A Lost Cause Part 18

"Yes, at seven. I'm very uneasy in my mind about Miss P., Sam."

"Gussie says she's worse than she knows herself. She hasn't been out of bed for a fortnight now."

"She's not long for this world, I'm afraid," Hamlyn answered. "While she's alive we are fairly safe. But when she's in Glory where shall we be?"

"That's the question, Father. Gussie knows nothing and can't find out anything, neither. A really handsome legacy invested in some good stock would put us right again whatever might happen."

"It would. But just at present the old lady's awful to deal with. You see, I'm in an awkward position, Sam. I'm not such a fool as to tell her how we've been bested lately--that's to say, I can't bring myself to wound a faithful Protestant heart by stories of persecution of them as is doing the Lord's work against Rome. Miss P. don't know anything about the checks we've received of late. Well, then, she's always bothering me to know why we aren't keeping it up in Hornham, why we aren't going for Blantyre and that lot. She hears everything that goes on in the parish, though Gussie Davies does her best to stop it. But she don't seem to trust Gussie as she did, which is a pity. Miss P. quite sees that, for some reason or other, things have gone quiet in the parish, and she's getting restive. Something must be done soon, that's quite evident. Some big thing to wake her up--and everyone else, too."

"It doesn't matter much how far we go now."

"Not a bit. The further the better, as a matter of fact. The lecturers'

hands are so tied now, what with all these cunning moves of the Romanists, that _they_ can't do anything. It seems we've alienated all the moderate people and we've only the extreme ones to rely on. Well, then, we must wake _them_ up, that's all. The papers can't well say worse of us than they do already, so it really is the best policy to give the whole country a regular startler. I can't think of anything new at present, but I shall. I expect a bit of inspiration'll come before long. Anyway, I shall tell Miss Pritchett to-night to wait and have patience a little longer, as there's something in the wind that will do all she wants. It's her illness. She _must_ have continual bits of excitement to keep her going, it's a regular disease with her now. If I can think of a good scheme to liven up things generally, in the first flush of it she'll be so pleased that we might venture a word or two upon her testamentary dispositions. I should feel so much happier about the Cause if I knew the League was down in her will for a thumping sum.

Of course, anything of the sort would have to be said most careful.

She'd get up and be healthy again in a week if she thought we thought she was going to peg out!"

Mr. Hamlyn concluded his remarks with a somewhat resentful sigh, and, whistling down the speaking-tube for the correspondence clerk, began to dictate his morning's letters.

It was about seven o'clock when the secretary arrived at Malakoff House, tired and dispirited. The whole day had gone unsatisfactorily. An evening paper had come out with a leaded column about the League which was far from complimentary. The various callers at the office were all more or less disagreeable, and even the volatile Samuel had been plunged into a state of furtive gloom that radiated mis-ease upon all who came near him.

Mr. Hamlyn was shown into the drawing-room and in a minute or two, Gussie Davies came to him. The girl was white and tired of feature.

Dark semicircles were under her eyes, but her manner had a nervous excitement that was infectious.

Both of them spoke in that agitated whisper that some people affect in the neighbourhood of those who are seriously ill and whom they think like to die. It is a whisper in which there is a not unpleasurable note, a self-congratulation at being near to the Great Mystery, as spectators merely.

"How is she?" whispered Hamlyn.

"Bad," answered Gussie. "Dr. Hibbert's been and I had a chat with him afterwards. He daren't speak as plain as he'd like, for fear of frightening her. But he says she must _not_ keep on exciting herself. It will be fatal if she does. Another two months of this St. Elwyn's excitement will kill her, Mr. Hamlyn. I'm sure of that."

"What's she been saying?"

"Oh, the same old thing: Why doesn't Mr. Hamlyn do something decisive?

Why doesn't he strike these proud priests some crus.h.i.+ng blow? You know she's heard that Miss Blantyre has come to live at the vicarage, and that makes her keener than ever."

"Well, I must think of something, that's all," said the secretary in a decisive whisper. "I'll promise her a new move almost at once. I suppose you've had no chance to get in a word about the will?"

"Not a chance. I can't find out anything either. All I know is that her solicitor hasn't been here since she joined the League. So that looks as if there isn't anything done _yet_."

"I don't suppose there is, my dear. But if I can keep her quiet _now_, and do something big in the parish in a few days, then I suppose we might broach it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Hamlyn, I should say so."

"Good. One more question, Gussie, before I go up. Do you think it wise to mention a contribution to the working fund just now? One can never be too zealous in the cause of Protestant Truth, but I want to deal wisely with her."

"Oh, I think you'll be safe enough for a hundred or two," Gussie said, "as long as you promise her a good rumpus soon! She ain't mean, I will say that for her."

Mr. Hamlyn nodded in a brisk, business-like way, rang for the maid, and was shown up to the sick-room.

Gussie remained in the drawing-room. She wondered how successful her friend and lover's father would be. She had immense faith in his abilities and already looked forward to the time when, released for ever from her duties at Malakoff House, she would, as Mrs. Hamlyn, Junior, become a leading lady of True Protestantism. Not that the girl hated her employer. She had no affection for Miss Pritchett--and it would have been wonderful if she had--but her feeling was not stronger than that.

As for the money question, the money that the rich old lady was giving to the Luther League, Gussie saw no harm in that. The money was for a good cause, so she believed, and the Hamlyns, _pere et fils_, had much better have the handling of it than any one else!

Mr. Hamlyn was a considerable time. The girl wandered about the room, agog to hear his news, thinking with a certain terror of the grim old woman up-stairs. For what had been tartness and acerbity had become grimness now, in the pompous old-fas.h.i.+oned bed-chamber, where she lay waiting the beating of those great black wings which all, save she, knew were drawing near.

Although Gussie Davis knew all the foibles of her mistress and could play upon them with adroitness and success, she felt, nevertheless, a fear of the old woman. Miss Pritchett, with all her absurdities, her petty jealousies, her greed for flattery, was a woman with a personality. She was very rich, and she had chosen to remain among the surroundings of her youth and be great among the small. Yet even a petty supremacy awes the petty, and the sly Welsh girl was indubitably awed.

She was not wholly bad, not unfeeling in her way, but she was weak. In the hands of the Hamlyns, she had been as putty from the very first.

They were strong men. There was no doubt about that. With all the temperamental vulgarity and greed of both father and son, there was indubitable strength--and, in the case of the elder, considerable magnetic power.

They had been kind to her also. She was genuinely fond of Sam, and he was fond of her. The accident of her position, that she was able to help and forward their plans, made no difference as to that. Hamlyn, Senior, liked her. He would, she knew, be kind and fatherly to her when she was married to Sam. He was that now.

For, if Hamlyn had been able to employ his cleverness to good advantage in the exploitation of any other thing save of religion, he would have been counted as a shrewd business man and nothing more. Nothing worse than that at any rate. He had no personal vices. He did not in the least realise that he was living a life that was shameful. Religion meant no more to him than any other way of making money would have meant. That was all. And, oddly enough, Blantyre himself shrewdly suspected this, while Carr looked upon the agitator as infamous.

Hamlyn was perfectly aware that he was a humbug, but he thought that his humbug was perfectly legitimate in the war of life.

The priest at St. Elwyn's whom he had so bitterly attacked and wounded was a psychologist. Most priests are. Men who sit in churches and hear the true story of men's lives learn an infinite tenderness. Men come to them for comfort, to hear the comfortable words that our Lord has spoken for the sinful who are penitent, to receive from them that absolution which is nothing more than the confirmation, in a concrete and certain way, of the promise of G.o.d. It is only the people who have never confessed their sins, not to a priest, but to G.o.d through a priest, who speak against the Sacrament of Penance.

They do not know they are tilting at windmills. And the bitter shame that sometimes comes to a man as he tells another man the true story of his life is in itself the truest evidence that he means to amend it. No one would do that without penitence. There is a motive for every action; the motive would be wanting if confession were made without a resolve to lead a new life. If those who fulminate against the Church's method, and sneer at the members of the Church who follow it, as dupes and fools, could understand that it is discipline that purifies and exalts, they would sneer no longer. It is all very well to be a _franc-tireur_, no doubt. But it is better to be a member of the regular forces. It is not so jolly for a time, perhaps, but in event of capture, the former is shot at sight, the latter becomes a prisoner of war with all the rights and traditions of his lot.

Simile was one of Mr. Hamlyn's pet weapons, but in his noisy syllogisms, he left out the first two premises and confined himself to the conclusion--generally an emphatic epithet.

Mr. Hamlyn came down-stairs at last. His face was grave, but peaceful.

Perspiration showed upon it. He had been having a hard time.

"I say, my dear," he whispered, "I wonder if you've got a cup of tea handy. I've had a thick time!"

It is better to take the stimulant of tea than the more usual brandy and soda. Hamlyn was a strong teetotaller, and that counted to his credit at a moment like this. For the man had obviously been through an unnerving experience. He was not his ready and impudent self.

The tea was brought. It revived him.

"Well!" he said in a low voice, "I don't want to go through many scenes like that again, Gussie! She's getting worse and worse. Her brain can't last much longer if she goes on like this! However, I managed to calm her down. She's going off to sleep now. I told her I'd wake Hornham up in a few days--and I'll _have_ to do it, what's more!"

"Did you get a cheque?" said the practical Gussie.

"Yes," said Mr. Hamlyn in a slightly more relieved voice. "She gave me a couple of hundred in the end. At heart, she's devoted to the cause of Protestant Truth. But she's getting horribly restive, my dear. I'm sorry for her. She's a wreck of what she used to be--but she's a wreck that wants a lot of salvage!"

The colour came back into the plump, clean-shaven face as the tea did its work.

"I forgot, my dear," he said; "I brought you a box of chocolates. It clean went out of my 'ead," he waved an exhausted hand towards his small brown leather bag, which stood on the table between a plaster model of the leaning tower of Pisa and a ma.s.sive volume ent.i.tled _Every Young Lady's Vade Mec.u.m_.

Gussie smiled her thanks and opened the bag, while Mr. Hamlyn poured out another cup of tea.

Gussie felt in the bag. It was full of papers, but there were two parcels there. She took them out. They were of much the same size. Each was neatly tied up in white paper.

She pulled the string from one of them. A number of thin semi-transparent white wafers fell out upon the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried, "I thought this was the box of chocolates."

Hamlyn looked up wearily. To his immeasurable surprise, he saw that the girl's face had grown very pale. She shrunk away from the table.

"What's the matter, my dear?" he said, thoroughly alarmed.