in the air, spreading from house to house, from heart to heart.

Every one knew it in Walktown now.

There was a sudden unanimous rush of people to the vicarage.

Each big, luxurious house all round sent out its eager owners into the night.

They came to show the pastor, who had not failed them in the darkness, their joy and grat.i.tude now that light had come at last.

How warm and hearty these North-country people were! Mr. Byars had never penetrated so deeply beneath the somewhat forbidding crust of manner and surface-hardness before.

Mingled with the sense of shame and misery at their own lukewarmness, there was a fine and genuine desire to show the vicar how they honoured him for his steadfastness.

"You've been an example to all of us, vicar," said a hard-faced, bra.s.sy-voiced cotton-spinner, a kindly light in his eyes, his lips somewhat tremulous.