"What would you say or do, Father Ripon," Schuabe asked, in a tone of interested curiosity,--"What would you do if some stupendous thing were to happen, something to occur which proved without doubt that Christ was not divine? Supposing that it suddenly became an absolute fact, a historical fact which every one must accept?"

"Some new discovery, you mean?"

"Well, if you like; never mind the actual means. a.s.sume for a moment that it became certain as an historical fact that the Resurrection did not take place. I say that the ignorant love of Christ"s followers wreathed His life in legend, that the true story was from the beginning obscured by error, hysteria, and mistake. Supposing something proved what I say in such a way as to leave no loophole for denial. What would you do? As a representative Churchman, what would you do? This interests me."

"Well, you are a.s.suming an impossibility, and I can"t argue on such a postulate. But, if for a moment what you say _could_ happen, I might not be able to deny these proofs, but I should never believe them."

"But surely----"

"Christ is _within_; I have found Him myself without possibility of mistake; day and night I am in communion with Him."

"Ah!" said Schuabe, dryly, "there is no convincing a person who takes _that_ att.i.tude. But it is rare."

"Faith is weak in the world," said the priest, with a sigh, as the train drew up in the little wayside station.

A footman took their luggage to a carriage which was waiting, and they drove off rapidly through the twilight, over the bare brown fen with a chill leaden sky meeting it on the horizon, towards Fencastle.

Sir Michael"s house was an immemorial feature of those parts. Josiah Manichoe, his father, had bought it from old Lord Lostorich. To this day Sir Michael paid two pounds each year, as "Knight"s fee," to the lord of the manor at Denton, a fee first paid in 1236. As it stood now, the house was Tudor in exterior, covering a vast area with its stately, explicit, and yet homelike, rather than "homely," beauty.

The interior of the house was treated with great judgment and artistic ability. A successful effort had been made to combine the greatest measure of modern comfort without unduly disturbing the essential character of the place. Thus Father Ripon found himself in an ancient bedroom with a painted ceiling and panelled walls. The furniture was in keeping with the design, but electric lamps had been fitted to the ma.s.sive pewter sconces on the wall, and the towel-rail by the washing-stand was made of copper tubing through which hot water pa.s.sed constantly.

The dinner-gong boomed at eight and Ripon went down into the great hall, where a group of people were standing round an open fire of peat and coal.

Mrs. Bardilly, a widowed sister of Sir Michael"s, acted as hostess, a quiet, matronly woman, very Jewish in aspect, shrewd and placid in temper, an admirable _chatelaine_.

Talking to her was Mrs. Hubert Armstrong, the famous woman novelist.

Mrs. Armstrong was tall and grandly built. Her grey hair was drawn over a ma.s.sive, manlike brow in smooth folds, her face was finely chiselled.

The mouth was large, rather sweet in expression, but with a slight hinting of "superiority" in repose and condescension in movement. When she spoke, always in full, well-chosen periods, it was with an air of somewhat final p.r.o.nouncement. She was ever _ex cathedra_.

The lady"s position was a great one. Every two or three years she published a weighty novel, admirably written, full of real culture, and without a trace of humour. In those productions, treatises rather than novels, the theme was generally that of a high-bred philosophical negation of the Incarnation. Mrs. Armstrong pitied Christians with pa.s.sionate certainty. Gently and lovingly she essayed to open blinded eyes to the truth. With great condescension she still believed in G.o.d and preached Christ as a mighty teacher.

One of her utterances suffices to show the colossal arrogance--almost laughable were it not so _bizarre_--of her intellect:

"_The world has expanded since Jesus preached in the dim ancient cities of the East. Men and women of to-day cannot learn the_ complete _lesson of G.o.d from him now--indeed they could not in those old times. But all that is most necessary in forming character, all that makes for pureness and clarity of soul--this Jesus has still for us as he had for the people of his own time._"

After the enormous success of her book, _John Mulgrave_, Mrs. Armstrong more than half believed she had struck a final blow at the errors of Christianity.

Shrewd critics remarked that _John Mulgrave_ described the perversion of the hero with great skill and literary power, while quite forgetting to recapitulate the arguments which had brought it about.

The woman was really educated, but her success was with half-educated readers. Her works excited to a sort of frenzy clergymen who realised their insidious hollowness. Her success was real; her influence appeared to be real also. It was a deplorable fact that she swayed fools.

By laying on the paint very thick and using bright colours, Mrs.

Armstrong caught the cla.s.s immediately below that which read the works of Constantine Schuabe. They were captain and lieutenant, formidable in coalition.

A short, carelessly dressed man--his evening tie was badly arranged and his trousers were ill cut--was the Duke of Suffolk. His face was covered with dust-coloured hair, his eyes bright and restless. The Duke was the greatest Roman Catholic n.o.bleman in England. His vast wealth and eager, though not first-cla.s.s, brain were devoted entirely to the conversion of the country. He was beloved by men of all creeds.

Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a handsome man, portly, large, and gracious in manner. He was destined for high preferment, a _persona grata_ at Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in which he moved.

Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation and a sort of purring geniality.

Dinner was a very pleasant meal. Every one talked well. Great events in Society and politics were discussed by the people who were themselves responsible for them.

Here was the inner circle itself, serene, bland, and guarded from the crowd outside. And perhaps, with the single exception of Father Ripon, who never thought about it at all, every one was pleasantly conscious of pulling the strings. They sat, Jove-like, kindly tolerant of lesser mortals, discussing, over a dessert, what they should do for the world.

At eleven nearly every one had retired for the night. Father Ripon and his host sat talking in the library for another hour discussing church matters. At twelve these two also retired.

And now the great house was silent save for the bitter winter wind which sobbed and moaned round the towers.

It was the eve of the twelfth of December. The world was as usual and the night came to England with no hintings of the morrow.

Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping calmly after a long, quiet evening with Helena and her father.

Father Ripon had said his prayers and lay half dreaming in bed, watching the firelight glows and shadows on the panelling and listening to the fierce outside wind as if it were a lullaby.

Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article for the _Nineteenth Century_ in her bedroom. An open volume of Renan stood by her side; here and there the lady deftly paraphrased a few lines. Occasionally she sipped a cup of black-currant tea--an amiable weakness of this paragon when engaged upon her stirring labours.

In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and twitching lips, paced rapidly up and down. From the door to the dressing-table--seven steps.

From there to the fireplace--ten steps--avoiding the flower pattern of the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven! ten! and then back again.

Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon his face, dried, hardened, and burst forth again.

Seven, ten, stop for a gla.s.s of water, and then on again, rapidly, hurriedly; the dawn is coming very near.

Ten! seven! turn!

CHAPTER III

"I, JOSEPH"

At about nine o"clock the next morning there was a knock at Father Ripon"s door and Lindner, Sir Michael"s confidential man, entered.

He seemed slightly agitated.

"I beg your pardon, Father," he said, "but Sir Michael instructed me to come to you at once. Sir Michael begs that you will read the columns marked in this paper and then join him at once in his own room."

The man bowed slightly and went noiselessly away.

Impressed with Lindner"s manner, Father Ripon sat up in bed and opened the paper. It was a copy of the _Daily Wire_ which had just arrived by special messenger from the station.

The priest"s eyes fell first upon the news summary. A paragraph was heavily scored round with ink.

"_Page 7._--A communication of the utmost gravity and importance reaches us from Palestine, dealing with certain discoveries at Jerusalem, made by Mr. Cyril Hands, the agent of the Palestine Exploring Fund, and Herr Schmoulder, the famous German historian."

Ripon turned hastily to the seventh page of the paper, where all the foreign telegrams were. This is what he read: